ZANDRIE

 
 ZANDRIE 
 
 BY MARIAN EDWARDS RICHARDS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO. 
 NEW YORK MCMIX
 
 Copyright, 1909, by 
 THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 Published, September, 1909
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 i IN WHICH THE FURNESS BOY RIDES BY . . 3 
 
 ii ZANDRIE OF THE CONVENT 15 
 
 in ZANDRIE LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER ... 28 
 
 iv JULIAN LEARNS SOMETHING TOO 41 
 
 v DEALING WITH TREACHERY 52 
 
 vi EXPLAINING HOW BOBOLINKS MAY COME TO BE 
 AMONG RAVENS 
 
 vn CHIEFLY AT OUR LADY'S 
 
 vin WHEN BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 
 
 ix CONTAINING A MOMENT OF SUSPENSE . . . 
 x THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 
 
 xi MORNING 119 
 
 xn AFTERNOON 135 
 
 xin NIGHT 146 
 
 xiv THE PASSING OF THE NUNS 152 
 
 xv THE LYNDES AND A DOCTOR 170 
 
 xvi AN AGREEMENT 180 
 
 xvn THE FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 193. 
 
 xvni THE NORTHWEST WIND 206 
 
 xix SHOWING WHICH HAD THE STRONGER WILL . 220 
 
 xx THE TWINS 229 
 
 2137892
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PACK 
 
 xxi ZANDRIE MAKES A PROMISE 238 
 
 xxii THE ROAD 247 
 
 xxm ZANDRIE OF THE WORLD 261 
 
 xxiv CONTAINING LAWYER'S ADVICE 272 
 
 xxv IN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH 284 
 
 xxvi INTERRUPTED 294 
 
 xxvii CONTAINING PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE . . 301 
 
 xxvin SHORT BECAUSE HURRIED ....... 314 
 
 xxix IN THE HOUR OF NEED 322 
 
 xxx " No PAST is MINE ; NO FUTURE" .... 333 
 
 xxxi THE LAST JOUST ^ . . . 345 
 
 xxxn THE WHITE PLUME 362 
 
 xxxin THE GARDEN OF LOST DELIGHT . ^ . . . 373 
 
 XXXIV WHO MAY BE GARDENERS OF PARADISE . . 381
 
 ZANDRIE
 
 ZANDRIE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN WHICH THE FURNESS BOY RIDES BY 
 
 " The soul of the Furness Boy ought to be chas- 
 tened," Mrs. Deming announced in the midst of hem- 
 ming a garment for The Poor; and the Ladies' Aid 
 regarded the remark as an almost supernatural phe- 
 nomenon. For although she had made it before, 
 neither she nor the other ladies had mentioned the 
 Furness Boy in months, and they had been discussing 
 a rule for pickled apples. And the Boy himself was 
 supposed to be in Paris. Yet the words were scarcely 
 out of Mrs. Deming's mouth, when there he was, gal- 
 loping past the parsonage on his ill-famed sorrel 
 Toper, at the old outrageous speed. 
 
 Mrs. Summers was the only one who reached the 
 window in time to identify his back. But she had 
 identified it, so she said, quite beyond question. 
 Whereupon question felt itself challenged. 
 
 3
 
 ZANDRIE 
 
 How could she identify any one a thousand miles 
 away? 
 
 She could n't, as Mrs. Deming pointed out, unless 
 this, the Deming parsonage, was Paris. Which it 
 obviously was not. 
 
 Though the rider had disappeared around the corner, 
 the ladies put on their long distance glasses and 
 leaned out of the window. 
 
 " It sounded like the Furness Boy," said Mrs. Dem- 
 ing's unmarried sister. 
 
 "It couldn't have," said Mrs. Deming herself. 
 " He 's in Paris. A dreadful place for a young man. 
 I always told my son George " 
 
 But the other ladies were asking rhetorically of one 
 another, who else had ever clattered over the cobble- 
 stones of Marshall street at that lawless speed? ex- 
 cept the Boy's own grandfather, Colonel Marshall, 
 and he was dead? And they recalled that this was 
 how the Boy had sounded on horseback almost from 
 childhood a clatter of hoofs like a runaway, break- 
 ing in upon a nap, a chat, or a game of whist, sfor- 
 zando, always a crash of noise without a warning 
 crescendo. 
 
 Well, the rest of them might think what they 
 pleased and say it too, but Mrs. Summers had seen 
 his back; and for all that it was January, he wore no 
 cap, and she saw his hair. The sun was on it . . . 
 
 But the day was cloudy!
 
 THE FURNESS BOY RIDES BY 5 
 
 However, the evidence was buttressed by that very 
 slip, as Mrs. Deming's sister showed, since the charac- 
 teristic of the Furness Boy's hair was that it always 
 shone as golden almost as though the sun were on it. 
 
 " His mother's hair," said Mrs. Deming darkly. 
 
 " Cut, I hope," her sister amended. But the flip- 
 pancy was ignored, because the ladies were now 
 mourning the absence of Mrs. Fish, whose husband 
 was the Furness Boy's guardian and ought to know 
 not only whether the Boy had come home, but why. 
 
 " My son George ought to know." But Mrs. Dem- 
 ing blushed the moment she said this ; for the intimacy 
 of her son and the Furness Boy was something to 
 which she seldom called attention and no wonder, 
 in view of the scandal involved ! " George is kind to 
 everybody," she added. 
 
 But her sister spared her not. " George is a dear, 
 good boy, we all know. But is it charity of heart 
 when a boy borrows twenty-five dollars of another, to 
 bet on him in a horse race, and wins fifty? Of course 
 I don't know how it got doubled that way, but it 
 somehow does at races, does n't it ? " 
 
 " My son George did n't borrow it, my dear ! 
 Julian Furness lent it of his own accord, to bet on him- 
 self and Toper, he was so perfectly sure of win- 
 ning. A very arrogant young man." 
 
 Mrs. Deming's sister suggested that the charity was 
 on Julian's part. Whereupon the ladies charged her,
 
 ZANDRIE 
 
 in chorus, with always taking the Furness Boy's side. 
 
 " To be sure, he has no business to look so like an 
 angel," she said. 
 
 The chorus denied that he did except in color. 
 But the Marshalls all had the same misleading com- 
 plexion. Even his grandfather, Colonel Julian Mar- 
 shall, known to congenial spirits as Colonel " Jehu " 
 even he had had innocent blue eyes, and innocent 
 golden hair till it turned still more innocent cream- 
 white; and he had been a godless old reprobate, every 
 one knew. He had given Toper to Julian the young- 
 er, though the horse was the best mount in his stud, 
 and the agile old gentleman still rode in the running 
 races, and rode to win. And it was not the only evi- 
 dence either, that his grandson was the apple of his 
 eye. He had left him ninety thousand in his will, for 
 instance. The Ladies' Aid, recalling these facts, 
 agreed that the enthusiastic regard of Colonel Jehu 
 for young Julian, argued community of soul. 
 
 And of course being the offspring of Marjorie 
 Marshall could not be to any one's credit. And the 
 Furness Boy was her son. 
 
 " How Wilton Furness could marry that wom- 
 an !" The Society scarcely ever finished its sen- 
 tences on the subject of Marjorie Marshall; and if 
 young persons were in the room, it lowered its 
 voice. For, three years after marrying Mr. Furness, 
 when their son Julian was two years old, she eloped 
 with a navy officer.
 
 THE FUR NESS BOY RIDES BY 7 
 
 "Of course it 's not nice to run away with Captain 
 Roswells when you 're married already," Mrs. Dem- 
 ing's sister said it quite aloud " especially when you 
 married on a wager. Still, it 's so much a matter of 
 bringing up! Of course we 'd have had to kill our- 
 selves in her place." 
 
 "MYRA!" the chorus shouted, though with 
 decorum. 
 
 " I mean, if we 'd found ourselves married to Wil- 
 ton Furness," said Miss Myra. " Myself, I 'd just 
 as soon espouse the ice-chest." 
 
 " Wilton Furness was the best parishioner Mr. 
 Deming ever had," said Mrs. Deming. 
 
 " Just the trouble ! too good to live with ! . . . 
 I take it that Captain Roswell is n't. I wonder now, 
 how he and Marjorie do get on together ? " 
 
 But Mrs. Deming considered Marjorie Marshall and 
 the Captain not a nice subject of conversation. 
 " Though of course," she said, " they 're married 
 now; " and the ladies agreed that that made all the 
 difference. Mrs. Deming's sister added that she 
 thought it frightful of Wilton Furness not to have 
 divorced his wife " frightfully dog-in-the-manger- 
 ish, or the other animal concerned in the manger 
 business, mulish, you know." 
 
 " It was a horse," said Mrs. Deming with dig- 
 nity; and then agreed with the Society that it was 
 unbecoming to criticise a parishioner now in his grave, 
 whose life, too, had been such a living death.
 
 8 ZANDRIE 
 
 Poor Mr. Wilton Furness ! never a merry soul 
 at best! After his wife's defection, he had moved 
 out to an estate two miles from town and allowed 
 never a woman to cross his dishonored threshold. 
 And although his son Julian was with him, yet he 
 lived there to all intents alone ; for what time the Boy 
 was not on horseback or wriggling in his seat at 
 school, he was making music. And Mr. Wilton Fur- 
 ness had no ear, nor even a liking for music. So one 
 can imagine the evenings there, the father shut off 
 in some ell with his documents and cigars, desperately 
 patient with the strains that trespassed through the 
 keyhole, the son in his vault of a drawing-room, 
 playing out his unchastened soul to undusted walls. 
 
 Julian played well, every one owned. Even when 
 he refused to cross the church threshold except as 
 organist and choir-master, the committee agreed that 
 he played better than the musician already installed. 
 " Of course. That 's why I offered," he is said to 
 have said. But the committee shook their heads re- 
 gretfully; and Mr. Wilton Furness had to come to 
 church from that time forth alone. Even at Gray 
 Summer's party, where Julian conducted himself so 
 outrageously, he had played divinely. Oh, but how 
 he behaved first! 
 
 It was an old-fashioned party to which both old 
 and young were asked, but of course Mr. Wilton Fur- 
 ness had not accepted. His son had, though, perhaps
 
 THE FURNESS BOY RIDES BY 9 
 
 not knowing that Mrs. Summers had all but decided 
 not to invite him ! " And you see I was right ! " she 
 said. For her daughter Gray, finding herself some- 
 how alone with him, reproved him for his Sabbath 
 backsliding; and he bent with such gracious heed and 
 a smile so beguiling, that she even asked a promise of 
 reform. To which, " Bless your heart! " he had an- 
 swered, " you 're a right dear little rascal," she was 
 seventeen " and I '11 promise solemnly to kiss 
 you." Perhaps Dr. Summers was to blame for Jul- 
 ian's keeping his word that very evening. Perhaps 
 the Furness Boy would have done it anyway. But at 
 all events, the Doctor himself set an egg on the floor 
 in a corner, defied the decorous company to break 
 that egg with a peck measure, and promised with a 
 mighty laugh, that whoever succeeded should kiss the 
 prettiest girl in the room. Any one who has studied 
 the subject of peck measures, corners, and eggs, knows 
 that Gray had reason to feel secure. Yet upon the 
 laughter and confusion came a crash, and lo ! one 
 blow of the Furness Boy's heel had annihilated both 
 measure and egg. And then, without apology for the 
 debris, serenely heedless of denunciation, he took his 
 reward. If he had blushed even ever so slightly 
 . . . But he laughed instead; and at sight of the 
 grotesque havoc in the corner, he laughed again. And 
 Gray declared that she HATED him. And all this 
 after his playing the Moonlight Sonata even to the
 
 io Z A N D R I E 
 
 moving of Mrs. Deming! It was then that she first 
 uttered her famous dictum that his spirit needed to 
 be chastened. 
 
 Perhaps it did, if those who knew his mother, Mar- 
 jorie Marshall, were right in recognizing his spirit as 
 hers. 
 
 When the Ladies' Aid took up the question of who 
 taught him to play the organ, suspicion pounced upon 
 a Russian with preposterously long white whiskers, 
 who conducted a riotous or certainly Bohemian 
 existence over the music store. Mrs. Fish said that 
 he was an exile a nihilist, and had thrown bombs 
 at something or somebody somewhere she hoped it 
 was in Russia. And although or perhaps because 
 she always said things positively, she was believed. 
 And Mrs. Deming was believed when she reported 
 platoons of horrid bottles parading the nihilist's win- 
 dow sills; she had seen them from her dressmaker's 
 back windows. But when asked if their contents 
 were really spirituous, she retorted that she was not 
 a connoisseur. Heaven knows she was not! But 
 Julian's organ teacher, whatever he was or did, cer- 
 tainly abetted the boy in his lawless ways, for he had 
 learned to play during hours that he ought to have 
 spent on Greek. His schoolmaster said so. 
 
 When he was graduating from school in his nine- 
 teenth year, his father died, and the Ladies' Aid, dis- 
 cussing the effects of sudden death, began to look for 
 a change of heart. Mrs. Fish had said positively that
 
 THE FURNESS BOY RIDES BY n 
 
 he was going to do what his father wished, and go to 
 college, using the old Marshall house on Marshall 
 street as his headquarters during vacation. The plan 
 seemed both respectable and sane, and Mrs. Deming's 
 sister began to speak of him as Mr. Julian Furness. 
 There was something in his mien, she said, that im- 
 posed respect something subtler than six feet of 
 superb physique clad in black, or the assured poise of 
 his head. And even when he rode a steeple-chase ten 
 days after his father's funeral, the ladies made ex- 
 cuses and agreed it was early yet for a thorough 
 change of heart. But two weeks later, news had smit- 
 ten the Society, that caused it to throw up its hands 
 in a full half-minute's silence, and then audibly to 
 abandon hope of the Furness Boy. For, the Furness 
 estate was sold to a Roman Catholic sisterhood; the 
 Marshall house, leased to Jews; and the Boy himself, 
 in the thrall of the nihilist, was bound for Paris. 
 . Yes, it was true. The Jews moved into the house 
 on Marshall street opposite the Deming parsonage. 
 The nuns began to fortify the Furness estate with a 
 high cement wall, to metamorphose the Furness house 
 into a retreat house, and to lay foundations for their 
 convent and chapel. And as for the graceless heir 
 who had sold his birthright Well, Mrs. Deming 
 herself saw the nihilist on his way to the railroad sta- 
 tion ; saw his pace that was fairly a cavort ; saw a port- 
 manteau bulging with who knew what ? in either 
 hand, and a fur cap pulled down to his eyes, though
 
 12 ZANDRIE 
 
 the day was a scorcher; saw his whiskers streaming 
 out behind like flags of a false truce; and she saw the 
 son of Marjorie Marshall striding in shameless fealty 
 at his heels. Oh, it was all true. 
 
 As for Julian's career in Paris, what should the 
 Ladies' Aid know of that? But it surmised. And 
 at last George Deming graduated from college, be- 
 came engaged to Gray Summers, and went to Paris 
 to study at the Sorbonne; and a letter to Gray re- 
 ported of his townsman as follows : " Furness is 
 here, one of the most joyous spirits of this Quartier, 
 to which neither of us belong by rights, but I '11 ex- 
 plain about that later. I found him playing a card 
 game that my dear little Gray would call mighty 
 wicked, for oh, oh! he had a pile of money in front 
 of him! It was in a wicked little cafe too, and you 
 ought to have seen the chaps he 'd been playing with ! 
 such villainous black beards ! Well, up he jumped, 
 and was for sitting down with me at another table 
 and forgetting all about that naughty pile of money 
 till his bearded friends reminded him. Do you know, 
 I *m afraid he really is a rather wild duck now. I 
 reckon our ways won't cross much, for I 'm in this 
 glorious old village for work." Et cetera, very im- 
 pressive. 
 
 But he was mistaken about the crossing of ways. 
 In a letter to his brother, for instance which Gray 
 never saw till after becoming Mrs. George he de- 
 scribed another meeting. It was again in a cafe, and
 
 THE FURNESS BOY RIDES BY 13 
 
 late in the evening, very late. And this time Julian 
 was absorbing the attention of a lady of the minor 
 opera, whose popularity was at its giddy zenith. 
 Though her cigarette had gone out, Julian's had not, 
 a detail that George found significant. Among her 
 satellites revolving at a prudent distance was a " thread 
 of an Italian, whose extraordinary bitterness of smile 
 and capacity for wine interested me/' wrote the chron- 
 icler, " till of a sudden he tiptoed up behind the girl, 
 and with the dark request to take that home to her 
 maman, poured a glassful of claret over her shoulders. 
 He himself fell not gently on the table. But 
 Furness wrapped the girl in her cloak very quietly, 
 and took her to the street, where he dispatched her 
 in a cab. When he came back, the Italian had been 
 whisked out of sight, but some one called ' We '11 catch 
 him for your breakfast ; ' and Furness's remarks as 
 he stood there in the doorway, were as picturesque 
 as his appearance, which I wanted to paint, if only 
 for the public to help me decide whether it was more 
 diabolical or avenging-angelical. After he 'd gone, 
 I began to catch stray beams of light on the situa- 
 tion, in which our countryman's part shone bright at 
 least by contrast. * One sees that the lady is in love 
 with him/ I put in; whereupon a man with a whole 
 bush of beard informed me ruefully that it was too 
 late for me to be up. But I noticed my remark be- 
 came a bone of frantic contention." 
 
 Well, the main interest of the incident is in its
 
 14 Z A N D R I E 
 
 after effect on the Furness Boy, who for the next two 
 days spoke little and made no music whatever, and 
 for a whole week walked the straightest and narrow- 
 est of paths to be found in that merry Quartier. Per- 
 haps it was only that his aesthetic sense had been 
 shocked to revolt. So George Deming thought. Or 
 perhaps whatever of his father lurked in the son's 
 queerly compounded nature, had come into temporary 
 control. The two days' silence suggests Mr. Wilton 
 Furness. 
 
 And now without warning, Toper's hoofs were beat- 
 ing their Devil's tattoo on the frozen ground, and 
 the Furness Boy was back. Mrs. Fish said later 
 that it was merely to attend to business relating to 
 his coming of age; but the Ladies' Aid had its doubts 
 about that. 
 
 Few saw him on that day of his reappearance, per- 
 haps because he rode so fast that one had no time. 
 Gray Summers said that he was singing. Some one 
 else caught the sound of a reckless laugh. And when 
 Mrs. Deming learned why no one saw him come back 
 from that ride, she shut herself in her kitchen, where 
 she produced, besides a batch of pickled apples, a 
 storiette for the Sabbath School Bugle, ending with 
 the words, " For the ways of the Lord are just and 
 righteous altogether."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE CONVENT 
 
 As for Zandrie, if it seems a pity to introduce her 
 clenching her fists and stamping with rage, please con- 
 sider that but for this tantrum she would not have 
 been ordered to spend the night in the retreat-house, 
 and that her whole life might have been another mat- 
 ter. For, though she was outrageously naughty 
 much of the time, especially since coming to the con- 
 vent, this was an epoch-marking tantrum both by vir- 
 tue of its fury and because of the curious part it 
 played as link in the chain of cause and effect be- 
 tween her first two glimpses of the Knight, as it 
 pleased her to call him. The first had lured her into 
 disobedience of that strictest of orders never to leave 
 the grounds ; thence to a battle with the Sub-Prioress, 
 her sister. And now, as usual, she was denying that 
 she was at all sorry. " You can make me go without 
 my supper," she added, " only you won't 'cause you 're 
 afraid of committing murder. I wish you would; 
 I 'd like to die." 
 
 " That is wicked," said Sister Angela. 
 
 " That 's why I said it." 
 
 is
 
 16 ZANDRIE 
 
 The nun shut her lips tight before pronouncing her 
 sentence; "You shall go back to the retreat-house 
 again to-night. Meanwhile you shall stay in this cell 
 till bed-time on your honor not to leave it and 
 have bread and water for supper." She said it in a 
 voice controlled almost to suffocation. Then she 
 swept from the room. 
 
 "I don't care and I 'm not sor- 
 ry ! " Zandrie screamed, stamping on each word. 
 
 But when the sound of Sister Angela's footsteps 
 had died away, she collapsed on the floor and wailed. 
 For it was no light punishment, this, of a night in the 
 retreat-house, all alone but for that uncanny couple, 
 the deaf and dumb janitor and his wife; and she knew 
 that she must be alone, as it was not the night for 
 Father Haggarty's coming, and no other guest had ar- 
 rived in several weeks. No light punishment, as she 
 knew too well, having cried herself sick in that re- 
 treat-house room on the third night after her coming. 
 And to think it had once been intended that she 
 should sleep there forever ! But after that third night 
 of panic, from which she had emerged so pitiful an 
 object that Sister Loyola put her to bed in the in- 
 firmary, after that, merciful Reverend Mother had 
 given her a cell in the lay sisters' quarters within the 
 convent itself, and allowed her to eat with the Sister 
 Refectorian and the weekly servers. Even these 
 meals were not hilarious, to be sure, being eaten in 
 profound silence; but one had the comfort of knowing
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE CONVENT 17 
 
 at least that if a body did speak, her voice would be 
 heard. No one in the refectory was deaf or really 
 dumb; whereas the terror of the retreat-house was, 
 that unless a guest were at hand, one might scream 
 and scream and never be heard. And so, " I do 
 care ! " she was sobbing now, " And I wish he had n't 
 passed." But she buried her face in her little black 
 skirt, of course, lest some one should hear and per- 
 chance think she was sorry after all. 
 
 Her rage tried to turn against the Knight, for 
 though he would doubtless rescue her some day, this 
 was meanwhile very much his fault. But for him, 
 she w r ould have sat quiet on the wall, content to taste 
 the ecstasies of flight in anticipation. But the wild 
 rhythm of hoofs on the frozen ground had stirred 
 her blood; and then came the Knight himself. 
 
 For he was really the Knight that was the won- 
 der who had been for so long the star of that play- 
 house where she herself was audience, stage-manager, 
 and leading lady. The dramas of the Knight, and 
 they were many, had started from a dream in which 
 a person of mediaeval aspect offered to carry her on 
 his horse to a place called Dedham, which she knew 
 to be a stronghold rival to Camelot. But in the dream, 
 he had looked rather like the taller of those two poor 
 Princes in the Tower, in a picture that used to hang 
 over her bed, and she had changed him a little after 
 she woke, inasmuch as a knight who should rescue one 
 from walls guarded by Sister Angelas, must be more
 
 i8 ZANDRIE 
 
 commanding of eye and bulk. And lo! as she sat on 
 the wall, he was there, riding before her in garish day- 
 light. Whose heart would not have leapt at sight 
 of his hair, crisp and gleaming in the sun that had 
 come out just the very minute before he passed? And 
 though his passing was as the passing of a dream, yet 
 he was real from the soles of his boots, all the way 
 up his magnificent, supple back to the laugh and ring- 
 ing " Hello ! " flung to her over his shoulder. No 
 wonder that he laughed at sight of her perched like a 
 blackbird there on the wall! And who would have 
 stayed from following? Whose heart would not beat 
 high at a dream come true ? 
 
 But by the time that she had dropped to the 
 ground, he had turned down a road that cut deep into 
 the woods; and then the road itself twisted so that 
 when she came all out of breath to its entrance, there 
 was nothing to tell of him but a far-away beat of 
 hoofs on frozen ground. But that he would come 
 back, she never doubted. So she scampered for the 
 pure joy of it through the good, gray woods, all still 
 but for the crunch of her feet on fallen twigs. She 
 jumped over hummocks and logs till breath failed; 
 then she walked till hunger sharply advised her to turn 
 about. 
 
 Of course it was long past the hour for the noon 
 meal when she reached the convent, and although she 
 tried hard to be glad, an ignominious weariness laid 
 cold hands on her glee. In fact, when she found that
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE CONVENT 19 
 
 there was no friendly peach tree by which one might 
 scale the wall from the outside and that she must 
 ring at the gate, she was only shivering and cross and 
 defiant. 
 
 As the chapel clock was striking four, a nun opened 
 Zandrie's door very softly and peeped around its edge. 
 " Sister Isidore ! " Zandrie whispered, smiling. Five 
 minutes later she was laughing immoderately, and at 
 last, " I do love you," she protested, " even if you are 
 a nun, and even if you do like Sister Angela, and " 
 But she left off so suddenly that Sister Isidore made 
 a guilty start towards the floor. Zandrie was at the 
 window. " Look ! Quick ! It 's one of the novices 
 running right across the flower-beds as though the 
 Devil were after her! Her veil 's askew! Let 's go 
 and Oh-h ! I forgot. O, I hate honor! " 
 
 " But it 's me that must go," said the Sister, " or 
 the dear Mother will be locking me up too." 
 
 Zandrie of course clung to her skirt. " If the 
 Mother comes, you can pop under the bed ! " 
 
 But the nun jerked away, for a voice in the corridor 
 was calling. And voices seldom called in the convent. 
 Sister Isidore sped down the hall, running almost as 
 fast as the novice. 
 
 Long after her skirt had whisked out of sight, Zan- 
 drie stood on the threshold listening to sounds that 
 were strange enough in a place where people stepped 
 and spoke as though some one perpetually ill were 
 within ear-shot. Now a door actually slammed, and
 
 20 Z A N D R I E 
 
 another nun scurried along, and after her, the plump 
 Prioress herself. One of Zandrie's feet crossed the 
 sill. For a full minute the battle raged. It ended in 
 her wheeling about, an honorable but very sullen pris- 
 oner. 
 
 The view from the window gave no clue to the com- 
 motion. Nothing to be seen but the cloister garden, 
 which was now just a dingy carpet of triangles and 
 squares outlined in frozen green; the arcade of the 
 cloister itself, eclipsed below the window by its own 
 narrow, green-tiled roof; above the arcade opposite, 
 the red brick side of the church adjoining the convent 
 walls at right angles on either hand, over all, a 
 January sky that promised to snow without keeping 
 its word. No flying snow-flakes; no more flying 
 white veils askew, nor even a decorously draped 
 black one. But how the novice had run, as though 
 from the memory of some evil sight! The very line 
 of her footsteps looked ill-drawn as by a hand nervous 
 with hurry. 
 
 Presently, all interest in the subject sank under the 
 heavy thought that supper such as it was would 
 not come for a whole hour. The memory of the 
 Knight no longer heartened her; and so, too tired to 
 concoct a recipe of new naughtiness, she turned to her 
 box of treasures. But the collar of the late Launcelot, 
 her cat, filled her with anguish only. So, too, the 
 crisp Bible substituted by Sister Angela for the shabby
 
 ZAXDRIE OF THE CONVENT 21 
 
 volume that had been Mam'selle's parting gift. Sister 
 Angela's had more books, to be sure, with most curious 
 names, and smelt pleasantly of new leather; but it was 
 not Mam'selle's keepsake. As for the gold eagle that 
 her father had given her on her tenth birthday four 
 months before, it was the same gold-piece that Mam'- 
 selle said would buy her heart's desire, which Zandrie 
 had at once defined as " une petite villa de rideaux 
 rouges," to which Mam'selle and Mickie the stable boy 
 were to be invited for long visits. Yet to-day she 
 could not even see the villa. And when the gift of 
 seeing failed, Zandrie was in a bad way indeed. 
 
 The long hour dragged itself out. The bell tolled 
 for Vespers; the nuns sang their office. Then the 
 clink of dishes below, and the server's chant, and the 
 drone of the reader's voice told of the convent sup- 
 per; but no one came, even with bread and water, to 
 where she sat in the dark. And another hour crept 
 by, and yet another, till the Compline bell rang and 
 she knew that she was forgotten. 
 
 Next, behold her with her nightgown under her 
 arm, marching to the room in the retreat-house where 
 Sister Angela had decreed that she should sleep. Yes, 
 she would go to bed there and die of starvation and 
 honor gladly die! And Sister Angela would lose 
 at one swoop all the years wrested at such pains from 
 Purgatory. Sister Angela would be sorry. 
 
 She undressed and curled up in the big, cold bed,
 
 22 Z A N D R I E 
 
 and so, for full fifteen minutes, lay waiting for death. 
 Then with a little, angry scream she bounced up, and 
 strode down the hall in her nightgown. 
 
 She had met no one on her way through the con- 
 vent, both nuns and lay sisters being still in church. 
 In the retreat-house, a light had shone through the 
 half-open door of the janitor's room on the ground 
 floor, but the halls had been quite dark except for the 
 moon that laid a ghostly .patch of light on the stair 
 landing. Yet now a yellow glimmer filtered through 
 the crack of a door on the second floor. It was the 
 door of Father Haggarty's room. And this was not 
 the night of his weekly visit. 
 
 Yet, if it might be he, a good friend was at hand. 
 " Father ! " she whispered at the crack. No answer. 
 So she pushed the door far enough to peer around it. 
 There was no one to be seen; yet a candle burned 
 on the mantle-shelf, and the air was heavy with a 
 subtly disagreeable, medicinal odor. As she was turn- 
 ing away bewildered, her glance fell on the bed in the 
 corner, and then a little " Oh ! " broke from her, for 
 somebody lay in the bed, peacefully sleeping. 
 
 Who could it be? Father Haggarty would have 
 made a very great mountain of the bed-clothes. Had 
 a guest come, then, without her knowledge, and one 
 entitled to the honor of Father Haggarty's quar- 
 ters? It must be a very pious lady indeed! And 
 why had she gone to bed so early, with her candle 
 burning? Curiosity sent her tiptoeing in. But when
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE CONVENT 23 
 
 she reached the bed-side, amazement smote her so 
 that she almost toppled forward on to the sleeper ; for 
 it was neither a pious lady, nor a nun, nor even a 
 priest, but an ordinary man. And men are never, 
 never allowed inside even the retreat-house of St. 
 Scholastica's, unless they are priests or old, deaf jan- 
 itors, or carry charcoal stoves to mend the roof. She 
 had met one such creature skulking very guiltily 
 through Seven Holy Founders' Corridor itself. And 
 as this man in the bed was obviously neither roof- 
 mender nor priest, and was, moreover, pale and dread- 
 fully still, with scratches across his left cheek, it 
 seemed certain that something interesting had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 She stood staring at the fair hair and closed eye- 
 lids and lips, and again at the hair, which was almost 
 as charming as the Knight's. Her Knight ! Remem- 
 brance of him brought a shock. It could n't possibly 
 be that this O sakes alive no ! For the Knight was 
 a radiant creature, all vigor and life; and this poor 
 thing was pale and limp. And yet the face was come- 
 ly, and the hair Yes and No fought in her brain 
 till she gasped. It could n't be it must be the 
 Knight ! 
 
 There is no telling how long she might have stood 
 before this mystery, had not an arm been slipped about 
 her, drawing her back. It was Sister Isidore's. 
 
 " Is he alive ? " Zandrie asked. She had not told 
 even Sister Isidore about any Knight.
 
 24 Z A N D R I E 
 
 " Come away, dear heart," was all her answer, " or 
 it 's not long ye '11 be living yourself, shivering about 
 in your nightie and bare toes." 
 
 Whereupon, the nun bore her ruthlessly out of the 
 room and back to, her convent cell, just when the 
 retreat-house had begun to seem not such an evil place 
 after all ! But the bread and butter that awaited her 
 in the cell were a change for the better. Sister An- 
 gela had remembered at last, and detailed Sister Isi- 
 dore to see to the prisoner. 
 
 " I was to have only bread and water," Zandrie con- 
 fessed. 
 
 " Aha ! But Sister Angela '11 never know though 
 Father Thomas shall, to be sure. Ye 're to eat every 
 morsel, now, because I tell ye." 
 
 Zandrie chuckled. " But I don't want him to die ! " 
 she broke off in the midst of a bite to exclaim. 
 
 " And' perhaps he '11 oblige ye." 
 
 u Will he stay if- he does n't die ? " 
 
 " Not long, I 'm thinking. There was enough to- 
 do about his coming in at all. Sister Angela was for 
 turning him off entirely." 
 
 " Gracious me! How did he get past her?;" The 
 feat appeared both phenomenal and heroic. But then, 
 remembering the commotion, she understood in a flash. 
 It was the Knight. And he was even such a knight 
 as he looked, who, having seen her dismal estate on 
 the wall, had ridden back to the rescue and no sooner 
 hewn a hole big enough to squeeze through, than the
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE CONVENT 25 
 
 novice had given the alarm and the whole sisterhood 
 set upon him, thirty to one. Yet even this hardly ex- 
 plained his being in Father Haggarty's bed. How did 
 he get in then ? she had to ask. 
 
 " For one thing, he would keep saying this was his 
 home ; and there '11 be no one to tell what he meant, 
 either, for it was the last thing he " 
 
 " No, no ! Begin at the beginning with the nov- 
 ice." 
 
 " Eh, but it never began with her ! Saints forbid ! 
 It all came of his horse that Sister Euphrasie hears 
 galloping in the lane; for Sister Xavier gave her a 
 little dispense from Instruction, ye know, to go walk 
 once about the grounds, she 's so pale to-day. And 
 then she hears a queer, dreadful sound and peeps 
 through the keyhole of the big gate which she 
 never ought, but custody of the eyes is easy to for- 
 get even when a body 's professed ; that 's sure ! And 
 the keyhole 's that big that she sees the horse toppled 
 over in the ditch, and the poor lad I say ye 're to 
 drink your milk right down! " 
 
 " O quick ! go on ! " 
 
 " What ! and me running on like this in the Great 
 Silence time itself! " Sister Isidore tucked her hands 
 in her sleeves and started for the door. 
 
 " But you have n't told ! " cried Zandrie. 
 
 " Well then ! but ye 're not to make free with my 
 veil, or Ye '11 be the ruin of a poor nun ! Come, 
 then and where were we at ? Sure, at the keyhole !
 
 26 Z A N D R I E 
 
 And then comes Sister Euphrasie running from the 
 gate up to the work-room where we 're sitting sewing 
 as quiet as birds in the night only myself was n't 
 there, come to think and she calls Mother, and 
 Mother sends Sister Loyola calling Sister Rose from 
 the linen closet she 's so tall and strong and 
 then she meets myself in Seven Holy Founders', and 
 that makes four, ye see. ' One for each paw ! ' says 
 Mother, for we 've opened the gate now and laid 
 hold of the horse that 's flat on his side. * Now,' says 
 Mother, ' pull hard ! One, two, three ! ' But the 
 creature never stirs, it 's so heavy and great, and the 
 dear Mother slips on the ice. So then we go fetch 
 Sister Gertrude for his head and Sister Angela for 
 his tail." 
 
 " O poor beastie ! " 
 
 " Eh, but it 's dead, ye see, and done with trouble. 
 It's 'poor rider,' though; for it was himself we were 
 trying to dislodge from under, and he never lost him- 
 self till we took him up, and it 's a mercy he 's not 
 in his senses yet. But sure, we had to take him up, 
 for, don't ye see, the telephone 's stopped working en- 
 tirely to-day, and Father Thomas, he was off with the 
 horse to fetch home the grand new monstrance, and 
 the lad could never be lying in the ditch till old Mc- 
 Clung footed it to town for a doctor and wagon. 
 And then, his falling right at our gate that 's to be 
 thought of, as Sister Rose said herself. Come now, 
 but it's no such matter: there's thousands of poor
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE CONVENT 27 
 
 souls But ye can pray for him to the dear Virgin, 
 and no harm done by that. And I 'd put up a prayer 
 to good Saint Polycarp too, that would n't revile Our 
 Lord to save himself ; for it 's his day I 'm sinning 
 against like this, forgive us all ! " 
 
 On the whole, Sister Isidore's account satisfied Zan- 
 drie almost as well as her own, and, after praying 
 to that new but delightfully approachable deity, Holy 
 Virgin, she fell asleep on the resolve to live long 
 enough at least to nurse her fallen Knight back to 
 life.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ZANDRIE LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER 
 
 But he was out of his head and would frighten her, 
 said the silly nuns, and no other reason would they 
 give for forbidding her even to look on him. Her 
 announcement that she would take full charge, was 
 met with laughter. She was forbidden to go into the 
 retreat-house. Yet she had nothing to do, and Sister 
 Loyola, too much. But of such is the mad world of 
 grown-ups. So it was not until the third day from 
 his coming that Sister Angela yielded even so far as to 
 allow one personally conducted peep. 
 
 At sight of him, the little girl looked up into 
 her sister's face for sympathy, forgetting that she 
 had never yet found it there. Then the face on the 
 pillow took up her thought so that she forgot again 
 and asked " what color, sister dear supposed, were his 
 eyes ? " He had sped by on his horse too fast for 
 her to see; but they must be blue. They were! As 
 though in answer, they opened to let her see, and he 
 began to talk to her, too. " Where 's the diapason 
 gone?" But without waiting for answer, "The toc- 
 cata 's absurd without the open diapason of all 
 stops, confound it ! But I tell you it 's gone. Keeps 
 
 28
 
 LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER 29 
 
 doing that way lately, and no telling when it will come 
 back either." The bright, uncanny eyes were look- 
 ing at some one behind her now, so that she turned, 
 and, seeing no one, gripped her sister's sleeve. Mean- 
 while he had begun to speak his mind to the invisi- 
 ble presence in French so fluent yet odd, that Zandrie, 
 though she had had French governesses since she could 
 talk, found it hard to understand. The nun started 
 to pull her toward the door. " Stop ! " he com- 
 manded, holding out his hand so peremptorily that 
 Sister Angela hesitated and was lost. For he 
 caught her veil in an excellent grip, and then oh, 
 then the intentness with which he was searching her 
 face melted into a heart-winning smile, and " You 
 bewitching little piece ! " he whispered, " kiss me and 
 I '11 tell you something! " But before the Sub-Prior- 
 ess of St. Scholastica's could rally, " O hell ! " he 
 burst out, " is there no one to help but a pack of 
 women with cuffs across their foreheads? . . . 
 The Ladies's Aid ! Ha ha ! " The wild laugh barely 
 reached Zandrie's ears as the fleeing nun dragged her 
 down the hall. 
 
 But, two days later, he had come back from the 
 land of dreams, to stay and to ask questions; and it 
 was a proud day for Zandrie, because at Vesper time 
 she was allowed to watch at his side. If he needed 
 attention, she was to run to the chapel and very 
 quietly beckon Sister Loyola from choir. For as it 
 happened, every hospital nurse of the town was in
 
 30 Z A N D R I E 
 
 demand, and till one could be gotten, Sister Loyola, 
 with old Sister Dositheus for companion, had been 
 appointed by Reverend Mother to care for the guest. 
 
 Daylight was melting into the glow of sunset, and 
 the bell was tolling, when Zandrie stole to her post. 
 Her charge lay asleep, his left arm bandaged from 
 elbow to wrist, straight at his side ; the other, stretched 
 towards her so that the hand hung over the bed-side. 
 It was a hand that looked as though it could do very 
 deftly its owner's will, yet as though it could grip 
 hard too. As for the face, the longer she studied it, 
 the more disquieting grew a doubt whether it did 
 really fulfill her ideal. For the eyebrows, darker 
 than his hair and drawn down towards the bridge of 
 his nose as though frowning a little, by no means 
 pleased her. She would have had them nicely arched. 
 And then, his mouth oh, it would be sure to give 
 orders, and the chin would see to it that they were 
 carried out! Even his hair was not quite what it 
 might be; it hardly curled at all, and yet the color 
 . . . In the fulness of her satisfaction with that, 
 she hove a sigh that woke him up. 
 
 At first his eyes seemed to question the bars of deep 
 red-gold drawn by the sun across the wall, but soon 
 they traveled around to Zandrie's face, and the frown 
 of bewilderment relaxed. " I thought " he began, 
 but his voice dropped as though very tired. Then, 
 " I took you for a portrait of a bobolink. All 
 black and white."
 
 LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER 31 
 
 " They said I must n't talk," the little girl said 
 shyly, for, for some reason he was one of the few 
 people of whom she felt in awe. 
 
 " But you must," he answered with such authority 
 that " I told you so ! " she thought. " What 's your 
 name ? " he demanded. 
 
 "It's very queer, I'm afraid. It's Alexandra 
 Owen Donation after my father Alexander." 
 
 But he did not, like some obnoxious persons, ask if 
 she bought it by the yard, nor tell her that she 
 might grow up to it. He was perfectly decorous. 
 "Mine's Julian after my grandfather," he said. 
 " I Ve forgotten the rest." And then in spite of her he 
 asked three questions in a row, and when she threat- 
 ened to go for Sister Loyola, he tried to reach out for 
 her skirt ; but the movement of his arm, though slight, 
 made him catch his breath. 
 
 " I 'm sorry," she whispered, leaning towards him. 
 
 " Thanks. I'm mad!" And he shut his eyes and 
 asked no more questions. 
 
 In fact, as she sat firmly resisting the temptation to 
 swing her feet; while the nuns sang in the chapel 
 and the bars of gold on the wall turned gray, he lay 
 so still that she thought he slept. And then the dusk 
 deepened so that she could hardly see him, and the 
 room got so dreadfully still that she began to wrig- 
 gle. 
 
 " Alexandra Owen Donallon " It was the 
 voice of her charge, and profoundly meditative ; " Just
 
 32 Z A N D R I E 
 
 let me get hold of you just to make sure you 're 
 not one of the dreams." 
 
 She took his hand. It felt rather limp. A pic- 
 ture of the Knight on horseback flashed into her 
 memory a dazzling picture so that something 
 seemed to catch her by the throat. Suddenly but very 
 gently she laid her cheek against his forehead. 
 
 It was not till after a discussion between Sister 
 Angela, Sister Loyola, and the Prioress, that she was 
 allowed to go back to him next afternoon after Sis- 
 ter Loyola had plead in his behalf and prevailed. The 
 part of the talk that Zandrie heard amused her so 
 that she told Julian. " What do you s'pose ! " she 
 giggled, " They said they didn 't know you ! " 
 
 " They 're uncommonly right." 
 
 " Well, I told them I did, and Sister Isidore inter- 
 rupted Reverend Mother and said you looked like a 
 blessed angel, so she 's doing penance now. But you 
 see," she added, " I 'd seen you before on the wall. 
 And and you were coming back for me, were n't 
 you?" 
 
 "Back for you?" 
 
 She caught a little sigh, for his expression was not 
 even intelligent. But already that arch-destroyer of 
 fun, common sense, had begun to build a wall be- 
 tween the World of Things Only Oneself Sees, and 
 the World of Everybody Else, so that she was com- 
 ing to know them for two worlds; and in her heart 
 of hearts she feared that Julian had never heard of
 
 LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER 33 
 
 her Knight or herself. Yet before abandoning hope, 
 " Perhaps you 've forgotten," she suggested. 
 
 " I reckon I have." 
 
 " Zandrie of the Convent? " she hinted, desperately. 
 
 " Don't know what you 're talking about," he said 
 rather testily. 
 
 Well, it was the sort of thing one could not ex- 
 plain. Perhaps it was more than the World of Every- 
 body Else often granted, that a being so like one's 
 Knight in color and shape should be there before one's 
 eyes. 
 
 " You 're not on the road to being a nun, are you? " 
 he asked later. 
 
 "Never!" she answered with sudden ferocity. 
 " And listen ! " she whispered, " I hate it here ! O, 
 I hate it ! I hate them all, all! but Sister Isidore 
 well, and Sister Loyola. Sister Angela says I '11 want 
 to be a nun some day, but I shan't ever! Imagine 
 me saying my prayers all day and sewing the rest of it ! 
 And besides, I most solemnly promised my father. 
 That night he was so sick and died next day, he talked 
 about nuns a good deal and made me promise not to 
 be one. He always used to make me promise never 
 to be Catholic either. He and Mamma were always 
 talking about Catholics; they must all be pretty bad, 
 I reckon, though Sister Isidore 's very Catholic, she 
 says. But after Papa died, Uncle Jason came and 
 got me and brought me straight here, though Mam'- 
 selle and I made an awful scene." She sighed with
 
 34 Z A N D R I E 
 
 pleasure, but added ruefully, " People's whole sisters 
 are usually little girls like themselves, are n't they ? " 
 
 Julian being unable to answer this question, she ex- 
 plained that Sister Angela was "only half, and hor- 
 ribly old." 
 
 " How long have you been here ? " he asked gravely. 
 
 " Oh, ages and ages. Months, I guess." 
 
 "What do you do?" 
 
 This sympathetic interest was delightful ! " Noth- 
 ing," she said. " Nothing but learn arithmetic and 
 things with Sister Angela and Sister Petronilla 
 worse 'n my name, is n't that ? and go to Mass and 
 Holy Office that 's church, you know because 
 I 'm made to ; and I have to learn religious things in 
 Latin, and sew. There 's no one to play with any- 
 way, you see, but of course I can pretend by myself. 
 And there 's Sister Isidore she is n't as old as the 
 rest, but O dear! she isn't as young as me." She 
 hesitated, and then, " I may as well tell you every 
 bit. The rest of the time I 'm wicked. And the 
 more they punish me, the wickeder I am on purpose. 
 There!" 
 
 But he smiled, and not as the superintendent of a 
 Sunday school to which she went just one Sunday, 
 had smiled. " I reckon," he said at last, " I 've met 
 my match." And then she laughed herself, in delight 
 at the discovery that reality can be better than dreams. 
 
 " Are your father and mother both dead too? " she 
 asked, and then caught her breath at sight of some
 
 LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER 35 
 
 lines that a twinge as of bodily pain cut in his fore- 
 head. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, almost sullenly. " Both." 
 
 " And and no brothers or sisters ? " 
 
 " None that I know of. So we must be good 
 friends," he added, opening his hand; and she laid 
 hers in it and raised it to her lips. She loved him 
 already, she frankly owned, even better than Sister 
 Isidore. 
 
 " O goody ! " she exclaimed a moment later, " I Ve 
 the splendidest idea ! Do you s'pose they 'd let me 
 come oftener if I were good?" 
 
 " If / were, you mean? " 
 
 "Don't tease! I'm dreadfully in earnest. I be- 
 lieve I won't ever cross myself wrong again, or say 
 ' eeny meeny miny mo ' for * Pater noster.' Do you 
 s'pose if I learned it right I can any minute, you 
 know; I really know it already and my Invocation 
 too! they'd let me come as often as I like?" 
 
 " You might risk it." 
 
 " O me ! O my ! " she chuckled. 
 
 And whether as a result of her reform or not, she 
 was hereafter allowed to see him whenever he asked 
 for her. " It 's hard being good, though," she said, 
 " I 'd gotten so into the habit of being bad ! " 
 
 " He has a strange influence over the child," said 
 Sister Angela. 
 
 " The power to cast out divils," Sister Isidore sug- 
 gested, and did penance later.
 
 36 ZANDRIE 
 
 " There 's a certain spirit of grace within him," 
 said the grave Sister Loyola, " but it 's not all vic- 
 torious yet; he will suffer much in soul as well as 
 body." ' 
 
 For many a day the spirit of grace was all that 
 Zandrie saw, even when he lay glaring at the foot of 
 the bed as though he would like to chop it into bits, 
 and shut his mouth tight instead of answering a ques- 
 tion. Even at the moments when his forehead grew 
 moist and his eyes closed as though afraid of the tale 
 of pain they might tell, she heard no evil word es- 
 cape him. For some reason he seemed ashamed of 
 pain, so that, sitting on her hands to hold them from 
 caresses, she gallantly pretended not to notice. 
 
 The first lapse from grace that she really had to 
 acknowledge, came when she forgot and plumped down 
 beside him on the bed. He had been flat on his 
 back for so long now that no wonder she sometimes 
 forgot why! But she had cause to remember in 
 future, for he rapped out "Be careful!" so fiercely 
 that she could scarcely believe her ears. Of course 
 she flung herself on the floor and howled in remorse. 
 " Oh ! I could die of sorriness ! Your pr-precious 
 back ! " Had it been within reach, she would have 
 done what she might to mend it with kisses, so she 
 kissed his hand instead. But it gripped her shoul- 
 der savagely, and " Get out of the room if you 're 
 going to cr^," he commanded, so that she stopped in 
 sheer amazement. He apologized, and admitted that
 
 LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER 37 
 
 he had a " beastly temper " an admission which, as 
 it was evidently true, seemed a handsome apology in 
 itself. The second lapse from grace came two days 
 later, but it required no apology. 
 
 Early in their friendship she began to tutor him 
 in the great art of pretending. The first lesson came 
 on the day after Dr. Summers and a surgeon from 
 Washington had put him into a plaster jacket, and a 
 hospital nurse had taken Sister Loyola's place. " As 
 soon as you know how to pretend," said Zandrie. 
 " you won't mind being alone so very much ; perhaps 
 you won't even mind your new turtle-shell. Why 
 Julian dearie, sometimes when I 'm pretending, I 'd 
 almost rather nobody 'd speak to me, I 'm having so 
 much better time where I am. Want to come too? 
 Then listen ! " She lowered her voice. " I have 
 three black beans." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " O but you must 'nt ask such things ! I keep them 
 in a little box of ebony and mother-of-pearl, and it 
 opens queerly, up-side-down. It came from Popocat- 
 apetl. Well, I carry it in my petticoat pocket a 
 pocket nobody knows of. Interested? My, how I 
 love you ! They '11 do anything for you my beans, 
 I mean that they do for me. There 's the biggest 
 you could n't guess what that does when I squeeze 
 it." She beamed at him, her hands clasped. " It 
 makes me fly ! Think of it ! You 've dreamed it, you 
 know. I never go up very high sometimes only
 
 38 Z A N D R I E 
 
 just out of Sister Angela's reach, poor soul. Some- 
 times when I 'm running like lightning and people after 
 me just as they Ve almost caught up, I squeeze my 
 bean, and then think what fun! And sometimes 
 'stead of walking up-stairs, I go by the sunbeam that 
 leads to the first landing ; only the funny thing is that 
 generally when I go up that way, I send my real self 
 up by the stairs, and the two of us meet at the top." 
 
 " That 's curious." 
 
 " Is n't it ! But the second bean just let me tell 
 about that. It 's smaller, and it O guess ! It 
 makes me invisible ! I use it especially at Mass, when 
 I 'm kneeling by Mother McClung. She 's deaf and 
 dumb, you know, and cooks your dinner. Well, and 
 suddenly she does n't see me. Nobody does. And I 
 stalk up and down the aisle in my squeaky shoes, and 
 all around the choir till the Sisters get perfectly wild. 
 Sometimes I twitch their veils or whisper awful things 
 in their ears. Once I whispered ' ten devils ! ' O my 
 goodness ! And I scuff behind people on the street 
 used to, I mean and they think it 's a ghost. Oh, 
 what don't I do! " and she hugged herself in ecstasy. 
 After a few seconds, however, she left off laughing 
 and leaned forward. " I '11 tell you about my third 
 bean, too. You could n't laugh ? O no ! for you 're 
 Julian and you '11 come with me." She looked out 
 of the window across the room. " When I 'm so un- 
 happy I want to cry myself to pieces, then then I
 
 LEARNS HER PATER NOSTER 39 
 
 stand at the window and squeeze my littlest bean. I 
 like to watch it come my cloud chariot, you know. 
 First it 's way up, only a speck of cloud. But it 
 comes fast, bigger and bigger. And I get into it. 
 And then O Julian!" and she seized his hand, 
 " would n't you like to come too ? There 's room. 
 And we '11 go straight up into the blue, till it 's all we 
 see. But pretty soon you see something bright. It 's 
 my cloud palace built of sunsets, and the floors are 
 white and gray ; but the pillars and walls Oh ! And 
 the doors are rainbows. You can go under them, 
 through hall after hall; you hardly ever get to the end. 
 And it 's all light all but the night corner. Listen ! 
 It 's made of the blackest clouds you ever saw. It 
 scares you, sometimes ! And at one end there 's a 
 tower, and you look up into it, up and up, for it's 
 higher than you can imagine, and at the top is a little 
 moon rainbow with the moon in the middle. Julian! 
 I think the chariot 's on its way ! " She sprang up ; 
 but the afternoon sun shone into her eyes, blinding, so 
 that she groped for his hand. " Come ! " 
 
 " Some other day," he said. 
 
 "Why? Why?" 
 
 " Another day when I 'm out of my shell." 
 
 She looked at him, confused by this recall to the 
 World of Everybody Else, to which, after all, Julian 
 belonged, poor dear. But perhaps she could yet show 
 him the way out. She forgot to try to any more that
 
 40 Z A N D R I E 
 
 afternoon, however, for the simple reason that the bar 
 of sunlight had reached his hair. " Oh ! Oh ! " she 
 whispered. 
 
 Half an hour later, in the midst of the veracious 
 history of Launcelot her cat, Sister Angela summoned 
 her to Vespers. 
 
 " I won't go ! " she said under her breath, to Julian. 
 
 " Yes, you will," he answered. 
 
 She looked into his eyes ; then rose and walked slow- 
 ly to the door. But when Sister Angela held out her 
 hand, " I go," she announced, " because he tells me 
 to." 
 
 No wonder that the nuns shook their heads in be- 
 wilderment, or that Sister Isidore did penance for 
 further remarks on Julian's ability to rouse as well as 
 to cast out devils.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 JULIAN LEARNS SOMETHING TOO 
 
 These were good days for Zandrie ; in spite of sor- 
 row for her comrade's pain, they were the best since 
 her coming to the convent ; and the idea that they must 
 end, never dawned till a morning three weeks from 
 their beginning. Sister Petronilla, having little to do 
 as guest-mistress just now, was helping her cope with 
 fractions in a corner of the work-room, where Rever- 
 end Mother herself came to whisper that two ladies 
 who wanted to make their retreat, might be notified 
 that they could come any time after to-morrow. Dr. 
 Summers had consented to his patient's being moved 
 " as well now as later " she added with a shake of 
 the head. 
 
 Fractions fared ill after this. 
 
 When she could slip away to Julian, " What 's up, 
 Sister Bobolink? " he asked. " More trouble with the 
 crows ? " so he indecorously indicated the nuns. 
 
 But the title of " Sister," which usually set her 
 dancing with rage, passed unchallenged. Clasping her 
 hands under her chin to hold back the sobs, she said 
 " They 're going to send you away."
 
 42 Z A N D R I E 
 
 " That all ! I thought your chariot must have 
 punctured a tire on the tip of a steeple." 
 
 But Sister Bobolink's tears spilled over. 
 
 " Stop that ! " he commanded. " Come talk it over. 
 Are they going to cart me away in the gray of the 
 dawn, as they did Toper ? " 
 
 " It 's no 1 laughing matter," and she screwed the 
 tears back with her fists. 
 
 " About Toper, no." He took one of the forti- 
 fying fists. " You ought to be ashamed a big thing 
 ten years old! If I hadn't forgotten how, I'd cry 
 too, just to show how silly There, little sister 
 look ! you can get up on the bed here. You 're right 
 narrow ! " he pronounced it " narrer " " Only 
 don't make an earthquake of it, sobbing." 
 
 Having never been invited to this honorable post 
 before, she forgot her woe in its novelty. He was 
 actually letting her curl up beside him, her cheek 
 against his neck and right ear, while with the hand of 
 the arm she was lying on, he stroked back her hair. 
 But the tears soon came again so that she had to 
 clench her teeth for fear of the earthquake. 
 
 " There are some people the other side of the wa- 
 ter," he said irrelevently, " who 'd laugh if they saw 
 this." 
 
 "Wh why?" 
 
 " O well, maybe because they are n't little girls 
 real little girls themselves. I never had much to do
 
 JULIAN LEARNS SOMETHING 43 
 
 with one before. Would n't have thought I 'd enjoy 
 it." 
 
 " Oh ! " Zandrie wailed, " I 've got to get off the 
 bed!" 
 
 But he held her fast. He was all boxed up so a lit- 
 tle earthquake could n't hurt. " Now let 's be reason- 
 able. I 'm only going to the hospital." 
 
 " Mi-i-iles away ! " 
 
 " Three," he corrected, " and you can come to see 
 me, and run away to do it, which '11 suit you to a T. 
 And presently when my legs do what I tell 'em 
 queer they 're so weak still ! then I '11 get a new 
 horse and put you on in front, and off we '11 gallop, no 
 matter what the crows say. And when I get back to 
 Paris, I '11 oh, I reckon I '11 write to you, which is a 
 sight more than I 'd do for any one else." 
 
 But she was not to be cajoled so, nor even by the 
 caressing hand against her cheek, whose touch perhaps 
 made the coming loss look the more terrific. " Oh ! " 
 she sobbed, " I can't be a nun here without you ! I 
 can see it here without you ! " 
 
 Yes, and the vision filled her with a terror of the 
 loneliness that she had already come to know ; so that 
 the power of seeing, so often her best friend, proved 
 traitor now, turning the wine of Julian's cheer to 
 water. She managed to hear him through in silence 
 while he explained the certainty of her coming often 
 to the hospital ; but then she drew closer and clung to
 
 44 ZANDRIE 
 
 him in a passion of entreaty. " Take me with you ! 
 Julian dearie! take me with you to Paris!" 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" 
 
 " You could if you wanted. You can do anything 
 you try. You can make me good ! the nuns say so. 
 O take me and see! I was wicked before you came 
 and I '11 be wicked when you 're gone. I '11 grow up 
 wicked. They '11 try to make me Catholic and break 
 my promise. But with you I '11 be good forever. I '11 
 mind you better than Sister Isidore, even ! I '11 be 
 your real, true sister and take care of you when you 're 
 hurt, and we '11 pretend together. I '11 make new 
 things for us to pretend. O think ! " 
 
 He seemed to be thinking hard, for he lay still, his 
 hand forgetting to stroke her hair. 
 
 " Remember," she whispered, " I '11 be good for- 
 ever." 
 
 " By heaven ! " he said at last, " I don't see why 
 not." 
 
 "You mean you'll" 
 
 " I 've got an idea." 
 
 "You'll take me with you? Julian!" She 
 bounded off the bed to give play to the joy that threat- 
 ened to throttle her. 
 
 " I '11 do my best." 
 
 "Your best! Oh, then why, then" Where 
 she gave her confidence, she gave it entire ; and at first 
 sight of her Knight's hair, she had dumped the whole 
 of her trust at his feet. And so, though he told her
 
 JULIAN LEARNS SOMETHING 45 
 
 nothing of his idea only that he must have time to 
 plan a campaign against Sister Angela she needed 
 no more assurance. He said he would do his best ; and 
 where others' best left off, his began; so her freedom 
 was as good as won already freedom plus Julian ! 
 And her life was going to be happy after all! 
 
 It was snowing splendidly fast, as though to help 
 hurry the minutes till he should summon her, which he 
 might do, she thought, very soon now. The noon 
 office had been sung and the midday siesta was over, 
 and Sister Angela had actually gone into the retreat- 
 house. So Zandrie pranced and tumbled in the drifts, 
 and when she found poor, deaf McClung shoveling a 
 path, she snatched the spade and worked gallantly for 
 full three minutes, while he grinned, stamped, and 
 beat his hands. Then Sister Petronilla came through 
 the path and Zandrie threw snow over her veil. 
 " You 're a novice again ! " she shouted. 
 
 Ten minutes later, impatient of waiting, she ran 
 into the retreat-house, and was about to demand admit- 
 tance to Julian's room, when the sound of Sister An- 
 gela's voice arrested her. The door stood ajar. 
 Eavesdropping was an evil practice of course, but Jul- 
 ian was now answering the nun, and the words and 
 tone snared her into temptation. " You mean," he 
 was saying, " you think any soul can be fitted to a 
 convent life? " 
 
 " I believe," the Sub-Prioress said and her voice 
 was not warming to hear " that my sister's will
 
 46 Z A N D R I E 
 
 find its true home here, in time. What I believe is 
 usually well founded." 
 
 " Good God ! Zandrie a nun ! I beg your pardon. 
 But why, she 'd wear herself out just struggling. 
 Besides, she was cut out for a right big work in the 
 world. She ought to be let loose to do it. I 've seen 
 a deal of men and women, and I tell you she 's un- 
 usual. There 's something in her that was n't made 
 to be wasted, I '11 wager. For Heaven's sake, my 
 dear lady, don't imprison her here ! It '11 be a crime 
 against her and her Maker. Give her to me, and as 
 I said, I '11 make it my first duty to bring her up well 
 to do the work in the world that she was meant for. 
 Give her to me ! " 
 
 When the nun's voice broke the long pause, it was 
 low and vibrant and slightly hoarse. " You asking 
 for charge of a young soul! You daring to judge 
 between its Maker and me ! You ! Oh, we re- 
 ceived you kept you, at least, in mercy, knowing 
 about your life, trusting to the Blessed Virgin and 
 your own honor, to work no harm. You! who do not 
 even profess the faith!" The tense, accusing voice 
 kept on, but the listener heard no more because of a 
 step on the stairs. 
 
 It was Dr. Summers, at sight of whom Zandrie 
 was more dismayed than by Sister Angela's unjust 
 denunciation ; for where he entered, his sway was abso- 
 lute. Twice he had dismissed her by a mere jerk of 
 the thumb. And now she knew that she might not
 
 JULIAN LEARNS SOMETHING 47 
 
 see Julian for a whole half-hour. But after stepping 
 into a vacant guest-room to let her sister pass without 
 seeing her for the Sub-Prioress too was dismissed, 
 by a jerk of the thumb? after that the time passed 
 quickly. For in spite of Sister Angela's resistance, 
 Julian would have his way ; his " best " meant certain 
 success. Imagination wrought busily, while she 
 floated on unsounded depths of trust. 
 
 So soon! The doctor was striding down the hall, 
 furiously at a tempo in fact suggesting flight. And 
 then well, then came Julian's second breach of 
 courtesy, through which she caught a glimpse, more 
 startling than the first, of a certain untamed creature 
 shaking its chains behind the bars of his gentler self; 
 yet a breach through which her heart tried to reach 
 in a very agony of unasked forgiveness. 
 
 It began with his command to call back Dr. Sum- 
 mers; and she raced at his bidding. The nurse had 
 gone down stairs for something. It required three 
 breathless appeals flung over the bannisters, to arrest 
 the doctor, who faced about with the growl of a cap- 
 tured bear. 
 
 " Come here to the right," Julian said harshly, 
 grappling his captive to the bedside by one of the doc- 
 tor's buttons. " Now tell me what that meant 
 those last words exactly." 
 
 Though the Doctor's eyebrows were almost eclips- 
 ing his eyes, he shifted his feet as one discomfited, 
 crushing his felt hat under one arm and his surgeon's
 
 48 Z A N D R I E 
 
 case under the other, and staring down at the muscu- 
 lar hand on his coat as though quite unable to re- 
 lease himself. Then he turned and glowered at Zan- 
 drie. " What words ? " he rumbled, eyeing her still. 
 
 Julian's voice was low but very clear. " That it 
 depended on what? I want the answer without 
 any nonsense." 
 
 Would the stupid man never give it? Zandrie 
 could have told him that when his patient asked a 
 question in those level tones, one had better answer 
 at once and to the point. This was evidently a person 
 who did not observe; and as he seemed to be looking 
 to her for advice, she gave it : " Go on." 
 
 And at last he did go on, pulling his voice up as 
 through a hole in his throat, by jerks; " Yes I sup- 
 pose you may as well know it now as later. You 're 
 probably as well fitted as able to bear it now as 
 you '11 ever be. That is of course the minor in- 
 juries the fracture of the wrist It's a compli- 
 cated fracture, as they say You managed to do 
 it quite thoroughly but you '11 have the use of your 
 arm again, of course. But the spine In a case 
 of injury to vertebrae and cord, producing paralysis 
 like yours Improvement possible, but no case of 
 perfect recovery on record." A tremendous tug had 
 succeeded in pulling this last up through the hole in 
 a mass, so that the words came too fast to be under- 
 stood at once. 
 
 Julian's eyes, staring up at the doctor's flushed face,
 
 JULIAN LEARNS SOMETHING 49 
 
 showed him groping wildly at first; then in growing 
 comprehension of some atrocity the sight of which 
 shakes a man with indignation, loathing, defiance, rage. 
 "Like this for life? For life? A damned cripple 
 for life?" Suddenly anger snatched the blood 
 from his lips to kindle a flame in his eyes. His hand 
 let go the doctor's coat, to clutch a watch that lay 
 on a chair at his side. 
 
 The Doctor meanwhile was moving slowly, clumsily, 
 fumbling for his hat; yet he told his wife later that 
 he had no recollection of what Julian was saying. 
 Zandrie heard, however, and the fierce words rang in 
 her ears for hours after. " It 's absurd ! It 's a lie ! 
 I 've ridden dozens of steeplechases ; I 'm the best 
 rider in Maryland. If I were n't in the hell of a cast 
 you put me into, I 'd make you swallow your lie. 
 You 're a damned, lying fool, I say ! Get out of this 
 room ! . . . O my God ! " 
 
 The doctor, who was already on the threshold, 
 beckoned to Zandrie; but frightened though she was, 
 she had other ideas of friendship than to leave Julian 
 now; for his burst of fury had whirled her into a 
 fragmentary comprehension of tragedy. However 
 dimly and inexpressibly, she yet realized that his spirit 
 and one of its crises were met together for a mortal 
 joust. An earthquake shock had let loose that crea- 
 ture shaking its chains, to fight for life with all that 
 she had hitherto known as Julian, and victory for that 
 Julian must take a long draught of his heart's blood;
 
 50 ZANDRIE 
 
 and victory might not choose his side after all. But 
 either way, the struggle would be bitter, wearying 
 body and soul together. 
 
 For what seemed quite an hour, he lay without sign 
 of struggle or grief except for the arm crooked over 
 his eyes, rigid as a bolt. It was so tensely rigid that 
 after a while it began to tremble. His hand still 
 clenched the watch that he had caught up as though 
 to hurl at the man whom he charged with lying. 
 Yet if he really believed the dreadful words to be lies, 
 he would surely have said so with less fury. Ah no ! 
 the doctor was telling truth. 
 
 She stole along beside the bed till she was within 
 reach of his forehead. What was going on inside 
 there? Was he picturing, like her, a life in which 
 one never ran in the good sunshine or snow, but lay 
 quite still under bed-clothes forever and ever? Such 
 a life would be like a dream that ends of its own hor- 
 ror; its reality could not even be thought. Beside 
 such misery, her own vital grief of the early morning 
 was a shrunken trifle. 
 
 His left forearm lay across his breast. First, she 
 leaned over to drop two kisses as soft as snowflakes, on 
 the fingers where they escaped from the bandage ; then 
 she whispered at his ear " Julian dearie ! Listen ! 
 I '11 love you forever ! " As he seemed not to hear, 
 she tried gently to draw away the arm that had been 
 riveted so long across his eyes, as though to hold down 
 tears struggling for air.
 
 JULIAN LEARNS SOMETHING 51 
 
 Well, after all she would rather, even for his sake, 
 have found tears there than the hostile glare that 
 frightened her almost into forgetting the blow with 
 which he struck her away, that set her flying poor, 
 voiceless bobolink, down the stairs and out into the 
 bitter air.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 DEALING WITH TREACHERY 
 
 If Mrs. Deming had seen the final exit of the Fur- 
 ness Boy from his father's house, she would doubt- 
 less have drawn gratifying assurance that in views 
 on ^chastening, she and Providence were at one. 
 Luckily, the witnesses were few and one at least was 
 sympathetic a little girl at an upper window, who 
 cried, not so much because her Knight had not let her 
 come to him before he went, as because she knew the 
 reason why. He was staggering through the first 
 steps of his chastening with a most healthy-minded 
 bad grace, so that even Reverend Mother was appalled. 
 " Don't ye be grieving, however," Sister Isidore com- 
 forted, with an arm about Reverend Mother's ample 
 waist. " Dear heart ! it 's just to bother the likes of 
 yourself that the Divil will be lodging in other folks, 
 for it 's so little ye 're acquainted with his ways, he 
 knows ye 're aisy teased, and loves the sport." But 
 Zandrie knew that she herself could have no such 
 excuse for grieving; the Devil and she were too old 
 friends ! 
 
 In spite of Julian's refusal to see her, her faith in 
 
 52
 
 DEALING WITH TREACHERY 53 
 
 his intention to take her away was unshaken. It was 
 possible and even probable that Dr. Summers's news 
 had stunned him into a moment's forgetfulness of all 
 else; but, as he had said himself, the hospital was near, 
 and he would be expecting her there. Otherwise he 
 would doubtless have seen her this morning : in spite of 
 the blasphemous, Heaven-defying rage that had lasted 
 over night, to Reverend Mother's so sore dismay; in 
 spite of the Devil in league with pain, he would have 
 let her come to arrange about her flight. For, flight 
 it must probably be, since Sister Angela had said not 
 a word about her talk with him and had doubtless 
 refused to consider his proposition. So far from 
 being dismayed by that fact, however, Zandrie hoped 
 that she had refused, clandestine departure being more 
 to her taste. And once away, small fear of recapture, 
 for Julian wanted her, and where was the nun who 
 could keep Julian from his heart's desire? Together, 
 he and she could defy ten sisterhoods. 
 
 Mail was brought to the Priory twice a week and 
 thrust through a slip into a box fastened to the inside 
 of the big gate. On the morning after Julian's going, 
 the Prioress showed Zandrie the hook where the key 
 to the box hung, in token that she was appointed mail 
 carrier between the gate and the convent, and the 
 honor thawed her for the moment out of a resolution 
 to run away that day. Over night, she had decided 
 that her first visit to Julian at the hospital should be, 
 not a mere preparation for later flight, but her final
 
 54 Z A N D R I E 
 
 good-by to St. Scholastica's. It was certainly the 
 simplest course. Touched, however, by Reverend 
 Mother's mark of esteem, she would now stay perhaps 
 three days longer, so as to leave behind not too evil a 
 fame. But a glance at the contents of the mail box 
 dislodged even the remembrance of this resolve, for 
 there were two envelopes with the same handwriting 
 and with the postmark of the same town in Massa- 
 chusetts, and one was addressed to the Mother Su- 
 perior and the other to Julian. 
 
 That afternoon found her tramping along the road 
 to town, Julian's letter in her pocket, the ten dollar 
 gold piece in her shoe, where it felt like a Midas- 
 touched turnip, and under one arm a bundle of care- 
 fully chosen apparel, including the collar of Launcelot 
 the deceased. The peach tree by the wall had again 
 served for a ladder. At every sound of wheels, she 
 plunged recklessly into the snow-laden bushes, till, 
 coming upon a long stretch without a single sheltering 
 shrub or tree, whom must she meet but Dr. Summers. 
 
 " Hello, young snowdrift ! " he thundered, reining 
 in. " Going to town to see your feller ? Footing it 
 all the way? Quite a bit yet to the hospital. Know 
 the road? Better hop in by me; going that way my- 
 self presently." 
 
 She declined graciously but firmly. Since his dis- 
 comfiture of two days before, she felt little awe of 
 him. 
 
 "Know, the road?" he repeated. "Why hello!"
 
 DEALING WITH TREACHERY 55 
 
 and he pointed with his whip at her bundle, " bless us 
 if that isn't a shoe sticking out there and a little 
 pettie ! Looks mighty like a run-away ! Mum 's the 
 word?" 
 
 Zandrie agreed that mum was the word ; whereupon 
 he winked and drove on the faithless rascal 
 towards the convent. 
 
 She was not Julian's only visitor this morning. To 
 her profound disgust, there was already by his bed- 
 side a prodigiously stout lady in a black satin waist 
 that creaked with her every breath. As she complete- 
 ly filled the only chair in the little room, Zandrie sat 
 down on the foot of the bed, very gently, yet " Care- 
 ful! careful!" the lady panted pronouncing it 
 " caffle." 
 
 Julian meanwhile had given her no word of greet- 
 ing scarcely even a sign of recognition staring 
 straight up at the ceiling in unmitigated silence. There 
 was a curious, sullen smoulder in his eyes, quite dif- 
 ferent from anything she had seen there before. The 
 massive lady, who seemed not to have noticed it, bore 
 the omission of introductions with fine equanimity, 
 asking Zandrie her name, and, after a pause, announc- 
 ing her own to be Mrs. Deming. Then she turned to 
 her unresponsive host. " As I was saying, the ways 
 of the Lord are past finding out." She said it in a 
 bass voice and with conviction. 
 
 He did not contradict her. 
 
 " Julian," said Zandrie, " guess what I Ve got in my
 
 56 Z A N D R I E 
 
 pocket." She had left the bundle of clothes outside 
 the door. 
 
 " I believe," the lady went on, gathering herself up 
 to go with majestic absence of haste, " I believe all of 
 us need chastening now and then even ministers of 
 the Lord. Yes, I believe that! Though of course I 
 am not so so bigoted, of course, as to believe in a 
 direct er ratio between church attendance and 
 such severe chastening as " 
 
 " I am ! " Zandrie proclaimed ; and Julian's frown 
 relaxed a little, so that though he still refused to meet 
 her eyes, she sighed with relief. 
 
 " She does n't understand," Mrs. Deming said 
 and was quite right. " Little girls should n't interrupt. 
 As we were saying; of course I am not so bigoted 
 as -r- as that; yet at the time when you wholly refused 
 to attend worship except upon conditions, even at 
 that time I could n't help feeling You '11 forgive my 
 speaking to you as a mother ? you 're still such a 
 very young man. I thought to myself at that time " 
 
 "Oh, he is n't young!" 
 
 " A very uncontrolled, disrespectful little girl," the 
 deep, unruffled voice went on. " I 'm afraid she tires 
 you. As I was saying " 
 
 " Julian ! " Zandrie spoke with surpassing sweet- 
 ness " let's pretend this bed 's an automobile, and 
 every one off it, cows in the road." 
 
 The silence that ensued might have been dramatic
 
 DEALING WITH TREACHERY 57 
 
 but for the creaking of Mrs. Deming 's waist. " Don't 
 be distressed on my account," she said with tactful 
 serenity. " I am coming soon again, of course. Very 
 often, in fact. And Mr. Deming as soon as his lum- 
 bago permits. We consider you as one of our parish- 
 ioners, you know, on your father's account. He was 
 such a loss such an irredeemable loss to the church." 
 
 As she stood buttoning a large black glove and look- 
 ing down at the son of the dead loss, though his face 
 gave no invitation to sympathy, her own visibly soft- 
 ened. " Yes, I will come again very soon. And if 
 there is anything you think of that you want, you '11 
 send for one of us ? . . . I Ve written my son 
 George about you. We are all so sorry." 
 
 " Oh, oh'! " Zandrie whispered under her breath, 
 " take care ! " 
 
 But Mrs. Deming was perfectly reckless. " Dr. 
 Summers has told us, you know. It 's a very hard lot. 
 Very hard. But if you can bear it in patience and 
 trust of the Lord's mercy he is very merciful 
 . . ." She was actually bending as though to kiss 
 him good-by ! 
 
 " Damned merciful," said the Furness boy before 
 the kiss could reach him. 
 
 That it never reached him perhaps goes without say- 
 ing. 
 
 But even after the door had shut with unmajes- 
 tic haste he scowled still ; and the guest who stayed
 
 58 Z A N D R I E 
 
 pouted in bewilderment. For how could one sulk 
 after such a triumph of profanity? Why, it had all 
 but shocked herself Zandrie! 
 
 As the moment propitious for a certain announce- 
 ment about a bundle of clothes had evidently not ar- 
 rived, she delivered the letter, which, after reading it 
 in a silence betokening small interest and less pleasure, 
 he handed back. 
 
 "I can read it?" 
 
 No answer, which she took for consent. 
 It gave an address, 102 Elm street, and then began: 
 " My dear, dear Julian," hey, what was this ! 
 " A letter just received from our old friend, Mrs. Sum- 
 mers, tells me of your plight. You blessed child! 
 Yes, I know you 're grown up now and right tall too, 
 but I 've not seen you since that happened, not 
 since you visited us and liked the singing of the bobo- 
 links. But your father wrote me something about 
 how big and strong and wicked you were getting to be, 
 spending ever so much more time with horses than 
 Greek, and how you looked more like me than any one 
 else ; since which I 've been more anxious than ever 
 to see you, of course ! And now I 'm coming as soon 
 as I can arrange about leaving the twins, to fetch you 
 home with me. You will come, dear, won't you? 
 Since your uncle's death we have been pretty lonely 
 here. Marsh and Lee are almost as wild to see you 
 as I, your very loving aunt, Emily Marshall Wyn- 
 dam."
 
 DEALING WITH TREACHERY 59 
 
 Zandrie exclaimed in dismay at this obstacle to her 
 own designs on Julian's person. " You don't want to 
 go, do you? " 
 
 " Not enthusiastic." In fact, his loving aunt would 
 not have felt flattered. 
 
 Zandrie smiled happily. " Who are Marsh and 
 Lee?" 
 
 " Twins, of course." 
 
 "How old?" 
 
 " Don't know," he snapped. " Babies five or six. 
 Something of that sort." 
 
 " How cunning ! But they 'd bother perhaps boy- 
 twins that age. O surely you 'd rather " But his 
 mood still looked inauspicious. 
 
 "Rather what?" 
 
 But while she debated wistfully, a gust of pain that 
 tore out the first groan she had ever heard from him, 
 settled the business. She jumped to his side, her 
 hands locked against her throat, for at first there was 
 nothing she could do. At last, " Water ! " he whis- 
 pered, breathless as though after a run. And then, 
 after she had given it and disposed of her tears, she 
 slipped into the chair and drew it close. " Lucky, 
 Mrs. Cow-in-the-Road was out of it ! " And then, 
 " You don't want any one around but me anyway, do 
 you? You don't want to visit any old Aunt Emily 
 Marshall Wyndams, with twins especially! And I 
 don't want to go there anyway. We '11 have more fun 
 alone, always. We won't even have a nurse around,
 
 60 ZANDRIE 
 
 for I can open your letters for you and take care of 
 you so nicely. And we '11 live in a little house and 
 pretend from morning to night ; and I '11 put little red 
 curtains in the windows and cook gingerbread and mix 
 raspberry shrub. I '11 do all the cooking, in fact. 
 And sometimes perhaps we '11 invite poor Mam'selle 
 for a visit, and Mickie too. Mickie swore like a 
 trooper, but he could n't hold a candle to you, I reckon. 
 Papa discharged him because he smelt so of beer, 
 but you wouldn't mind that? I loved him dread- 
 fully. Julian dearie! you 're not listening! " 
 
 It was true; and the object of his attention was no 
 other than the convent chaplain, Father Thomas, stand- 
 ing in the door-way. Startling though the apparition 
 was, Zandrie clapped a hand on Julian's shoulder and 
 presented a bold front. 
 
 Father Thomas was not a garrulous man. Without 
 a word, he took her by the arm. But she wrenched 
 away, and, leaning over, dropped her great news in 
 Julian's ear : " My clothes are all out in the hall in 
 a lovely bundle. I 've come to stay forever ! " 
 
 But the expected smile never came. 
 
 "Tell him " Zandrie pleaded, "tell him to go. 
 If we 're going to live together, of course we ought to 
 begin right now when you need me so. They all ought 
 to see that." She wheeled on the foe. " Father, I 'm 
 going to stay, whether Sister Angela says so or not. 
 Of course she said no when he asked. That 's why
 
 DEALING WITH TREACHERY 61 
 
 I had to run away. But he wants me, and so Ju- 
 lian ! tell him that you " 
 
 Her voice dropped, for his hand had shot out to 
 push her away. 
 
 " Good heavens, Zandrie ! What does it mean? I 
 thought " 
 
 " Mean ? " she echoed. 
 
 His voice was harsh doubtless because he was trou- 
 bled for her. " You don't mean you think that you 
 After what Dr. Summers told ? You were there, 
 I think. When I asked Sister Angela, it was before 
 that when I thought I was like other men. I 
 did n't know what I was saying." 
 
 " You mean you don't want me " 
 
 "Now? After what Dr. Summers said? Of 
 course not!" He had turned his face away. "Of 
 course not ! " he repeated sharply. " Take her away ! " 
 
 At that she began to understand so she thought. 
 Two days had changed her friend and knight into a 
 traitor a sullen traitor without pity for the havoc 
 he wrought. 
 
 A surge of grief lifted her for the second out of 
 her childhood. Turning slowly to the priest, she lifted 
 a finger and pointed it at Julian. " He is a liar! " 
 
 It was not until she had picked up the bundle of 
 clothes and was half way down the corridor, holding 
 Father Thomas's hand, that the sobs came.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 EXPLAINING HOW BOBOLINKS MAY COME TO BE 
 AMONG RAVENS 
 
 Of course Sister Isidore's account of how an em- 
 phatically secular young man came to enter a nun- 
 nery, is as detailed as one could wish or endure. But 
 when Zandrie tried to tell that young man how she 
 happened to be there herself well, what does one 
 expect of a bobolink but just such a scrappy, loose- 
 jointed performance? Her likeness to the giddy 
 black-and-white bird must have been striking, by the 
 way, if Julian saw it even by twilight. 
 
 She forgot to mention, for instance, that her fath- 
 er's family tree grew in Ireland, or that its top 
 branches were bristling with the stiff est of Protestant 
 twigs, though this item appears hardly to explain 
 her presence in a most Catholic sisterhood, either. It 
 would have seemed more to the point if she had told 
 him how her father, so far from being a stiff-necked 
 Protestant, rather plumed himself on a sweet-tem- 
 pered scepticism which he called tolerance. When his 
 brother Jason came to America, for instance, and fell 
 in love with the niece of a Catholic bishop, he merely 
 
 62
 
 BOBOLINKS AMONG RAVENS 63 
 
 wrote him a letter of good-natured raillery; and when 
 Jason married her and became a devout Romanist 
 himself, he laughed. There was a drachm of con- 
 tempt, to be sure, in the laugh. But six months later, 
 he married a Romanist himself his new sister-in- 
 law's cousin, whom he had met at Jason's wedding 
 and promised easily enough that his children should 
 be brought up in their mother's faith. Why not? 
 One form of religion was as harmless as another. 
 And he kept his promise too, though his wife died at 
 the birth of their first child, and by the time that the 
 little girl had grown up and taken religious vows and 
 become Sister Angela, Sub-Prioress of St. Scholas- 
 tica's, he had lost some of his cheerful tolerance. The 
 germ of stiff-necked Protestantism had developed, in 
 fact, into something sturdy enough to build a spiked 
 wall between himself and his brother. For Sister 
 Angela was at that time his only child, and he held 
 Jason responsible for what he was pleased to call her 
 suicide. 
 
 It was true that Jason and his wife had been more 
 than godparents to the motherless little girl during the 
 years when her father was traveling on his mining 
 business ; and that she picked up somehow, somewhere, 
 a remarkably Catholic education. But in those days 
 her proficiency in saint-lore amused him vastly. It 
 was not till fourteen years later, when she and her 
 cousin Mary had become nuns at St. Scholastica's, that 
 he cursed Jason and all Catholics living.
 
 64 Z A N D R I E 
 
 To be sure, poor Alexander could ill spare his 
 daughter; whereas Jason had two besides Mary, to 
 whose memory, by the way, St. Scholastica's owed its 
 great gate. But of the other two daughters, one died 
 soon after Mary had taken her vows, and the other 
 married and moved to Australia, leaving Jason prac- 
 tically as childless as his brother. That fact removed 
 at least the spikes from the wall between them. And 
 after the death of Jason's wife, it became low enough 
 to be climbed; and Alexander himself climbed over 
 now and then at least till the coming of Miss An- 
 toinette Bonneau. 
 
 She was a Virginia belle, very proud of her Hugue- 
 not blood, and as fond as most of us of having her 
 way. And she usually had it. When she met Mr. 
 Alexander Donallon, for instance . . . He was 
 twenty-three years older than she, but in spite of all 
 that people said about her wanting him for his money 
 and he actually had made a small fortune in min- 
 ing stocks she probably married him just because 
 he was still an uncommonly engaging fellow, ready to 
 laugh at her wit as well as his own, as lavish of af- 
 fection as of money, very self -sacrificing whenever 
 another's need happened to catch his attention, ab- 
 surdly impulsive even at fifty. He knew twenty-eight 
 songs, which he sang in a ringing tenor, accompany- 
 ing himself on a guitar with great gusto. And he 
 wrote stories for half a dozen popular magazines, 
 under as many noms de plume. Why should n't Miss
 
 BOBOLINKS AMONG RAVENS 65 
 
 Bonneau have liked him? During the first two years 
 of their married life, they traveled together. Then 
 Zandrie was born, and they settled in Baltimore. 
 
 On the rare occasions when Jason Donation saw 
 his new niece, and he was never left alone with her 
 for a minute he pronounced her spoiled. But what 
 did his opinion signify? her mother demanded. He, 
 a judge of children? a practically childless old man 
 who divided his time between law and religion, and 
 the Catholic religion at that and the division being 
 very uneven, moreover, in favor of that religion! 
 " Why, I reckon he could trip up his own father con- 
 fessor on his Breviary," she said ; " and as for his 
 fastings, he must be the most economical boarder in 
 Maryland. He a judge of children! " 
 
 Yet Mam'selle herself once admitted in a pet, that 
 he was right in pronouncing Mile. Zandrie " affreuse- 
 ment spoil'." And really, when one considers, what 
 else could one expect ? . . . since her mother, be- 
 ing a spoiled child herself, could have no proper idea 
 of discipline, and her father directed most of his ener- 
 gies to the spoiling business. 
 
 After her mother's death, when Zandrie was eight, 
 she and he became great comrades. He used to wake 
 her in the morning with little songs of his own mak- 
 ing, such as 
 
 " Robin's caught a worm 
 
 And cooked it for the nest
 
 66 Z A N D R I E 
 
 or 
 
 Robin got up early, 
 But Zandrie is n't dressed." 
 
 "The sun is up, and the birdies sing 
 ' Tee-cheep ! O fie on a lazy thing ! ' ' 
 
 And once it was 
 
 " The pussy-cat climbed up the tree 
 And liked the view most thoroughly, 
 And never cried until he found 
 It rather hard to reach the ground." 
 
 Whereupon Zandrie bounced up, thinking that Launce- 
 lot was " stuck " in the cherry tree. " O no," her 
 father said, " no more than you and I. That was 
 just a little moral tale." 
 
 Whatever she demanded of him, she got, though on 
 a certain condition that became a formula at last 
 a ceremony. " Promise," it began, " that you '11 
 never, never " 
 
 " Be Catholic," she would interrupt in her usual 
 prodigious hurry. " Promise never, never, never! 
 NOW ! " At which point the rubric called for ter- 
 rific embrace, followed by instant fulfillment. 
 
 For, Jason's fanaticisms and austerities of life had 
 come to typify, to his brother's mind, the religion that 
 had drawn Sister Angela to what he called her death 
 of mind and heart. " To renounce one's right of
 
 BOBOLINKS AMONG RAVENS 67 
 
 judgment and will, to the glory of God," he said, 
 " is the deepest insult one can pay to God." When his 
 first daughter took the veil and " her life," the iron 
 entered his soul. He would take care that his younger 
 fell into no danger. 
 
 Yet he died without appointing a guardian. Per- 
 haps as with other ardent lovers of life, the idea 
 that he was really to die some day, had never caught 
 his attention. To the surprise of all but his bankers, 
 he died in debt. 
 
 Jason, meanwhile, had amassed a goodly sum of 
 which he spent little, and had made a will, too, be- 
 fore Alexander's death, bequeathing half his fortune 
 to his daughter in Australia, and the rest to St. 
 Scholastica's. But he was willing enough to provide 
 the means of subsistence and soul's salvation for his 
 brother's little girl, given the medium; and Sister 
 Angela became the medium. Her Priory was already 
 in Mr. Jason Donallon's debt for its triple-arched 
 gate; it may have had inklings of future indebtedness; 
 and Sister Angela was in a position of authority. So 
 it was not improper that her sister should be allowed 
 to board at the Priory, at its benefactor's expense, 
 during the short vacations granted by a convent school. 
 
 And so it comes about quite simply, after all, that 
 the daughter of Alexander Donallon calls herself, in 
 her dramas of the Knight, " Zandrie of the Con- 
 vent."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CHIEFLY AT OUR LADY'S 
 
 That high wrath in which she parted from her 
 Knight, melted into grief the third day after. For on 
 that day Uncle Jason had dropped from the sky into 
 Father Thomas's cottage, and transported her to a 
 certain Academy of Our Lady of Ransom. 
 
 Life promised to become a stirring affair at this 
 rate; for when one counted the days carefully on a 
 calendar, it appeared that she had been at St. Scholas- 
 tica's only three weeks and a half on St. Polycarp's 
 day, which was the day of Julian's coming; and only 
 six weeks and two days when she was haled away to 
 school. 
 
 " I 'd just as lief go with you," she told Uncle 
 Jason, " and I 'd just as lief never come back." But 
 this extremity of listlessness was due to an encounter 
 with Sister Angela, who had refused to pack any of 
 Zandrie's treasures in the suitcase that was receiving 
 her concise outfit, and finding the gold eagle, had en- 
 closed it in an envelope labeled " Property of my sis- 
 ter A. O. D. Her father's last birthday gift to her," 
 and put it away. The battle over the collar of 
 
 68
 
 CHIEFLY AT OUR LADY'S 69 
 
 Launcelot ended ingloriously, too. So the healing 
 words of Sister Isidore were sorely needed ; " Mind 
 what I told ye now about your friend Julius ? It 's 
 always upside-down a name comes in my head. Mind 
 then, he was all in the right, poor soul. It 's just 
 because he was loving ye so which ye '11 be under- 
 standing better when ye 're old as me." 
 
 And because her conviction was catching, or be- 
 cause wrath against Sister Angela left room for no 
 other, her anger against Julian fell away and on the 
 way to the station she sat up firmly in the coupe, an- 
 nouncing that she would say good-by to him. 
 
 " To what ? " Her uncle was reading Poire's 
 " Triple Crown of the Mother of God." But when 
 her eloquence had compelled his attention, the result 
 of his final words and they were very final com- 
 pelled the attention of passers by; for Zandrie wept. 
 To be accurate, she bawled. And Uncle Jason, thrust- 
 ing the " Triple Crown " into a pocket, said "damn," 
 very softly, but for the first time since his August re- 
 treat. 
 
 Yet, although thwarted in a spoken apology to Ju- 
 lian, she could write it. 
 
 "Academy of Our Lady of Ransome, 
 
 Feb. Eleventh, 
 "JULIAN DEARY, 
 
 " I am sorry I was so passionite and sinfull and impollite 
 and won't you please write and say you excuse me, I think 
 you were so good to want me at all and Sister Isidoor says
 
 70 Z A N D R I E 
 
 you were quite wright to change your mind after what Doc. 
 Summers told you though I can't see why at all, but she was 
 very pozitive. I am at hording school (but it is a convent 
 too) and I like it better than at St. Sckolasticha's only we 
 all have to wear black unaforms no matter whether anyone 
 is dead or not and I would like to see someone in a red 
 dress, I would like a pink dress when I get over morning 
 for Papa. We wear white vails to Sunday Mass. I like 
 compisition but not arrithemetic, I have french with the big 
 girls because Mile, was French and Mama's ansisters too, 
 and I know it all but the awfull gramar. It is very strict 
 here but perhaps I will be good if you tell me too. I do 
 love you Julian deary but I must stop now. 
 
 " Your Loving, 
 
 " No. 73. 
 
 " P. S. We have nombers here and I am 73. 
 
 " Your Loving, 
 " ALEXANDRA OWEN DONALLON." 
 
 The envelope, directed to " Mr. J. Furnis, At the 
 Hospitle," town and state duly indicated was 
 dropped into Our Lady's mail-box, unsealed as the 
 rules order. Another clause in the prospectus reads 
 that " visits and correspondence outside the immediate 
 family are not allowed without permission from par- 
 ents or guardians, and the sanction of the Institution," 
 according to which, the letter to Mr. J. Furnis was 
 enclosed in a respectful request to Mr. J. Donallon to 
 forward it if he saw fit. And he saw fit perhaps 
 by way of expiation for that violence in the coupe. 
 
 An answer arrived a month later, but the super- 
 scription gave the street and New England town that
 
 CHIEFLY AT OUR LADY'S 71 
 
 headed the letter to Julian which she had read at the 
 hospital, and was in fact from the same person. 
 
 " DEAR ZANDRIE, 
 
 " It is so hard for Julian to write, I am doing it for 
 him. I am his aunt, by the way, and have brought him up 
 north here, to live with us my two little boys and me. In 
 the first place, he wants me to assure you that there is noth- 
 ing to excuse. You were good to him always, he says, and 
 he will never forget you. I wish you were here, for it is 
 easy to see that his hard lot grows harder to bear, every 
 day. He was such an active boy ! And he can never ride 
 again, or even walk except with crutches, all the surgeons 
 say so. Is n't it dreadful ! I was never sorrier for any- 
 body, or more at a loss how to help. The other day I had 
 the bright idea that he might amuse himself learning the 
 violin; but to-day the doctor told me that his left wrist that 
 he broke so badly, is going to be too stiff. He never has 
 cared much for reading, and I am at my wits' end. I do 
 hope the Sisters will let you write again. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 " EMILY MARSHALL WYNDAM." 
 
 There was an enclosure which she kissed " Dear 
 Zandrie, I love you too. J. M. F." But she kissed 
 it in the privacy of her curtained alcove after the dor- 
 mitory lights were out, so no one knew of the scandal. 
 
 A file of bulletins reporting Miss Donation's prog- 
 ress at Our Lady's was found among her guardian's 
 documents; and their incontestable evidence shows 
 arithmetic to have been a stumbling-block. Latin 
 grammar, little better. French and German conversa-
 
 72 Z A N D R I E 
 
 tion, on the other hand, make a proud showing. 
 Church history leaves much to be desired ; but English 
 and Universal Mediaeval histories are marked high, 
 spelling rises slowly but steadily, and English com- 
 position soars. On the June bulletin of the fourth 
 year, it is even starred with a note : " We consider 
 her productivity of imagination and fluency of diction 
 above the ordinary. She has actually composed a 
 small drama which her classmates performed before 
 the School last week." 
 
 During the first six months, that productivity of 
 imagination had employed itself in the devising of 
 naughtiness, Julian having issued no commands to the 
 contrary. Then, doubtless by virtue of that fluency 
 of diction, she was promoted to Sister Andrea's rhet- 
 oric class, which was really for Big Girls only 
 twelve years old at the least ! and the affection that 
 blazed in Zandrie's heart for that impassive lady was 
 only as inexplicable as it was fervent. And while her 
 power lasted, the nun used it to good purpose. But 
 she lost it later, partly through her own fault, partly 
 through the advent of a new influence in the small 
 person of Miss Annabel Bean, aged sixteen, come 
 for a " finishing year " at Our Lady's. 
 
 The day after her coming, Miss Bean announced her 
 intention of hearing no more masses not to the 
 school authorities, to be sure, but to a circle of Big 
 Girls including Zandrie.
 
 CHIEFLY AT OUR LADY'S 73 
 
 To think that Zandrie of the Convent is a Big 
 Girl already! 
 
 Miss Bean explained that she was a Protestant, and 
 not going to mass for anybody, if she was the only 
 non-Catholic she swelled visibly in the whole 
 school. 
 
 " But you 're not ! " 
 
 The girls wheeled on Zandrie. " Who 's another? " 
 
 "I am!" 
 
 Exclamations, protests, laughter, buzzed about her. 
 
 " I 'm not a Catholic." Her cheeks burned. " I 'd 
 I 'd forgotten ! " 
 
 " But you were baptized as soon as you came." 
 
 " You 're going to be confirmed at Easter, Sister 
 Praxedes says so." 
 
 " You say your rosary." 
 
 " Because I love the dear Virgin," said Zandrie, 
 tears in her eyes now. 
 
 " And you 'd be a heretic if you did n't ! Annabel 's 
 a heretic." 
 
 " All Protestants are n't heretics," said Zandrie. 
 " Sister Andrea said so." 
 
 " O h h, but they are ! Sister Praxedes said so 
 yesterday at Christian Instruction ! " 
 
 " I did n't hear her," said Zandrie. 
 
 " You never listen, you said you did n't." 
 
 " You 're always writing stories in your head." 
 
 "Sister Andrea may be a heretic herself!" This
 
 74 Z A N D R I E 
 
 unlawful suggestion became a bone of contention from 
 which Zandrie slipped away. She was trembling, poor 
 child. 
 
 For, had she really broken her promise to her father 
 and turned Catholic after all? 
 
 It was true that she had been baptized at Our La- 
 dy's ; but true also that she had eyed the operation with 
 extreme disfavor, inasmuch as Uncle Jason had been 
 sponsor. " Will it make me Catholic ? " she had asked. 
 But they said no, only a child of God and Holy 
 Church. 
 
 " You can love the Blessed Virgin and sit at mass 
 and say your prayers," Sister Andrea once said, " with- 
 out being a Catholic." And by dint of avoiding an- 
 tagonism and quieting fear, Sister Andrea had put 
 questions to sleep at last. 
 
 Yet not all the credit belongs to the Sister, either, 
 for there was a certain radiant person besides, with 
 whom Zandrie was always galloping on horseback 
 through shifting landscapes that one never quite saw, 
 or passing through splendidly improbable adventures in 
 a palace built of sunsets, always during those Chris- 
 tian Instructions that seemed such heaven-sent oppor- 
 tunities for writing stories in one's head ! The Radi- 
 ant Person's name was Julian, of course ; but she never 
 spoke it to any one no, 'never ! though he was the 
 chief of all her dream persons', and as responsible as 
 Sister Andrea for her having forgotten a promise to 
 her father.
 
 CHIEFLY AT OUR LADY'S 75 
 
 " Was my father a real heretic ? " she asked Sister 
 Andrea now. 
 
 Well, yes, said the nun, if he wilfully refused to 
 profess the Faith, and hated Catholics really. 
 
 But those words, " profess the Faith," brought a 
 sudden vivid memory. Julian himself did not profess 
 the Faith, for she had heard Sister Angela say so 
 under cincumstances that left no room for doubt! So 
 he was doomed to eternal fire too ! " I do wish every 
 one were Catholic! " she sobbed; " but / can't be one. 
 I promised and promised." 
 
 And then Sister Andrea made a faux pas, which 
 was the beginning of her loss of power; for she tried 
 to explain that Zandrie's promise was not binding. 
 
 Zandrie lay awake far into the night, convincing 
 herself that for all that the nuns might say, a promise 
 was a promise! And when she fell asleep, it was 
 upon a great resolve. If her father and mother and 
 Julian were heretics, she would share their lot. 
 Perhaps, considering how much she would really have 
 liked to be a Catholic, the Virgin could arrange for 
 some exceptions in her favor, allowing her, for in- 
 stance, to relieve in little ways the future sufferings of 
 those lost souls she loved. She would begin to-mor- 
 row to offer a thousand rosaries for that one inten- 
 tion. But in any case . . . Well, it is plain 
 enough that Zandrie was a heroine. The thousand 
 rosaries alone prove that ! 
 
 Miss Annabel Bean, graciously ignoring the fact
 
 76 Z A N D R I E 
 
 that Zandrie was two years younger, now became her 
 inseparable companion, though the phrase is a very 
 wild poetic license, the Powers allowing Our Lady's 
 pupils just about one hour of free intercourse a day. 
 The December bulletin to Mr. Donation has a note in 
 Sister Praxedes' writing : " The deplorable decline 
 in deportment we believe due to an undesirable influ- 
 ence on the part of a new pupil, which we ar\ striving 
 to check. We fear, however, that Miss Donation is 
 incapable of long-sustained effort in any one direc- 
 tion." And in ond of the letters found with the file 
 of bulletins, the Sister Principal has written with 
 what knitting of brows under her white coif, one can 
 imagine " We have directed our attention most con- 
 scientiously to her spiritual needs, hitherto with ap- 
 parent success. The idea of resistance has reappeared, 
 however, chiefly in the form of opposition to confirma- 
 tion, and though we find it difficult to deal with, we 
 are employing our utmost of tact, and pray for ulti- 
 mate success. It seems best, meanwhile, to postpone 
 the confirmation until she is in that state of heart " 
 et cetera. The perplexities of the Sister Principal 
 were never few. They multiplied grievously, that 
 year. 
 
 Early in May, Uncle Jason wrote the first letter 
 that his ward ever received from him : 
 
 " MY DEAR NIECE : 
 
 " Noting the continuance of unsatisfactory reports, I wish, 
 without emphasizing the obligation under which you stand
 
 CHIEFLY AT OUR LADY'S 77 
 
 to myself, to express my disappointment. You may recall 
 that, in my pleasure with those former good reports, I prom- 
 ised, last June, the reward of a pink dress. I think it best 
 to abide by that promise, at the same time deploring the 
 necessity for having had to consider its withdrawal. I will 
 instruct the Superioress to delegate some one to attend to the 
 purchase of the gown." 
 
 But this was also his last letter to her, for six 
 weeks later, on the night of the Vigil of John the Bap- 
 tist, he was found dead at his prie-Dieu. 
 
 It is due to his naughty niece to record that, though 
 she had seen him hardly a dozen times in her life, she 
 shed two tears of contrition to every one of regret for 
 the pink dress which must now be exchanged for 
 black. And that means that she was very contrite in- 
 deed. In spite of Miss Bean's assurance that Prot- 
 estants never, never said rosaries, she offered twenty- 
 five very carefully for his soul, and resolved in honor 
 of his memory to amend her ways. Whether the re- 
 solve would have borne fruit at Our Lady's, can never 
 be known ; for Uncle Jason, it seems, had not changed 
 that will which bequeathed half his property to his 
 daughter in Australia and the other half to St. Scho- 
 lastica's; and the superiors of the Priory agreed that, 
 after four and a half years of the most Catholic edu- 
 cation that Our Lady's afforded, a home in their own 
 retreat house was the most that a penniless ward had a 
 right to expect. A novena of masses was being sung 
 for Uncle Jason's soul when Zandrie came to that 
 home in June.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WHEN BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 
 
 Now for a leap over two and a half years, into the 
 middle of the office of Dr. Summers, who is to be yet 
 more startled presently by Zandrie, who has come to 
 consult him about her soul. And he has never believed 
 in souls, as every one knows. 
 
 " I 'm the little girl from St. Scholastica's," she an- 
 nounces, " grown up! Remember? though it 
 was seven whole years ago, to be sure." 
 
 " Bless my soul," says the doctor who does n't be- 
 lieve in souls, " the little run-away ! " 
 
 " And I 've run away this afternoon, without 
 climbing the peach tree by the wall, though, for Father 
 Thomas's gate was unlocked and I just stepped out 
 while he was giving Reverend Mother the Holy Viati- 
 cum for she 's really dying, poor soul. She has a 
 Catholic doctor of course, but I 've come to you just 
 because they said you were n't Catholic." 
 
 " Er no," says the doctor, " I 'm not." 
 
 "Nor I!" 
 
 But he received this revelation unmoved. 
 
 " You see," she said, " I Ve got to be a heretic, so 
 
 78
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 79 
 
 I 'd better be finding out a little more about it. I can't 
 give up the Blessed Virgin ; but I 'd like to be heretical 
 in all other ways. If you don't mind telling me all 
 you believe " 
 
 The doctor, seeing her very much in earnest, bounced 
 up from his chair, instead of bellowing with laughter, 
 as he afterwards told the Reverend George Deming 
 that he was about to do. " My dear young lady, you 
 I'm afraid you've come to the wrong party!" 
 
 "You mean you're Catholic after all?" 
 
 " God bless us, no ! " He frowned frightfully. 
 " I 'm a fine, well-browned, triple-baked heretic, that 's 
 all. Always glad to meet another ! " 
 
 " Of course," says Zandrie gravely, " I hate hell. 
 In fact, if I think about it at all, it makes me unhap- 
 py Oh, very ! so that last year I almost gave in 
 to being confirmed. But then I took heart again, 
 and made a scene." She smiled contentedly. " But 
 if I 'm going to hell at all, I may as well go for a 
 mighty good reason. And a heretic friend of mine 
 could only say that she did n't pay much attention to 
 saints or His Holiness or the Blessed Virgin! And 
 I love to say rosaries to the dear Virgin; so you see 
 I 've come " 
 
 But here the doctor wheeled on her. " My dear 
 young lady ! You must excuse me, but this is my office 
 hour and I you understand patients waiting. 
 But I I 'm quite the wrong fellow, anyhow." But 
 perhaps her disappointment penetrated the hedge of
 
 8o ZANDRIE 
 
 his dismay, for, " Look here," he added, " I would n't 
 worry much about about this hell business. Not a 
 bit. / don't ! In fact ... In fact, I '11 stake 
 my hat on there not being any hell for anybody." 
 
 She pondered this new and pleasant suggestion. 
 " Annabel Bean believed in hell." 
 
 " Sorry to hear it." 
 
 "And Annabel was a heretic a Protestant." 
 
 " No doubt. But for my part you see, I differ 
 somewhat from most heretics in not putting much stock 
 in hell, or in heaven either." 
 
 " Nor purgatory ? " 
 
 " Nor purgatory. Bless my soul. I should hope 
 not!" 
 
 A profound pause ; at the end of which Zandrie mur- 
 mured " Saints defend us ! " simply because she had 
 no breath for more. At this rate heresy might prove 
 more than she bargained for! 
 
 The doctor meanwhile paced the floor like a caged 
 bear. " Hold up ! " he said at last. " You 'd rather 
 not be a Catholic that 's your point ? " And when 
 she had nodded very gravely, he snatched up his tele- 
 phone receiver. " Nine one. Hello ! George Dem- 
 ing? Busy, George? . . . Well, whatever you 're 
 doing, don't do it ! I Ve got a case for you more 
 in your sky-line. Young woman from Priory. Tired 
 of popery. Wants a change. Anxious to be a here- 
 tic but does n't know how. Came to me ! Footed it 
 all the way in town. . . . No, not dressed like
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 81 
 
 one. Too young, anyhow . . . Hey? . . . 
 Don't know, but used to see her there when I at- 
 tended Furness. Sort of ward of one of the superiors, 
 come to remember. Patients impatient in waiting 
 room, or I 'd . . . All right, that 's the boy ! " 
 
 And so it came about that Zandrie and young 
 George Deming, who married the daughter of Dr. 
 Summers, met for an epoch-making discussion of how 
 not to be a Catholic. For in spite of having won 
 fifty dollars on a race, by the Furness Boy's aid, 
 George had been a settled parson for four years, and 
 now actually occupied his father's old pulpit in the 
 First Presbyterian Church. 
 
 As the doctor opened the door to let her out, " Poor 
 Furness," he had remarked, " no more visits from 
 runaways now. I reckon they don't grow up there in 
 New England." And she would have liked to ask 
 if he had had any news of Julian. But he was in too 
 much of a hurry; and an hour later, she had forgotten 
 the remark for the time, at least. For that inter- 
 view with the Reverend George was interesting. In 
 fact, when she got back to the convent, it was with 
 her brain awhirl and a heart that might well beat fast, 
 considering that tucked quite close to it under her cape 
 was a certain pamphlet that had neither a bishop's 
 " Imprimatur " nor a censor's " Nihil Obstat " on the 
 back of its title page. It was a pamphlet not in " Our 
 Lady's " library nor on the retreat-house book-shelves. 
 In fact, it was a pamphlet that good Catholics seldom
 
 82 Z A N D R I E 
 
 read. To be wholly frank, it was " Popery Disclosed ; 
 Six Sermons by the Rev. John Deming, M.A." No 
 wonder that Sister Bobolink's heart beat faster than 
 usual, even though the sun had set and her cape was 
 large and Father Thomas's gate was still unlocked and 
 no one met her on the stairs nor could possibly see 
 when she tucked something under the mattress of her 
 little room on the third floor of the retreat-house. 
 
 Before dawn, next morning, she awoke to a guilty 
 consciousness of an unusual sound of a bell tolling 
 the big bell, that seldom rang except for the be- 
 ginning of the great silence each evening at eight, when 
 its voice was solemn enough, goodness knew ! At this 
 gray time of the morning, it was completely awful. 
 It was as the voice of a godly giant on whose white 
 garment an outrageous spot has been disclosed; a 
 voice proclaiming scandal abomination; a protest- 
 ing, accusing voice, hoarse with horror. Yet it was 
 only the passing-bell for Reverend Mother, whose 
 death so filled the thoughts of her nuns that the most 
 glaring heresies might probably have strutted the clois- 
 ter walks in full daylight, without attracting notice. 
 But none the less, Zandrie felt under her mattress to 
 make sure that IT was there. " Popery Disclosed " ! 
 O saints, avert the lightning ! or discovery by Sister 
 Petronilla, or the Pious Ladies ! 
 
 Sister Petronilla, being guest mistress, sometimes 
 penetrated the retreat-house bed-rooms, though even
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 83 
 
 she seldom came up to the third floor. But the Pious 
 Ladies were two permanent boarders in the house, and 
 one of them lived in the very room next Zandrie's. 
 Luckily, she was much engaged in praying a short cut 
 through purgatory, spending hours and hours in the 
 chapel, and paying little heed to her neighbor es- 
 pecially since the other Pious Lady had set the pace at 
 snubbing Zandrie. 
 
 The snubbing business, by the way, had begun after 
 Zandrie's making friends with " Mother " McClung, 
 the deaf house-keeper and cook, with whom she was 
 learning to talk with her fingers. At first the Pious 
 Ladies had vied with each other in petting her. In 
 fact, the poor souls made their retirement from the 
 world endurable only by dint of such rivalries and 
 daily squabbles. But Zandrie soon fled from their 
 jealous favors, to her silent friend. Whereupon, see- 
 ing her so taken up with a person of low degree, the 
 Pious Lady who lived on the second floor tossed her 
 head and snubbed her; so that the lady of the third 
 floor, not to be outdone in love or war, had to snub 
 her a little more. And then Zandrie, being an illogi- 
 cal person as any one can see with half an eye, 
 even without reading as far as this what does she 
 do but fly into a rage with each Pious Lady in turn, 
 and run in silly tears to Mrs. McClung, the cause of 
 the trouble. And yet not all the cause, perhaps, for 
 the Pious Ladies may have gotten wind of the fact
 
 84 Z A N D R I E 
 
 that Zandrie was not a boarder, after all, but only a 
 contemptible object of charity. How could they know 
 that she had even a ten dollar gold-piece? 
 
 To tell the truth, she herself had forgotten that 
 wealth till the fall after leaving Our Lady's, when 
 Sister Angela had died and a gold-piece was found 
 in her desk, in an envelope labeled " Property of my 
 sister A. O. D. Her father's last birthday gift to her." 
 And Reverend Mother had given it back, bidding 
 A. O. D. to keep it carefully. And at that time, Zan- 
 drie had kissed it in contrition for having forgotten, 
 and believed she would never spend it. But about 
 that, she was destined to change her mind. 
 
 Sister Angela's death had been a momentous event 
 in the Priory, for she was in high honor. No one had 
 known of her malady till she fainted at lauds, one 
 gray dawn. And three weeks later, the passing-bell 
 had rung as it was ringing for Reverend Mother now. 
 But the only tears that Zandrie had shed then, had 
 been for sorriness that she could not be more sorry. 
 For how could she grieve much for the going of one 
 who had pressed all the love that her nature yielded, 
 into a propitiatory offering to the Invisible, neither 
 asking nor receiving love from the little sister whose 
 soul she had tried to save? The fact that Sister An- 
 gela's cell was empty, made life neither a more nor a 
 less lonely affair for Zandrie. 
 
 And in spite of Mother McClung, it was appallingly 
 lonely. How else? For the only persons who ever
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 85 
 
 spoke to her were, first, two elderly deaf mutes 
 and McClung himself was rheumatic as well as deaf, 
 and of very uncertain temper; secondly, two quarrel- 
 some old ladies, who ought not to count after all, 
 since, after the snubbing began, they made a point of 
 not speaking, so that Zandrie preferred to eat with 
 her silent friends in the kitchen whenever McClung 
 was in good humor. When he was not, he made 
 strange little sounds in his throat that were worse 
 than silence. As for the guests who came for their 
 yearly retreat, they were silent perforce, and read 
 their Manuals even at table. And then, there was 
 Father Thomas, whom she eyed with profound dis- 
 trust for no other reason than that she did and 
 never spoke to when she could help it. And there was 
 also his acolyte, living with him in the chaplain's 
 little house; but he was studying for the priest- 
 hood so hard that he seemed to have grown 
 underground and Zandrie called him Brother Tur- 
 nip. Few words could she have exchanged with 
 him if she had wanted or even if he had 
 wanted ! And finally, there were the busy lay sis- 
 ters and the nuns, whom she might speak to only 
 when they came out for their decorous and question- 
 able " recreation." For, since the first school vaca- 
 tion, she had lived in the retreat-house and not been 
 allowed in the convent itself. So she had had little 
 joy of Sister Isidore. And the genial Father Haggar- 
 ty had, failed her, having made his weekly visits of
 
 86 Z A N D R I E 
 
 yore only because he had been the director of the 
 community before it moved to its new home; and 
 Father Thomas was director now, and Father Hag- 
 garty came only for occasions like Sister Angela's 
 funeral. As for the friends of " Our Lady *s," the 
 censorship of a convent school is hardly encouraging 
 to a heart-to-heart correspondence. She had written 
 to Annabel Bean, but got no answer. So it appears 
 that life really must have been a lonely affair. And 
 with the prospect of hell at the end of it all! Poor 
 Sister Bobolink! No wonder she had preferred to 
 be thorough in heresy to be killed for a sheep than 
 a lamb, since the killing was certain. 
 
 But since her talk with the Reverend George Dem- 
 ing, it had seemed a bit less certain. That was one 
 of the wonders that she pondered through the day 
 of Reverend Mother's death, and that tumbled the 
 hours of the long office into a few delirious minutes. 
 But although Father Haggarty was at hand and she 
 was bursting to ask questions which would have made 
 his eyes open as wide, at least, as their casing of 
 fat allowed she kept her own counsel, for so her 
 new director had advised, after a certain brow-pucker- 
 ing pause. 
 
 For three weeks, then, she helped Mother McClung 
 about the house and hemmed napkins for Sister Rose 
 of the linen closet, all in a fever of guilty excitement, 
 which yet no one seemed to notice. No; no one 
 seemed to suspect at all that within the most Catholic
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 87 
 
 Priory of the exemplary Scholastica lay hidden we 
 know what. Zandrie was saying five rosaries a day 
 in propitiation of the outraged saint. She was even 
 forgetting to write stories in her head about the 
 radiant person called Julian, which signifies better 
 than anything else, her distracted state. For of late, 
 those stories had made the most real reality of her 
 life, and all its joy. In proportion as her outer world 
 had grown barren of delight, she had turned to the 
 inner world of her own making, using much that she 
 had found in the former, but interweaving it more and 
 more with shreds of dreams, till at last she herself 
 could not tell which threads were which. If Mr. Wil- 
 ton Furness, for instance, could have met in Zandrie's 
 cloud palace that person she called Julian, it is very 
 doubtful whether he would have recognized his own 
 son. But who would read the absurdities of that 
 palace business, even if any one had the meanness to 
 disclose them? Enough that they were as absurdly 
 delightful as most of our dreams. And she even had 
 the excuse that one of hers had come true one after- 
 noon when she had perched on a wall and seen Julian 
 ride past in the sunlight. 
 
 During her second visit to the Reverend George, he 
 answered so many of those questions which she had 
 almost asked Father Haggarty, so differently from the 
 way that the Father would have answered if he was 
 at all fit to be a nunnery director that the eternal 
 fires began to look very distant, and heresy, more di-
 
 88 ZANDRIE 
 
 verting than heroic. This was not wholly disappoint- 
 ing, however, since future heroisms were exchanged 
 for the fine excitement of nearer dangers. If her ex- 
 cursions to town were discovered, for instance, the 
 peach tree by the wall might be cut down, and Father 
 Thomas's gate kept locked which would certainly 
 be exciting, since, having tasted the wine of escape, 
 she intended to drink it henceforth by cupfuls, yes, 
 and in spite of the Reverend Mr. Deming himself. It 
 was curious the inconsistency of that gentleman 
 who could batter down the infallibility of the pope 
 and of Holy Church too; who called the lives of the 
 Sisters " a base hiding in the coils of a shell called 
 religion, from God's own work," and then then, 
 who sent a body back to a convent, bidding her not to 
 run away again! He had meant it too, looking as 
 eagerly perplexed but as determined as Mother Gen- 
 evieve, the new Prioress. " And meanwhile," he had 
 said, " I will pray for you." " I 'd rather come and 
 talk with you," she said. But he was again very 
 firm about that. But all that work to be done in the 
 world ought she not to be about it? to begin at 
 once on her own share? Not yet, he said; not until 
 . . . Until when? she asked. Well, not until she 
 was grown up. But she was seventeen last Septem- 
 ber, she argued, and it was March already. To which 
 he merely said " Be patient." " I 've been as patient 
 already," she pouted, " as Saint Stilytes. ... I 
 always hated Saint Stilytes ! "
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 89 
 
 He escorted her to Father Thomas's front gate, and 
 throughout their walk she tried to ask him if he knew 
 anything about Julian; but her courage failed. Yet 
 she had carried a work called " Popery Disclosed " 
 into the retreat-house, and read it too ! and had 
 dared to believe what it said, and to question the in- 
 fallibility of His Holiness and the whole authority of 
 Holy Church ; had dared to think her own thoughts at 
 last or Mr. Deming's thoughts, but it made little 
 difference which, since they were equally un-Catholic 
 now. She had dared all this, and yet could not 
 screw her courage up to the speaking of a name. 
 Curious enough ! " I '11 do it now," she thought when 
 they reached the gate ; but first she asked " I can still 
 love the Blessed Virgin and be a good heretic, can't I ? " 
 
 " Protestant ? " he corrected, " yes, it will do no 
 harm so long as you love God better." 
 
 " I '11 try," she sighed. And then he said good-by 
 and was gone, and in the fun of slipping through 
 Father Thomas's garden and finding the gate in the 
 convent wall unlocked, she forgot that she had not 
 asked the questions about Julian after all. 
 
 " The sun is up and the birdies sing 
 ' Tee-cheep ! O fie on a lazy thing ! ' " 
 
 The foolish little song of her father's hopped into 
 her head as she sat on the wall where she had perched
 
 90 Z A N D R I E 
 
 when Julian passed. The peach tree hid her from the 
 convent windows because it was full of blossoms, over 
 which the birds had lost their wits and would certainly 
 soon be hoarse. But the sun was not yet so high 
 that it more than spread a warmth through one's 
 veins, and a tingling of desire for wings to carry one 
 nearer to itself, or for what ? Who could tell what ? 
 
 If he should pass again! She shut her eyes, to pre- 
 tend that she heard a beat of hoofs. If he would pass 
 just once more, that would be fun enough; for he 
 would know her this time, although she was so grown 
 up, and he would laugh a laugh that was good to 
 hear, and she would drop to the ground and scramble 
 up on his horse a great sorrel, she remembered 
 and they would gallop together into the heart of the 
 world, to find the work that Mr. Deming said waited 
 each one of us. Why, Julian himself had spoken of 
 some such work, in that talk with Sister Angela ! He 
 would help her in it, perhaps would help her in all 
 things and she would wear a pink dress, and life 
 would no longer be a bore, or lonely. " Oh," she 
 whispered with her eyes shut, " what fun ! " 
 
 But at last, because she could not make her ears 
 hear the beat of hoofs, and because life of late had 
 been such a really dreadful bore, she began to cry a 
 little; and the tears felt so real that she called herself 
 a silly child with a head full of dreams. 
 
 Julian would never ride past again she knew it 
 now and because he would never ride anywhere
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 91 
 
 again. But it was very hard to realize, because the 
 Radiant Person of the cloud palace was always so 
 active. Even when she was merely remembering, she 
 saw no sullen smoulder in the eyes of the face on 
 Father Haggarty's pillow ; and the face never lay 
 there long. No; it was a task to make oneself believe 
 to know that the real Julian somewhere there 
 in the north of Massachusetts, must be sitting or lying 
 quite still all day. Poor boy ! Poor prisoner ! 
 
 And here in her meditation something momentous 
 happened, though nothing more prodigious than the 
 thought that Julian perhaps was as lonely as herself. 
 But it had never occurred to her before, and it shot in 
 with certain others tumbling after, which, twenty min- 
 utes later, set her in motion towards the town. 
 
 She had not been there since her second talk with 
 Mr. Deming, because the risk of discovery was not 
 to be taken lightly, and she had not been able to think 
 up a really good excuse. But at last a fine, stout one 
 had presented itself and she pounced upon it, breath- 
 less with glee, prancing after wherever it might lead. 
 
 It took her straight to the railroad station, to ask 
 the price of a ticket to a town in the north of Mas- 
 sachusetts. Supposing it were no more than ten dol- 
 lars . . . She hugged patience to herself while 
 the man at the window consulted a pamphlet, scribbled 
 in pencil on the margin of a time table, then studied a 
 book, and then " Thirteen : thirty-five," he said, so 
 dispassionately that she could n't believe he was saying
 
 92 Z A N D R I E 
 
 it to her. But he repeated it, looking at her over his 
 spectacles. 
 
 " Could n't I possibly get one for ten ? " 
 
 He convinced her patiently that she could not. 
 
 By the time that she reached Father Thomas's gar- 
 den, the fun was almost spent, and none at all was left 
 after Brother Turnip, come from serving mass, met 
 her at the gate in the wall. Though he blinked with 
 astonishment, he said never a word. And no one said 
 a word. But the chaplain's gate was kept locked for 
 the next four days. 
 
 Whether it was so faithfully locked after that, is of 
 no concern to any one more interested in Zandrie than 
 in Brother Turnip. For in spite of the impassive ticket 
 man, her spirits rose with the sun, next morning; 
 and for four days her wits wrought busily. On the 
 fourth morning, when old McClung went to delve in 
 the vegetable garden, she coaxed his wife to lend her 
 three dollars and thirty-five cents. " I can't tell you 
 what for now," she spelled on her fingers, " but I can 
 pay it back soon, surely." And as the lay sisters often 
 drove to town to do errands, Mrs. McClung doubtless 
 assumed that Zandrie wanted them to buy something 
 for herself assumed it, at least, until she found a 
 certain bit of paper in one of her sauce-pans and read 
 thereon : " Dearest of dears, you are the only reason 
 why I am not completely happy at going. You have 
 been such an angel. I want awfully to tell you where 
 I am going, and why ; but as Mother Genevieve will ask
 
 BOBOLINKS FLY NORTH 93 
 
 you, I don't want to make it hard for you. But you 
 can tell every one that my reason for going was most 
 excellent." O excellent indeed ! being sufficient 
 even for the spending of her father's last gift. 
 
 Oh, the life out there in the world was a joyous 
 business ! Her eyes, straining to see through the con- 
 vent wall, caught a glimpse of a hurry of colors, of 
 a kaleidoscopic throng to which she stretched her arms 
 in delight and hope, tired of white and gray and black 
 and of measured movements. Her ears ached with 
 weariness of the known. For, the chanting of wom- 
 en's voices at dawn, and the great silence bell; the 
 march of black-veiled figures, two by two, carrying 
 banners and burning tapers to the honor of some soft- 
 named saint; matins and lauds and prime and none 
 for names of the time of day, and dialogues of song 
 in the place of speech these were the common- 
 places, the prose of life; and the road to town was the 
 way to its poetry. And so on the evening of the first 
 of May, with a little bundle of clothes again under 
 her arm and a dance of sun-lit mists in her head, she 
 mounted her peach tree by the wall and stepped out 
 into the world to find the radiant person made of 
 dream-woven memories, called Julian.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 CONTAINING A MOMENT OF SUSPENSE 
 
 She really could not ride in his carriage, she told 
 the cabman, unless it happened to cost only fifteen 
 cents, which was all the money she had left, and fif- 
 teen times as much as she might have had but for 
 the lady from Washington and Mr. Fink. 
 
 Though she did not explain who these benefactors 
 were, it is evident that she had more friends now than 
 when she had left the convent. 
 
 " It don't happen to cost only fifteen cents," the 
 cabman said; whereupon one of his fellows pushed 
 him off the curbstone and offered to make a deal with 
 her. 
 
 " You 're a rum one," said the first. 
 
 " Sure ! " and the second opened the door of his 
 hack. " Me for beauty in distress." 
 
 But his grin disconcerted her. In fact, she was a 
 little frightened for the first time in her journey 
 and it was now almost the journey's end. " I 'd rather 
 walk," she said, " only is it very far to 102 Elm 
 street?" That was the address at the head of the 
 letters from Julian's aunt. 
 
 94
 
 A MOMENT OF SUSPENSE 95 
 
 " Stranger here? " the second cabman asked. And 
 at that, she turned suddenly to a red-nosed fellow 
 lounging against the station wall, though how she 
 knew that for all his wicked nose he would be her 
 protector, is a mystery. 
 
 " You help me! " she said. And he not only swore 
 in her defense, but took her in his cab without more 
 parley. When they reached 102 Elm street, however, 
 and he had helped her to dismount, " Tell you what," 
 he said, rubbing his nose to a terrifying hue, " I think 
 you meant to be square all right about this deal. I 
 would n't of did this, you know, if I had n't thought 
 that." 
 
 But she was eyeing the house in a fever of excite- 
 ment. If Julian should happen to be looking out of a 
 front window! . . . Would he know her? She 
 had grown a good deal in seven years, and her hair 
 was braided and turned up; but she wore a black 
 dress with white collar and bow, very much like the 
 one in which he had mistaken her for the portrait of a 
 bobolink. Perhaps he would still call her Sister Bob- 
 olink; and she would certainly not stamp with 
 rage. . . . 
 
 The hackman was touching her arm. " Look a-here. 
 I said you was going to be square about this, was n't 
 you?" 
 
 She smiled at him dreamily. " O yes indeed ! " 
 
 " That 's how I thought ; so I thought I 'd risk it, 
 don't you see. You see what you owes me is fifty
 
 96 Z A N D R I E 
 
 cents, only I 'm willing to take fifteen now and let the 
 rest wait over till you can pay up." 
 
 " Yes indeed, I can surely pay you later." Julian 
 was not a window and perhaps it was as well it 
 would surprise him so deliciously when she just opened 
 the door of his room and walked in ... 
 
 " Well, but how and when? " the tiresome hackman 
 was persisting. 
 
 " O please ! " and she took a step towards the 
 house. " I 've borrowed a lot already, but " 
 
 " Comin' here as hired help ? " 
 
 "No; just to visit." 
 
 He looked at the house and then at her, and ap- 
 parently concluded that she was telling the truth. " To 
 stay a while ? " 
 
 The question had not occurred to herself, and she 
 laughed happily. "If they'll have me; and I think 
 they will. I may live here the rest of my life ! " 
 
 Then he wrote her name in a dirty little book, and 
 at last she was rid of him. In fact, he was out of 
 sight before the maid opened the door of 102 Elm 
 street. She was a crisp little maid in a ruffled apron 
 and cap. " Mr. Furness ? " she repeated cheerily, 
 " Mr. Furness ? . . . Positively no such per- 
 son ! " and she was for shutting the door, but 
 Zandrie caught at the knob. 
 
 " He lives here with his aunt, Mrs. Emily Marshall 
 Wyndam and the twins."
 
 A MOMENT OF SUSPENSE 97 
 
 " Positively no such persons. You could ask next 
 door, maybe." 
 
 Zandrie stared at the closed door a full minute be- 
 fore turning away. The house on the right was for 
 rent, but she rang at the one on the left, and another 
 spruce maid said that she had heard many names in 
 her life, but never a Furness or Wyndam. But she 
 would inquire of the missis. And when she came 
 back with the news that her mistress had lived here 
 seven months and knew of no Mrs. Wyndam or Mr. 
 Furness, Zandrie clasped her hands against her throat. 
 
 It is an awkward situation, without doubt, when 
 one has stepped out of a convent to travel several hun- 
 dred miles on thirteen dollars and thirty-five cents and 
 a trusting hackman has just accepted one's last penny ; 
 when it is almost evening and one finds oneself adrift 
 in a strange city, rather tired after a sleepless night, 
 friendless and without so much as a suspicion that a 
 device called a directory exists. The prospect of ring- 
 ing several thousand door-bells was not cheering, yet 
 seemed the only hope till the idea darted in, that pos- 
 sibly the hackman had made a mistake about the 
 street that perhaps this was not Elm street after all. 
 She ran two blocks before she found a lamp-post with 
 a sign. 
 
 And it was not till after she had been leaning 
 against this lamp-post for five whole minutes and, if 
 the truth must be told, crying softly into her handker-
 
 98 Z A N D R I E 
 
 chief, that help came. " Wot 's up? " it asked, and she 
 was a little disconcerted at first to make out through 
 her tears that it was a policeman; but she told him 
 what was " up," bravely enough until she reached the 
 proposition of the door-bells. " It seems as if I 
 could n't ring every bell in town," she sobbed then, 
 " and I shan't have time to before night anyway. And 
 anyhow perhaps perhaps he 's dead ! " But the 
 policeman's want of emotion at this suggestion was 
 soothing in itself. " Guess he ain't moved as far as 
 that," he said. " Ain't looked him up in the d'rect'ry 
 yet, have ye ? " And then when he had grasped the 
 fact that she had not, and the reason why, " You foller 
 me ! " he commanded. And she followed, drying her 
 eyes.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 
 
 Center street swarmed with men and girls, most of 
 them carrying pails or leather colored boxes, at the 
 moment when Zandrie took leave of her policeman, 
 near the steps of number 55. It was a wooden house, 
 nominally white, jammed in between a brick block of 
 wholesale stores on the left, and a big building hum- 
 ming with machinery, on the right. In fact, it was 
 not a house where, without the insistency of a direc- 
 tory and a policeman too, one would have looked for 
 the former tenant of a cloud palace. 
 
 The door was opened by a woman in black, with 
 the dole fullest fact that she had ever set eyes on. 
 Dear saints ! could it be his aunt ? She wore no apron 
 and did not look like a servant exactly. In her dis- 
 may, Zandrie forgot to speak. 
 
 "Don't you want anything at all?" the woman 
 asked in a voice that matched her face. 
 
 " I 've come to see your nephew." 
 
 " I have n't no nephews," was the dispassionate re- 
 ply ; whereupon Zandrie drew a sigh of relief. 
 
 " I mean Mr. Julian Furness. Is he here ? " 
 
 99
 
 ioo ZANDRIE 
 
 " I guess likely. He ain't much given over to gad- 
 ding." This with a mirthless smile, " I '11 speak to 
 him." 
 
 " No indeed ! I want to surprise him ! " 
 
 The woman merely raised her eyebrows; then she 
 turned into the house. 
 
 His house ! Zandrie's heart beat so that she hardly 
 saw where she stepped, dimly aware of feeling hep 
 way up a narrow staircase through a darkness flavored 
 with cabbage. His house! And she was to see him 
 within the minute. 
 
 She clasped her hands, waiting for the sound of 
 his voice. 
 
 " What is it ? " The tones were impatient, but she 
 knew them. 
 
 " It 's a girl," said the woman, whom Zandrie sud- 
 denly detested, and pushed aside, to open the door her- 
 self. 
 
 It was the door into the hall of her dream palace, 
 where a king called Julian the Radiant was awaiting 
 her. No wonder the child forgot her manners. 
 
 Poor Zandrie! The man there at the other end 
 of the room, leaning back in a wheel chair and smok- 
 ing a pipe, was such a plainly human being, clad in a 
 citizen's suit of sombre gray, with a starched collar. 
 He was even reading a newspaper an institution 
 that was eschewed in the palace as commonplace, not 
 to say vulgar. Starched collars had given way to 
 Byronic neck-gear; and as for any sort of smoking 1
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 101 
 
 But it was no laughing matter, and Zandrie, clinging 
 to the door knob, stared at him as at a fearful 
 stranger. It was as though a hand at her heart had 
 turned a lever reversing every current of blood in 
 her body. She seemed born with full consciousness 
 into a new world. 
 
 Had she ever known him that man in the chair ? 
 He was so old! And Julian and she had been com- 
 rades. 
 
 His eyes meanwhile greeted hers around the edge 
 of his paper with amazed interrogation. Their dis- 
 concerting blue seemed the only positive color in his 
 face, but this may have been because of the veil of 
 smoke. Presently, as she continued to stand at the 
 door wordless, he took the pipe out of his mouth. 
 " You 've evidently made a mistake," he said ; but 
 however unfriendly the tone, it was a voice she had 
 known. Yet, still too dismayed for speech, she looked 
 away, and her glance took a confused inventory of his 
 surroundings: of shelves of books and music, and, 
 over one bookcase, a photograph of Rosa Bonheur's 
 " Horse Fair " ; of a table piled with books ; of a 
 green bronze lamp in their midst; of odd, long sheets 
 of paper sprawling on a desk behind him; of a silky, 
 striped blanket over his knees; a piano in the corner; 
 dust on the floor. Then she looked again at the man 
 himself. His expression was now a compound of an- 
 noyance and amusement. But something in his eyes 
 not seen at first, startled her attention, something
 
 102 Z A N D R I E 
 
 that, with the lines about them and about his mouth, 
 shot a pang of pity through her, setting movement free. 
 
 Meanwhile, "If you 're sure you have n't made a 
 mistake," he was saying, and his manner was not 
 reassuring " may I ask . . . ? " 
 
 But she walked towards him without answer. It 
 seemed the part of simple friendliness to kiss him as 
 she used to; but she could not, because there was 
 still no recognition in his eyes. 
 
 And the intrusion of unknown ladies was evidently 
 not to the taste of his present mood. As she stood 
 beside him wordless, a flush of new annoyance spread 
 over his face. "Well?" he demanded with candid 
 ferocity. 
 
 " Ah," she said very softly, " don't you know, 
 then? I 'm Zandrie of the Convent." 
 
 " Zandrie of the . . ." She hugged herself, 
 for the fun was beginning at last! He dropped his 
 newspaper to the floor, and held out his hand. " Sis- 
 ter Bobolink! ... I don't believe it! " 
 
 She laughed for delight. " Then you had n't 
 forgotten ! " 
 
 " I 'd be right ungrateful if I had." 
 
 " And and you 're really a little glad to see 
 me?" 
 
 " More than that," he answered so graciously that 
 she said then she would tell him why she had come. 
 Yet there she faltered again because of that sense
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 103 
 
 of his being a stranger. It seemed not so easy to say 
 it after all the simple reason. Stranger or not, 
 though, he had to sit here all day long imprison- 
 ment verily worse than hers had been ! So pity again 
 got the upper hand and sent her on. " I Ve come," 
 she said, " because perhaps you 're lonely, when your 
 aunt 's away sometimes, you know and do you 
 remember how I opened your letters for you ? and 
 I thought perhaps I could do little things for you still. 
 And besides, I always wanted to come so and I '11 
 stay as long as you like. There ! I thought I 'd 
 surprise you ! " 
 
 She had surely succeeded in that ! 
 
 " But of course," she faltered, " if you don't want 
 me if it 's not convenient " 
 
 " Oh," he said, " I appreciate it 's very kind 
 but I don't quite understand, you see. Where have 
 you come from, and how " 
 
 " From the convent." But this plain statement 
 seemed to throw little light into the abyss of his be- 
 wilderment, so, " Surely you never expected me to 
 stay! O saints! I don't pin much faith to them, 
 you know Me a nun ! " 
 
 " You don't mean " 
 
 " Indeed I do ! It 's very simple, too. It was 
 yourself sowed the seeds of iniquity don't you re- 
 member? in your talk with Sister Angela? So last 
 night I packed up my things and away I But
 
 104 Z A N D R I E 
 
 mercy ! where are my things ! " she added in a burst 
 of new dismay at the realization that she had left her 
 bundle, she knew not where. 
 
 "You ran away?" he repeated, " from the Priory 
 last night?" 
 
 " And spent part of the night in a railroad station. 
 Ah such fun! I felt like a wild animal back in its 
 home!" 
 
 But the man in the chair evidently lacked imagi- 
 nation. " Why the deuce at home in a railroad 
 station?" 
 
 " What better place? " she asked gleefully. " I 'm 
 glad enough the train I started on stopped so soon, 
 so I had to wait there. And a very homely but kind 
 young man offered to show me the way to a hotel, 
 but I had n't any money and the station was so 
 gloriously noisy, I couldn't leave it anyhow. I love 
 those busy engines ! " 
 
 " The saints took charge in spite of you, I see," said 
 Mr. Strange Man. "What next?" 
 
 " Then I came to you." 
 
 " You came on purpose to " 
 
 " To see you. You 're almost the only person I 
 like in the world." For her, of course, the world 
 meant everything outside of the convent walls. But 
 his expression stirred uneasiness, and " I 'm afraid 
 you are n't very glad," she added. 
 
 " Indeed I 'm delighted. How did you find the 
 way?"
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 105 
 
 But no! His tone hurt her so that she turned 
 away almost in silly tears, and refused to answer. In 
 the end, however, he persuaded her to tell him some 
 of the details of her adventure. 
 
 " I did n't know till I tried," she said, " that trav- 
 eling takes more money than one 's fare, so I 'd have 
 starved, you see, but for the lady from Washington 
 who gave me some sandwiches; and then she piloted 
 me across New York, and would n't let me borrow 
 the car fare, even. And I never told her I was run- 
 ning away from a convent either, which seems dread- 
 ful of me; but I just didn't think I'd better. But 
 I told Mr. Fink. He seemed different, somehow, 
 though I did n't like him at all at first ; but afterwards 
 he was lovely and tried to make me take five dollars, 
 but I would n't take more than one, which I 'm to send 
 him by mail. He got off at New Haven to go to col- 
 lege. It 's disgraceful, I suppose, to owe as much 
 money as I do." 
 
 " Frightful," said Julian. " Your guardian will 
 give you a little talk." 
 
 " But that 's why I had to borrow ! because Un- 
 cle Jason 's dead, poor soul, and did n't leave me any 
 allowance." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " And Sister Angela 's dead too." 
 
 Then who was her guardian now? he asked; and 
 when she answered gravely that, praise Heaven, she 
 had no such thing any more, then he began to exam-
 
 io6 ZANDRIE 
 
 ine the pipe in his hands with extraordinary earnest- 
 ness. " You '11 have to go back to-morrow, of 
 course." he said at last. 
 
 She could not credit her ears. " Julian ! Why, 
 Julian ! You don't mean it ! " 
 
 At his name, he looked up quickly, and the blue of 
 his eyes was as unchanged as his voice. " I do mean 
 it," he said in a tone that savored of authority. 
 " You '11 have to go back." 
 
 Could this be Julian? Seriously, could it? In 
 spite of the same eyes, same voice, how incredibly he 
 himself was changed! Were all men so untrust- 
 worthy? Was it true after all, as she had once be- 
 lieved, that he had not really wanted her ever? Was 
 it possible, actually, that he neither needed nor wanted 
 her now? The grievous doubt was knocking for ad- 
 mittance, when there broke in past it a tingling sense 
 of freedom that pulled her to her feet. He should 
 not send her back to the convent, at least! Never 
 that! 
 
 " Come back ! " the man in the chair commanded. 
 
 She halted at the door. 
 
 " Come back ! Don't be childish ! " 
 
 That ended her hesitation, of course, and she shut 
 the door behind her and stumbled, blinded by tears, 
 along the hall. 
 
 So this was the end of the quest! This was the 
 real Julian unsympathetic, hostile, and a tyrant. 
 Stay with him? Go back to him? She would as
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 107 
 
 soon go back to the convent. But at the end of the 
 hall she wheeled about and " Oh, I am a child ! " she 
 sobbed. " Where shall I go? " 
 
 Where indeed? At this moment, railroad stations 
 held little allurement. She had not known till now 
 how tired she was, how sick with weariness, every 
 inch of her. The past twenty-four hours were be- 
 come a nightmare; of the future her brain refused 
 to take account. As she stood there, leaning against 
 the casing of an open door, and trembling from the 
 shock of the blow that had shattered her dream, her 
 name called authoritatively reached her ears. But he 
 could not get at her, poor soul that is, abominable 
 tyrant ! so she might still stand there a minute and 
 try to think. 
 
 The room at the door of which she had halted, 
 might or might not be inhabited, for all that one 
 could make of it at first glance; at least there was 
 no one in there now ; it was a haven, therefore, where 
 one could rest a minute and collect one's wits. So 
 she shut herself in, and promptly began to cry more 
 bitterly than ever before which, as we all know, is 
 saying much. 
 
 There were confused sounds in the hall outside : 
 foot-steps, the voice of the woman who had let her 
 in, and Julian's. What ! was he instituting a search 
 for her already? She jumped up and darted under 
 the bed; and it was not till after the sounds had 
 wholly subsided that she dared crawl out. She must
 
 io8 Z A N D R I E 
 
 slip out of the house itself presently, of course, but 
 perhaps she could afford a few seconds more of rest, 
 first. Perhaps this was the woman's room, and she 
 would not mind if an aching little body laid herself 
 on the bed for a very few minutes. 
 
 Oh, what was it! She woke with a start, to see 
 against a glimmer of light the silhouette of some 
 creature, mustachioed, gigantic, at whom she could 
 only stare stupid with wonder, till the present was 
 coupled to the past and she knew that this was a man 
 perhaps a policeman ! lighting the gas, instigated 
 by Julian to capture her and drag her back to the con- 
 vent. A second more, and he would have her. Lit- 
 tle fool, not to have left the house! 
 
 After lighting the gas, however, he did not at once 
 turn round. He was in no hurry, at least. In fact, 
 he began to read a newspaper there where he stood, 
 without so much as a glance about the room. He 
 read so long and showed so little eagerness of the 
 chase, that the situation was becoming awkward at 
 last. He was perhaps the lawful occupant of the 
 room! She sat up. 
 
 " Hully Gee ! " The man dropped his paper and 
 stared with bulging eyes. 
 
 "So you weren't after me?" she ventured; to 
 which another " Hully Gee ! " was the gasping and 
 only response. 
 
 " If you were n't, you need n't be frightened," she 
 said, getting off the bed. " I 'm so glad you were n't,"
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 109 
 
 she added by way of precaution, " for I 'm afraid I 'd 
 have made you so uncomfortable." 
 
 " I guess you must be the girl Mr. Furness was so 
 fierce to find, aint you?" In spite of this alarming 
 question, he seemed a kindly sort of creature. 
 
 " Why did he want to find me ? " Her hand was 
 approaching the door knob. 
 
 " I don't jest know that myself, do you? He says 
 you come and gone again and he 's got to have you 
 back. Seemed kind of curious, didn't it? but I ain't 
 much given over to bein' inquisitive when he 's in that 
 quiet sort of temper ; it 's kind of futile. So I jest 
 done what he says squinted round a corner or two, 
 mistrustin' it was a wild goose hunt. Detective busi- 
 ness ought to begin at home, had n't it ! " and he emit- 
 ted a bellow of mirth. 
 
 She could but laugh with him. " But hush ! " and 
 she lowered her own voice. " We must take care ! 
 especially if he 's in a temper." 
 
 " Oh, he won't hurt you," the kindly soul reassured 
 her. " He aint much given to violence, these days. 
 Leastways, it 's some time since he 's hove projectiles 
 at me." 
 
 Even the revelation of a habit of heaving projectiles 
 could not disturb her now, being what one would 
 expect of a person who ordered one back to a con- 
 vent. " You evidently know him," she said sadly. 
 " Is he always disagreeable ? "
 
 no ZANDRIE 
 
 " Him ? Mr. Furness ? Guess you and him aint 
 very well acquainted, are you ? " 
 
 " Not any more. Are you sure that you are ? " 
 
 " I 'd ought to be ; I 've hauled him these six 
 years." 
 
 For some reason, the Knight on horseback flashed 
 into her memory, a picture by which this word 
 " hauled " set up another in ignominious contrast. The 
 joyous Knight and the man in the chair were irrecon- 
 cilable. She pondered. " At least he has n't pain 
 any more ? " 
 
 " Pain? Well, 't aint what it used to be, that first 
 year or so, is it ? 'T aint near so rampageous, but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " Well, he don't say much on the subject, but he 
 kind of indicates the sofy now and then, and I know 
 what 's up." 
 
 " Merciful saints ! " and she passed her hand across 
 her eyes, " I thought he was only a prisoner like me/' 
 
 " Had n't you best go in there ? " her new friend 
 suggested. " He was fierce to get you." 
 
 " Yes, and I know why ; and I 'm not going back 
 I think. Where 's his aunt ? " 
 
 " Passed away these two years or more." 
 
 "And he's here all alone then! Tied down to 
 pain, alone ! " 
 
 " Jule 's used to it more or less, I guess. Anyhow, 
 he 's got sand enough for two, as I make the cal'lation ; 
 keeps busy one way and another works, you know,
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR in 
 
 readin' proof for the concern next door; and what 
 gets my ticket is that he don't have to work for a 
 living neither. Gives his wages to a hospital concern 
 or something." 
 
 "Works! Yes, of course he'd do that. Tell me 
 more ! " 
 
 But at that he rubbed his chin in horrible dismay. 
 " Had n't you best go " 
 
 " No ! " she interrupted with a little stamp ; and by 
 dint of some hauling herself, she managed to extract 
 the following items: that besides proof, Mr. Furness 
 read many books and also music without recourse 
 to any instrument too, which seemed odd; that the 
 piano in his room was played chiefly by his friend 
 the organist of the Catholic church; that sometimes 
 of an evening, when Julian was feeling " smart," her 
 informant hauled him out for a stroll, or to a concert 
 when there was anything doing in that line, which 
 there chiefly was n't. No, he ought n't to live here, 
 the man agreed ; it was n't elegant quarters ; but he 
 was set on working and this particular job took his 
 fancy; he was full of queer ideas but had a pile of 
 sense besides. She learned furthermore that Mrs. 
 Wyndam had fixed his rooms up once, but that they 
 had sort of slumped since, and neither Hercules nor 
 his employer knew what to do about it, much to their 
 regret. 
 
 " I believe you like him ! " Zandrie exclaimed. 
 
 At this charge, he draped one leg over the foot-
 
 ii2 ZANDRIE 
 
 board of the bed and flicked a bit of mud from his 
 boot. " Well, I guess I did kind of like the cut of 
 his jib from the start. But he was awful dubious 
 about me. I used to handle baggage, don't you see? 
 and he mistrusted I might n't handle him neat 
 enough. Gee ! but I thought he 'd bust himself laugh- 
 in' when I give him the baggage master's recommend. 
 I guess that got my vote. There was another chap 
 applied looked more fashionable than me, and got 
 the job first ; but he 'd have spoiled Jule's chance for 
 a front seat in Heaven in a week, though I guess the 
 Lord would have seen how things had went, and made 
 excuse, wouldn't he? I'd excuse Jule if he cussed 
 his own mother. And he 's kept pretty silent, con- 
 sidering leastways lately." 
 
 Zandrie drew a long breath. "Poor soul! If I 
 thought he would n't try " But what she had in 
 mind to say, can only be guessed, for she was in- 
 terrupted by an electric bell. 
 
 " That 's him," the man said, " I guess I '11 have to 
 
 go/' 
 
 " No, you won't," said Zandrie, " for I 'm going 
 myself!" 
 
 The green bronze lamp was lighted now, but the 
 book on Julian's knees was unopened and his hands 
 were clasped behind his head. At her entrance, 
 ;< Thank the saints ! " he said, and his smile, though a 
 little wicked, bespoke true gratitude to something. 
 
 She leaned over him, both hands on an arm of his
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 113 
 
 chair. " You won't send me back to the convent ? " 
 
 " Not to-night." 
 
 " If you 'd promise not to speak of such things 
 again, I 'd call you what I used to. Remember? " 
 
 " I remember something you used to do." He was 
 quite delightful of a sudden! 
 
 "Kiss you? Of course. // you're good! Oh, 
 but not till then ! " and she skipped out of reach. 
 " But I '11 never leave you again unless you try to 
 send me back ; and then I '11 run away again, only 
 farther. But if you don't, see! I'll stand as stupid 
 and submissive as Sister Gertrude." 
 
 This seemed to amuse him. He asked where she 
 had been hiding; and she said, " In the room of your 
 friend who talks through his nose about you." 
 
 "Carter's room!" 
 
 "His name is Carter? Well, I just got under 
 Carter's bed when I thought you'd sent after me; 
 and then I got on it and slept like a baby, and woke 
 to find Carter glaring as though he saw the Devil. 
 And then we got to talking about you. And now 
 you '11 have to decide where to stow me, for I 'm 
 back to stay." 
 
 She drew up a stool it was a crooked-legged af- 
 fair that took her fancy mightily and while he at- 
 tacked the problem of her bestowal, frowning as 
 though he found it knotty, she set herself to study his 
 face, to find whether it confirmed what the man who 
 knew him and liked him ! had told her.
 
 ii4 ZANDRIE 
 
 Dear heaven! what had become of that face that 
 she thought her memory had kept so well, of the boy 
 whom she must still call the " real " Julian ? Where 
 had its sparkle gone, and its vivid youth? This was 
 another, quite this sombre tale of struggle written 
 in lines of irritability and the will to endure. Would 
 it ever come to mean a Julian equally real, equally 
 potent to stir the imagination? Never, surely! For 
 the prince of a palace of dreams, as every one knows, 
 is beautiful always with the joy of living, untouched 
 by its passion or pain. Poor man in the chair! It 
 was pity, of course, that had sent her back and would 
 keep her loyally near him, she told herself. In fact, 
 she had to repeat it as though for her own conviction, 
 and in defiance of a sense of the futility of pity, that 
 was growing while she looked. For behind the eyes 
 and mouth of this unknown Julian stood a wholesome 
 energy of will that somehow turned pity away dis- 
 comfited, apologetic. Pity? where none was asked 
 and the record of struggle, however, grim, was signed 
 with pride of tested strength, the sight of which must 
 put one on one's mettle ! She locked her fingers tight- 
 er about her knees. It was disconcerting, this rout 
 of pity. But if she grudged the homage she had to 
 yield in its place, it was because of the memory of 
 the spell that the other Julian had wrought upon her, 
 bending her will to his. But he would never rule her 
 so again; he would soon know that her own will had 
 found itself and was ready.
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 115 
 
 But what was he doing now eyeing her with 
 such uncalled for, ill concealed amusement ! Had she 
 any plans, he asked besides staying ? 
 
 " Hundreds ! " Must she always be telling him 
 she was not a child? " I 'm going to find my field of 
 work, near you somewhere, and work very hard. 
 Meanwhile I '11 stay right here." 
 
 " You '11 have to to-night, I reckon. Mrs. Bright 
 must fix it somehow. I '11 send for her." 
 
 " The black-robed woman that let me in ? Then we 
 won't send for her. She 'd put out your lamp at a 
 glance. Do you sleep there? " pointing to a couch. 
 
 " In the next room," he said. 
 
 " Then I '11 sleep on that it looks comfortable 
 enough and you need n't say a word to Sister Shab- 
 by-Hair." 
 
 " That would hardly do," he said gravely ; and when 
 she demanded the reason why, the only one that he 
 gave was that he would rather not have her. 
 
 " How inhospitable ! " 
 
 " Great Caesar ! " He reached for the button of 
 an electric bell wire lying on the table. " Wait, 
 though. You 'd better get Mrs. Bright yourself. 
 And would you mind staying down stairs till she 
 comes back for you ? " 
 
 Zandrie pouted, but rose from the crooked-legged 
 stool. 
 
 " Thank you," he said. " Good night." 
 
 " Good night ? But I 'm coming back ! "
 
 n6 ZANDRIE 
 
 He was very sorry, he explained, but he would 
 have to ask her to wait till morning ; it was after eight 
 and he was going to be busy through the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 Yes, he had grown very harsh and unkind, and she 
 walked to the door trembling under the hurt of this 
 new unfriendliness. 
 
 " Zandrie ! " The tone made the name an appeal. 
 " You don't quite understand," he said, " I don't 
 blame you ! " When she reached his side, he took her 
 hand with his old time gentleness. "If I really 
 seemed inhospitable, it 's because you know so little 
 about the world, it scares me good Lord! it scares 
 me into wishing for once that I were a woman! " 
 
 She smiled at the irrelevance of the wish. He 
 would not be rude to her for the world, he went on; 
 and " I suppose I do know very little," she murmured, 
 " but oh ! I want to know and live ! " 
 
 " I reckon you will, Sister Bobolink." 
 
 " Ah ! I begin to like you again ! " and she caught 
 up his hand to her lips. " When you call me that 
 I thought you had surely forgotten. Must I really 
 go for Mrs. Mournful? Good night, then," and she 
 bestowed a little pat on his shoulder in token of for- 
 giveness and good will. 
 
 Down stairs, knitting beside a lamp whose green 
 globe shade swallowed most of its light, sat Mrs. 
 Bright O irony of names! At Zandrie's message, 
 she raised her eyebrows and went creaking up to
 
 THE MAN IN THE CHAIR 117 
 
 Julian's room, where she stayed a long time. Then 
 she creaked back again, past the sitting room and 
 down another flight of stairs. The rattling of dishes 
 reminded Zandrie that she was desperately hungry; 
 yet when she sat at last in the basement dining room, 
 at a table covered with blue denim and furnished with 
 bread, cold mutton, and a cup of tea, her spirit was 
 little cheered. The cup was big enough to drown al- 
 most any sorrow, but failed to invite her present woes 
 to suicide; and not the least of these was the pre- 
 posterous silence of Mrs. Bright. That lady sat in 
 the shadow of the sideboard a horrific monster of 
 black walnut and to Zandrie's all but tearful en- 
 treaty to say something, made the Delphic reply that a 
 promise was a promise, and uttered never another 
 syllable. Julian explained several days later, that, as 
 delicately as he knew how, he had hinted to his land- 
 lady that her guest was too weary that night for con- 
 versation. For the present, the mystery annihilated a 
 large part of her appetite. " Can I go to bed some- 
 where, now ? " she asked disconsolately ; whereupon 
 her hostess led her, still in silence, up three flights of 
 stairs to a door that she opened with a sign to Zandrie 
 to go in. Alone in the room, she threw herself on the 
 bed. She had left her bundle of clothes doubtless in 
 the too interesting station ; but they were no great loss ; 
 it was good to have so immediate an excuse for the 
 pink dress. Yet even a vision of rosy ruffles could not 
 keep out the sense of unfulfillment the sneaking lit-
 
 n8 ZANDRIE 
 
 tie loneliness yes, actually a home-sickness for her 
 room under the retreat-house roof. Here on the 
 threshold of her new life, such feelings were not to be 
 tolerated, and she knelt to say her rosary as fast as she 
 could; but the Virgin seemed a far-away divinity; 
 thought of her Knight himself brought small comfort; 
 and so her first day in the world ended with tears.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MORNING 
 
 The sun shone into her eyes, waking her as one of 
 the town clocks struck five. A breeze stole in, cold and 
 crystal pure as dew, trembling with the notes of the 
 bell, glorified with spring; and under its caress unrea- 
 soning gladness spread through her. In the fairyland 
 of the east, glimpsed between the shoulders of two 
 hills, she saw islands of flaming cloud afloat on a pale 
 gold sea. Smoke from the valley chimneys went up 
 transmuted to gold dust. Trees, filmy and shimmer- 
 ing with the gold-green of buds, spread a network of 
 violet shadows over the dew. From the roof of a 
 wing of the printing house, a robin scolded a cat ; then 
 swooped to the willow tree in the yard below but 
 for its willow and budding cherry, an ugly patch of 
 yard, squeezed between the printing house and a brick 
 store, and stared at blankly by the windows of an 
 untenanted house at the back. Yet Zandrie, seeing it 
 and the roofs beyond, and farther yet, the hills, 
 stretched out her arms and laughed, whispering, " I 
 love you ! " The little breeze must have wrought a 
 spell. 
 
 119
 
 120 ZANDRIE 
 
 Tingling deliciously with the sense of freedom, she 
 stole down stairs without her hat, out and away 
 towards the eastern hills. It was a long walk past 
 shops and factories, across a bridge over a swirling, 
 muddy stream, and past more shops and a row of 
 dilapidated dwellings; but she trudged valiantly on to 
 the outskirts of scattered farms, and at last to open 
 fields and the foot of a hill. But after the climb, 
 weariness fell from her and she lay on a floor of pun- 
 gent needles, holding her breath, hands clasped, listen- 
 ing to the wind that rustled defiant masses of spruce 
 and pine, under whose shower of piercing fragrance 
 her heart beat faster; for the woods behind the con- 
 vent, bountiful, gracious, and well loved, yet lacked the 
 evergreens' challenging hardihood. When a branch 
 flung its load of dew drops into her eyes, she shouted 
 for delight. Once and again she threw herself on the 
 ground to lay her cheek against small sprouting things. 
 Then when she had caught a low sweeping limb of 
 spruce and scrambled up, a brown, speckle-breasted 
 bird cocked his eye at her, his body swaying to a mad- 
 ness of liquid music that bubbled in his throat, and 
 " You beautiful! " she whispered; but when a jealous 
 red squirrel jerked his tail, kicking his hind feet till 
 they were a blur, and broke in on the solo with a series 
 of squeaks that swelled to a blasphemous frenzy of hic- 
 coughs and snarls, she all but fell from her branch for 
 laughter. And it was then, when she was swinging 
 with her bough, laughing in pure joy of living and her
 
 MORNING 121 
 
 heart singing " Free ! Free ! Free ! " it was then that 
 the first full realization of Julian's lot sprang upon her, 
 bursting upon the revel, to steal the wine. 
 
 Slowly she climbed down, impatient when her dress 
 caught on a twig, and very slowly walked westward, 
 turning to look with hungry eyes at the woods she was 
 leaving; but the screen of sun-lit pines could no longer 
 shut out the vision of Julian's face; the bitterness 
 clung; the spell was broken. She shook her head, 
 vexed ; " He has spoiled it. I will go back to him ; but 
 love him again ? Never ! " which she suspected even 
 then to be a mistake. 
 
 Swinging on the gate of a red farm-house, was a 
 very small person with a thick slice of bread. It 
 would be hard to say to which Zandrie's heart yearned 
 the more at the moment the slice or the boy and 
 she asked him whether he thought she could have some 
 bread too. For answer, he held out his own. 
 
 " Not for the world, dearie ! " she protested ; so he 
 scrambled down from the gate and ran to a woman 
 who had appeared in the door-way, smiling with vast 
 good nature. " She would n't take my bread," the 
 little boy cried, breathless. 
 
 " What for should she, sonnie ? She 's had her 
 breakfast." 
 
 " But I have n't ! " said Zandrie. The friendly face, 
 leagued with a memory of last night's meal, embold- 
 ened her. 
 
 The hint sufficed; she was heartily invited into the
 
 122 ZANDRIE 
 
 kitchen, where she sighed " Ah ! this is better than 
 Mrs. Bright's." 
 
 " You 're staying to Mrs. Bright's next the printing 
 house?" 
 
 " A dreary place," said Zandrie. 
 
 The farmer's wife was so very much interested that 
 in five minutes Zandrie had told her about the convent 
 and her exit, though not of what had brought her so 
 far, for the habit of silence concerning her dream life 
 held as though Julian were still of it. 
 
 " My gracious ! hain't you no folks at all ? No 
 friends?" 
 
 " Ye-es some friends. One, that is. And I sup- 
 pose I ought to be going back to him, too, but I am so 
 hungry! " 
 
 " Him ! " The exclamation included surprise and 
 misgiving; the accent puzzled her; but so did many 
 things in the world already. 
 
 " Well ! Well ! Have some more pie. No folks 
 at all ! I never did ! Charlie boy, go fetch Flotilla 
 
 Well, well, well, well ! You Ve got as honest eyes 
 
 Why, but you ain't no more 'n a child to be loose in 
 the world ! If you would n't mind me asking 
 Mercy sakes ! there 's the baby crying again. Flotilla, 
 be mannerly to the young lady till mama comes back." 
 
 Flotilla was a preternaturally solemn little girl. 
 After shoving the milk pitcher towards the guest, she 
 sat down on a distant chair. Her brother leaned 
 against her, standing on one foot and holding the
 
 MORNING 123 
 
 other ; and both youngsters eyed Zandrie in silence till 
 " Turkeys takes longer to hatch than chickens," Flo- 
 tilla volunteered, in a high, tiny voice. 
 
 Charlie giggled. " Don't," said his sister. " It 
 ain't proper." Zandrie was still too hungry to contra- 
 dict. But when " Mama " entered with the baby, she 
 flew to meet them. 
 
 " O, the size of him ! I have n't touched one for 
 years and years ! O, darling, come to me ! " 
 
 " He 's cranky this morning." 
 
 " He '11 come," Zandrie whispered. And he did. 
 
 " My land ! " the mother commented softly. " He 's 
 the prettiest I 've had, and they 've been seven, though 
 these three 's all I 've raised and Billy that works 
 down to the printing house. There ! you 'd better let 
 me take him, and set down again." 
 
 But at that moment the baby was smiling and his 
 hand wandering along Zandrie's cheek ; and she did not 
 hear. 
 
 Charlie mounted a chair to implant an explosive 
 smack on her nearer hand. Then Flotilla came with 
 something in a basket. 
 
 " Bless its heart ! " said Zandrie, " Is it a feather 
 duster?" 
 
 " No, ma'am ; a little turkey." 
 
 " Oh ! Did it come out of a magic bean, for in- 
 stance?" 
 
 Flotilla's eyes opened wide, but she was tactfully 
 grave ; "No, ma'am ; a egg."
 
 124 ZANDRIE 
 
 Charle, however, roared in frank mirth. 
 
 When a clock on the wall struck nine with rude dis- 
 tinctness, Zandrie sighed. Julian might already have 
 sent Carter on another wild goose chase ! So she must 
 kiss the baby once more no, ten times more and 
 go. " You 've been kinder to me than any one else in 
 the world," she said to her hostess. " Kiss me good- 
 by." 
 
 " Kiss me ! " piped Flotilla, blushing. But Charlie 
 took what he wanted without formality. They all fol- 
 lowed her to the gate. 
 
 " It 's a pretty big world to be alone in," the woman 
 said, surveying the town with unflattering eyes. Zan- 
 drie agreed joyously. " I hope your friend " Her 
 hostess hesitated. " I hope you 're sure he 's your 
 friend." 
 
 " O, yes ! He means to be kind, at least." 
 
 " Well ! You 're so young to be without any folks 
 maybe you would n't mind me asking who " 
 
 " Mr. Julian Furness," said Zandrie. 
 
 " Him ! Billy's Mr. Furness next the printing 
 house? to Mrs. Bright's? Well, I declare! I guess 
 he 's all right. Of course I don't know nothing much 
 about him, only Billy likes him. He gave Billy some 
 skates last Christmas poor soul ! Well, I don't 
 know nothing against him, but just the same I I 
 hope you '11 be careful of yourself he can't look out 
 for you much, you know and come here again real 
 soon."
 
 MORNING 125 
 
 Zandrie laughed, kissed the baby for the fiftieth 
 time, and promised. 
 
 Mrs. Bright received her explanation of absence with 
 sorrowful head-shaking; Julian with high displeasure. 
 " You had n't ought to went so far," said the landlady. 
 " You must not," said Julian after dismissing 
 Carter, whose smile of greeting had been very cordial. 
 ;< You know nothing about the world," he went on, 
 " and till you do, you are not to run off at crack of 
 dawn, without your hat." 
 
 " Why not? Why not? " she demanded petulantly, 
 for she was leg- weary and still hungry. " Who ap- 
 pointed you my keeper ? " 
 
 " Yourself," was the exasperating answer. 
 
 She skipped towards the door; and then, at sight of 
 the flash of anger in his eyes, she laughed half 
 nervously, but he misunderstood. " Go on," he said, 
 so low that she hardly caught the words. " It 's true ; 
 I can't prevent you." 
 
 That was somewhat childish of him, of course, but 
 she smiled penitence for her own childishness. 
 
 " I find the world very good, really," she said, sit- 
 ting down on the gnomish stool that she loved. 
 
 " You know nothing about it." Then, begging her 
 pardon, he took up a sheet of proof. 
 
 Zandrie was for curling up on the couch where she 
 had invited herself to spend the night, but the sight 
 of dust on a book-case diverted her. She looked 
 about her. " Saints alive! is the room never swept?"
 
 126 ZANDRIE 
 
 " Very often, confound it! But it does n't seem to 
 alter the surface of things much." 
 
 Her first point of attack was the mantel shelf, where 
 old letters, burnt matches, an ash tray, and two Jap- 
 anese vases kept cloister under a gray veil. She had 
 borrowed a dust cloth of Mrs. Bright, whose eyebrows 
 had gone up in bitter surprise at the request; and at 
 the end of fifteen minutes the room was to Zan- 
 drie's eyes improved. When Julian glanced up un- 
 easily, she only laughed, sorted, and dusted the more 
 zealously. But the last time that their eyes met, the 
 irrelevant fact that his face had beauty still, startled 
 her to vivid consciousness, like a little electric shock, 
 and she turned away confusedly, passing her dust cloth 
 over a book that she had dusted already. She opened 
 it aimlessly, but the word " prison " soon caught her 
 interest. It was a story about a Frenchman named 
 Valjean and his escape from pursuers, more excit- 
 ing by far than the life of any saint or than any of the 
 novels in the library of Our Lady's. Her heart beat 
 fast in sympathy with the man and a child, Cosette, 
 whom she was with at last, soul and body, forgetful of 
 her re-discovery of Julian's beauty, even after his 
 voice had called her out from the book. She held it 
 before him, her excitement pouring itself out in a tor- 
 rent of questions. " I never read a novel like this ! " 
 she ended, breathless. 
 
 " Most probably not ! "
 
 MORNING 127 
 
 " It must be true ! The nuns said all good novels 
 were true in a way though I never read one before 
 that really sounded true." 
 
 He admitted that this was very true. 
 
 " Then I can learn ! " she cried, snatching it from 
 his hands. " Translated from the French ! The 
 Bible 's translated because it 's so great. Is it read 
 much in the world ? " But she did not wait for an 
 answer. At the end of the fifth page, however, she 
 looked up at him. He had not said a word, but " Why 
 did you call me out again? " she asked. 
 
 " Don't read it now," he said. "If you try to 
 take life in such doses, something will happen, I 'm 
 afraid." 
 
 " That will always be slipping into what you say 
 about me 'afraid' though for yourself you're 
 brave enough. But it 's good to know, and I must 
 catch up with my life, you see. If one were afraid at 
 the outset " She fell to her reading again. 
 
 But " That particular book will only bewilder you 
 now," he persisted. " Trust me for once." 
 
 " While you try to make a coward of me never ! " 
 
 He held out his hand. 
 
 " What right have you " she flashed out ; but his 
 eyes compelled her. For the moment, however much 
 she might resent it, the will in them held her, and, 
 hardly conscious of what she was doing, she started to 
 give him the book. What with weariness of body and
 
 128 ZANDRIE 
 
 bewilderment at unreasonable opposition, all spirit of 
 resistance seemed oozing out of her; but when his 
 hand closed on the volume, her native wil fulness 
 nudged her pride. 
 
 " Zandrie ! " It was a command no less for that 
 his voice was quiet. " I 've lived longer than you, not 
 in the world exactly, these last years; but a woman 
 in my place would know more of it than you do. Will 
 you trust me ? " 
 
 " I hate you ! " was the answer. 
 
 It surprised herself; no less by its being a complete 
 lie than by its unexpectedness. The blood rose in her 
 cheeks and she bowed her head. After a pause, " I 
 did n't mean it," she said. " You know I love 
 you." 
 
 As the pause endured, she thought the apology must 
 have failed ; yet when she ventured to look, there was 
 nothing but laughter in his eyes. She would have 
 preferred to find him offended ! " I do," she said. 
 "Why do you laugh?" 
 
 " It 's so long since I 've been told so ! " 
 
 " I '11 never tell you so again." 
 
 " O, yes you will ! But I advise you not to tell 
 many others how you love them." 
 
 " Indeed I shall. Besides, the nuns said we ought 
 not only to love each other, but to prove it in word and 
 act which is one of the few things I liked about 
 them." 
 
 His expression was disconcerting.
 
 MORNING 129 
 
 " Is n't that the way in the world, then? " she asked, 
 quite in earnest. 
 
 " It is n't exactly customary, you know, to " 
 
 " Not customary to love ! " 
 
 " To say so," he corrected. 
 
 She pondered this astounding statement. First she 
 made sure that he meant it; then " Stop looking at me 
 as though I were a little goblin/' she commanded, 
 " and explain everything ! Don't you understand that 
 I must know everything about the world, at once ? " 
 
 " You 're a right terrifying thing to drop into a 
 man's life," he said to that. 
 
 She stamped her foot. " Why is n't it customary 
 to say it when one loves ? " 
 
 He stiffened as against an onslaught. " I only said 
 
 I meant, it was n't customary well, for you to 
 tell me, for instance." 
 
 She almost laughed. 
 
 " Because " he went on, " Well, I reckon just 
 because you 're a woman and I, a man." 
 
 Life was at best a tangled affair ; she had known that 
 even in convent days. She had known that beyond 
 the walls lay knottier problems still some perhaps 
 so hard that the patience and courage of a life time 
 might scarcely untie them. But here was a knot too 
 absurdly small for talk of courage, yet big enough to 
 vex. Had it been a question of expressing hatred 
 " It 's silly ! " she cried. " You must tell me in earnest 
 
 what you meant by saying "
 
 I 3 o Z A N D R I E 
 
 "O pshaw!" 
 
 "Well? You 're a man and I, a woman. What of 
 that?" 
 
 But he only sat silent. 
 
 Some mystery was gathering about her like a mist. 
 " You won't explain? " 
 
 But he still sat silent. 
 
 " You ought to explain if you can." Then " Speak 
 to me ! " she cried plaintively. 
 
 And at that, he spoke, addressing himself to the 
 mantel-piece. " I 'm a damned fool ! Oh, I beg your 
 pardon ! But questions always have that effect on me. 
 I ought to have warned you." He took up the proof 
 sheets that he had laid aside, and began to work dili- 
 gently. 
 
 She laid her hand on his that held the pen. " I 
 know," she said, " that men are somehow different 
 from the rest of us; yes, and the nuns had very little 
 to do with them, not counting priests ; but I never knew 
 why nor thought to ask till this very moment. Men 
 all but priests and poor McClung were n't allowed 
 on the grounds except under force of circumstances, 
 such as a gas leak ! " 
 
 " Or cracked vertebrae ? " 
 
 " Ah ! And I know that men are made stronger 
 than women, though why, only the good God can tell. 
 And I know that outside the convent, men and women 
 marry, which means that they live together ever after ; 
 and of course they have to love each other a good
 
 MORNING 131 
 
 deal to do that even better than I love you ! Why ! 
 you once asked Sister Angela to let you take me away 
 to live with you ! " 
 
 " Because I thought you 'd be happier out in the 
 world." 
 
 " Oh ! Yet you seemed to love me lots in those 
 days more than now, I guess." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 She looked up into his eyes and then laughed glee- 
 fully. He was not changed! How had she ever 
 thought it? "But you haven't explained yet!" she 
 exclaimed. "If men and women don't say they love 
 each other, how do they ever agree to live together ? " 
 
 " They do tell each other under those circum- 
 stances." 
 
 "Before or after?" 
 
 He was suddenly inspired. " The man always says 
 it first, because, as you said, he 's stronger and expects 
 to do all the work the work, that is, that makes the 
 money to keep his wife and himself and their house 
 and And so, if the woman tells the man first, you 
 see" 
 
 " I see! " she cried happily, for the mist was lifting 
 indeed. " Of course it would n't be polite or right. 
 How simple ! O stupid Julian ! why could n't you have 
 told me sooner? Only of course " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Of course it 's different with us two. I mean," 
 she added hastily, " that we understand one another,
 
 132 ZANDRIE 
 
 so that when I say ' I love you ' which I do like 
 everything you know just what I mean that I 'm 
 not asking you to take me and " 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 " You do, don't you ! And you told me about its 
 not being customary to say those things, perhaps so 
 I should n't make mistakes with others who might n't 
 understand. O you 're good ! Yes, and I '11 say it a 
 thousand times to you, but to no other man in the 
 world. Oh, if you like me the least bit, what good 
 friends we '11 be ! " and she clasped her hands in her 
 old-time gesture of glee. 
 
 But a minute more, and something curious had hap- 
 pened. First, as she studied his profile, for he had 
 taken up his neglected work again first, she won- 
 dered why she had been loath to come back from the 
 woods; then, feeling in memory the touch of the 
 breeze, the thrill of the hill-top caught her breath; and 
 yet again, seeing the blue veins of his temple, and a 
 sunbeam that was creeping over his hair thick as 
 of old, and golden under the touch of the sun as when 
 she had seen it first then she found herself swept 
 up on a blinding surge of new emotion, leaned for- 
 ward, drew his head to her lips, and kissed his fore- 
 head. 
 
 He started with an exclamation and seized her 
 wrists to pull her nearer but suddenly pushed her 
 away instead. In his eyes there was only amused
 
 MORNING 133 
 
 surprise. " So I 've been good! " he said at last. But 
 she had forgotten her promise of the night before. 
 " You 're making it uncommonly hard for me to be 
 good, you know ? " But still she hardly heard, for the 
 surge had swept her up to the stars. 
 
 When he released her hands, they fell nerveless 
 on the wheel of his chair, while a hot flush flooded 
 her face, not of shame, but of surprised, new ecstacy. 
 When she raised her. eyes, he was intent on his proof. 
 " I 'm sorry," he murmured politely, " but this has to 
 be finished by twelve." 
 
 As she rose uncertainly, something fell against her 
 foot the forbidden book. If the issue of that en- 
 gagement had been doubtful, it was decided now; she 
 laid " Les Miserables " on the table. But Julian was 
 too tactful to notice or too busy. 
 
 While she stood watching him with a curiously 
 beating heart, the noon whistles blew. " Sorry to 
 seem rude," he said, " but you '11 really have to go. 
 They '11 send for this presently. And Carter '11 have 
 to be here helping me this afternoon, so can you 
 come back at five ? And Zandrie please don't go 
 out without telling Mrs. Bright where you 're going." 
 
 " Ugh ! Won't Carter do as well ? " 
 
 " Heaven help us ! " But his laughter, however 
 perplexing, was good to hear. 
 
 Though the sunlight was still on his hair and the 
 laugh in his eyes, she turned away. She walked along
 
 i 3 4 Z A N D R I E 
 
 the dingy corridor as through a hall of her cloud 
 palace, bewildered, awed, but happy oh, very hap- 
 py! And when she had closed the door of her 
 room, she leaned against it, and " O my life ! " she 
 whispered, " what has happened ? "
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 AFTERNOON 
 
 Dinner was interesting, on the whole. Carter, at 
 one end of the table, furiously whetted the carving 
 knife, and then, but for a half dozen furtive glances 
 at Zandrie, stared down into his plate and spoke not 
 a word. The other boarders, of whom all but an 
 elderly lady were men, also assaulted their plates in 
 weary silence until the entrance of a thin little woman 
 who took a seat opposite Zandrie, and whom Mrs. 
 Bright desired to present as Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith 
 in turn desired to present her husband, who arrested 
 a fork-load of rice, to bow and declare himself de- 
 lighted. " I 'd be pleased to know," Mrs. Smith an- 
 nounced while waiting to be served, " real pleased 
 to know who has been prowling round my room this 
 morning." 
 
 "O let up!" her husband interrupted. "I tell 
 you the room 's been swep'." 
 
 " Mine has not," said the elderly lady. 
 
 Mrs. Bright raised her eyebrows and offered more 
 veal to a fat gentleman at her left, who was of a 
 pacific nature. " Don't care if I do," he responded 
 
 135
 
 136 Z A N D R I E 
 
 loyally. " Licking good veal - better than week be- 
 fore last, 'pon honor. Pass up the Worcestershire, 
 somebody! Thanks, thanks! Say, ladies and gents, 
 just follow my lead and don't have your rooms swep' 
 but twiced a year. That's my plan since Mrs. T's 
 demise, and it hasn't reduced my weight a mite, 
 neither!" 
 
 During dessert, a blushing young man upset the 
 milk pitcher, and it was the tactful fat gentleman who 
 relieved his embarrassment by bellowing " Where's the 
 cat ? Hi, pussy, pussy, pussy ! " 
 
 No one paid any attention to Zandrie except Carter, 
 whose eye she caught now and then, to his florid dis- 
 may, and Mrs. Smith, who smiled upon her and asked 
 whether she was a transient ; also whether she did n't 
 relish date pie. She herself had given the recipe to 
 Mrs. Bright, but the pie had not yet appeared on the 
 table; the price of dates had risen lately, maybe. 
 " That 's right," said her husband. But no one else 
 seemed to be listening, not even Mrs. Bright, towards 
 whom Zandrie's heart suddenly softened. 
 
 After dinner, the obliging Carter lent her a pencil 
 and paper whereby to write a letter to Mrs. McClung. 
 But it was odd, how her thoughts would dance away 
 whenever she tried to pin them to the paper. At 
 four o'clock she had written not quite half a page; at 
 quarter past four she had torn that sheet and begun 
 another; at half past four she discovered that Car- 
 ter's pencil was dull; at twenty-five minutes before
 
 AFTERNOON 137 
 
 five the second sheet went the way of the first. Yet 
 at Our Lady's, the ease with which Zandrie wrote 
 compositions had been so famous! At fourteen min- 
 utes of five she had no more paper, and at thirteen 
 minutes, the pencil had rolled under the table. 
 
 As for Julian, when she opened his door at the 
 third stoke of five, he merely looked up from his proof 
 sheets with an extraordinarily formal bow, and asked 
 her to sit down and excuse him for working a few 
 minutes longer. In fact, his tone was curiously like 
 Sister Angela's when, forcing down all signs of an- 
 ger, she had sometimes bidden Zandrie the culprit to 
 sit down. 
 
 " I don't want to sit down," she said, not defiantly 
 as before Sister Angela, however. 
 
 At last, as she stood looking at him, mystified, 
 wistful, yet happy at the core of her, he began to 
 smile as though in spite of himself; and "Ah!" she 
 cried, " you 're nice once more ! It must be the work 
 that makes you sometimes queer." 
 
 " Only the unusual effort to be good," he explained 
 gravely. 
 
 She had crossed the room, meanwhile, to look over 
 his shoulder at the long printed sheets on whose mar- 
 gins he scribbled little hieroglyphics, from which her 
 glance soon wandered to his hair. That was better ! 
 It was darker than of old, to be sure, and there was 
 no sunbeam now to draw out its gold, yet of a sud- 
 den she yearned with a mysterious pain to lay her
 
 138 ZANDRIE 
 
 cheek against it, as she used to do. This morning 
 she might have yielded to the impulse, but now 
 now her hand lay still on the rim of the chair-back as 
 though tied there. 
 
 " Please be through," she pleaded at last. " I 've 
 something to tell you." 
 
 " At your command, rnadame. I '11 defy the whole 
 pack if you '11 sit down." 
 
 " You 're a very brave, wonderful man." She was 
 looking at his work again. 
 
 "Who told you so?" 
 
 " Carter ! " she said triumphantly. " He says you 
 work most of the time." 
 
 " So do most men." 
 
 " Of course; I shall do it myself some day; but not 
 such work as yours. And Carter says you don't even 
 have to do it." 
 
 " I had to or grow unfit for the society of la- 
 dies." 
 
 " But Carter says " 
 
 " Confound Carter ! " 
 
 " Ah, I love to hear men swear ! " and she hugged 
 herself joyously. 
 
 Julian threw back his head with a ringing laugh, 
 and his hair brushed her fingers. She caught her 
 breath. 
 
 " Please sit down," he said. " I 'm still civilized 
 enough to hate to keep my seat while a lady stands." 
 
 A curious feeling! But she seated herself without
 
 AFTERNOON 139 
 
 questioning, and, chin on hands, studied his face once 
 more. How had she ever been disappointed in it, 
 for even a few minutes ? It was surely the most satis- 
 fying of all the faces that she had seen, and the 
 most beautiful! 
 
 " What have you to tell ? " he asked. 
 
 " I thought you were never going to ask ! That 
 I Ve decided Guess ! " 
 
 " To go back to the convent." 
 
 " Evil one ! " and she drew her stool a little nearer. 
 " That I 've decided to let you be my guardian." 
 
 But the effect of this was not what she had cal- 
 culated; he merely laughed and thanked her for the 
 honor. 
 
 " But you 're not in earnest," she faltered, " and I 
 am." 
 
 " Upon my soul, I believe you are ! Well, and I 
 repeat my thanks ; but really, you know " 
 
 " You 're not even pleased ! " 
 
 " I confess I should n't like to take the responsibil- 
 ity." 
 
 " But if I promised to be good? " 
 
 " That would simplify matters, of course." 
 
 " But you know I could n't keep my promise ? " She 
 regarded the proof-sheets on the floor thoughtfully. 
 "Of course I never have been very good, except with 
 you when I was a child, and with Sister Andrea and 
 Sister Isidore, and sometimes with dear old Mother 
 McClung. But I thought perhaps with you it might
 
 140 Z A N D R I E 
 
 still be different. I thought it might be exciting, 
 at least, to try it." 
 
 " But it might be safer not to? " 
 
 " Perhaps. You might come to hate me as the 
 Pious Ladies and the Sisters did." 
 
 "What shall you say to them, by the way?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Nothing more than I said in my note to Mrs. Mc- 
 Clung, that I left in the next to the biggest saucepan. 
 I 've done with them forever." 
 
 " On the contrary, they '11 soon be clamoring at your 
 door." 
 
 " Julian ! " and she sprang up. " You have n't let 
 them know ! " 
 
 He had. He explained firmly, as one who looks 
 forward to a scene of turbulence and little joy, that he 
 had wired the Prioress last night. " I can't make you 
 see and I 'm not going to try," he added, " but you '11 
 understand some day that I 'd be a scoundrel just to 
 have done anything else." 
 
 Zandrie's emotions were too mixed for turbulence, 
 however. " You let them know ! " One could 
 grasp the egregious deed only as a fact bared of im- 
 port, shorn of intelligible motive or result. Yester- 
 day, or even this morning perhaps, she could have 
 charged with treachery and scorched with scorn this 
 riddle called Julian; but now what had happened, 
 indeed, that now she merely wanted to understand, and 
 to justify! 

 
 AFTERNOON 141 
 
 " They '11 be here right soon, I think," he went on, 
 " doing their best to get you back." 
 
 " You ! " she repeated, scarcely hearing. " Why ? 
 Why?" 
 
 " Plain case of duty. Your coming to me makes 
 me responsible for you." 
 
 As though that astounding and questionable state- 
 ment explained! But however distorted his vision, 
 it was plain from his expression that he had acted 
 upon a sense of duty rather than malice. " Trying 
 to get me back," she repeated slowly. " No. No, I 
 think they won't do that. I troubled them so. I was 
 a discord among them a piece of lava set in a marble 
 wall." 
 
 " But they '11 believe it their duty to re-set you in 
 the wall." 
 
 She pondered. " Perhaps you 're right. But have 
 they any right any claim on me to force me 
 back?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Then then there 's nothing for it but to O 
 me ! to what ? I'm caught ! Julian ! " and the tears 
 rushed to her eyes, " how could you ! How could 
 you!" 
 
 " You '11 be brave, I reckon," he said gravely. 
 
 "Brave? I'd almost go back with them to have 
 you think me brave. But oh ! you '11 not take their 
 part against me ! " she broke out, " I '11 see them
 
 142 Z A N D R I E 
 
 and fight and be brave. But promise that prom- 
 ise to fight on my side ! " 
 
 " No, I won't promise," he answered slowly after a 
 pause in which she stared at him in waxing fright. 
 
 " Do you want me to leave you, then ? " she asked 
 at last. " Ah, but you can't want that, when you 've 
 been so lonely ! And I I Ve been lonely too. O 
 the barren, barren life! Julian! remember it! You 
 saw it for yourself. Remember your own words to 
 Sister Angela. Do anything but try to send me back. 
 Dear, dear Julian ! anything but that the convent ! " 
 She had slipped to her knees and clasped her hands 
 on the arm of his chair. 
 
 " Get up," he said gently. 
 
 But she still knelt and plead in a passion of entreaty. 
 " Promise not to take their part against me. Be my 
 friend as you used. Let me keep it longer my free- 
 dom and my happiness. Promise ! Promise ! " 
 
 Doubtless it was an awkward situation for Julian, 
 and doubtless he wrestled manfully to see its ethical 
 demands; and without any doubt whatever, the bright 
 tears on a lady's lashes help illumine the horn marked 
 Duty on such dilemmas. " I promise then," he said 
 at last. The next instant, he seized her arm. " Get 
 up quick ! " 
 
 But before* the words were out, a whirlwind in the 
 shape of a little boy burst into the room and tripped 
 over Zandrie's feet. " Golly ! " was his only com- 
 ment.
 
 AFTERNOON 143 
 
 Julian caught him by a sleeve. " Knock next time, 
 Bill; and meanwhile, apologize." 
 
 " It 's 'most five : thirty," said the boy, " and they 
 want the galley P D Q ; and how was I to know there 
 was a girl sayin' her prayers to you ? " 
 
 Zandrie hastily stood up. 
 
 " Bill," said Julian, " look me in the eye." 
 
 Bill obeyed, standing on one leg. 
 
 " Now then, you '11 oblige me by not mentioning 
 that you found a lady here saying her prayers. It 's 
 the sort of thing one does n't publish. And apolo- 
 gize." 
 
 " But I was directly in his path," said Zandrie. 
 
 Bill stared at her with inscrutable eyes and a very 
 crooked smile. " Maybe I don't mind if you were. 
 I 'd just as leaves apologize. But I say ! give us 
 that galley, Mr. Furness ! Jemimy but it 's late ! " 
 
 But he was not through with it. Carter would take 
 it over, later. 
 
 Bill's whistle intimated that this was an unusual 
 procedure. " They '11 want to know what 's up," was 
 his parting shot, " but I ain't the feller to peach." 
 
 Zandrie flew after him under the impression that he 
 was falling down stairs, and came back laughing. 
 " He sounded like poor Father Haggarty falling into 
 the crypt ! What is the creature ? " 
 
 " A little devil." 
 
 " Ah, you 're very wicked ! " she said gleefully. 
 
 " The nuns did n't mention such things ? "
 
 144 Z A N D R I E 
 
 " Only the There 's a difference, you know." 
 
 Yes, he confessed to a knowledge of the distinction, 
 and explained the official duties of Bill in the printing 
 room. Then he questioned her about her dinner ac- 
 quaintances. Right queer, were they? But no one 
 was rude, of course? 
 
 " No only dreadfully polite. Especially Mrs. 
 Smith." 
 
 "Confound it!" he exclaimed, "I'm an idiot not 
 to have thought of your having your meals alone." 
 
 "Or with you?" 
 
 " That would be jolly, but out of the question." 
 He was unable to give an intelligible reason why it 
 was out of the question, however. Mystery number 
 one. Mystery number two followed on its heels, 
 when the supper bell began its horrid din and she was 
 for obeying it and Julian without pouting, for 
 she would be back, she explained, the minute supper 
 was over. 
 
 But that too was out of the question, he said, and 
 because forsooth ! a man was coming to see 
 him. 
 
 " Goody! " she said, " I like men! " 
 
 His mouth quivered on the edge of a smile, but he 
 spoke with unambiguous decision ; " We '11 have to 
 say good night right now." 
 
 There was nothing for it but to yield with what 
 grace one could. Half way to the door, however, a 
 misgiving waylaid her that turned her quite sick at
 
 AFTERNOON 145 
 
 heart. " You you did n't want that little boy to 
 speak of me," she faltered, " and now, this man who 's 
 coming You are n't ashamed of my friendship of 
 me are you? Because I know so little of the 
 world ? and do such wrong things, you say ? " 
 
 " Bless your heart, no ! " And his smile was so 
 entirely reassuring that she forgot all vexing mys- 
 teries. " The world 's good, then," were her parting 
 words. "This has been the best day of all my life. 
 We 're going to be happy, Julian you and I ! " 
 
 If incredulity was in his eyes, there was something 
 in hers that prevented her seeing it. But why should 
 there be incredulity in his? No one says that there 
 was. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 At first she had slept, but a sleep of vivid dreams in 
 which emotions slip the noose of stolid reality and 
 race for their lives. Just before waking, she had 
 walked with some one through the palace of her old 
 imagining, or some such vague, lovely, unstable halls ; 
 and wherever they strolled, a stream of light like in- 
 candescent gold, pouring through a rent in the shifty 
 roof, slanted across the face of the one she walked 
 with, so that at first she could not see the features. 
 But as she looked, she grew faint, for it was Julian's, 
 and the eyes were drawing the life from her body, so 
 that she would have sunk in a nerveless heap but for 
 the grasp of his hand. And even after waking she 
 lay for a while in the clasp of the nameless rapture 
 that wrapped her about like flame. " Julian ! " she 
 whispered; and then "O God, he was so beautiful! 
 Give him back." And she closed her eyes to dream 
 the dream again; but it would not come, and already 
 the ecstacy was sinking, leaving her wide eyed and 
 stupid. The silence began to grow into a stifling 
 presence. 
 
 146
 
 NIGHT 147 
 
 Would the day with its bird voices never come? It 
 must be nearly morning. Ah ! The bell of the town 
 hall clock was beginning to strike ; it would tell good 
 news; and at the fourth stroke, she sighed with relief. 
 But at the fifth, she started, and the sixth and seventh 
 brought dismay. It was only midnight ! 
 
 Her heart began to beat with a growing fear of 
 what, it was hard to say; of another hour of horrid 
 silence, perhaps. No, but of the lurking mystery of 
 things little, tormenting gnats of mystery as baf- 
 fling as the strange, riotous creature that had beaten 
 its wings in her heart for the first time that morning, 
 after she had kissed Julian on the forehead. It was to 
 put down the commotion of those wings now that she 
 rose and went to the window. 
 
 The hill from which the breeze had come at dawn, 
 shimmered in the moonlight like a phantom. To her 
 eyes, all the world out there in the pallor of midnight 
 was as a part of her past dreams ; its loveliness made 
 no claim on reality. The weeping willow, bathed in 
 moon-lit dew, hung like a spirit over the cavern of its 
 own shadow. Trees, roofs, chimneys, and the hills 
 beyond, all floated in a sea of wan, unreal beauty. 
 
 She sat on the floor and laid her head on the window 
 sill where the night air might cool her cheeks. But 
 the winged thing at her heart was not to be shaken off. 
 What was the tumult about, then? What had hap- 
 pened? Dearly as she had loved her father and 
 mother and Sister Isidore, she remembered no such
 
 148 Z A N D R I E 
 
 riot of blood in her body, when she had kissed them. 
 " O my life ! " she whispered, " I want him. Julian ! " 
 
 The longing to get nearer to him shook her back 
 into a sense of reality, so that the splendor of the 
 moon-lit country was at last a vital thing. A wind 
 had arisen, and the pale streamers of the willow swung 
 and tossed, and all the world without was disquieted 
 as herself. Now trees and roofs were under shadow ; 
 now a gust tore the cloud from before the moon, dis- 
 tilling pearly shimmer from shadow and sending mul- 
 titudinous whispers into the night. A planet was 
 swinging up over the hill top, the white liquid of its 
 light brimming over into a tiny halo. Yes, the world 
 was beautiful, however mysterious, and " I have be- 
 gun to live at last," she told herself. " He said that I 
 should." Once more the pain of longing shook her; it 
 brought her to her feet; it was resistless. And why 
 should one resist? She would dress and steal down 
 to his door, careful to wake no one, and then she 
 would merely listen and be grateful for any sound 
 from within that should be the least sign of his living 
 presence. He could find no objection, should he 
 know ; and he would not know. 
 
 The hall window gave no light because of the near- 
 ness of the store. The blackness was just a little 
 dreadful; for she was still child enough in her dread 
 of the dark. And how a board in the third stair had 
 verily shrieked ! But for that, her progress was sat- 
 isfactorily noiseless. She felt her way past three
 
 NIGHT 149 
 
 doors, to the room at the end of the hall, forgetting till 
 her hand struck the door knob, that it was Julian's sit- 
 ting room, and that he must be in the room she had 
 just passed. She crept back, knelt, and laid her cheek 
 against the door. The winged creature was making 
 a fearful commotion now, for Julian was very near. 
 Perhaps if she listened, she could catch the sound of 
 his breathing. 
 
 For the first few seconds, the thumping of her heart 
 was the only sound in her ears; then the whisper of her 
 name flashed like a light through her brain. She held 
 her breath, incredulous ; but it came again, questioning, 
 and " Julian! " she whispered back. 
 
 " Is there any trouble ? " 
 
 . . XT 
 
 "Then what?" 
 
 " I had to come. Night is so lonely ! " 
 
 Why was he awake himself? It occurred to her 
 that he might be in pain more than usual and she 
 shivered. " Can't you sleep either ?" She was speak- 
 ing almost aloud, forgetful now of all but his wel- 
 fare. " Perhaps you 'd sleep if some one were sitting 
 beside you." 
 
 There was no answer. Her heart beat fast. The 
 silence grew so long at last that she thought he had 
 not heard. " Julian ! " she entreated, " Speak to me ! 
 Mayn't I come in?" 
 
 Still no answer nor sound, so that she whispered 
 his name again, and in fear.
 
 150 ZANDRIE 
 
 But there was no sign that he had heard, until a 
 rustle as of an abrupt decisive movement, perhaps of 
 an arm ; and after that, " No," he said. 
 
 " But Julian " 
 
 " Go back this instant ! " 
 
 " Very well." And she meant to obey, but knelt 
 there still. What she was waiting for the sound of 
 his voice again soon came, and quite above a whis- 
 per. " Go back at once, and quietly." 
 
 But yet she did not move. " You 're not angry with 
 me, are you? " she asked tremulously at the key-hole. 
 
 " Yes, if you don't go." 
 
 " But when " 
 
 An exclamation interrupted her, unintelligible, but 
 emphatic. " You must go ! " followed it. 
 
 As she rose from her knees, a door at the other 
 end of the hall creaked, and a head was thrust out, 
 too fantastic in the flickering light of a candle to be 
 recognized at first. Besides, Julian's voice, low but 
 fiercely distinct, filled her attention. " Don't speak 
 again. Obey me." 
 
 She sighed and turned from the door, and the candle 
 light fell full upon her. The person holding the can- 
 dle was Mrs. Smith. 
 
 Mrs. Smith's smile had seemed a little less offen- 
 sive at supper, so that after it Zandrie had confided 
 to her the comical fact of her having no night-dress, 
 because of the bundle that she had lost; and the 
 friendly little person had lent her one. In fact, she
 
 NIGHT. 151 
 
 had seemed almost too friendly, especially about ask- 
 ing questions that one would really rather not an- 
 swer. But now, as her head was being silently with- 
 drawn, Zandrie, standing with her hand on the knob 
 of Julian's door and looking at her dreamily, suddenly 
 noted the total absence of her smile. She feared that 
 she had waked her. She would apologize in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Back in her room, she sat again on the floor by the 
 window, the night breeze on her forehead, and 
 Julian's voice echoing in her ears. Why he had been 
 so displeased with her, who could say? It was not 
 because she had disturbed his sleep, for he had evi- 
 dently been already awake. His tones the last time 
 that he spoke, were stern almost harsh. But per- 
 haps it was only because he was tired of pain. 
 
 Gradually the fever to which she had waked, sank 
 under the touch of the coolness of the night. Some 
 heavy drops of rain began to fall, at first in single 
 thuds, then faster until they were a host, the sane 
 rhythm of whose march brought her peace. She went 
 back to bed, and a few minutes later she was asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE NUNS 
 
 Mrs. Bright's lamenting voice woke her at seven 
 with the announcement that Mr. Furness desired her 
 to deliver a note to Miss Donallon. And inasmuch as 
 notes had played but the smallest part in Miss Donal- 
 lon's life, she pounced upon the folded bit of paper 
 that Mrs. Bright had tucked under the door, in a 
 wonderful excitement. The handwriting was eccen- 
 tric to the verge of illegibility, but " I cannot see you," 
 she managed to decipher, " till twelve : fifteen this 
 noon. Very sorry. If you go out, please tell Mrs. 
 Bright. I beg you also to wear your hat ; not to speak 
 to any stranger, man or woman ; not to run ; and not to 
 get lost. Don't go out of sight of houses; and keep 
 well within the town. I would rather you did n't go 
 out alone at all, but if you think you must, be very 
 careful. J. M. F." 
 
 After reading this autocratic document several 
 times, she re-folded it, patted it defiantly, kissed it 
 humbly, bestowed it in her pocket, and went down to 
 breakfast at last in the astounding determination to 
 go out only in the company of Mrs. Bright. 
 
 152
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 153 
 
 As she had taken a long time to arrive at this deci- 
 sion, all the boarders had finished breakfast but Mrs. 
 Smith, who nodded unsmilingly and bent her attention 
 on some wicked-looking coffee. Her hair had play- 
 fully eluded the comb's advances. It was the only 
 hint of playfulness, however, about her person, with 
 the possible exception of the bow of her light blue 
 dressing sacque. Mrs. Smith was plainly not at ease ; 
 nor was Zandrie at the end of five minutes. Saints 
 alive ! One would prefer the smile to this its succes- 
 sor of pursed lips and abnormal unconsciousness of 
 another's presence. " Is it that I waked you ? " the 
 poor child asked. " I tried to be quiet." 
 
 Her vis-a-vis raised her eye-brows and bit a muffin ; 
 and the two acts made an insult that smote Zandrie 
 speechless. 
 
 The woman who dealt it soon folded her napkin. 
 It was not till she had risen to go that she met Zan- 
 drie's eyes. " Well ? " she questioned, with an un- 
 translatable toss of the head. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean." 
 
 "Oh, don't you?" and Mrs. Smith turned away 
 exalting her nose in splendid incredulity; at which, 
 Zandrie rose quivering. 
 
 " Stop ! " she cried ; and then, " no you can go. 
 You 're rude." 
 
 " Oh, am 1 1 " The little woman flounced about, 
 glaring. " I 'm rude, am I ? And I can go ! Thank 
 you, ma'am; so kind, I 'm sure! Only if I was you, I
 
 154 ZANDRIE 
 
 would n't have much to say to people as try to show 
 themselves the least bit friendly, not knowing much of 
 anything about you. I guess you found you 've struck 
 the wrong place this time, did n't you ? Or ain't we all 
 the kind we thought we was, coming here? I told 
 Smith at the time, we did n't make enough inquiries 
 to know much of anything about it." But she did not 
 wait to make more now. 
 
 Naturally this assault left its victim without a hearty 
 appetite. She could discover nothing in 1 Mrs. Smith's 
 behavior and words but frenzied nonsense. Were 
 many women in the world so preposterously irascible ? 
 or mournful? And did all speak bad English? 
 Anger, bewilderment, disgust, trooped with her up- 
 stairs and sat down with her there. The longing to 
 run for help to Julian pulled her twice, in the face 
 of his commands, to the top of the stairs, and twice 
 she turned back. But suddenly the sun came out 
 from a cloud, and the willow branches, tipped with 
 drops from a recent shower, turned to diamond pen- 
 dants. Sun-flecked hills, robins all but bursting with a 
 song of well-being what mortal could resist their 
 summons? Even if Zandrie had remembered Mrs. 
 Bright, it seems doubtful whether she would have 
 asked her escort. She did snatch up her hat, however. 
 
 But she was destined not to run far, that morning. 
 In fact, a desperate collision with two bodies brought 
 her up short on the doorstep itself, where she was 
 stopped, not only by their unyielding bulk, but by four
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 155 
 
 hands laid upon her with a will. She found herself 
 gasping on the shoulder of Sister Gertrude. Mother 
 Genevieve buttressed her on the left. But the con- 
 vulsive grip of the two nuns was not needed to check 
 farther flight, for Zandrie was quite limp with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! bind her fast ! " Sister Gertrude 
 panted. 
 
 " I 've got her ! " said the Prioress, and thanked the 
 saints for the achievement. 
 
 " Had we better take her in here? " Sister Gertrude 
 asked, surveying the door-casing with distrust. 
 
 " Is there any suitable room," the Prioress asked of 
 Zandrie, " where we can be sure of privacy for a little 
 while?" 
 
 By this time Zandrie had mustered her forces. Ju- 
 lian had said that she would be brave, and she was 
 going to justify his faith. She invited them into the 
 parlor courteously. " You need n't hold me," she 
 added gently, " I 'm not trying to escape. We e:r- 
 pected you to-day ! " 
 
 Sister Gertrude's eye-brows disappeared under the 
 white linen band across her forehead, and she kept her 
 hold until sitting down in the parlor. 
 
 Zandrie still spoke politely ; " I 'm sorry you don't 
 trust me." 
 
 " I am sorry we have so little reason to," and the 
 Mother seated herself with a sigh, signing to the other 
 nun to release the prisoner, however.
 
 156 ZANDRIE 
 
 " You are tired, Reverend Mother," said Sister 
 Gertrude. 
 
 " I am," she assented. 
 
 Sister Gertrude, sitting bolt upright on Mrs. Bright's 
 haircloth sofa, looked about furtively through her very 
 round spectacles. She was one of the few nuns who 
 had been at St. Scholastica's for over ten years and 
 yet held no responsible position in the community. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Zandrie, " to have caused you 
 weariness." 
 
 " You can prove it," and the Mother's great, eager 
 eyes challenged her. 
 
 " The Blessed Virgin never leaves us without a 
 chance to retrieve " But the Superior signed to 
 Sister Gertrude to be silent. 
 
 In the pause that followed, both nuns studied the 
 carpet earnestly. Then the Prioress began the inquisi- 
 tion. Zandrie's conduct, she preluded, was quite in- 
 explicable not to say more. They were in the dark 
 
 they who had had her in their care, a sacred trust 
 
 and an explanation was their first due. But Zan- 
 drie met the commanding eyes unflinchingly and in 
 silence. 
 
 " Who is this Mr. Furness? " 
 
 " The best friend I have in the world." The blood 
 rushed to her cheeks ; it was difficult, for some reason, 
 to speak of Julian to these good but uncompromising 
 and surely uncomprehending women, who were even
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 157 
 
 now exchanging a glance that implied the fulfillment 
 of some evil foreboding. 
 
 " The young man who was received among us years 
 ago and given our care ? " 
 
 " He has ill repaid us," said Sister Gertrude ; and 
 at that, Zandrie's well drilled battle-line broke. 
 
 " He made a gift to the convent," she flashed out. 
 " You 've forgotten so soon? And if he thought he 'd 
 left a tithe of his debt unpaid, he 'd give his last " 
 
 " Quietly, my dear," the Mother admonished. 
 
 " When you 're unjust to him ? I '11 never be quiet 
 and let that be." 
 
 This brought the Mother's eyes upon her with so 
 searching a scrutiny that no matter how much against 
 her will, she was discomfited and bent her head. 
 
 " He is married of course? " 
 
 "No. Ono!" 
 
 Another pause. And then, " Alexandra, look me 
 in the eye and explain your being here ! " 
 
 The tone of this challenge was so appalling in its 
 mysterious implications that she almost lost hold of 
 the simplicity of the true explanation. Instinct told 
 her confusedly that its very simplicity would damn it ; 
 it would not convince these inquisitors. " Where else 
 should she go ? " she faltered. She had decided to 
 leave the convent ; had always wanted to ; and and 
 he was the only friend she had in the world almost ; 
 and she remembered that he was coming here to live ;
 
 158 ZANDRIE 
 
 and so she had sought until she found him. O very 
 simple indeed! 
 
 " Your coming was a surprise to him ? " 
 
 " O yes ! a wonderful surprise ! " and she met the 
 Mother's eyes with a smile of gleeful reminiscence. 
 
 " The telegram implied that," the Prioress mur- 
 mured. " Yes, I must believe that. But you were in 
 communication with him before coming? You have 
 heard from him I don't know how it was possible, 
 though Father Thomas said yesterday that the boy, 
 Ambrose, once met you entering the little gate as 
 though " 
 
 " I have never heard from him or about him 
 never a word since his aunt's Mrs. Wyndam's 
 letter, years ago." 
 
 The Superior questioned her, and she told all that 
 she remembered of the letter. 
 
 It was evident that in Sister Gertrude's case, at 
 least, curiosity was beginning to crowd out wrath. 
 " You had other friends," she suggested, " school 
 friends?" 
 
 "Yes a few." 
 
 " Then I fail wholly," said Mother Genevieve, " to 
 understand." 
 
 Though the silence was awkward, Zandrie did not 
 try to enlighten her. 
 
 " Who was the man who came out of the door be- 
 fore you whom you were running after?" Sister 
 Gertrude demanded.
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 159 
 
 " I don't know. I did n't see. Carter perhaps, or 
 Mr. Smith, or the fat man who " 
 
 " Who are Carter and Mr. Smith? " 
 
 " Two of the other men in the house." 
 
 " Merciful saints ! are there no women? " 
 
 " Yes, I 'm sorry to say." 
 
 A frightful pause. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Furness ? " This from the Prioress. 
 
 " Upstairs." She sprang to her feet. " Oh, go up 
 to him and talk with him ! You '11 understand better 
 then. I '11 tell him to let you come ! " 
 
 " Alexandra ! " The Mother started up, for Zan- 
 drie was already at the foot of the stairs. " Come 
 back, I command you ! What is he that we should 
 Find a servant and send for him. It is proper that 
 he should come to us." 
 
 Zandrie wheeled about. " You don't know then ? 
 You don't know that he is that he sits in a chair 
 all day? that he can't come to us? Have you for- 
 gotten, Sister Gertrude? You helped drag away the 
 horse when it fell on him and lay dead from the force 
 of its fall." 
 
 " I thought he had nearly recovered when he left 
 us." 
 
 " You were looking to your own soul." Tears 
 caught her voice. " I saw them carry him out." She 
 held out her hand to the Prioress. " Come with me. 
 When you see him, you '11 understand perhaps why 
 I came."
 
 160 ZANDRIE 
 
 " You mean he is a cripple? " 
 
 She shivered a little, for that word, meaning to her 
 something so forlorn, so pitiable, so different from 
 all that meant Julian, had never been admitted to her 
 inmost thought of him. " I did n't come to give pity," 
 she said. She had forgotten so soon, then ! " Come 
 and see." 
 
 There was another long pause ; then, " Dear child," 
 the Mother pleaded, drawing her towards her, " come 
 with us. We are your friends too better perhaps 
 than the friend you think you have upstairs. Because 
 we were your friends, you see, we came here a long 
 night's journey. You must see that. I think you 
 must understand that, and come without Come 
 quietly, without resistance, and we'll all forget this, 
 and" 
 
 "You mean " Zandrie pulled her hand away 
 and stood braced for the contest that she had thought 
 was not to come after all. " You mean you 're going 
 to try to get me back ? " 
 
 The other straightened too. " To get you back ? 
 But that went without saying. You are coming back 
 with us to-morrow. Come willingly, without ado, and 
 we shall not have to compel " 
 
 " Compel ! Never ! Ah ! but I thought you almost 
 understood at last were almost kind." She leaned 
 against the door, her hands clasped against her 
 throat. 
 
 The Superior reasoned patiently. " We are respon-
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 161 
 
 sible for you, body and soul," she ended. " The 
 Blessed Virgin will bear us witness that we 've tried 
 to do our duty, and our duty now is to take you back 
 at least till you are older." 
 
 There was a quiet authority in the tones that for a 
 second all but dismayed Zandrie. " Oh, is there a 
 woman in the world that will understand ? " she cried ; 
 and then, " Yes he said you would know it for your 
 duty. But oh! you were mistaken! And I will not 
 go back. Where I starved? And I came away and 
 found the free air and the dear life in the world ! 
 I 'm free ! free ! God bear me witness, I was unhappy 
 always always! I hated your ways. I hated the 
 life that was no life at all. While you sang your 
 offices, I thought of high God and his blessed Mother. 
 My brain thought and thought. It was n't afraid. 
 And this I know take my body to shut away by 
 force, if you can but for my soul, it's mine, not 
 yours, to lose or keep. Wait ! " She put out her 
 hand. " Stand where you are ! I dare to call on God 
 himself and vow to him to God himself and the 
 dear Virgin too I vow before you both, that if you 
 force me back, I will kill myself." 
 
 The Mother's hand shot out. " Stop ! I for- 
 bid " 
 
 " Too late ! I 've made my vow ; and you know I '11 
 keep it." 
 
 " O Mother of Heaven ! what to do with her ! " 
 
 exclaimed Sister Gertrude. 
 11
 
 1 62 ZANDRIE 
 
 She had risen in her dismay, clutching the crucifix 
 of her rosary. 
 
 Zandrie's words, spoken on an impulse that was 
 very sudden even for her, startled herself, yet did not 
 frighten as much as the danger that had seemed to 
 drive her upon them. 
 
 " She is wicked," said Sister Gertrude. " She was 
 a strange, unruly child." 
 
 Zandrie turned on her. " You believe me. You 've 
 been in the convent longer than Mother Genevieve; 
 you know I keep my word. Look at me, Reverend 
 Mother, and believe me too." 
 
 The Prioress looked at her, dismayed not at all. 
 " Foolish child ! Yes, and wicked, as Sister Gertrude 
 said." 
 
 " I 've made my vow." 
 
 " A foolish vow. No vow at all." 
 
 "I spoke it to God himself!" 
 
 " Holy Mother ! " Sister Gertrude crossed herself. 
 " The Devil is speaking through her. She blas- 
 phemes ! " 
 
 " To kill oneself is a crime," said the Mother. 
 " There is no salvation for those You think you 
 would chose eternal Hell sooner than " 
 
 " It would be your own crime, if you forced me to 
 it. For eternal Hell send me there ! God will un- 
 derstand. But you won't try to force me." She spoke 
 as with conviction, not pleading.
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 163 
 
 Mother Genevieve flushed, and after a pause turned 
 to Sister Gertrude. " It is the Evil One himself that 
 tempts me to leave her here." 
 
 The Sister nodded and blinked. " She was always 
 lawless, always without reverence for any holy thing. 
 She refused confirmation. Her soul is past reclaim- 
 ing." 
 
 After the high- water mark of her effort had been 
 reached and she had caught a glimpse, as she thought, 
 of victory's sail above her horizon, Zandrie's bodily 
 strength had begun to ooze away so that she must 
 lean against the door to keep from trembling; but she 
 drew herself up once more. " Who are you to look 
 to my soul ? That 's between God and me, I told you. 
 I 'm not a Catholic ! I refused confirmation because I 
 promised my father not to be a Catholic ever; and I 
 keep my promises. Why should you want me back 
 where I troubled you always ? Let me alone, and I '11 
 never trouble you again. Leave me, and I could 
 almost love you. Oh, it 's all so simple ! " Her voice 
 broke. She looked from one to the other, pleading 
 at last. 
 
 Sister Gertrude began to murmur her beads. 
 
 " Are you planning to marry this man ? " the Pri- 
 oress asked. 
 
 " No ! " said Zandrie, startled. " At least no, I 
 don't think so." 
 
 " He has n't asked you to? "
 
 1 64 ZANDRIE 
 
 "No I don't think so." 
 
 The eyes of both women were upon her, incred- 
 ulous, astonished. 
 
 " You don't wish to stay, then, in order to be with 
 him near him ? " 
 
 The answer came hard ; " Yes." 
 
 "No delicacy even! No sense of propriety! " Sis- 
 ter Gertrude burst out. 
 
 " When he does n't want you ! " the Mother ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " He does want me. He 's lonely alone with 
 pain. He was glad that I came." Her voice fell. 
 
 " We will see him," the Prioress said at last. 
 
 A few seconds later, Zandrie was at his door, burst- 
 ing in before his permission was half out. Carter 
 was with him, but never mind that ! " They 're down 
 stairs ! " she cried, " the nuns ! And I think I 've 
 won ; but they want to talk with you. And I Ve sol- 
 emnly vowed to kill myself if they take me back! " 
 
 Carter was summarily dismissed. Then, " That 
 was naughty," said Julian. 
 
 " Yes indeed ! but I meant it, and I always keep my 
 vows." She spoke ruefully, for the suggestion of even 
 remote death was unpleasant now that Julian's smile 
 was upon her. " But they won't force me back," she 
 added, brightening. " Remember your promise." 
 
 He stared out of the window for a full minute be- 
 fore speaking. " I remember. And I 've thought of 
 a possible way just possible; but don't get your
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 165 
 
 hopes up too high. I '11 talk with them anyhow. ' And 
 in that day seven women shall lay hold of one man.' 
 Has the whole sisterhood turned out ? " 
 
 Sister Gertrude, as she passed the hall mirror to go 
 up stairs in her Superior's wake, looked into it and 
 adjusted her veil. 
 
 As for Zandrie, the half hour that followed was 
 one of exceeding unrest, for he had ordered her to 
 wait down stairs until summoned. Inarticulate scraps 
 of the interview above floated within reach of her 
 ears : there seemed to be many and long pauses. Once 
 a tidal-wave of impatience bore her out to the door- 
 step, where the sun beat on her head already too hot; 
 and then the whistles screamed the news that it was 
 noon, and she fled back to Mrs. Bright's dark parlor. 
 Julian, if he took her part with a will, would probably 
 win the nuns' consent to his plan, whatever that might 
 be; yet when Sister Gertrude summoned her, she 
 mounted the stairs with a fast beating heart, at each 
 step calling upon defiance. 
 
 The nuns sat side by side on his couch. He him- 
 self leaned back in his chair, his arms folded and head 
 thrown back ; but he looked at the mantelpiece only and 
 little comfort could she read in the lines of his profile. 
 The Prioress motioned her to sit by her side, and, 
 when she had obeyed, took her hand. " Dear child, 
 you have of course been considering, in the first place, 
 the foolish wickedness of that vow, as you called it." 
 
 This struck so near the truth that Zandrie had to
 
 166 Z A N D R I E 
 
 make a mighty show of defiance and draw away her 
 hand ; but Julian's eyes suddenly meeting hers seemed 
 to say " Patience ! " so she yielded it up again. 
 
 " You Ve had time to consider several things," the 
 Prioress went on. 
 
 " A vow is a vow/' said Zandrie, " in the world at 
 least." 
 
 " We consider your hasty, unthinking words not a 
 vow. Understand that, and that it is in no wise be- 
 cause of them that we may possibly choose not to com- 
 pel you to return with us. But Mr. Furness adds his 
 request his request to ours, that you come back 
 to the Priory to stay at least a year or two longer ! " 
 
 Zandrie looked to him, but what she could see of 
 his face gave not a quiver of response. Then her 
 glance wandered to the table that she had dusted, and 
 the sight of one rusty book opened a flood-gate of 
 memories the contest that he had somehow won, her 
 kiss, and the moonlit night with its ecstacy and im- 
 perious longing. Leave him? Even yesterday that 
 might have been possible, but now " I will not go 
 back," she said, very low. 
 
 " Mr. Furness requests it," Sister Gertrude re- 
 minded. 
 
 " For a year or two only," the Mother repeated. 
 " Take time to consider." 
 
 A year or two only, when one-half hour could hold 
 most of eternity ! Tears sprang to her eyes. " O no,
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 167 
 
 no ! " Then, " Help me, Julian ! You have n't said a 
 word." 
 
 At this he turned to the nuns. " Why not speak 
 now to the point ? " 
 
 The Mother withdrew her hand. 
 
 " There 's nothing human in her," said Sister 
 Gertrude. " She is deaf to the wishes of those she 
 calls her best friends. Mr. Furness requests " 
 
 Unnerved and trembling, Zandrie rose with an im- 
 pulse to run away to run from Julian himself and 
 from an exasperating scene that gave no sign of end- 
 ing. But he caught her hand. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she cried, " I hate you all ! " The 
 tears brimmed over. 
 
 " Sit here by me," and he drew her down to the 
 little stool she loved. She allowed him to although 
 he spoke as to a child. " It 's going to be all right. 
 They won't ask you again to go back. With the nuns' 
 permission, I '11 tell you now what we 've been talking 
 about. I have two good friends in town the 
 Lyndes. Mrs. Lynde was my aunt's best friend. And 
 I '11 ask her to come this afternoon ; and I think she '11 
 take you home with her for a few days at least, if she 
 has n't other visitors, while we see what can be done 
 what other home we can find for you." 
 
 " Some home away from here ? " 
 
 He smoothed the hair back from her forehead. 
 "Why do the tears still come? The convent is past
 
 1 68 Z A N D R I E 
 
 in all probability. You 're to be free in earnest, if 
 we can find some work some means of support for 
 you; and we can, without doubt." 
 
 " You mean, a home not here away from this 
 house?" 
 
 " Yes. Of course! What of that? " 
 
 " I want to stay here." 
 
 Sister Gertrude's hands flew up. Julian spoke 
 gently ; " You '11 not make trouble about this. You 
 can't stay here. If Mrs. Lynde can keep you for a 
 while and help you find something to do, you can come 
 here sometimes, if you care to. Go with her quietly, 
 and everything will probably go well. If not But I 
 have faith in you. Free from the convent and unhap- 
 piness, you '11 be yourself reasonable and take the 
 word of people who are your friends and old enough 
 to know what 's best in worldly matters at least. Mrs. 
 Lynde will be a good friend, I reckon, and she '11 help 
 find others for you, and a home somewhere in the 
 world! And then you '11 come and tell your old 
 friend Julian about it ? " 
 
 But she could only hide her face against the arm 
 of his chair. 
 
 His hand was on her shoulder. " There, there, lit- 
 tle sister ! You must be right tired. I '11 send the 
 note right off to Mrs. Lynde. Reverend Mother and 
 Sister Gertrude are going to stay in town over night 
 just to see her. I 'm right sure you '11 be at her house 
 
 in a real home this very evening."
 
 PASSING OF THE NUNS 169 
 
 " O you 're beautiful! " And it was probably well 
 for Zandrie that as she whispered this, her back was 
 to the nuns and Julian himself was looking in their 
 direction. 
 
 They were rising to go and she was fain to go with 
 them, leaving Mr. Furness to his much interrupted 
 work. 
 
 " Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth," Mother 
 Genevieve mused at Mrs. Bright's dining table, where 
 the landlady had consented to give them a dinner 
 in privacy after her boarders' regular meal. 
 
 " Sister Loyola reported his sometimes swearing."' 
 Sister Gertrude recalled the fact in a non-committal 
 voice. 
 
 " And I 'm happy to say," said Zandrie, " that he 
 swears still." 
 
 Whereupon, a pause with which the chapter had bet- 
 ter end.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE LYNDES AND A DOCTOR 
 
 That evening, even as Julian had predicted, Zandrie 
 dined in a home, no less delightful for being the 
 home of some one else than herself. And besides, 
 Mrs. Lynde had shown her a room with flowered paper 
 and said " This is yours," instead, for instance, of 
 " Here you may sleep to-night." And now she sat at 
 a table set for three a dainty thing of gleaming ma- 
 hogany, furnished with silver and rosebud china that 
 felt terrifyingly frail after the crockery of the con- 
 vent and Mrs. Bright's. 
 
 The chair opposite Mrs. Lynde was empty ; her hus- 
 band had not yet come down stairs, " because," she 
 said, " he smelt of sulphur ; and besides, he 'd dipped 
 his cuff into a bright green liquid. Third coat ruined 
 in five weeks. So I 'm going to patch the remains to- 
 gether into an overcoat. He 's neck-deep in a great 
 chemical experiment which I only hope will ruin 
 nothing but coats. The other day he forgot he was 
 married, though he won't own up to having forgotten 
 more or less than dinner. But I know him ! 
 a terrible man enough without chemical accessories to 
 his clothes. Don't be dismayed, dear, by his stentorian 
 
 170
 
 THE LYNDES AND A DOCTOR 171 
 
 and incessant voice, or fierce glance. He means to 
 be harmless, and I 've got him pretty well under con- 
 trol." 
 
 Imagination filled the vacant chair with a form so 
 bristling and sulphurous that Zandrie wondered how 
 any one had consented to live with it. In fact, she 
 asked her hostess; and as the latter dropped her fork 
 and hid her face in her hands, it seemed probable that 
 her feelings were hurt. " I don't know " she mur- 
 mured before Zandrie could think of an apology. 
 "Ask him!" 
 
 " Me ? " questioned a placid voice. 
 
 Zandrie turned and met the brown, far-apart eyes 
 of a little, round-faced man who held out his hand as 
 though he knew her. 
 
 " What do you mean by stealing in the back way ? " 
 Mrs. Lynde demanded, as he took the empty chair. 
 
 " Clothes-line. Obnoxious coat," he murmured, 
 looking at Zandrie kindly, but perhaps only because 
 he looked at most persons kindly, for his thoughts were 
 manifestly on the purifying virtue of clothes-lines. 
 
 " He is n't disagreeable ! " Zandrie exclaimed. " I 
 thought you were in earnest silly me ! " 
 
 " No," her hostess admitted. " He 's not disagree- 
 able now. And he 's always good. He married, 
 one day, in a fit of abstraction, and woke up to find it 
 was me ; but he 's stood by me as though he 'd meant 
 it from the first." 
 
 One could almost see Mr. Lynde's thoughts focus
 
 172 ZANDRIE 
 
 themselves on his wife's face, slowly but with delight. 
 And it was a charming face, whose play of expression 
 and readiness to flicker with a smile made a curious 
 contrast with the serenity of his. Yet for Zandrie the 
 comparison ended in his favor, perhaps because the far- 
 apart eyes gave comfortable assurance that his moves 
 might sometimes be predicted; for she was weary al- 
 ready of bewilderment. 
 
 The placid voice stole into her reflections. " My 
 wife considers me absent-minded." 
 
 "O no, dear!" said his wife. "But he has an 
 astral body in which he goes on a jaunt as soon as 
 he 's seated this show body somewhere to keep up do- 
 mestic appearances; sets it to holding a book, for 
 instance. At which times you shout and apply the 
 poker in vain. . . . Will you pass him this plate ? 
 It 's the waitress' afternoon out, and the cook is shy. 
 Josiah dear, please help us both to that salad." 
 
 He begged pardon gallantly, his astral body having 
 left courtesy at least behind. " My wife tells me 
 you 're the little convent friend of Julian Furness," he 
 said ; and for some reason Zandrie dropped the cracker 
 she was about to bite, and said nothing but " yes." 
 
 " He was afraid you might have to stay a long 
 time at the convent, and asked if we could suggest 
 any way to get you out. You showed fine spirit in 
 stepping out yourself." 
 
 " I wanted air, and the whole world to work in ! " 
 
 What especially did she want to do in it? Mrs.
 
 THE LYNDES AND A DOCTOR 173 
 
 Lynde asked gravely, though a dimple danced under 
 her left eye. 
 
 But Zandrie found it impossible to tell even these 
 friendly persons that she wanted first of all to make 
 Julian's life less grim. " I must begin to look for my 
 work to-morrow," she said. 
 
 The Lyndes talked of Julian, and of his cousins, the 
 Wyndam twins, who had been his wards since their 
 mother's death. They were now at boarding school, 
 and spent their summers with their grandmother 
 Wyndam at one of the Maine harbors. 
 
 " I don't see that he 's much of a guardian," said 
 Zandrie. 
 
 " Oh, a model ! The twins approve of him entirely. 
 And really, you know, if he were n't so awfully much 
 of the opposite, he 'd be a saint. As it is, he 's merely 
 heroic and moody. But I like his looks or used to 
 when there was more of his aunt in his face he was 
 rather a beauty once ! but now . . . Well, he likes 
 my jokes and we 're good enough friends though he 
 knows I like hurdy-gurdies better than the Kneisel 
 Quartet. He visits us for a month every summer at 
 our shore house, you know." 
 
 " I like him," said Mr. Lynde, whom Zandrie liked 
 henceforth. 
 
 After supper they sat by a wood fire in the library, 
 where to her happy eyes, books, pictures, and flame 
 were at first a blur of dream beauty. Over the fire- 
 place hung a photograph of a naked mountain peak
 
 174 ZANDRIE 
 
 towering out of clouds into a pale sky surely a cap- 
 tured dream! She laughed with delight. 
 
 Mrs. Lynde rose soon. She gave an impression of 
 not sitting very long anywhere. " Come, dear Jo. 
 Those convent ladies will be up on their ear if we 're 
 late. Remember where I said we were going? but 
 of course you don't ! to the orphan asylum to tease 
 some nuns ? " She put an arm about Zandrie. " We 
 hope to begin to settle matters so that you may be quit 
 of nuns forever. You won't mind staying alone for 
 an hour ? " 
 
 " I 'm used to being alone," she answered. " Be- 
 sides, in this wonderful room . . ." 
 
 Her glance had fallen on a miniature of a young 
 girl with fair hair and very blue eyes. 
 
 " I know why that startles you," Mrs. Lynde said. 
 " You recognize the family likeness." 
 
 "His aunt?" 
 
 "Of course. Miss Emily Marshall a month before 
 her marriage. The twins have the original miniature ; 
 that 's only a copy, but it 's good. Queer resemblance 
 feminine edition to what Julian used to look like, 
 is n't it. Too bad he had to grow at all like his 
 father. Remember that appalling creature, Jo? 
 how I had to dance to limber my spirits after meeting 
 him ? He brought Julian to visit Emily Wyndam, oh, 
 years ago ! fifteen at least and shook hands with 
 me me! as though afraid of encouraging false 
 hopes positively as though afraid of being sued for
 
 THE LYNDES AND A DOCTOR 175 
 
 breach of promise. Keep track of yourself, Jo dear, 
 till I get my hat." 
 
 After their departure Zandrie stood before the min- 
 iature, talking to it aloud but so confidentially that, at 
 the sound of some one entering the room, she wheeled 
 about, not a little discomfited. 
 
 It was a man, of Julian's age perhaps, with a high 
 color, a brown beard, and eyes that met hers not at 
 all abashed while he apologized for his intrusion. He 
 turned back to leave his hat and a doctor's case in 
 the hall. Might he come in and wait for the Lyndes ? 
 he asked, re-entering cheerfully. The maid had not 
 told him they had a visitor, he said, or he would n't 
 have come in- so unceremoniously. He was passing 
 through town, and having a forty-five minute connec- 
 tion, ran up to call here. 
 
 " Are you their doctor ? " 
 
 "No; their friend." He enjoyed his joke prodi- 
 giously. " Royce, by name. Some other people's 
 doctor." 
 
 Had he shown embarrassment, she might have 
 known better what to do with him; but the very ease 
 which assumed that she was as much at home in this 
 complicated world as himself, destroyed her own. 
 Something, at least, destroyed it. 
 
 As he was standing with an arm on the mantel-shelf, 
 she asked him to sit down. 
 
 "Thank you. Will you?" 
 
 " I 'd rather stand."
 
 176 ZANDRIE 
 
 He gave her a quick glance of amusement? 
 and continued to stand. No one had succeeded so 
 well in making her feel her ignorance of worldly ways ; 
 he was so plainly master of a code of which she knew 
 nothing; and he seemed somehow aware of the fact. 
 From flames of embarrassment, anger leapt up, soon 
 however to turn against herself. " Little fool ! " she 
 told herself, " he 's only a man." And then, as though 
 this thought were heartening, she said, " I wish you 
 would sit down. If you 're a doctor, you must be 
 tired." 
 
 " You flatter me ! " But there was no ridicule in 
 his laugh, after all. " I '11 be glad to sit down, just 
 the same after you." 
 
 That reminded her of Julian's remark about hating 
 to keep his seat while a lady stood: If she were a 
 prioress, such scruples would be intelligible ; but for a 
 full-grown man to treat her with such deference 
 . . . ! It was rather delightful, however. 
 
 When she had sat down close to the hearth, " Per- 
 haps you '11 be so kind as to tell me whom I 'm speak- 
 ing to ? " the doctor suggested. 
 
 She gave him her full name, for which he thanked 
 her; and then he begged pardon very graciously for 
 consulting his watch. " Sixteen minutes' grace. I 'm 
 afraid I '11 miss the Lyndes if they 're making a call? " 
 
 She told him they were at the orphan asylum. 
 
 " A little out of their usual beat ! They 're not go- 
 ing to adopt an orphan? "
 
 THE LYNDES AND A DOCTOR 177 
 
 " Only me," she said, " and for only a little while 
 . . . I 've run away from a convent in Maryland, 
 you see, and the nuns have come to recapture me, but 
 are going back empty-handed and full of wrath." 
 
 Dr. Royce's eyes were so round that she had to 
 laugh. Naturally, he asked for fuller information; 
 and what she gave held his undivided attention. " And 
 then," she ended, " I came north to find . . . some 
 friends. And the nuns came after me to do their 
 duty; but I vowed to kill myself if they forced me 
 back." 
 
 It is plain that her explanation, though detailed in 
 spots, was not quite complete. She had not mentioned 
 Julian, for instance. 
 
 " So you see," she added, " why I did n't know 
 what to do with you when you came in I know so 
 little about what people do in the world. And I don't 
 know now why you would n't sit down till after me, 
 though you 're so much older." 
 
 He regarded her with undisguised delight. 
 " Good ! " he exclaimed in an undertone. " It 's 
 dramatic the whole thing. But . . . O pshaw ! 
 - time 's up ! It always is up even for young 
 doctors just when the fun 's beginning. Glad to 
 have met you, Miss Donallon. That 's what people 
 usually say in the world, you know, only not often so 
 sincerely. Please tell the Lyndes I 'm sorry . . . 
 Hope to be here again soon, and . . . Good 
 night ! Good luck in the world ! " 
 
 12
 
 1 78 Z A N D R I E 
 
 His exit was as a whirlwind's. 
 
 She lay back, watching a flame that danced fairily 
 on the embers. Truly the world was full of inter- 
 esting things which she began to count over in 
 drowsy enjoyment. There was Julian; and there were 
 hill-tops; and mercurial young doctors with amused 
 eyes; and rosebud china, and miniatures, and babies, 
 and little turkeys and miniatures . . . and Ju- 
 lian . . . The list stretched from Mrs. Bright's 
 to the Lawson farm for Lawson was her name, the 
 farmer's wife had said and how could one count 
 with somebody interrupting so ? 
 
 It was Mrs. Lynde's voice, and Zandrie woke. 
 
 " Excellent ladies ! " her hostess was saying. " But 
 we hope you '11 like us better. The Prioress is rather 
 splendid though." She took Zandrie's face between 
 her hands. " Poor bird, you 've been asleep. Well, 
 sleep soundly to-night, for you 're not going back to 
 the convent. I want you here instead, for the present ; 
 and after that But why think of 'afters'? I 
 never do. The nuns will send your worldly goods in a 
 few days. Meanwhile I can lend you things. Come, 
 dear, to bed." 
 
 Zandrie kissed the cordial lady's hands. Words of 
 affection always opened the gates of Paradise wide 
 enough to dazzle her. 
 
 " A rather intense person," Mrs. Lynde observed to 
 her husband. 
 
 Without question, she was.
 
 THE LYNDES AND A DOCTOR 179 
 
 It was not till the next day that she remembered 
 to tell of the doctor's call. " A very dark, homely 
 man. At least, not exactly homely; but I hate brown 
 beards and " she saved herself from adding " dark 
 eyes," remembering that her hostess' eyes were brown 
 and not utterly displeasing. Blue were to be pre- 
 ferred, however, even when their blue fire would burn 
 into one's heart, eating up alike its petty troubles and 
 its peace, transmuting stolid contentments to a white 
 rapture that left one dry-lipped and wide-eyed to 
 search the night for its sleep. Well might one ask 
 what had " happened." 
 
 But she was an intense person, without doubt.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 AN AGREEMENT 
 
 In the morning Zandrie sat on the edge of her bed 
 and delivered herself a heavy sermon under two heads ; 
 submission and patience. This very day she would be- 
 gin to seek advice and give heed, for Julian was right ; 
 during the first few days in the unexplored world, 
 obedience had decidedly better be her watchword. Be- 
 fore she had pushed this train of reflection much far- 
 ther however, a wave of impatience swept her to her 
 feet. After all, her chief concern for the present must 
 be with Julian himself; he was so lonely. 
 
 At breakfast, which she had alone with her hostess, 
 Mr. Lynde having finished and gone to his laboratory, 
 she announced her intention of going to see Julian 
 within the next half hour; " and with his permission," 
 she said, " I shall read a novel. And for the rest 
 well, I '11 have to find out." 
 
 " The rest ? " Mrs. Lynde questioned. 
 
 " My work in the world. I don't know yet what it 
 is, but it 's waiting for me somewhere." This com- 
 fortable idea had been suggested by the Rev. George 
 
 1 80
 
 AN AGREEMENT 181 
 
 Deming. " I think I 'd better be starting now," she 
 added, folding her napkin. 
 
 " On your work in the world ? " 
 
 " To see Julian." 
 
 " But my dear little hurricane, it 's only nine." 
 
 "What of that?" 
 
 " He is n't expecting callers yet." 
 
 " He begins work at nine." 
 
 " Then he ought n't to be interrupted so soon." 
 
 These flippant objections were irritating enough, but 
 the next, that she did not know the way and must not 
 go alone, was absurd she who had done nothing but 
 find her way since leaving the convent ! It rather sa- 
 vored of the convent. 
 
 "Wait half an hour," Mrs. Lynde added, "and 
 we '11 go together. It really is my duty as your hos- 
 tess, under the circumstances, to go with you." 
 
 Zandrie made a gallant effort not to pout. 
 
 " You know, surely," her hostess went on, " that I 
 would n't that no one would willingly do a thing 
 to spoil the fun of your new freedom." 
 
 " No one has the right." 
 
 " No, perhaps not. Yet before leaving the nuns 
 last night, Mr. Lynde and I agreed to be responsible 
 for you. We really had to if you were to stay." 
 
 Now this was both inexplicable and alarming. Ju- 
 lian had already said that her coming to him had made 
 him responsible. How many were there to be? 
 " What does that mean ? " she demanded.
 
 1 82 Z A N D R I E 
 
 Mrs. Lynde explained patiently that in the eyes of 
 the law she was still a child. After her sister died, 
 the nuns had taken it upon themselves, in the way of 
 charity to herself and respect for Sister Angela, to 
 provide her with clothing, food, and shelter. As she 
 had no property, there had been no need of legal pro- 
 ceedings. But before consenting to relinquish that 
 volunteered guardianship, Mother Genevieve had re- 
 quired assurance that some one else would take it up, 
 and the Lyndes had promised to assume the responsi- 
 bility. 
 
 " I feel like a bird caught in a net ! " cried Zandrie. 
 " I did n't want any more guardians and I won't have 
 them ! " And she was up and for running away at 
 once, but was stopped in the doorway by a dawning 
 realization that she was behaving not quite as one 
 should who has outgrown the need of all guardianship 
 in the world. In fact, she was recalling that heavy 
 sermon of the early morning. 
 
 " I 'm sorry," said Mrs. Lynde; " if we had known 
 how you felt You see, the nuns told us you had 
 no money, and we did n't see how you could possibly 
 get along without our help, except by going back to the 
 convent because of course it would n't do for Julian 
 to provide for you, much as he would like to. And 
 so we thought you might like to stay with us, at least 
 till we found some other home some other way of 
 living, you know. It was n't with any idea of re- 
 straining only of helping."
 
 AN AGREEMENT 183 
 
 Zandrie hid her face in her hands. " Oh ! Oh ! I 
 begin to see ! " When she felt an arm about her neck, 
 she caught up the hand to her lips. " Forgive me," 
 she whispered. " I was wicked and ungrateful." 
 
 " You 're a darling. You did n't understand 
 that 's all. But you do now, and you '11 stay with us 
 for a while and try it, won't you ? I 'm very much 
 alone, you see, with Mr. Lynde away in his laboratory 
 all day. I want somebody to play with so! Now 
 come and get ready. We '11 go to Julian this minute." 
 
 The scene ended, of course, with Zandrie's hugging 
 Mrs. Lynde and vowing a great vow to herself, which 
 was to obey as submissively henceforth as Sister Ger- 
 trude obeyed her Superior; to seek advice and to give 
 heed. 
 
 " Is n't it romantic ! " Mrs. Lynde said to Julian, 
 " the nuns have yielded her up and she 's going to stay 
 with us. You know it already, but never mind; I 
 have to talk about it to everybody I see. She 's a dear, 
 queer little child the sort one can't keep one's hands 
 off. But we '11 lend her sometimes if you 're very 
 good now, for instance. Keep him out of that 
 stupid work, my dearest, till I come back, for I 've got 
 to go down town on a tie hunt. Mr. Lynde on the 
 sly wore his Sunday necktie to the laboratory and 
 used it to tie the end of something to a retort, which 
 retorted by blowing up. He did n't tell a very co- 
 herent tale himself, but he looked pretty sheepish when 
 he got home and rather neglige."
 
 1 84 ZANDRIE 
 
 A brand-new shyness of Julian left Zandrie with 
 nothing to say. He was apparently in the same plight. 
 
 " Has the wicked man been to see you lately ? " Mrs. 
 Lynde turned at the door to ask. " I thought not ! 
 He started last Sunday but got on the track of a 
 mathematical solution of something, and recovered 
 consciousness over a milking stool in the Lawsons' 
 barnyard. Next time he '11 have an alarm clock tied 
 to his ear." 
 
 She sped away laughing at her own jokes. 
 
 And now that Zandrie was alone with Julian, there 
 fell away from her not only the shyness, but all re- 
 membrance of the advice that she was to seek. " Are 
 you glad to see me ? " was what she asked instead. 
 
 " Glad would n't express it," he answered with a 
 smile that sent delight tingling to her finger tips. 
 " But the devil will get me if I don't finish this in 
 ten minutes. Then we '11 talk hey ? " 
 
 At the end of the ten minutes, the spirited Billy 
 burst in, balancing on one palm a pile of galleys that 
 he transferred to Julian's knees with legerdemain skill. 
 At sight of Zandrie, he grinned and winked an un- 
 dauntable gray eye. " Seen her comin' in with anoth- 
 er party. She's a cracker-jack, aint she? Most as 
 peachy as my girl! Comin' quite often now, aint 
 she ? I bet she '11 be livin' here for good an' all, one 
 of these days." 
 
 " Come back here ! " Julian, shouted ; but the clatter
 
 AN AGREEMENT 185 
 
 of Billy's feet on the stairs must have drowned his 
 voice. 
 
 Zandrie backed away from Julian with her stool, in 
 a purely factitious fright. He was scarlet with some 
 sort of genuine emotion. 
 
 " Confound it! " he burst out; " that 's what you 're 
 subjected to because I 'm tied here like a damned rag 
 doll and can't hit out. . . . O my stars! Now 
 I Ve done it ! I beg your pardon." 
 
 She assured him as usual that she never minded 
 swearing. " There ! I thank the saints that you '11 
 smile again! Now, if the Billy storm is over, talk 
 to me. I Ve so much to tell ! " 
 
 " That you Ve chosen another guardian, or run into 
 more debt ? " 
 
 She stamped with vexation, but told him of the 
 Lyndes' kind offer, including the scene that she had 
 made ; and then about the young doctor. 
 
 Julian had never heard of him. 
 
 " No? But we had a beautiful talk till he whisked 
 out of my sight to catch a train. I liked him almost 
 as well as you." 
 
 " Don't believe it. What was your beautiful talk 
 about?" 
 
 " That I '11 never tell ! " Perhaps she intended to 
 tell after all, however, and would have done so but for 
 the intrusion of a new idea. " Julian ! Mr. and Mrs. 
 Lynde kiss each other whenever they want to ! "
 
 1 86 
 
 " Well, why the deuce should n't they? " 
 
 "Exactly! Why shouldn't they? But I thought 
 you said that morning O dear! just what did you 
 say?" 
 
 " The Lyndes are married " 
 
 " Yes ! And only married people can express their 
 friendship ? You tried to explain, but I 'm all twisted 
 again." 
 
 " Take my word for it, then." 
 
 " But your word for what ? " 
 
 " For this, madam : that the condition of your com- 
 ing here is that you shan't ask me to explain anything. 
 Anything whatever ! I can't do it." 
 
 " You precious silly ! The Lyndes are married, as 
 you say; so " 
 
 " I 'd rather talk about the doctor ! " 
 
 " I 'd rather talk about the Lyndes and us." 
 
 " Ask Mrs. Lynde all questions in future. She 
 knows lots more about the world than innocent 
 me!" 
 
 " O very well ! It 's a queer world, and I '11 ask 
 Mrs. Lynde and every one I meet, about it every 
 one but you." 
 
 " Thank you," he said cheerfully. " Henceforth the 
 subject is tabooed." 
 
 "Of friendship?" 
 
 He made a gesture of despair. "Yes, exactly; of 
 friendship." 
 
 She shook her head. " I '11 do my best. But I can
 
 AN AGREEMENT 187 
 
 surely tell you how much I love you ? That is n't ' the 
 subject '? " 
 
 " If you love me a whole lot, of course " 
 
 " I do when you laugh like that ! " 
 
 " But I reckon it '11 simplify matters if you don't." 
 We '11 agree it 's part of the forbidden subject." 
 
 "O me!" she sighed, "then I'll have to keep a 
 strict watch over my tongue." 
 
 And in less than fifteen minutes, she had tripped. 
 He was questioning her about her debts, and suggest- 
 ing that it would be better to owe whatever she might 
 owe, to one person only. He would be her clearing 
 house, he said; in fact, he had already given the 
 Prioress a check for Mrs. McClung. But how about 
 Mr. Fink? Did she know his address? 
 
 She produced his card from her pocket. 
 
 Julian produced a check book from his, and wrote. 
 " I 'm sorry to bother you and Mrs. Lynde," he said, 
 " but it will be a little better if she sends this herself 
 
 if she writes the note." 
 
 " Why not write it myself? I 'd like to ! " 
 " Because your chaperon tells you not to." He 
 threw back his head with another laugh. 
 
 " You are most wonderfully curious," she said 
 gravely, " you, who once seemed the most understanda- 
 ble of all. I '11 let Mrs. Lynde write the note, then 
 
 if you '11 talk to me, please, about yourself." 
 
 " Don't tempt many men that way ! You might 
 meet a bore, some day ! "
 
 1 88 ZANDRIE 
 
 She ignored his levity. " I know so very little 
 about even your life! " 
 
 " I thank the saints for that." 
 
 " You were a musician, and a mighty rider, arid 
 went abroad ; and then " 
 
 " To be sure ! And then I fell into a bad dream, 
 and woke to find a little girl of whom I was afraid " 
 
 " O never ! You did with her exactly as you 
 pleased. And after that " 
 
 He smiled wickedly. " And after that, a long but 
 inactive career in a plaster jacket; and a powerful lot 
 of language not made for ladies ; and a new valet car- 
 ried out on a shutter every third day Not so inac- 
 tive, maybe, after all! Carter was the ninth in six 
 months. He 's going to get a medal for valor." 
 
 " He says you don't heave projectiles any more." 
 
 "He told ? Confound him! No it didn't 
 pay. O pshaw ! whenever I try to talk about myself, 
 you quote Carter and say you know better." 
 
 " There 's one thing he says " she caught her 
 breath "that I can't bear to believe." 
 
 " So he 's been telling more tales ! " 
 
 " He says he says that you have pain still. And 
 he says you don't make a fuss about it." 
 
 " Carter 's evidently losing his mind." 
 
 Though knowing herself on the forbidden ground 
 now, she went on. " I 'm ashamed to call my cow- 
 ardly self your friend. My imprisonment has been
 
 AN AGREEMENT 189 
 
 Paradise beside yours yes, for I knew that freedom 
 was coming." 
 
 " One gets used to anything. I Ve forgotten how 
 freedom felt." 
 
 " And the pain that you can't forget? " 
 
 " I hate it. We won't talk about it, ever." 
 
 " And the lost music, and the lost everything that 
 makes life worth living? Ah! you see you 've noth- 
 ing to answer. You 're the bravest man I know." 
 
 " And you 've known how many ? " But after a 
 pause, " Yes," he said, not meeting her eyes, " I can 
 answer. There were times when I used to think I'd 
 lost everything damnable times, too, and the 
 coward in me almost got the best of it. But then " 
 
 "Well, what then?" 
 
 " Then my aunt I don't know how she worked 
 it, but she made me see that a man can't lose all that 's 
 most worth while, after all, except by his own will 
 
 or lack of it." 
 
 " O yes," said Zandrie, understanding not at all. 
 
 " I reckon it 's true," he said, " for, don't you see, 
 if the things that are most worth while are n't the 
 things you fight for, but the fight itself, for instance 
 
 then you 've got your fate by the collar, after all. 
 Life would be a pretty godless puzzle if Anyhow, 
 there 's a lot of fun in a fight" After a pause, " I Ve 
 got a pile of good ideas, have n't I ? Apply to Carter 
 to find out how I 've lived up to them ! "
 
 190 Z A N D R I E 
 
 It was the first time in the renewal of their friend- 
 ship that he had taken her seriously, but although she 
 was having to sit on her hands to keep them within 
 bounds, she might have succeeded, perhaps, but for 
 what came next; for, " I don't even keep my temper," 
 he went on, with appealing candor; "yet I do try a 
 lot. Only last night, Carter tried to turn me into a 
 corkscrew, and I did n't swear." 
 
 Zandrie sat harder on her poor hands. " I should 
 hope not! Does does Carter often do such things 
 to you?" 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! But I often swear." 
 
 " He looks like a June-bug and I hate him ! " But 
 all at once the unruly hands shot out to him in a mo- 
 tion of passionate yearning. "Julian! Julian dar- 
 ling!" 
 
 Then, in a fright, she ran to the window and stood 
 there, trembling at the tempest of pity and love that 
 had flung the words from her before she had known 
 they were there. It was the newness of passion that 
 frightened so. Though knowing that she had done 
 no wrong, she looked at him at last, half expecting a 
 rebuke. 
 
 His eyes sought hers with a question a moment's 
 perplexity. Then, with a shove of the hair from his 
 forehead, his hand swept away the frown. " You 're 
 a child," he said as though in explanation of some- 
 thing. An irrelevant remark puzzling, but of small 
 importance beside the smile by which she was reas-
 
 AN AGREEMENT 191 
 
 sured that she had not been at fault. " I evidently 
 owe Carter an apology," he said. " He 's the best 
 fellow I know. I did n't mean I was only speak- 
 ing of my temper, which is awful, but on the mend. 
 . . . Well, are n't you coming back ? " 
 
 " I think I must go," she faltered ; for within the 
 minute, the horrid shyness had her writhing again in 
 its grip. She drew a quivering breath, looked out 
 of the window, and, finding no inspiration in Mrs. 
 Bright's clothes-poles, turned desperately back to Ju- 
 lian. Go? Leave him? They were the irresponsi- 
 ble words of embarrassment. The whimsical gods of 
 the world permitting, she would never leave him 
 again for so much as an hour. Yet he was strange 
 and she feared him feared something who could 
 say what? His next words ushered her straight into 
 a maze of puzzled misery. 
 
 " I 'm sorry you must go," he said politely. " You 
 and Mrs. Lynde will come again soon, of course? " 
 
 She stared at him, baffled, hurt, tears gathering. 
 He saw, and frowned with perplexity again. " I beg 
 your pardon," he said at last. " I don't know what 's 
 the matter, but Good heavens! what is the matter? 
 Come here ! " 
 
 She came, and let him take her hand as though 
 she were a child. , 
 
 " Tell me the trouble," he said. But she hardly 
 heard, knowing only the warm grasp of his hands. 
 
 "What is it?"
 
 192 Z A N D R I E 
 
 " Nothing." One of the tears trickled down her 
 cheek, but she was no longer unhappy; the shyness 
 had gone. " I'm not crying ! " she added, giving his hand 
 a defiant little shake ; " and I'm not going either ! " 
 
 "I'm right glad of both items." 
 
 " And I 'm coming every day." 
 
 " I 'd like to have you, but " 
 
 " Then I '11 come." 
 
 " But Well, to be uncivil but to the point, I '11 
 have to ask you not to come again till next Sunday. 
 I Ve got to ! You understand, don't you ? " 
 
 " It 's a plain saying." 
 
 " Zandrie ! You must understand ! I 'd like 
 mighty well to see you sooner, but Carter 's in here 
 working with me a lot of the time, and Mrs. Lynde 
 will agree with me." 
 
 "Saints preserve us! Why?" 
 
 " That 's not sticking to the agreement. Ask ' why ' 
 of her. I must work, for one thing ; but " 
 
 " But Carter said you did n't have to work ; and 
 if you 'd really like me to come sooner " 
 
 "I really should, but" 
 
 " Then I '11 come to-morrow. I '11 read a novel 
 and turn the pages without a single crackle to disturb 
 you." 
 
 " You will come henceforth," said Julian, " on Sun- 
 days only." 
 
 And in the end she had to yield. Verily, a mad 
 world.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 
 
 Wonderful days, these, the first in the world, 
 though as full of bewilderment as of joyous wonder. 
 Life with the Lyndes alone was a snarl of perplex- 
 ities, for all that they were solving what must other- 
 wise have been the stiff est problem of all, by keep- 
 ing her week after week as their guest, silencing her 
 with hospitable laughter when she chanced to remem- 
 ber the dying dream of the work awaiting her. " Wait 
 a little," they said, as though she were not perfectly 
 willing to wait till doomsday. Her sense of obliga- 
 tion for the supplying of daily needs was in exact 
 proportion to her worldly knowledge, which her life 
 still held to the measure of a child's. Throughout the 
 convent days, food and shelter were taken for 
 granted, accepted without question of her right, being 
 there for one's need that was all as grass for the 
 beasts'. The nuns' few references to her dependence 
 on others had no meaning for her, for the simple rea- 
 son that the supply had never failed. It was there 
 without her asking, the obvious, every-day, common- 
 place fact. No one had suggested that it could fail. 
 13 I93
 
 194 Z A N D R I E 
 
 But the gift of love was another matter; and courtesy 
 must be met with courtesy, whose demands kept con- 
 flicting distractingly with one's right of freedom, till 
 there would creep in sometimes a sense of having been 
 snared by very kindness, and a teasing resentment 
 against the Lyndes themselves. Who would not be 
 petulant at finding a net-work of hindrances where 
 one had come to look for all delight? But her hostess 
 was doubtless right in pronouncing her a little " diffi- 
 cult " as well as intense, at times. 
 
 Her dream of the world had been a whirl of rain- 
 bow mists, and like most dreams, soon forgotten. 
 Even that happy chimera, her work in the world, was 
 forgotten at last and forever. She was one of 
 those for whom few facts are facts until linked to 
 some central emotion. Given the emotion, life, 
 whether for better or for worse, becomes simple at 
 least. And Julian had provided it from her very 
 young girlhood. Her life had become simpler still 
 when she kissed him on the forehead, the morning 
 after her coming. He was from that hour forth 
 the meaning of reality, the pivot of her motives, shov- 
 ing from her thought whatever had no kinship with 
 himself. And except at the first, she wondered not 
 at all that this should be so, but thought about Julian 
 himself instead. 
 
 Even the pink dress given her by Mrs. Lynde did 
 not become a real delight until he had seen her wear 
 it. " Do you know me ? " she cried. " Zandrie in
 
 FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 195 
 
 pink ruffles, and her hair up ! I 'm all of the world 
 now." And she found it strange that he only sat 
 staring solemnly, with folded arms. " O you ! " 
 and she stamped her foot " have n't I forbidden you 
 to look at me so ? No one knows what 's happening 
 behind your eyes. And to do it now ! now ! You 
 glare as though I were a daughter of Heth. Of 
 course I know my hair 's as black as ever ; but these 
 darling ruffles and pink roses . . ." 
 
 Yet for all the roses on her hat, he was abominably 
 silent that day, and for minutes together she would 
 see what she called his " stranger look " a look 
 that, while she dared to scold him, yet frightened her 
 with a sense of aloofness, for it came at seconds when 
 their comradeship seemed closest, and built a wall be- 
 tween them. " What is it then? " she ventured once. 
 " Why do you shut yourself up in a queer, hard shell? 
 You seem in a sort of feud with yourself, and I 
 never know on which side to find you! Is anything 
 the matter? If so, friends are for helping one an- 
 other, and I want to be your friend." 
 
 " And I want to be yours," he had answered slowly, 
 and then asked an abrupt question about the Lyndes. 
 
 Perhaps she was right in saying that no one knew 
 what went on behind his eyes especially when one 
 turned in the doorway to find in them a look that 
 was part a question, but mostly ah, that was just 
 what one could n't tell. But then, she had never yet 
 thought to ask whether he loved her, or what would
 
 196 ZANDRIE 
 
 come of it if he did. Her passion was still too young 
 to define its wants, too satisfied with its own being 
 to ask why it existed. It meant Julian now, and the 
 future meant Julian. 
 
 June came in like a dragon, growling and breath- 
 ing fire; and on the first Sunday, Zandrie had to set 
 out proclaiming her special love of lightning and 
 water, in the face of a thunderstorm and the Lyndes' 
 protests. Even Mr. Lynde whose " real " name 
 she said was " Poggy," which she called him ever 
 after even he had failed to believe in that love of 
 lightning and water, and sent for a coupe, which, to 
 keep the peace, she had ridden in for a block and then 
 dismissed. As for Julian, he was for sending her 
 back because her shoes were wet. 
 
 " Is there always such confusion in the world," she 
 asked petulantly, " when a body steps out in the rain ? 
 In the convent days I splashed in the wet as much as I 
 liked. The rain? why, it would never think of harm- 
 ing. Every drop is a message think ! out of 
 Heaven itself! that some day things will all be 
 pure and good, and the thunder shakes out a threat 
 because they 're not better. I love it, every bit. So 
 do you ! " 
 
 " Rain? I Ve even forgotten how it feels." 
 
 She ran to the window to catch a handful of drops 
 falling from the eaves; then, with a laugh and before 
 he could catch her wrist, she had shaken them over 
 his hair and laid her wet palm across his forehead.
 
 FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 197 
 
 His own hand closed on hers, and he looked up with a 
 smile that pushed her fear of him over the edge of a 
 well of delight and broke a chink in the wall between 
 them. 
 
 " ' La belle dame sans merci',' ' he said at last ; and 
 she knew he by no means referred to her shower. 
 
 " Ah no, your heaven ! for I sent rain upon you." 
 
 " Let heaven do its own work, and go back to your 
 seat." 
 
 She did not move. " How did my shower feel, 
 then?" 
 
 " Wet and cold." 
 
 Her left hand was on the back of his chair, very 
 near his hair; if she stirred, perhaps fear would come 
 shivering up out of the well and plug the hole in the 
 wall, the little hole that his smile had made. " When 
 I was a child," she said very low, " I loved you because 
 you could do what you pleased with me ; but that 's 
 not why I love you now, be sure ! " She was 
 more than three-quarters in earnest in spite of her 
 little laugh. " Am I on the forbidden ground ? It 
 must be an island about which my life flows, for when- 
 ever I put my hand out, there it is . . . O me! 
 You were right: the world is strange, and I know 
 almost nothing else about it, though I saw so much 
 of it this week! " She probably referred to the half- 
 dozen girls whom Mrs. Lynde asked to lunch. 
 
 " Tell me about it," he said; and his tone, like some- 
 thing waking one from a dream, brought confusion,
 
 198 Z A N D R I E 
 
 and then a chilly sense of reality. " Sit down," he 
 added. But still she would not be afraid of him 
 quite yet. 
 
 " My week was a year long," she said. " Was 
 yours shorter ? " 
 
 " Short enough." 
 
 She smiled vaguely, and then laid her hand on his 
 hair. She had been summoning courage to do it, for 
 a full minute. He gripped both arms of his chair. 
 " It feels as it used," she murmured, " but it 's darker ; 
 almost brown. No, not really brown; still full of 
 gold." 
 
 " Sit down," he commanded, a little hoarsely. 
 
 She obeyed ; but she was not afraid oh no ! 
 though his face was turned away. " You were with 
 me in the woods yesterday," she said. " Did you 
 know it ? But you 're always with me there. But 
 yesterday yesterday we had such a very particu- 
 larly good time together." 
 
 At that, he looked at her with a wist fulness that 
 had sometimes stolen into his eyes of late. 
 
 " Were you happy there ? " she asked. 
 
 He still looked at her. 
 
 " Would you like to go back ? " 
 
 " Show me the way," he answered. 
 
 " To my woods? " 
 
 "To mine," he said after a pause; and added, 
 "Where I must go alone, after all. . . ." 
 
 She leaned forward. " Julian you 're not alone,
 
 FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 199 
 
 not any more. And you can come to the woods 
 too, to mine ; I '11 take you. Yes ! yes 1 Shut your 
 eyes and see if I can't ! " She moved her stool nearer 
 still. " I can do it. / 'm there now ! Shut your 
 eyes please! . . . There! We're just turn- 
 ing off from the road. Do you see ? we must wriggle 
 through the bars where the cart-track leads into the 
 field and winds about the foot of the hill. The hill- 
 side 's bristling here with stones and brambles, yet if 
 you '11 look, there are violets with short stems ; and 
 on the other side of those birches they 've wandered 
 away from the rest, you see, the hill 's all blazing 
 with wild azalea. But wait. We must keep on to 
 the top. There 's no path, but the rocks make steps. 
 . . . O look! one poor, late columbine! But 
 they 're always sad in spite of their robes of sunlight ; 
 they try to deceive, I said, till I understood. But look 
 up now and see the army of grasses against the sky. 
 They 're shams ! To-day they 're standing stiff 
 enough, but when the wind calls to battle, they trem- 
 ble and lie flat; so their bravery of spears is only a 
 show. And look, where the ghostly moon haunts the 
 tree-tops, as white as a cloud and just ready to melt 
 back into the blue. . . . O Julian! to think 
 you 're really with me here at last ! " Her own eyes 
 w r ere shut now. " Now we 're up where we can see 
 the town almost the windows of the very room 
 where you used to lie all day and there 's the red 
 farm-house. The roofs and chimneys and the fairy
 
 200 Z A N D R I E 
 
 tree-tops lie all unreal under the strips and twists of 
 purple smoke. The gold cross on the spire there 
 burns through the mist; that's real. . . . But 
 the other way! Look off to the hills. To-day 
 they 're rugged and earnest, but some days they sleep 
 and are dim with mists which are their dreams. Do 
 you see them? Do you see them? But come into 
 the woods themselves into the place where all the 
 green things stand up unafraid. . . . See the 
 laurel leaves glistening, and the rosy specks of the 
 buds. Feel the slippery floor of needles and the 
 twigs that catch at us; and see the starry pines. Oh, 
 the pines ! There 's a breeze overhead. Oh, and the 
 brown bird that sings a song of ferns uncurling and 
 of water in the shadow of a rock. . . . Now 
 now we '11 go down the hill on the other side, by the 
 swamp where lazy old Jack-priests doze in the shade 
 of their little pulpits, and water trickles through the 
 fairy forests of moss, and silver drops slide down 
 long, smooth stems. There 's quiet there as big as 
 the sky. We 're alone there, you and I. Come 
 there ! " and she held out her hand. His eyes met 
 hers, and he took it; but in the light in his eyes, she 
 forgot the touch, for it was the look of which she 
 had dreamed on the night of moonlight and wild 
 yearning, when she had been drawn to his door as by 
 a chain; a look that drew the strength from her body, 
 pouring ecstacy into every pore, annulling thought
 
 FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 201 
 
 and sense. Body was forgotten; ecstacy alone was 
 left, at one with the blue fire of the eyes that had 
 kindled it, burning away the chains of time. While 
 it stayed, she held her breath. At last his grasp re- 
 laxed; and very slowly, his eyes still compelling her 
 own, he put away her hand. Then as with effort he 
 turned his face away; and with the movement, the 
 spell was broken and life stepped back into its old 
 setting of time and space. 
 
 The wind flung handfuls of rain against the win- 
 dow. Julian's lips were set and pale. He was al- 
 ready slipping from her, behind the wall; she was 
 losing him and must call him back. So his name 
 broke from her like a cry. " Speak to me," she 
 pleaded, " I 'm afraid." 
 
 But he sat rigid, unheeding; and the wind rattled 
 a loose pane of glass. 
 
 He was manifestly in one of those feuds with him- 
 self, about which she was still in the dark. Of only 
 one thing she was sure that they were not struggles 
 with pain. Those must be different; instinct per- 
 suaded her that in those, the wall between them must 
 be lower, not higher. But from these battles she 
 knew only that he would come out estranged, aloof; 
 an unaccountable, fierce Julian that refused to smile 
 and could even order her to leave him ; so that what- 
 ever their meaning, they gave her dread. Would he 
 find it in his heart to send her away now, after that
 
 202 Z A N D R I E 
 
 look in which his very soul had held out a hand to 
 hers? That was unbelievable. Yet she watched his 
 face, waiting for the order. And it came. 
 
 " Go back ! " he said, a strange trembling in his 
 voice. " Go back to the convent ! ... It will be 
 better for both of us." 
 
 " You would really have me ? " 
 
 No answer, except her own. " No ; for you said 
 you wanted to be my friend, and I '11 dare to believe 
 you." 
 
 " You 've no friend in me," he murmured at last. 
 
 " I don't know what you or I have done, that you 
 say such a thing." 
 
 Again no answer. 
 
 "Why were you afraid?" he asked, after the 
 pause. 
 
 " You were with me for the first time." Her 
 own voice trembled now. " And then you were slip- 
 ping from me after you took my hand." 
 
 " Forget that, for Heaven's sake." 
 
 " I could n't if I wanted. That you know." 
 
 Did he know? Perhaps; but he gave no sign. 
 " Forgive me," he said. " I did n't mean to frighten 
 you. I I 'm much to blame. We ought to have 
 stayed in the woods." 
 
 "I'd rather stay here." She sat with tightly 
 clasped hands. " I love this room better than all the 
 windy, woodsy out-of-doors; this queer, beautiful
 
 FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 203 
 
 room that no one dusts but Carter and me. It 's 
 strange " 
 
 " It is strange," he interrupted rather grimly. " It 's 
 all strange the whole thing." He stopped. A lit- 
 tle flush spread over his face. " It it must n't go 
 on, you know." 
 
 "What mustn't?" 
 
 A long pause, till she repeated the question. 
 
 " You 're only a child," he said, " but it would n't 
 be right anyway, I believe. ... Of course not 
 . . . But it 's been my fault, of course, that we 
 have n't kept to our agreement better." 
 
 "What agreement?" 
 
 " You know." 
 
 Yes, she knew. But, "What's the use?" she 
 asked. " I Ve lived a whole five weeks in the world, 
 and it still seems nonsense that we should n't speak 
 the truth." 
 
 "It isn't the truth!" 
 
 " You know we both know " 
 
 "I don't know it!" 
 
 " Then you 're very stupid." But she knew also 
 that he understood. 
 
 " We must try to help each other," he went on, " to 
 keep it better our agreement." 
 
 " About the forbidden subject ? " 
 
 "If. we failed," he said. 
 
 "I hope we shall!"
 
 204 Z A N D R I E 
 
 " But I think we need n't fail," he added, after a 
 long pause. 
 
 "And if we do?" 
 
 " I don't know exactly. We might n't see 
 each other any more, I suppose, for one thing." 
 
 " But you could n't keep me away ! " 
 
 " I could and would." 
 
 The mere set of his lips frightened her so that she 
 called desperately on humor to help her. " How rude 
 it would look! People would hear a lady pleading 
 at your door, and marvel at your gruffness. But I 
 would n't put you in such a light ; I 'd climb quietly 
 in at the window." 
 
 He met her laughter with a lame attempt at a 
 frown. 
 
 " Now you 're reasonable! " she cried. " Smile all 
 the way, and I '11 tell you something ! " 
 
 " I was in earnest," he said. 
 
 " About forcing a guest " 
 
 "About you know what." 
 
 "Indeed no!" 
 
 " Then you 're very stupid ! . . . And if you 
 don't go home now, this minute, while the rain has 
 stopped I '11 ring for Carter to carry you ! " 
 
 " You 're really tired of me, then? " 
 
 " You ! Do you really doubt it ? " 
 
 " No, I don't." 
 
 She reached for her rain-coat, pouting. 
 
 And the hook of the collar was of course to blame
 
 FIRST SUNDAY IN JUNE 205 
 
 for what happened next. It refused to find the eye, 
 persuading her after a minute of half-hearted strug- 
 gle, to kneel by Julian's side for help. And before 
 she rose, she dared herself to a reckless act, and took 
 the dare; caught and kissed the hand that he was 
 withdrawing. Her laugh rang out as she jumped 
 away. She had never kissed him since the morning 
 when she found her hill; but her kiss to-day was a 
 little piece of pure, unexpected deviltry. 
 
 Yet in her heart of hearts she was afraid. Un- 
 reasonable, incomprehensible though it was, the threat 
 not to let her come to him filled her with an uneasi- 
 ness that would not be downed. There was a will be- 
 hind his eyes that had already bent hers again and 
 again. She must run no risks, she told herself. And 
 during all the week that followed, she was building 
 up stanch resolutions not to show by word or act how 
 well she loved him ; lest somehow she should lose him.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 
 
 It was this vague uneasiness that on the following 
 Sunday whispered an artifice. She would not hurry 
 to him as usual, but, to prove that she loved him none 
 too well, she would go elsewhere first, an idea that 
 pleased her mightily till she came to its practice. For 
 invisible hands were dragging her to his door, pulling 
 her down the street till she caught a glimpse of his 
 door-step. There she made a stand, though the bat- 
 tle raged. It was a week since she had heard his 
 voice seven days of famine. He was awaiting her 
 at this moment, wanting her, perhaps. Yes, she be- 
 lieved that he wanted her very much ; and yet again 
 came recollection of his strange threat, and the dread 
 that had haunted her throughout the week. A foolish 
 dread, that, for all its absurdity, made her wheel about 
 at last and walk doggedly on towards the hill, where 
 she arrived by no means rejoicing in her strength. 
 
 But there was a northwest wind on the hill-top, 
 singing in the trees that swung with it while Zandrie 
 ran with it. Sunlight danced on boughs and ground 
 like mad, scattering patches of brightness for the wind 
 
 206
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 207 
 
 to play battledore with. Sometimes they fell on the 
 laurel, touching the blossoms to liquid silver ; then off 
 again, anywhere, nowhere, the wind never stopped 
 to see ; it was having a game with the birch tops now, 
 and the sunbeams were caught in its garments. Bird- 
 notes thrilled out on the gusts, to be snatched unfin- 
 ished out of hearing. Sometimes she called back, 
 but the wind and she were racing and she could not 
 wait for an answer. Out of breath now and then, 
 she stopped for a spray of laurel. It was out in full 
 bloom at last, its bushes all rosy and waxen and 
 silver. Yet the blossoms shivered and glimmered 
 coldly between the tree-trunks, for in spite of June, 
 the day was as chilly as early April. Even without 
 the call of the wind she would have run to keep warm ; 
 but the giant gusts took her, and in the delight of their 
 tumultuous strength she felt neither weariness nor 
 cold. She was part of the big wind-game, and intox- 
 icated as the birds. 
 
 But when the sun swung so low that its rays slanted 
 between the tree-trunks into her eyes, then she stopped 
 with her arms full of laurel, and looked towards the 
 town. In the riotous fun of the northwest wind she 
 had not felt the loneliness of the wide hill-top, not 
 until this moment. But now the sight of the town 
 stabbed her with a quick yearning. That joy of the 
 wind and singing trees, which but a moment since 
 had seemed reality at its richest, already it had 
 faded to a dream, and " oh, but the long way back
 
 208 Z A N D R I E 
 
 to town ! " she sighed. She had come farther than 
 her bond required. 
 
 A turn of the door-knob at last, a single step for- 
 ward, and the face for which she had hungered 
 through seven days- would be there to see, perhaps 
 with the light of the low-hanging sun on the hair, and 
 in the eyes surely surprised gladness. But she 
 gripped the stems of the laurel with a will, for she 
 was going to be good; sun or no sun on his hair, she 
 was going to be never so good. She would laugh and 
 chatter as she had heard other girls chatter to men 
 in the world, no word of forbidden love escaping. 
 Why not? She thought it would even be easy. She 
 would lock down every sign of love, lest somehow she 
 should lose him. 
 
 She thought it would be easy, even after she had 
 opened the door, to find him lying on the couch in- 
 stead of sitting in his chair as usual. She crossed 
 to him in silence and laid the laurel on his breast. 
 " Why are you lying here ? " she asked. 
 
 " For variety." 
 
 " I hate a lie ! " and she clasped her hands under 
 her chin. " Have you been here long? " 
 
 " Only since five. I thought Where have you 
 been? I thought you were n't coming. Look at that 
 clock!" 
 
 She smiled ruefully at the success of her trick.
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 209 
 
 " So late ? I can't believe it. I blew away in the 
 woods. But see what I got on the way ! " 
 
 He looked only at her, however. 
 
 " Look, the laurel ! I thought of you now and 
 then, and broke off a spray." 
 
 " And the rest of the time? " 
 
 " I ran like an animal. But had n't you better 
 count the sprays ? " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Why, stupid, to find out how often I thought of 
 you. You could easily count ! " 
 
 Yet it was not so easy this part she had chosen. 
 When she had promised to be good, she had not bar- 
 gained to find him on his back. And the bewilder- 
 ment into which she was bringing him, helped her so 
 little that she had to turn away now and walk to the 
 window. When she had opened it to the gale that 
 whirled in like a mad spirit of fun, she laughed, to be 
 sure. But she could hardly stand there and laugh at 
 the wind till she started for home. No need to, 
 either! She was strong enough of will to stand be- 
 side him again looking down at him quite calmly, 
 showing nothing of the delight at the mere sight 
 of him, that made a mist at moments between his face 
 and her eyes; showing nothing even when the traitor 
 pity jumped out and sent an arrow quivering through 
 her; showing nothing . . . 
 
 After all, it was her own device that undid her. 
 
 14
 
 210 ZANDRIE 
 
 For she had taught him of late to arm himself against 
 quite another than a mood of teasing, which puzzled 
 him the more now, perhaps, because he was in bodily 
 pain and must have known that she knew it. And 
 so, as he lay with his hands clasped beneath his head, 
 she saw his face grow wistful with a question that 
 groped for its answer, till, losing itself at last, it 
 turned into a yearning. She thrust her hands behind 
 her, but to no purpose; impulses to caress throbbed 
 along every fibre of her body, getting the upper hand 
 over warnings of fear. And then when of a sudden 
 his eyes opened to her, without reserve at last, no 
 longer baffling, but summoning, bidding her come near, 
 the fear itself was gone. The wall was gone. 
 She thought it was gone forever. And so, in an ec- 
 stacy too deep for fear to reach, she sat down on the 
 edge of his couch and bent over him, slowly, very 
 slowly, till the flood of passion that had been forced 
 back throughout the long weeks, burst its bounds, tear- 
 ing away all but consciousness itself. With the cry 
 of his name she took his temples between her hands 
 and pressed her cheek against his forehead. 
 
 For a few seconds he lay passive; then he pulled 
 her down to him, crushing the laurel between them, 
 and kissed her lips; and though she spoke hardly 
 above a whisper, all her stifled passion made answer 
 in the two words, " My master ! " 
 
 At last he tried to put her from him, with hands 
 that trembled, but she caught them in her own. " Ju-
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 211 
 
 lian ! you understand at last ! We 've lived for this. 
 There '11 be no more loneliness only happiness be- 
 yond belief." 
 
 But he was staring up at her as in a maze of grow- 
 ing misery that took the blood from his lips, and he 
 tried to draw away his hands. 
 
 " We '11 marry each other," she laughed a soft 
 little laugh " marry like the Lyndes. Don't you 
 understand ? You '11 let me live with you now and 
 talk about my love, and there '11 be no more forbidden 
 subject. I '11 help you in all things, my darling, my 
 darling! I '11 make life a good thing for you. I can! 
 O yes, but I can ! " 
 
 The idea of their marrying which meant, their 
 living together seemed so simple, so inevitable of a 
 sudden, that she laughed to think it had never occurred 
 to either of them before ! " Of course," she said, 
 " we Ve lived just for this. Why have n't we known 
 it? Stupid us!" 
 
 He wrenched his hands from hers, to cover his 
 face, but she kissed them and kissed his hair, thinking 
 only that he was in pain, for which she could not 
 grieve much just now. Pain was a slight thing, of a 
 sudden, compared with the great matter of their love. 
 " It will go," she said, smoothing his hair. " When 
 Zandrie comes to stay, it will have to go. O dearie! 
 my beautiful! think of the good times! No more 
 dreadful, empty weeks one can scarcely breathe 
 through till Sunday. No more running to my hill
 
 212 ZANDRIE 
 
 from the fear of you ! But we '11 go together O 
 yes, Carter can manage that! and eat our lunch in 
 the moss by a great rock where the brown bird sings 
 and the little gray gnomes will come out of the cracks 
 to pick up the crumbs. To think to think that Ju- 
 lian will be Zandrie's husband. It sounds very 
 strange, but I like it! I was thinking of you always, 
 of course always but never quite so. Hus- 
 bands never seemed interesting till this very minute! 
 Dearie, look up and laugh with me ! " 
 
 She had been looking away from him for a minute, 
 just because it would be such fun at the end of the 
 minute! But the fun failed her. She even forgot 
 that she had expected it, what she found in his eyes 
 was so nearly tragic, the whole set of his face so grim 
 with unspoken misery. No pain of body, that: and 
 when he covered his face again at the end of the long 
 silence, and the muscles of his hands grew tense, and 
 his breath struggled from beneath almost in sobs, her 
 joy fell into the clutch of a nameless fear. " What 
 is it?" she asked in a voice that shook. 
 
 At last, " I could n't help it," he said, his hands still 
 over his face. " It 's been a long fight." And after 
 another pause, " I can't marry you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I won't." 
 
 "Why? Why?" 
 
 There was a longer pause yet. " You 're just a lit- 
 tle girl a child. It would be wicked to marry you."
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 213 
 
 "But why? Of course we must marry!" She 
 had never asked herself whether he loved her, and 
 she did not ask it now, taking it for granted. 
 
 " You 're a child," he repeated. " You 're as wild 
 as the wind. When you came in There 's all out- 
 doors about you still always. It would be " 
 
 " Wait ! I know the reasons without your telling 
 me." 
 
 " All the better then." 
 
 " Yes, all the better ! / '11 tell them to you. I 'd 
 been running in the wind, and when I came in, my hair 
 was dreadfully mussed and I looked wonderfully hap- 
 py. Why yes ! because, you see, I 'd finished the long, 
 hard way I 'd set myself to go. O but it was long! 
 Foolish me! And so when I came in, glad beyond 
 belief just to see you Oh! and you think if we 
 were married just because you 're lying here where 
 I could come running back sure to find you, if I had to 
 go away for a minute Dear heart, what fun it 
 will be just not to be starving for sight of you! 
 . . . Oh, I know the silly reasons, you see the 
 silly reasons that are no reasons at all." 
 
 " You don't. But try for once imagine look ! 
 Tied to this! Married to this! You can't know what 
 it means. No woman can, I reckon. But try just for 
 once to imagine, and then " 
 
 " I '11 try," she interrupted. " Now look at me." 
 
 He let her take his hands from his face, and as he 
 looked, there flickered across it a dim reflection of
 
 214 ZANDRIE 
 
 her own radiance. But for a second only. " I knew 
 you couldn't even imagine it," he said; and then, 
 " You 're shivering. Shut the window." 
 
 She obeyed, not knowing what she did. And when 
 she started to seat herself again on the edge of his 
 couch, he forbade her; and there was a quiet in his 
 voice, that, more than any vehemence, struck her numb 
 with dismay. His hands clenched the laurel against 
 his breast. His face was turned towards the wall so 
 that she saw only his profile, which she watched as a 
 whipped dog its master. She was frightened chiefly 
 perhaps because she was so puzzled. 
 
 " I 've been all to blame," he said slowly. " I 
 thought I was strong enough, but . . . But it 's 
 not too late. If you 'd been older, it might have been 
 different everything different, perhaps. But now, 
 there 's nothing for it but to keep out of each oth- 
 er's way. Don't you see ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Not see each other, I mean. You must n't 
 come any more, I mean." 
 
 " Not see you any more ! . . . But that sounds 
 like nonsense. Julian! why Julian! if you meant 
 that " She felt the blood leave her lips. "Don't 
 you love me, then ? " 
 
 No answer to that. 
 
 " You mean you "want me to go away ? " 
 
 No answer to that either.
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 215 
 
 " A minute ago " She bent over him again ; and 
 then, " Ah, foolish Julian ! what have you been say- 
 ing?" 
 
 He held her away, but the blue flame in his eyes 
 burned the numbness out of her. " Yes," he said, " I 
 love you. I love you. I did n't mean to say it ever, 
 or show it. But how could I help loving you! 
 You came in at the door there you ! one day 
 when I was loneliest. If you knew how I was want- 
 ing just you! I couldn't help it; of course I loved 
 you. . . . And then . . ." 
 
 "Then?" 
 
 " Then you thought you loved me." 
 
 " I loved you first. That 's why I came." 
 
 He paid no heed to that. " But it 's because I love 
 you understand ? because I love you, I forbid 
 you to love me waste yourself your beautiful 
 youth waste it on this. That would be too ironical. 
 But it shan't happen. It 's not too late." 
 
 " But it is, it is ! O how little you know me then, 
 you, my very self! The love for you is I myself. 
 Can't you see I was made for that? If you forbade 
 that, you 'd forbid me ; but you can't do either. You 
 can't, dear, though I almost wish you could if you 'd 
 be happier so! But see, why should you want to! 
 I 've seen men's faces hundreds now but none 
 like yours ; and yet I look in hope through every crowd 
 for a face that will just remind me of yours, I starve
 
 216 ZANDRIE 
 
 for it so. When I saw you here my life began. I 
 thought I knew the joy of life till I kissed your fore- 
 head that morning, but " 
 
 "Stop, dear." 
 
 "How can you call such wealth a waste? Yet 
 you 've said you loved me. ... And you never 
 meant to say it ? That 's strange. But I knew al- 
 ready, of course ! " She laughed happily once more. 
 " What would you do then if I went away? " 
 
 " What I did before." 
 
 "Alone with your miserable life; yes, day after 
 day in this room, all alone with hopelessness, without 
 any Zandrie. Dear heart, what nonsense to talk 
 even to talk about what would kill the happiness of us 
 two ! of what could n't be ! for I love you O 
 yes, I love you into safety ! " 
 
 " To-day. You love me to-day, I know it." 
 
 " Forever beyond God's reach." 
 
 " For a few months. You 're very young, you see ; 
 and I was the first man you met. And you were sorry. 
 I know what pity can do with people like you. 
 . . . You '11 meet other men soon now, and then 
 then you '11 see I was right." 
 
 " Sorry, you say! Yes, for the beautiful body God 
 somehow had the heart to hurt. Oh, if I could have 
 known what was in his thought, I 'd have lived a nun 
 to pray him from it! But you pity you? when 
 you 're stronger than I and I lay my will at your feet ? 
 O Mother of God! is it pity makes me do that, you
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 217 
 
 say ? " She was pleading for what she valued more 
 than her life, and arguments crowded to her aid. If 
 he would only meet her eyes, she thought, she could 
 compel him to hear her logic ; but his face was turned 
 to the wall again. " There 's something you forget," 
 she said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "That I saw you when I was a child, before it 
 happened, when you were on horseback. Remem- 
 ber? And you laughed and called back to me and 
 rode into the woods, and I jumped down from the 
 wall to follow. How could I be sorry for you then? 
 But I loved you then, oh, from the second I heard 
 your laugh. And you can laugh still; and when I 
 come to stay " 
 
 " You 're a child still," he interrupted. 
 
 "In some things, yes ; but not in love. You 
 should n't have looked at me so, that day I took you 
 to the woods, if you wanted me to stay a child. It 
 was you shut the door on my childhood. You did n't 
 mean to, of course ; but I 'm glad you did. I would n't 
 go back to poor, barren childhood for the world 
 do you think so ? After this? But you were my hap- 
 piness even when I was a child. Just the touch of 
 you hurt me with happiness even then, as it hurts now, 
 somewhere inside of me just the happiness when 
 you touch me. . . . Oh, don't you love me at all 
 so?" 
 
 He answered not at all, but a second later she was
 
 218 ZANDRIE 
 
 kneeling beside him, laughing softly again, because 
 well, for several reasons that seemed good: for one, 
 because the grip of his arms allowed her scarcely 
 breath enough to laugh with; for another, because he 
 was kissing her; for another, because she knew that 
 he kissed her wholly against his own grim, absurd 
 will. " Think," she said, when she could speak at all, 
 " in all the ages we 've loved each other, think of 
 the time wasted ! Think what we 've got to make 
 up!" 
 
 But before he could say what he might be thinking, 
 some one knocked at the door. 
 
 " Wait ! " he called. And then, " Forgive me," he 
 whispered. " I meant it ; but To-morrow 
 come to-morrow. I can't say it to-day." 
 
 " To-morrow ! I can come again to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I can say it then. I 've got to have time, that 's 
 all." 
 
 "Say it ?" 
 
 " Good-by, yes. I meant it what I said. I 
 meant it." And because of the break in his voice, 
 and in spite of the delirious happiness of the past min- 
 ute, in which he had seemed to come to his senses 
 too utterly ever to relapse, she knew that he meant it 
 to put her away from him. But she was still too 
 happy to be wholly afraid. 
 
 " It 's Carter at the door," he said. " You must 
 go." 
 
 " Till to-morrow," she whispered. " When I kiss
 
 THE NORTHWEST WIND 219 
 
 you to-morrow . . . you '11 see aright. You '11 
 love me, to-morrow." 
 
 " I '11 love you to-morrow, too. Yes. ... Go 
 now. Go quick ! " 
 
 " To-morrow you '11 see aright," she repeated, her 
 hand at the door-knob. 
 
 But his arm was crooked over his eyes, and he made 
 no answer.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 SHOWING WHICH HAD THE STRONGER WILL 
 
 In the morning Carter brought a note that bade her 
 come at five. It said absolutely nothing but that and 
 was signed " Yours, J. M. F.", and naturally set her 
 asking why a man not frantically busy should write a 
 note like a telegram to a body who knew he loved her 
 because he had just told her so. Even though he in- 
 tended to put a stop to it by sending her out of his 
 sight, the love was meanwhile a fact recognized by 
 both, about which neither was to be deceived by a 
 game of pretending. It was the queerness of him that 
 dismayed her; the incredible queerness that, in the 
 first place, refused the gift of herself. But she would 
 make him accept, of course. She had a will, too, that 
 could make a brave stand against his, though it had 
 not often conquered. Had it ever? She shied from 
 that question. 
 
 The trouble seemed to be that he was fighting in the 
 dark, with something she could not see. And if he 
 saw it clearly himself, he would stop fighting. No 
 doubt of that. So, that was all one needed to do, 
 to give him light, at whose coming the ghosts he 
 
 220
 
 THE STRONGER WILL 221 
 
 fought with must vanish. And have it he must; for, 
 whether mistaken or not, so long as he fought at all, 
 he was bound to have the better of her. For her will 
 had never won yet. Facing the question at last, she 
 answered truly, though making excuse for herself that 
 he was older. But even while trying hardest to be- 
 lieve that desperation would lend her strength, or at 
 least the wit, to make him see aright, even while 
 she vowed to herself not to leave him, doubt of her- 
 self was gnawing at the root of her courage. The 
 mere fact that she could not understand him, robbed 
 what fighting spirit she might otherwise have had. 
 
 At four o'clock three young girls called on her, 
 " awfully nice girls," Mrs. Lynde said, who went 
 away agreeing that Zandrie was awfully queer. But 
 then, she did stare perfectly frankly at the clock, think- 
 ing " why write a note like a telegram ? " or, " what 
 can one say to make the blind see ? " instead of at- 
 tending to what her callers were asking; so that her 
 answers must have been a little wild. 
 
 At quarter to five she set out to him, clinging to a 
 new determination to act the part of one who did not 
 love him absurd device to which she pinned the 
 shreds of her hope. She would meet him on the 
 ground that his note had appointed, and greet him as 
 though yesterday had not been. She would seem to 
 have forgotten. 
 
 But at the first sight of him, her forces fell into 
 disorder, his own were plainly in such good array ; her
 
 222 Z A N D R I E 
 
 wits reeled; and when he took her hand in silence, 
 master of himself, she knew that he was master of her 
 too. Yet there were shadows under his eyes that told 
 of a grievous vigil. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, and she obeyed. He gripped 
 the arms of his chair and looked away. 
 
 " You '11 see it as I do, some day," he said at last ; 
 and she caught her breath, knowing that it was com- 
 ing now what she dreaded most in all the world. 
 
 Had he expected an outbreak ? a passionate pro- 
 test ? He turned and searched her face. 
 
 " Go on," she said. 
 
 "What 's the use? You know already." 
 
 " Say it. You have n't said it yet." 
 
 " Yes, I '11 say it. You must n't come any more. 
 We must say good-by. I Ve known for weeks we 'd 
 have to do it. We ought to have done it sooner. I 
 ought, I mean. For it 's all my fault. It 's my fault 
 that there came to be any need of this. I had no 
 business to love you. No right. It was incredibly 
 weak of me to tell you. But now . . . You 
 know it 's because I love you, this ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " I reckon you don't understand it now, but you will 
 some day. . . . Good-by," he said after another 
 pause, holding out his hand. 
 
 Then Zandrie rose as in a dream, and took it. Both 
 their hands were cold. 
 
 " You don't understand," he said.
 
 THE STRONGER WILL 223 
 
 " Good-by," was all that she answered. She began 
 to walk towards the door. For it was a dream, of 
 course ; that was why she was yielding without even a 
 struggle. It was unthinkable it could n't be, that 
 he was sending her sending Zandrie away from 
 him forever, to a misery, therefore, that one could 
 neither name nor imagine; that he meant that they 
 should not see each other again. If that were his 
 thought if it could be true then all the world 
 was mad. She stopped at the door, turned slowly, and 
 looked at him. 
 
 " Zandrie ! " he pleaded, " come back, just for a mo- 
 ment just till you understand. Say at least you 
 believe I love you." 
 
 " I don't believe it," she said in a voice that seemed 
 to come from somewhere outside of her. 
 
 " Then I'm sorry," he answered. " And yet, it's 
 as well perhaps, after all. I had no right to call you 
 back. You were right in going. You're stronger 
 than" 
 
 " Strong? O no; nor merciless either. I don't 
 believe that's all." And she shut her eyes, grop- 
 ing for the door-knob. " Why, if it were true, what 
 you've been saying if this were real, what what 
 would become of us ? " 
 
 The question seemed unanswerable, but he was 
 ready. " Some day you '11 find another man who 
 can make you happy ; whom you '11 whom you '11 
 love better than you could ever have cared for me.
 
 224 Z A N D R I E 
 
 Who can give you the sort of life you ought to have, 
 and and all that." 
 
 Would the dream never end ? She must wake soon, 
 or die of the misery of it. Yet even tears refused 
 their witness to reality. Then as she stood clinging 
 to the door to keep from swaying, the idea came, that 
 if this was indeed a dream, she could do what she 
 chose. She shook her head as though to free it from 
 a cobweb. " I '11 kiss you good-by." 
 
 What was it broke the spell ? the light that leaped 
 to his eyes? or the vibrant voice that bade her come? 
 At that, she ran to him and fell on her knees, to 
 snatch his hands in both hers and hide her face 
 against them. " Now I 'm safe," she sobbed. " I 
 have him ! I touch him ! O Virgin, I '11 hold him 
 tight!" 
 
 When the paroxysm of her sobbing was spent, he 
 bade her look up ; but she only sighed and knelt quiet, 
 listening for his voice again. It came after another 
 long silence. " Look up, beloved." And she raised 
 her head in ecstacy. 
 
 " You believe I love you ? " he asked. 
 
 " O yes, yes ! " 
 
 " Then help me." 
 
 " That again ? Just as we were beginning to be 
 happy ? Dear heart, let 's be happy just this one 
 hour." 
 
 " You 're going to be happy always, if I can work it. 
 . . . I had time to find out what happiness means.
 
 THE STRONGER WILL 225 
 
 Mere freedom 's happiness, and it 's enough that one 
 of us lost that, is n't it? Your life is n't going to be 
 spoiled too, by mine. Perhaps you do love me now 
 as well as a child can; I reckon you really do. But 
 it 's because you 're a child, don't you see, that you 
 can go and forget these weeks. You must, and 
 you can. Heaven knows, the idea of my marrying 
 any woman I buried that seven years ago for- 
 ever, so I thought. But you to marry you " His 
 voice broke on that word and she leaped into the 
 breach. 
 
 " But I yes, that 's another story ; for I was sent, 
 you see, just to give back what you thought was 
 buried yes, and to find it myself the first joy in 
 all my life. And" 
 
 He covered her lips with his hand, and she quivered 
 under the touch, forgetting to finish. " What you 
 were sent to me for," he said, " I can't answer much 
 better than you, nor how you could possibly come 
 to think you loved me. But I 'm right sure of this, 
 that it 's not too late. Wait ! I say it 's not. May- 
 be it '11 be hard at first for you as well as me ; but only 
 a little while, and you '11 not be a coward. You '11 
 be splendid and strong for the little time you 've any 
 need of courage. You see, you were made for so 
 much bigger happiness than I could ever give. And 
 the day will come when I '11 hear of it, and be glad, 
 and you '11 justify me then." 
 
 She shook her head. " For one little moment it 
 
 15
 
 226 Z A N D R I E 
 
 seemed as if, just for the joy of doing your will, I 
 could even go. But I can't. But I can't. All the 
 world with you not there, would be a frightful, barren 
 place in which I 'd die. I 'd be wicked without you. 
 I 'd be afraid without you. I 'd come back." 
 
 "Not if I forbade" 
 
 " Yes, I know it ! I know ! I understand noth- 
 ing else in all the world but that I need you. I must 
 keep you. I must make you see. You 're looking 
 through some awful, twisted glass. Julian! " and her 
 voice shot up to a higher note, " it 's for my life! O 
 see aright ! " She caught his hands again and laid 
 her head on his breast. And at that, victory turned 
 to look at her, as she had looked for a few delirious 
 minutes, the day before. For Julian's answer was a 
 sharp intake of breath, and he turned his face aside, 
 and she felt him tremble. Yet when she looked up at 
 last and read the resolve in his eyes resolve such as 
 a man grips as he would hold the blade of a sword, 
 with a will only just stronger than the pain that the 
 grip costs him then fear beat out the last of her 
 fighting strength, and " Oh, you 're strange ! " she 
 whispered. 
 
 " Do you think it 's easy ? For heaven's sake, go 
 now, now! If you love me, you can prove it so. 
 And if you if you come back," his voice was 
 steady now " you won't come back ; I have faith in 
 you, but if you should, even once, I 'd go away my-
 
 THE STRONGER WILL 227 
 
 self, out of town somewhere, where you could n't 
 find me." 
 
 She believed that he would keep his word, and 
 bowed her head till her forehead touched her knees. 
 
 When she rose at last, " And you say I must for- 
 get it all," she murmured, " forget your face, every 
 line of it? and the smile of your eyes, and your voice, 
 and the touch of your hands? . . . Queer, how 
 you can hate me so. You were kind when I was a 
 child. God was cruel to let me see you ; he must have 
 known what you really were. . . . Why do you 
 look at me so ? I 'm glad, glad ! " and her voice rose 
 to a cry. " If I 've hurt you, I 'm glad ! I '11 remem- 
 ber at least that you can suffer too. If I 've hurt you, 
 perhaps there 's a God in heaven. . . . O what 
 am I doing ! This is n't Zandrie. See, I 'm calm 
 now, and strong too, as you said. I can say good-by. 
 I 'm not a child. You were wrong to call me a child." 
 Her hand crept out to his hair. " Look up, then. 
 Can't you say good-by, like me ? " 
 
 " Good-by," he said in a voice that held nothing of 
 the Julian she had known. But after that, he looked 
 up, and his eyes held her so that it was not till after he 
 had bowed his head again that she could stir. 
 
 She groped her way to the door. 
 
 Outside the house, on the front steps, she sank 
 down, leaning her head against a post of the little 
 porch till a woman who passed turned to look at her.
 
 228 Z A N D R I E 
 
 Then Zandrie pulled herself to her feet and walked 
 away. 
 
 To the woods ! To the woods ! to creep, like a 
 hurt animal, under some friendly bush, close to the 
 fragrant moss that hides one's tears without a ques- 
 tion; to the woods, where the rocks are all but done 
 with the toil of change, and growing things are at 
 peace because their toil is obedience to a law that is 
 all their desire and all their knowledge. 
 
 And when she stood on her hill at last, she looked 
 up into its pines, pleading mutely for comfort for 
 belief, at least, and so for tears; for if she could be- 
 lieve in the cause of her woe, she could also weep, 
 and the tears would loosen from her throat the grip 
 of an anguish that was throttling her with cold, ever 
 tightening fingers. But for that numbing of all sense 
 of reality, she must have sobbed as she passed through 
 the town. She had run past the Lawson farm lest 
 the call of her name in some familiar little voice should 
 prick the bubble of disbelief. But safe in the woods, 
 she prayed for belief and tears. And it came, when 
 her hand brushed across a mass of cool, sticky blos- 
 soms, and she saw the laurels beside and all about 
 her ; and " Julian ! Julian ! Julian ! " she sobbed.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE TWINS 
 
 Whether or not Julian was right in calling her a 
 child, she was past the age of despair that beats 
 about in the dark till it stumbles by chance against 
 a door, and the door bursts open to the light, and the 
 dark is at once forgotten. Though she tossed at first 
 on a sea of grief, blown this way by doubt of Julian's 
 love, that by bewilderment, there began soon to stream 
 across the waters a little light, very small at first and 
 far away, then nearer and steadily clearer till she saw 
 its very form. And having seen, she went to her 
 hill and wrote a letter. 
 
 " JULIAN ! 
 
 " Has n't God taught you better yet ? Can you still think 
 my life would be spoiled by our friendship? that it would 
 be less well with me if I had your brave self to run to for 
 help ? Why Julian, I 've done nothing good these eight 
 days, but only wondered how you could be so good and yet 
 so blind. I Ve wondered till my poor brain has cried for 
 mercy. And the very afternoon I left you I came to the 
 woods till evening, so that the Lyndes asked questions, and 
 I said I had been to the farm. And on Sunday I left the 
 house pretending to go to you as usual, and lied again. I 
 
 229
 
 230 Z A N D R I E 
 
 never lied so badly before. But I knew I 'd be wicked with- 
 out you. You see what I do. I want you so that I think 
 I could do almost any bad thing to get you back. The 
 Lyndes are dear and kind, but I can't tell them my trouble. 
 It was hard for me to speak of you even when I was a child. 
 Does that seem queer ? It does n't to me any more. It 
 seems as though I were beginning to understand all of life 
 except you who are my own life. But if I could speak of 
 you, who have now become my grief, what use would it be ? 
 They have each other, you see; they've never been lonely; 
 they aren't like me but like children, they are so happy. 
 Let me come back and I '11 promise faithfully never to do a 
 thing you forbid. I '11 try, if you say I must, not even to 
 love you. Julian, have you ever needed help? If so, then 
 let me come and help me, for I need you and you 're stronger 
 than 
 
 ZANDRIE." 
 
 There could be but one answer to that, she believed ; 
 and she sang all the way back to town. Life was a 
 wonder still! 
 
 The Lyndes had company at dinner that evening, in 
 whose honor the table was set in the garden under an 
 arbor of honeysuckle and red roses, and everyone was 
 merry, but Zandrie most of all. The guests were 
 Messrs. Marshall and Lee Wyndam. It was what she 
 had dreaded and prayed for throughout the week, 
 this coming of the twins, whom Mrs. Lynde had been 
 expecting for the two weeks' visit that they usually 
 made her at the beginning of their summer vacation. 
 This summer, however, Julian had suddenly decreed 
 that they were to spend those two weeks with him at
 
 THE TWINS 231 
 
 Mrs. Bright's; for one of her rooms was vacant now, 
 he wrote, and Mrs. Lynde had a guest already; the 
 matter was settled. And it appeared to be settled, 
 though Mrs. Lynde protested that she and Foggy were 
 much too fond of the boys to give them up, and 
 that there was no earthly reason why they should, as 
 the house was large enough to hold two more guests 
 besides Zandrie. She even went to argue with him 
 in person. But he was firm ; " obstinate," she re- 
 ported ; " absolutely mulish, in fact, and absurd. His 
 refusal was a whim." Even her attempt at a com- 
 promise failed, and he would not hear of their visit- 
 ing her for a day, for more, in fact, than dinner. 
 " Try your arts," she said on that Sunday when Zan- 
 drie set out as though for her usual visit; and when 
 she returned, had she prevailed? Mrs. Lynde asked. 
 No? Then she had at least found out why he re- 
 fused? Could she guess why ? But deceitful Zandrie 
 shook her head, knowing of course that he must be 
 trying, by keeping the boys away, to lift a stone out 
 of her Road to Forgetting; that she herself was the 
 heart of his " whim." In a few days, though, after 
 reading her letter, he would no longer see need of 
 keeping reminders of himself out of her way. He 
 could n't deliberately let her be wicked without him. 
 He would call her back and let the twins stay with 
 the Lyndes forever, if they wanted. 
 
 Any one seeing Zandrie dress for that little dinner 
 might have been excused for labeling her vain, since
 
 232 Z A N D R I E 
 
 it is a fact that she chose her gown only after a vast 
 amount of advice from her mirror. And there was 
 room for choice too, as Mrs. Lynde had been buying 
 pretty clothes for her with the same sort of delight 
 that she once took in dressing her dolls, and Zandrie 
 accepted them all with unprotesting glee. Her final 
 choice to-night was a dress that had the deepest pink 
 in its little roses, because she rather thought boys liked 
 color, and it was important for reasons of her own 
 that these particular boys should like everything about 
 her. 
 
 They were good looking youngsters of thirteen, not 
 enough alike to make trouble for their relatives or even 
 their friends. Lee was her favorite even before he 
 had said a word just because he was, she said, 
 and in spite of Marshall's having lighter hair. 
 
 Marshall was spokesman at first, acknowledged by 
 his brother's respectful eyes as the man of savoir faire ; 
 though it was Lee who started the talk after they sat 
 down at dinner with " Gee, but this is nicer than Mrs. 
 Bright's mess-room, is n't it ! " Marshall's only an- 
 swer being a reminder under the table, where he 
 kicked Zandrie's foot instead, that " gee " was not for 
 ladies' ears. 
 
 " Do you know Cousin Ju, Miss Donallon ? " 
 the man of the world turned to include her tactfully 
 at last in a conversation hitherto of matters alien to 
 feminine experience.
 
 THE TWINS 233 
 
 But she was finely prepared. "Know him? Hasn't 
 he mentioned me then?" 
 
 " No. At least . . . But you see we have n't 
 been there long enough. Only came day before yes- 
 terday." 
 
 " Would n't you have found a chance to speak of 
 me in two whole days ? " 
 
 " I dunno. I 'd have thought of you, maybe ! " 
 
 Lee grinned his appreciation of this gallantry. 
 
 " You rascal ! . . . But I like you better than 
 Cousin Ju you call him ? who has n't even 
 thought of me, you see. He thinks about music, and 
 his miserable work, or what his wards are doing at 
 baseball. Lee 's pitcher, he said. And you think I 
 don't understand because I 'm just out of a convent? 
 Well, I don't ! But that 's the sort of thing he thinks 
 about. He does n't like girls." 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " Mrs. Lynde laughed wickedly. 
 
 " Don't blame him," said Lee. 
 
 His tactful brother glowered at him. " But Cousin 
 Ju 's really an awful good chap just the same. But 
 it 's funny," and he turned to Mrs. Lynde. " He 's 
 been awful funny, this trip. Always used to be in- 
 terested in why, all sorts of things, and we 'd tell 
 him things like you know, Lee other night on 
 the roof. And he 'd give us Hail Columbia of course, 
 only you know he does n't mean it, and calls us double- 
 eyed villains and then owns up he was n't any Sun-
 
 234 Z A N D R I E 
 
 day school kid himself you bet your life ! and 
 did lots worse things too, and is n't really ashamed of 
 'em either. But this trip we don't know what 's 
 up, but he 's kind of cross and acts kind of sick, only 
 he really is n't . . ." 
 
 Perhaps he really was, Mrs. Lynde suggested. 
 
 " No he is n't. Carter 'd be fussing over him like 
 an old hen, if he was. Makes Cousin Ju just swear- 
 ing mad if there's anything really the matter old 
 Carter does he 's such an old tabby about him. But 
 now he 's just all-fired queer, that 's all. Does n't 
 listen to a word we say." 
 
 " And has n't anything special he wants to say him- 
 self either." Even Lee was warming to the subject. 
 
 " Acts as if it was too much trouble to take the 
 pipe out of his mouth." 
 
 " Gee, I 'd like to smoke like that ! " 
 
 " And did n't get mad over something we we 
 were pretty nearly afraid to tell ! Did n't see any- 
 thing funny either. Just sat like a parson staring out 
 the window at the sunset," his ward added in whole- 
 some contempt. 
 
 Zandrie laughed and laughed again. 
 
 " Did you notice ominous symptoms on Sunday ? " 
 Mrs. Lynde asked her. 
 
 She bent her head. " I remember . . . a 
 quirk in the parting of his hair, which might mean 
 . . . error in parting. Yet he 's good at parting. 
 So the trouble must be with his eyes. But when I
 
 THE TWINS 235 
 
 told him that, he was very bearish and ordered me out 
 of the room." 
 
 Poggy chuckled. 
 
 Lee asked if she went 
 
 " What do you guess? " 
 
 " Bet you did n't," said Marshall. 
 
 " Bet she would have," said Lee, " if old Ju had 
 meant it." 
 
 " Both wrong, and both right too! I went after 
 he 'd called the police." 
 
 An hour later she was strolling down the moonlit 
 garden, two sturdy arms about her waist, and a yel- 
 low head below her left shoulder, and a brown one 
 at precisely the same distance below her right; and 
 she was listening with little squeals of glee to a tale 
 of clandestine carousal with mince pie and some beer 
 which, every one owned up afterwards to his bosom 
 friend, tasted different somehow from what a fellow 
 had a right to expect. 
 
 " Beer 's probably something you have to lie about 
 like olives," Marsh concluded. " Bet it was the old 
 beer stuff gave us that nightmare." 
 
 The loyal twins insisted that they shared their night- 
 mares. 
 
 And then from tales of lurid wickedness and its 
 too just punishment, they plunged into details of vaca- 
 tion campaigns. What time they were not learning 
 to sail, this summer, they were going to live on horse- 
 back. Their grandmother Wyndam, whom they vis-
 
 236 Z A N D R I E 
 
 ited every summer, had a cottage on the Maine coast, 
 and they were to have a knock-about of their own on 
 their fifteenth birthday, provided, at least, that they 
 pulled through the intervening years of probation, 
 their guardian having promised it only on condition 
 that they passed three out of every five examinations. 
 But meanwhile he had given them unconditionally a 
 saddle each. 
 
 " We Ve always been riders in our family," Lee 
 said superbly. " Mother rode like a bird, and Aunt 
 Marjorie she broke in one of her own ponies, and 
 Gran'pa Marshall jiminy Christmas, but he was a 
 dead game sport! Owned seven blue-ribbon horses. 
 And Cousin Ju he had two or three himself, but 
 Toper was his favorite all right. Too bad he got 
 killed. He won steeple chases on Toper. And once 
 he did n't ride in the gentlemen's running races but in 
 the general, so he was really a professional jockey in 
 a way, you know. He 's a dead game sport too, is n't 
 he, Marsh?" 
 
 Marsh would back him up on that, even if the old 
 sport was so weak on music. " Say, Miss Donallon, 
 you were just jollying us back there, were n't you ? 
 You really like him, don't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, at times . . . when he is n't sending for 
 the police." 
 
 She danced away to pick three red roses frosted 
 with dew no, four ; one for each twin and one for 
 herself, and one that Lee could take, if he did n't mind,
 
 THE TWINS 237 
 
 to the Old Sport. " Hold it," she said, " while I fix 
 yours in your buttonhole. And you 'd better be quick 
 when I 'm done, or guess what ! . . . Only I 
 would n't really never fear for I know all about 
 how boys hate kissing." 
 
 The twins looked at each other out of the corners 
 of their eyes and said nothing at that moment. But 
 she overheard something later as they hunted for their 
 caps in the arbor. " Gee ! " it was Lee's whisper, 
 she thought " this honeysuckle stuff smells kind of 
 nice. . . . Say, d' you know, I almost wish we 'd 
 . . . let her!" 
 
 " Huh ! " was the answer, " if you 're going to get 
 soft But she 's a dead game sport all right. . . . 
 And say ! she is sort of well, sort of pretty, 
 is n't she." 
 
 And the one who overheard laughed softly for de- 
 light.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ZANDRIE MAKES A PROMISE 
 
 But because she was only seventeen after all, Ju- 
 lian's answer to her letter looked as inexorable as the 
 arm that closed the Garden of Eden, and standing out- 
 side the gates of her own Eden, she saw the road be- 
 fore her stretch away to unending desolation, a thirsty 
 horror fading only into the gray immensity of time. 
 But the figure of the Garden did not fit her case after 
 all, she said, for she must travel the road alone. 
 
 For three days after the coming of his letter she 
 made a valiant struggle to do what it asked of her and 
 to be brave; and she succeeded so well at least that 
 the Lyndes noticed nothing amiss with her. She 
 laughed with them, telling stories of the convent, and 
 even spent a whole afternoon at the farm, teaching 
 Flotilla the uses of magic beans. She had forced 
 herself to read, and to understand what she read too, 
 though that often involved reading a passage four 
 times over before its meaning cooled into shape in 
 her hot brain. She thought she was doing very well. 
 And at night well, at night she had cried a good 
 
 238
 
 ZANDRIE MAKES A PROMISE 239 
 
 deal, to be sure, but she had also prayed hard to the 
 Virgin for courage equal to Julian's. 
 
 On the fourth night, however, something like a little 
 demon hopped into her brain to touch off a rocket 
 question beginning with the old Satanic " why ? " 
 Why choose, if God or Julian invited her to an 
 unequal contest in which the joy of living must go 
 down why choose to accept the challenge ? Why ? 
 when life without Julian was simply a contradiction 
 of terms, and to ask it was inviting her to eat without 
 food? 
 
 Why had he demanded it ? Her thought had beaten 
 itself against that incomprehensibility till her very 
 body was sore. And his letter, for all its pains to 
 explain, still left her beating against the wall; the 
 reasons were no reasons. He was out of his mind. 
 Or else or else he did not really love her. 
 
 Earth throbbed with the myriad voices of the July 
 night a chorus of tiny praises for the fiery day that 
 was done; the sky throbbed with the mystery of its 
 unheard music depth upon depth of stars, and still 
 unfathomed depths, every area luminous with the hint 
 of unseen treasure. And from all that ocean, never 
 a drop of peace for a parched little soul? She lay 
 stifled by infinity, an atom caught in the whirlpool of 
 being, an absurd speck that God had probably forgot- 
 ten and that might choose either good or evil without 
 disturbing by a hair's breadth the movement of his
 
 240 Z A N D R I E 
 
 august machinery. Julian was right in that she had 
 known nothing of the world. She had seen neither 
 its complexity nor its vastness. She had believed her- 
 self an item that counted in its economy. Her once 
 dreamed-of work in the world? O pitiful, sublime 
 conceit ! The idea that Julian had need of her he 
 himself had proved rather well the absurdity of that. 
 She was not needed even by the two good souls who 
 had asked her to live with them until she should find 
 her work. And she was never to find it, because it 
 did not exist. 
 
 Then why be " brave," when bravery meant merely 
 a journey of lonely terror down the road that Julian 
 had the arrogance to tell her must be her way? 
 "Must?" In heaven's name, why? Why not defy 
 his "must," and God himself? Why not slip of her 
 own will out of all known enigmas? take the un- 
 known for better or for worse? That would hardly 
 be cowardice. But perhaps all good believers were 
 wrong and Dr. Summers was right, and there was 
 neither heaven nor hell, but a friendly void, the end 
 of pain and bliss. Then she could at least obey Ju- 
 lian and forget ! 
 
 She sat up slowly, more like a child that knows 
 itself naughty, than like one who has gripped a great 
 resolve, and felt for Julian's letter under her pillow. 
 It must not be left behind for other eyes. She would 
 have liked to carry it bodily with her into the next 
 world; and meanwhile it possessed her thought so
 
 ZANDRIE MAKES A PROMISE 241 
 
 that she forgot to plan how she would enter that 
 world herself. Her resolve to die was as undefined as 
 great. 
 
 For several minutes she fingered its sheets, caress- 
 ing, folding them, and again unfolding, summoning 
 in vain the will to tear them. She had rather tear 
 her own flesh, almost, than the writing there. It was 
 almost all that she owned of Julian now. Well then, 
 she would compromise with her stubborn hands, and 
 read once more, though she knew it all by heart al- 
 ready. So she felt stealthily for a match, and, star- 
 tled to breathlessness by its hiss, lit a candle. The 
 sight of Julian's hand-writing brought him so vividly 
 near that her hands dropped to her lap, and " O 
 Mother of God! " she whispered, " how could you let 
 him!" 
 
 When she took up the letter again, her glance fell 
 on some words near the end : " Then why not live 
 near each other in simple friendship ? you ask. I Ve 
 asked it myself often enough, but the answer always 
 comes out the same : because I could n't do my part ; 
 because I 'd go on loving you and showing it too, for 
 I 'm mighty poor at acting. You love me now as well, 
 as you can now, but I reckon* that 's because you were 
 made for loving and the first man you met loved you. 
 The sight of my love would bind you in yours, just 
 because you 're you. If I could give you anything 
 like the life you ought to have, perhaps I 'd have the 
 right to try to keep your love, though I 'm wholly un- 
 
 16
 
 242 Z A N D R I E 
 
 worthy of you and have been even more so in the past. 
 You 've seen the best of me, and hardly anything but 
 the best, you know. You don't know what a vil- 
 lainous temper I 've got, or how often it gets me. 
 Carter could tell you a thing or two. But even with 
 a nice disposition, no old thing with a crack in his 
 spine would have a right to you. Honor alone would 
 require me to leave you free to give you your 
 chance, that is, for the best sort of life and the fullest 
 happiness. And when you are all grown up, dear, 
 it will come, and you '11 justify me." 
 
 O yes, she knew all that by heart; and the thought 
 was already old, that if his love were as deep as hers, 
 it would teach him better wisdom. 
 
 She turned listlessly back to the first sheet. " Dear 
 heart," it began and she could tell what followed 
 with her eyes shut " I wish more than ever before 
 that I could play to you, for then perhaps I could 
 make you see." 
 
 Make her see ! when, if she was blind, he was 
 both blind and deaf! 
 
 Glancing up, she caught sight of her face in a mir- 
 ror, and started at recognizing it as her own the 
 eyes shadowed beneath in the flickering candlelight, 
 the lips set in lines of bitter grief. No one who saw 
 those would call her a child! Julian's eyes were 
 shadowed like that when she last saw them yet 
 brave too; yes, cruelly brave like the letter here. As 
 soon pity the archangel Michael in his arrogant pride
 
 ZANDRIE MAKES A PROMISE 243 
 
 of strength, as the man who could write this. She 
 turned the sheets over mechanically, reading without 
 heeding. 
 
 Wait! what was it he said here? She read 
 again : " Have I ever needed help ? Dear, can you 
 ask it in earnest ? I know you 've called me brave and 
 thought me strong, but surely not quite as strong as 
 that ? It 's true I used to like danger and don't fear 
 death, but what do you think of a fellow who often 
 fears living, because of the humiliation of having to 
 live in a wheel-chair or be carried about like a baby, 
 and flies into rages because he can't have his own 
 way? That fear of living has almost got the best of 
 me at times, and the resolve to live and fight it out 
 to the end has come out on top chiefly because well, 
 I reckon because it was too indecent cowardice to do 
 anything else." 
 
 " To live and fight it out " had she seen those 
 words before? Why, those meant yes, they must 
 mean that he had thought of of what she had de- 
 cided this very night to do presently. If they had not 
 appeared on the paper, as the writing on the wall, she 
 had read them over and over without heeding. And 
 she had thought she knew the letter by heart ! " The 
 resolve to live "... Ah, one suffers very much 
 before one comes to the need of that resolve. And 
 then, unforeseen, some words of her own stormed her 
 memory, swarming through her brain till it rang and 
 echoed with the odd clamor very odd indeed for
 
 244 Z A N D R I E 
 
 the reason that though the voice seemed to come from 
 without, it was her own. " Why do you look at me 
 so ? I 'm glad ! glad ! I '11 remember at least that you 
 can suffer too." 
 
 She threw herself back on the bed and stopped her 
 ears, to banish the ghost of her own voice. 
 
 It must have taken a long time, for when she 
 opened her eyes, the candle flame was struggling like 
 a poor lost soul in a slough of its own making. She 
 watched it with half-seeing eyes, searching her tired 
 brain for what had happened; but all that she found 
 was the memory of a frightening, shapeless something 
 like a tidal wave, that for a moment had caught con- 
 sciousness itself in its undertow; and then the smaller 
 return waves had come eddying back, till the waters of 
 the spirit were ready to take up their old, sane beat. 
 She sighed and sighed again, but happily, because of a 
 danger past. The only pain left was the pain of self- 
 forgetting love. 
 
 The Knight on his horse rode once more before her 
 vision, confident, splendid, embodiment of the joy 
 of living, mere sight of whom set the blood athrob. 
 When a child, she herself had ridden a pony and heard 
 a whistle of wind at her ears and felt the quivering 
 warmth of horse-flesh between her knees; she herself 
 knew how, at a gallop, one rides not a horse but the 
 rhythm of a song. One must ride to know the alpha- 
 bet of the fun of life. 
 
 But to learn and lose it! Better, almost, not to
 
 ZANDRIE MAKES A PROMISE 245 
 
 have known, if the fun must go. And when it must 
 be exchanged for unending dreariness; when, instead 
 of free to come and go in the sunshine, a man lies 
 chained to pain and the ignominy of bodily helpless- 
 ness, unable to cross a room without aid from those 
 whom he could once have carried on his back almost 
 without bending a man still young, to the core of 
 him abominating dependence She had known the 
 bitterness of deprivation in Julian's lot already the 
 obvious tragedy of unfulfillment, thwarted desires, 
 and present pain. But the worst of it, the gall of its 
 gall its humiliation she had not tasted with him 
 till to-night Remember that he could suffer? Her 
 bitter words were turned prophets of salvation, for 
 with them the full meaning of his renunciation of her- 
 self burst upon her, dragging shame at its heels 
 shame to think how nearly the sacrifice had been for 
 nothing. If he had put her from him, deeming her 
 worth the struggle it cost, and then if she had proved 
 herself a contemptible thing! He had given her up 
 because he loved her as though she were worthy 
 worthy of the love of one who could lose point by point 
 in the game of life and refuse to stop playing, even 
 after he had turned from the last bright chance, be- 
 cause it was not quite fair so he thought yet the 
 last, perhaps, in all the game. If he had been brought 
 to more chagrin through her O Mother of Heaven ! 
 that would have been too pitiful, if she had done what 
 she had planned to do this night the thing that he
 
 246 Z A N D R I E 
 
 himself had scorned ! if he had learned that the 
 great act of his life had been squandered on something 
 meagre, paltry! . . . However mistaken, the act 
 of his sacrifice was still sublime. 
 
 And so she came to make that promise which made 
 life without Julian a possible thing because Julian was 
 yet the heart of its motive; for it was the promise to 
 justify his sacrifice by living as greatly as she could. 
 She would live just for that. And later, " I '11 try to 
 forget too," she said. " I '11 have to forget, or 
 Virgin help me to forget ! . . . But I promise. I 
 promise."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE ROAD 
 
 It seems a. curious paradox that the road to the Hill 
 of Forgetting is stony unless one climbs it blindfolded. 
 But when Zandrie chose that road, in the first flare of 
 resolve the sorry business of remembering to forget 
 looked almost possible. 
 
 Early in July, two days before the expected migra- 
 tion to her summer cottage, Mrs. Lynde fell ill, and 
 though her sickness made a strong ally in the fight to 
 forget, every day in town was beset with ambuscades 
 of reminder grievous enough in a time when it was 
 a feat of will, for instance, just not to walk past Mrs. 
 Bright's on purpose. That temptation snared her 
 only once however, and brought little comfort too, 
 for once in sight of Julian's window that western 
 window from which one saw a piece of the street 
 she had hung her head in shame and fear of seeing 
 what she most ached to see in all the world, and so 
 walked straight into an apologetic mountain that 
 turned out to be Carter, from whom she had scurried 
 away without a word. Often since, she had called 
 herself faint-spirited little fool for not having asked a 
 
 247
 
 248 Z A N D R I E 
 
 single question; but those were not her best moments, 
 she owned. 
 
 Of course her hill was hedged with danger; and 
 there was Billy at the farm, but she could go to play 
 with the other children when he was at the printing 
 house. His mother's questions were easily answered 
 and soon ceased after her explaining that since she 
 lived with the Lyndes she saw little of Billy's Mr. 
 Furness. 
 
 But the Lyndes' questions were to be feared in ear- 
 nest by one so bent on the business of forgetting, 
 though the time was bound to come when they would 
 discover what she had so far been at such pains to 
 hide the fact that she no longer went to see 
 Julian. 
 
 It was in these first days of battle with the past that 
 she asked them to call her Alex, instead of Zandrie 
 which was so knit with memories of the unhappiest 
 years of her life though "of the happiest weeks" 
 would have hit nearer the truth; but, she wanted to 
 start anew, she said. 
 
 Poggy, when his wife fell ill, was for having a 
 trained nurse, which Zandrie would not hear of, how- 
 ever, playing nurse herself with prodigious enthusiasm 
 even after her patient teased her with the charge that 
 she might have made a perfectly good sister of charity 
 after all. For of course, acute though she often was, 
 Mrs. Lynde could hardly be expected to see, below 
 such zeal, the passionate motive of resolve to justify
 
 THE ROAD 249 
 
 another's self-sacrifice. She ascribed it to " natural 
 intensity " and was partially right. 
 
 On the second Sunday of her illness she asked why 
 Zandrie was not going to see Julian, and as Poggy 
 was within call and beautifully eager to be of service, 
 the poor child left the house at once to avoid more 
 questions. But messages flew after her on her way 
 down stairs : " Tell him we '11 be at the cottage by 
 August first and want him as soon as he can come. 
 Tell him you 're the best inducement we offer this sea- 
 son. Tell him " but Zandrie was speeding away 
 in a panic. When she returned however from the 
 Lawson farm Mrs. Lynde had a headache and asked 
 no questions, and whenever she spoke of him during 
 that week, Zandrie managed to change the subject 
 and tell no lies. But that he would not come to the 
 Lyndes' cottage was quite certain of course, and their 
 discovery that his reason concerned herself, seemed 
 bound to come. 
 
 And it did come, one evening ten days later. Mrs. 
 Lynde sat on the veranda, the household cat on her 
 lap, Zandrie perched on the railing, while Poggy in 
 earnest communion with his pipe paced a garden walk. 
 " You think you see him? " his wife suggested. " O 
 dear, no ! Poggy 's in his unsavory laboratory 
 where things are exploding prematurely a little too 
 often lately, I take it. It 's disturbing his mind 
 even his! I know the signs." And after a pause, 
 " I sent him after you to Julian's, last Sunday."
 
 250 Z A N D R I E 
 
 The railing gave such a lurch for Zandrie that she 
 clutched at the vine behind her. One of Mrs. Lynde's 
 friends had called, last Sunday, so that she had es- 
 caped from the house even without messages. 
 
 " And his report," her hostess went on, " roused 
 my unusually feminine curiosity to such a pitch 
 that" 
 
 " Here he comes ! " Zandrie gasped. 
 
 "Julian? . . . Oh, our Poggy 's wraith." 
 
 The wraith stumbled substantially against the steps 
 and murmured " gosh ! " 
 
 "Poggy dear!" his wife reproved. "Before the 
 cat too!" 
 
 But he wheeled about unheeding; and Zandrie 
 hunted in vain for something to divert Mrs. Lynde 
 from the question she had almost asked. 
 
 " He went to Julian's," the ruthless lady said, " hop- 
 ing to walk home with you, and waited till six. I 
 berated you both, separately, for being late but 
 Poggy of course did n't explain for three days." 
 
 Zandrie remembered his inquiring glance when she 
 had come in late to dinner, but as he had said nothing 
 of where he had been, and his wife was still in her 
 room, her guilt had escaped Mrs. Lynde's detection. 
 She murmured now something about the Lawson 
 farm. 
 
 " But what puzzled him to the verge of gossiping 
 was Julian's behavior at mention of yourself. He 
 changed the subject, and asked after my health as
 
 THE ROAD 251 
 
 though challenging poor dear Poggy to a duel. And 
 then it came out that he did n't know I was sick, and 
 when Poggy seemed grieved that you hadn't spoken 
 of it, he got red and incoherent in your defense ; from 
 which Poggy made out only that you had n't been 
 there for ages and were n't expected that afternoon. 
 But of course he never asked why. And next, it 
 came out that Julian refused point-blank and without 
 any given reason, to come to the cottage as usual. Of 
 course he 's often disagreeable all musicians are 
 but dear me! no one need growl at inoffensive Pog- 
 gies!" 
 
 Zandrie found nothing to say to the contrary. 
 
 " Now then, I 'm going to brave Julian myself, 
 
 presently. Meanwhile O Zand I mean Alex ! 
 
 You intangible little creature! Who knows? you may 
 tire of us, presently ; and Poggy '11 wake up and ask 
 after you, and I '11 have to tell him ' She 's been gone 
 for days and days ! ' Tell me, do you feel it coming 
 on the impulse to flight ? " 
 
 Zandrie jumped down from her perch, but her 
 hostess caught her hand. " Not yet, dear ! . . . 
 Will you go with me to see poor old Julian to-morrow 
 or next day ? I '11 be able to race an auto by next 
 day ! . . . O my dear, I understand. I don't ask 
 you to explain ; it would n't be of any use to ask, I 'm 
 afraid." There was a little something like bitterness 
 in her voice, as she said that. " Why don't you tell 
 things and let your friends help ? "
 
 252 Z A N D R I E 
 
 She stood silent for a minute. " Yes," she said at 
 last, " you can help, then by by not speaking 
 never speaking of him again. Think I 'm tired of 
 him, if you choose, but " 
 
 " I never thought it for a minute ! " 
 
 " But don't ask me to go with you. I 'm not going 
 to see him any more. And and when you see 
 him," she went on very quietly it was wonderful, 
 how quiet one could be ! " please don't speak of 
 me." 
 
 " But when he speaks of you? " 
 
 "He won't; not even if you speak of me." 
 
 " Bless us ! It sounds like a dime novel ! I '11 
 have to padlock my tongue and let him do all the talk- 
 ing ; and he won't do it ! He never did confide in me. 
 So we '11 just sit glaring at each other and Well, 
 dear, don't take things too intensely. I understand 
 these little matters better than you think. You 're 
 bound to make it up soon, you two. " 
 
 So she thought they had quarreled ! Distasteful in- 
 terpretation though it was, Zandrie let her keep it. 
 And yet, if Mrs. Lynde had been ever so little different 
 less like a child, for instance . . . The impulse 
 to tell her all was often urgent; it was so compelling 
 even at this moment that Zandrie suddenly took Mrs. 
 Lynde's face between her hands and turned it to the 
 moonlight. Then her hands dropped, and she went 
 into the house. 
 
 A few days later Mrs. Lynde made her call on
 
 THE ROAD 253 
 
 Julian, but found him " even gruffer than usual." His 
 reason for refusing to come to the cottage now 
 appeared to be, that he was going to, a camp in Ver- 
 mont with his friend the organist of the Catholic 
 church; Carter too, of course. If she had hoped for 
 light on the subject of his breach with Zandrie, he had 
 evidently disappointed her. He acted as though he 
 needed a vacation, she said, and she was glad enough 
 when the ringing of the fire bell gave her an excuse 
 for cutting her call short. She always ran to fires. 
 " ' It 's all very well to dissemble your love, but why 
 should you kick me down stairs ? ' ' she sang ; and 
 when Poggy asked who wrote that vulgar ditty, 
 "Charles Wesley?" she mused sweetly, "or was it 
 Mrs. Hemans ? " But for all her shocking levity she 
 showed excellent self control about asking questions, 
 and if she made further efforts to understand the 
 breach she supposed to exist, she said nothing about 
 them to Zandrie. 
 
 The cottage was her own property, a charming 
 little house on the coast of southern Maine, in a colony 
 of " the sort of people she was used to." She always 
 wanted to marry a business man, she said, but to live in 
 a manufacturing town the year round was another 
 matter ; as she could n't afford an auto, she liked to 
 play with people who talked of something besides 
 motoring and shop. In fact she really had to come 
 down here to save her clothes and her soul. The only 
 lack was poor dear Poggy. It would be so perfect if
 
 254 Z A N D R I E 
 
 only he could be here more. In which he agreed with 
 her, perhaps. But he came every Saturday evening, 
 tired out, and had to return to his laboratory, tired 
 still, Monday morning, his wife keeping open house 
 joyously the while. There was something a little 
 pathetic in the droop of his shoulders as he sat among 
 her guests, smiling vaguely at the laughter when by 
 chance it reached him through the wall of his pre- 
 occupation, so. that once Zandrie led him forth for a 
 walk along the rocks; and then he broke his silence 
 to discourse of the dull habits of the pentacta frondosa, 
 and lost track of the time, and was altogether happy 
 till he got back and was reproved for being late to 
 lunch and for having deserted his wife. He sighed, 
 said nothing, and took no more walks without her, 
 which amounted to his taking no more at all. 
 
 Zandrie spent her first days at the shore exploring 
 the wonder-houses of barnacles, snails and starfish, all 
 in a fury of resolve not to remember that someone had 
 been here before her and would be here now but for 
 herself. There was a flat ledge where one could lie 
 in the sun, out of sight of houses, and watch the swells 
 heave up out of the south-east, listening for the organ 
 tone deep and steady under the shifting hiss of the 
 spray. Had it ever brought him, too, thoughts that 
 must be beaten back? She dared not listen long be- 
 cause of them; for she was being marvelously good 
 about keeping her promise. Indeed she thought she 
 had come a long way on her road.
 
 THE ROAD 255 
 
 One afternoon her friend Mrs. Lynde set a good- 
 sized boulder in the way, apparently with intention, 
 though it may be that she had really forgotten the plea 
 for help. She never dreamed, she said, that Julian 
 could flirt not till two or three years ago here at the 
 shore. " She was a fascinating girl lots of atten- 
 tion from men so much that I warned her to be 
 good when she came here." She laughed, and Zandrie 
 affected interest in a perfectly parvenu muscle-shell at 
 her feet. As a matter of fact she was unreasoningly, 
 guiltily glad of a new stone in the road, and in fear 
 of its being removed all too soon. But Mrs. Lynde 
 had more to say. " I wrote her there was an invalid 
 gentleman here whose life she really must n't ruin . 
 It was really funny . . . though he was 
 good looking enough, if one admires fair men he 
 showed the marks of illness so much less than now; 
 and she expected from my letter to find a middle-aged, 
 dyspeptic horror. But as for his flirting it never 
 occurred to me that he could or be dangerous if he 
 did. Oh, it was nothing serious, of course; she mar- 
 ried, the next year. But I was just surprised that it 
 was she had the worst of the encounter that 's all. 
 And it was nothing but outrageous, arrant flirting on 
 his part. He said so. Even said by way of self 
 defense, though quite seriously too, that he could n't 
 do anything else! was n't in a position to. O these 
 men! . . . But he 's right, of course, about not 
 marrying. Perfectly. He 'd be difficult enough to
 
 256 ZANDRIE 
 
 live with even under the most favoring circumstances 
 favoring to his temper, you know ; but ... 
 Heaven send angel Poggies to all of us ! " 
 
 Questions that Zandrie had no courage to ask, 
 clamored in her; but Mrs. Lynde, conscious perhaps 
 of a duty well done, changed the subject. 
 
 Result of the dutiful act : a night of new imaginings, 
 memories, questioning, and incredulous indignation 
 against Mrs. Lynde's unsympathetic attitude towards 
 Julian himself and the question of his marrying; all 
 to the accompaniment of a wet pillow. 
 
 Then, luckily, the road began to be enlivened by 
 certain travelers coming from worlds so different from 
 the one she had known, that their words caught the ear 
 of her interest at last. Mrs. Lynde's visitors, for a 
 fact, were seldom dull. But the one who could hold 
 attention best of them all, did not whirl in till one 
 Saturday in October to spend Sunday only, so he 
 said. But he stayed a week. And in that week 
 Dr. Francis Royce showed himself in a distracting 
 variety of lights. Whatever was to be said for or 
 against the color of his eyes, his faults did not include 
 monotony. With Poggy he discussed heavy scientific 
 questions. To Mrs. Lynde he displayed quasi-filial 
 devotion spiced with gallantry; the two were never 
 heard to exchange a serious thought. With Zandrie 
 he was, by turns, brotherly, paternal, audacious, meek, 
 masterful, elaborately formal, impertinent, and the 
 pink of courtesy. A great help, no doubt of that !
 
 THE ROAD 257 
 
 One ofternoon, seated on a ledge above a swirl of 
 green water, she was startled to find him standing near, 
 eyeing her with prodigious solemnity. " Now, at the 
 end of the week, what do you really think of me ?" he 
 demanded. " I 've come for a last and candid state- 
 ment of your opinion." 
 
 At least he could make one laugh. But she had told 
 him already that she liked him not at all. " You 're 
 going? " she said. 
 
 He looked at her quizzically. " Hard to read with- 
 out a pony. . . . Yes, I 'm going. My orgy 
 of irresponsibility is ended." 
 
 One had to have thought of a thing before having 
 an opinion, she said gravely. 
 
 " O never ! or seldom. But honestly, Miss Alex, 
 if I were n't artist enough to enjoy the dramatic 
 for its own sake . . . Come, we '11 sacrifice art 
 to truth at last. You 've got an opinion a very 
 positive opinion. You and I are n't of the genus jelly- 
 fish, you know. No one ever met me without feeling 
 quite sure he 'd met something. " 
 
 " Something . . . Yes," she said, " I see it 
 now ! a strange beast with scales that change color 
 with every light, and tentacles all over that feel and 
 feel for others' thoughts about itself. But they 
 need n't feel on this rock ! But there, there, I '11 
 say good-by nicely. Some of its scales are very 
 pretty. It 's a good beast, sometimes, when it talks 
 science with Poggy." 
 
 17
 
 258 Z A N D R I E 
 
 "If you 'd like me to talk science with you " 
 
 "Saints defend us! only sense." 
 
 His smile was paternal. " And you looked so 
 harmless so artless standing there in your little 
 black dress, communing with the miniature that even- 
 ing. So helpless . . .If that lady of the mini- 
 ature had only been my mother, now, and I had 
 favored her, as they say. . . . Jove ! I met a fel- 
 low in Paris once, whom I 'm glad you have n't met." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " So like the lady. You evidently approved of her 
 looks." 
 
 She ignored the implication. " Who was he ? " she 
 asked, her heart beating fast. 
 
 " Blessed if I remember his name. Noticeable, 
 good-looking chap I heard play the organ, that was all. 
 Did n't really know him, but I 've always envied him, 
 somehow . . . Well, good-by. Good-by. But 
 I 'm coming back in spite of you ! " And although he 
 strode away with a shake of his fist, the light in his 
 eyes was neither fatherly nor fraternal. But she 
 noticed it not at all. In fact, the startling idea that 
 it was quite possibly Julian whom he had seen and 
 heard for he had been in Paris eight years ago 
 excluded all thought of the Doctor himself for the 
 next two hours. 
 
 Yet his personality was not of the genus jellyfish. 
 It was often distinctly irritating the insolence with 
 which his kaleidoscopic image careered through one's
 
 THE ROAD 259 
 
 brain, capering into the gravest assembly of thoughts 
 without apology or " by your leave." Yes, Dr. Fran- 
 cis Royce compelled attention of a sort, so she told 
 herself that evening as she and Mrs. Lynde watched a 
 phosphorescent pool a firmanent of meteors and 
 restless Milky Ways with comets of white flame at 
 their core. He had watched it with her the evening be- 
 fore, talking " sense " for a full half hour. She owed 
 him gratitude at the least for helping her on her road. 
 And she had come such a long way now three 
 months along and that was a whole quarter of a 
 year. Three months with never a sight or sound of 
 hey! but this sort of thing was against rules! 
 she was paying the penalty of a sob already, and Mrs. 
 Lynde not a foot away to hear it! She heard, of 
 course, and natural results ensued : more sobs, mutual 
 embraces, tender dabs of a handkerchief, words that 
 look foolish in print, all, in short, except an explana- 
 tion. 
 
 Yet the impulse to tell came often still, and Mrs. 
 Lynde wanted her confidence showed that she was 
 piqued and hurt by her withholding it. But Mrs. 
 Lynde herself had destroyed the last possibility of her 
 giving it, when she had said that Julian ought not to 
 marry. For in the first place her evident personal dis- 
 like of the idea of his marrying seemed to imply a lack 
 of thorough liking for Julian himself, and so to cut a 
 gulf of incomprehensibility between herself and one 
 who loved him. But above all, it meant that if she
 
 260 Z A N D R I E 
 
 knew what he had done, she would take his side. So 
 the habit of keeping her own counsel, already learned 
 in the convent, stood Zandrie in good stead now, she 
 thought. It was becoming second nature. 
 
 Indeed it is a useful, commendable habit, they say.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE WORLD 
 
 With the return to town in the fall, to^be sure, there 
 began a period of fierce, disheartening struggle, when 
 she would wake from a dream of him in the night and 
 smother wild sobs in a promise to go to him in the 
 morning and defy him to hold her from him. But in 
 the morning her courage would waver because of his 
 threat to go where she could not find him, if she came 
 back even once, and because she believed he would keep 
 his word. And so, not to drive hope yet farther from 
 her, she held back. Which shows that hope was ac- 
 tually living somewhere in the labyrinth of her thought 
 a pale, shy, shapeless little hope of some far- 
 away, unimagined miracle that might strike the blind- 
 ness from Julian's eyes and turn his will. Perhaps it 
 was fear of banishing this hope, that held her back 
 even when, desperate with the need of him, she had 
 gone to Mrs. Bright 's even rang the doorbell 
 even stood at the door of his room, her hands over her 
 mouth lest the agony of the strife should send forth 
 a cry. Once she stood for an hour looking up at his 
 window, regardless of passers. Under the pain of 
 
 261
 
 262 Z A N D R I E 
 
 such hours hope ran far away to hide, and desire to 
 live worthily for Julian's sake turned apostate ; anger 
 against him, and the questions, even the temptation, of 
 the night of her great promise came wriggling back. 
 
 Yet, month by month, the anguish of longing for 
 his physical presence insensibly dwindled ; the moments 
 when it would swoop upon her unforeseen and tear 
 at her till she cried for mercy had grown farther and 
 farther apart, until at last, with the help of hope per- 
 haps, she had gotten her grip again on the will to keep 
 her promise and to forget, because safety lay only 
 in forgetting. And so one day, at the top of her new 
 resolve, she turned to look at the world. And then, 
 doubtless because her mind was starving, it fell upon 
 food to gorge itself for a while. At any rate, spying 
 the pantry of science through the crack of a door 
 opened by Poggy, she was for rushing in one day to 
 snatch the covers off all the jars at once. Whereupon, 
 delighted Poggy gave her a popular book on chemistry 
 which she actually read almost half through and 
 some perfectly incomprehensible fireside lectures, sup- 
 plemented, however, by one or two delightfully explo- 
 sive object lessons in the Lynde Chemical Company's 
 laboratories. It was very good on the whole this 
 chemistry jar its fascinations enduring through 
 three solid weeks. Then, orgies of star gazing in mid- 
 winter, till her friends predicted pneumonia and her 
 hostess began to read poetry with her. Mrs. Lynde, 
 in fact, was little likely ever to plunge into scientific
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE WORLD 263 
 
 excesses herself. During those fireside lectures she 
 had been shockingly flippant or frankly bored, or some- 
 times she watched Poggy with a little contraction of 
 her lips. " I suppose he 'd have talked to me now and 
 then," she said once, " if I 'd only conceived an affec- 
 tion for evil smells and things that explode pre- 
 maturely." But although she said it with a laugh, 
 Poggy looked puzzled and uneasy and Zandrie asked 
 herself whether his wife could possibly be jealous. 
 
 Poetry was decidedly more diverting than the nebu- 
 lar hypothesis, but rather less safe. In fact, the only 
 poetry that seemed " safe " at all, like "Paradise Lost," 
 could hardly hold one's attention ; while the poems that 
 could " Euridice to Orpheus " or the last pages of 
 "Pompilia," for instance were so horribly unsafe 
 that she would have liked to learn them by heart. A 
 distressing dilemma. 
 
 Early in the winter the Lyndes began to talk of 
 adopting her, and, without taking any legal steps, they 
 yet went so far as to call her " Alex Lynde " ; which, 
 more than anything else, helped to assure her that links 
 with the past were breaking. The twins did not trou- 
 ble her at all after Christmas, and not so very seriously 
 even then, because of another guest at dinner with 
 them. Mrs. Lynde seldom went to see Julian, and 
 Poggy, if he went at all, never talked about it. So no 
 wonder that by the end of June she could almost for- 
 get sometimes for hours together. Small wonder that 
 at the end of twelve months without glimpse of him, it
 
 264 Z A N D R I E 
 
 had begun to seem as though he had really gone out of 
 her life to stay, or that she sometimes dared look the 
 thought in the face. Reason defied her not to. But 
 beside reason stood a stupid doubt that could give no 
 account of himself, yet refused to budge. " Julian's 
 will has barred the door," said reason; "it will never 
 be opened." To which, " Nonsense, nonsense," the 
 stupid doubt would mumble. And so, dodging behind 
 both was that little rascal of a hope whom, for the 
 chases he led her, Zandrie hated and loved by turns. 
 
 But in proportion as Julian seemed to recede from 
 her life, the kaleidoscopic doctor was entering. He 
 was that other guest when the twins came to dinner, 
 and horrid anxiety his watchful eyes gave her while 
 the twins' talk was of their guardian who was n't 
 half as queer this time, they reported, as in the sum- 
 mer ; but he was n't as much sport as he used to 
 be, either, and scolded them in earnest for putting up 
 money on the Yale-Harvard game. But never mind ; 
 he was a dandy old chap all right. His Puritanical 
 weaknesses were probably due to advanced age. He 
 was twenty-nine, for he said so! Mrs. Lynde ex- 
 plained to the Doctor that the patriarch was a family 
 friend like himself her dimple twinkled wickedly 
 as she said that but that he was an invalid and 
 unable to dine out. Marshall told Zandrie that Cousin 
 Ju thanked her for that rose, did she remember? 
 But being a man of tact, he delivered the message in 
 the privacy of the coat closet. So Dr. Francis Royce
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE WORLD 265 
 
 went away without discovering, through any detail of 
 that evening at least, that Miss Alex Lynde had ever 
 known a Mr. Furness. 
 
 Judging by the frequency with which his duties 
 called him from Boston through this town an hour and 
 a half distant, one must infer that Dr. Royce's practice 
 was phenomenal. Even his flattering appointment as 
 assistant to the great Dr. Ward, at his private hospital 
 in Boston, could not prevent a weekly call on the 
 Lyndes. Yet when he asked Zandrie to marry him, 
 her dismay and surprise were equally real. " What ! 
 live with you always, when we do n't even love each 
 other!" 
 
 But we did, he insisted ; so that she laughed and said 
 that love put on a queer mask. 
 
 " You will love me," he said then ; and to her 
 " never," " Hey ! what do you know about * never ' at 
 your age ? " 
 
 She reminded him that she would be nineteen in 
 eight months; and he took his turn at laughing. 
 "You bewitching parcel of wilfulness! when will 
 you marry me ? " 
 
 " Please do n't talk about it." 
 
 " Talk? I '11 talk till you marry me, if it takes my 
 last breath plus adminstrations of oxygen. I '11 pro- 
 pose once a day by mail and twice in person from now 
 on, till you choose to formally accept me." 
 
 " O me ! " she sighed. 
 
 " I 'm a man of my word and rather clever too!
 
 266 Z A N D R I E 
 
 I knew how the siege would open. Ought to have 
 chosen the army. I 'd have made a Napoleon. I 'd 
 have diagnosed the enemy's case down to the smallest 
 internal lesion. If you'd accepted me to-night 
 Why, upon my word, Alex, I believe I 've just begun 
 to love you ! " 
 
 " You! " she said to that, " you to talk of love! 
 Could you love a girl well enough to give 
 her up?" 
 
 Yet, although she asked that very much in earnest, 
 Dr. Royce said the question was absurd. 
 
 But sameness was not one of the Doctor's faults, 
 and his next avowal was of quite terrific seriousness. 
 He brought cannon to the siege. But the fort, after 
 firing a few capricious shots, subsided into silence. 
 When he declared eternal love, Zandrie smiled. At 
 his charge of cruelty, she smiled still. When he lost 
 patience, she skipped away to her room. 
 
 Next time it was she who lost patience. " You 
 do n't know the A B C of love," she said. " You 'd 
 hate me if I loved you. Oh, I only wish I c-could ! " 
 From which sublimely illogical height she slid into 
 tears of pure vexation and escaped again to her room. 
 But, as he rushed for his train, the doctor chanted a 
 war-song. On the train he meditated strategy. Re- 
 sult, not another proposal for two weeks. 
 
 Meanwhile the Lyndes had evidently enlisted under 
 his flag, for Poggy himself began to alternate his ex- 
 positions of the nebular hypothesis (what did n't
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE WORLD 267 
 
 Poggy know!) with eulogiums of his brilliant young 
 friend Royce " capital fellow ; good son of a good 
 father; pretty sure to make his mark in the surgical 
 field too; considered of uncommon promise by the 
 great Ward " ; et cetera ; et cetera. He became posi- 
 tively garrulous for Poggy. And his wife took 
 Zandrie frankly to task. Any one could see that 
 Dr. France loved her to distraction. In fact, he had 
 told her nice, frank man that he loved her 
 adopted niece with all his heart and was determined to 
 win her. It was really a shame that her dear Alex, 
 even if she could n't give him her love, treated his own 
 so carelessly. 
 
 " That 's the way it deserves to be treated," Zandrie 
 said, and laughed at the discourse that followed. Had 
 Mrs. Lynde encouraged him? she asked at last. 
 
 O no ! she had n't given him the least hope, she said ; 
 she had no right to. But neither had she the heart to 
 discourage him. 
 
 "You want me to marry him!" 
 
 " N-o-o, not unless you love him, that is. Heaven 
 forbid! I only want you to be happy; and for you, 
 you know well, I think I know you well enough at 
 least to see you '11 be happiest married, married to 
 the right man. I once thought forgive my speak- 
 ing of it that you and Julian I was afraid you 
 and he were rather interested in each other, perhaps, 
 before that misunderstanding? I don't know, of 
 course. He never told me a bit more than you have.
 
 268 Z A N D R I E 
 
 But I could n't help feeling, just the same, that it 
 was n't so unfortunate that breach. For your sake, 
 I mean. It would take patience enough to have any 
 man in one's house all day, you know, even a Poggy 
 in perfect condition. And poor old Julian can be 
 pretty terrible. Used to be, at any rate, when he lived 
 with his aunt and hurled paperweights. That sort 
 of thing may be picturesque, but it is n't cosy to live 
 with. Really, not nice. And he had a splendidly 
 straight aim. Not that he ever aimed at her, of 
 course; but one of his men sued him for damages, 
 actually! O well, France Royce may not 
 
 be the one, but he 's certainly a nice, jolly, peaceful, 
 healthy " 
 
 " I hate him ! " Zandrie interrupted, with a stamp 
 of her foot. " And you need n't talk about Julian, 
 ever ! And I have n't any heart anyhow ! And oh ! " 
 she ended in tears, "it 's all so different from what 
 I thought ! " An ambiguous remark, without doubt. 
 
 But in her room she added to herself that she 
 hated Mrs. Lynde; and then, that Mrs. Lynde cer- 
 tainly hated her. 
 
 Paradoxically enough, the first repulse that really 
 disheartened her lover was when he first convinced her 
 of his own ardor; when she cried with all her heart, 
 and was sorry to have hurt him, O yes ! but it 
 could never, never be that she . . . There were 
 reasons . . . Oh, not reasons! That is, she 
 knew herself well enough to know that she could never
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE WORLD 269 
 
 love him, never ! Though Heaven knew how she 
 wished she could ! Paradoxically, it was when she 
 called him " France " for the first time, and gave 
 him her hands of her own free will, to hold for al- 
 most half a minute. When she really almost liked 
 him at last. 
 
 He walked away from the encounter so slowly that 
 he missed his train; and while waiting for the next, 
 he wrote her a letter that included these words : " Tell 
 me just this, for I think that I have a right to know : 
 is one of the ' reasons ' another man? If so, I '11 be- 
 have as well as I can, dear, and try to wish him joy 
 if he deserves it." 
 
 She wrote and destroyed some dozen replies, and 
 was still at it when he appeared, interrogative, pale, 
 restless of body. He was sorry to trouble her but the 
 suspense . . . "I suppose I 'm answered by your 
 silence," he ended. 
 
 " There is the answer ! " and she pointed to the fire- 
 place, where some bits of paper speckled the logs with 
 white. She was standing so as to meet the better 
 what was coming. 
 
 "And it is?" 
 
 " No," she answered, turning away. 
 
 " You 're not bound, at least, to another 
 man?" 
 
 Not bound, she said. 
 
 At the end of a long silence he took a step nearer. 
 
 " Don't touch me ! " she whispered fiercely : then,
 
 270 Z A N D R I E 
 
 " Forgive me, France. Can't you possibly under- 
 stand?" 
 
 Apparently he could not. At least, at the end of a 
 still longer silence he said that he could not. 
 
 " I 'm not bound to any man," she repeated slowly, 
 holding to the back of a chair. "I shall never 
 marry him. But but I shall never marry any 
 one else. . . . Do you understand now?" 
 
 Apparently he did, for at the end of the longest 
 silence of all in which Zandrie left the room he 
 uttered a brief command relating to his rival's ulti- 
 mate spiritual estate, not suitable for the ears of ladies, 
 especially, for those of the little elderly lady who 
 had come to call and was being ushered into the sit- 
 ting-room at the moment when the discomfited doctor 
 wheeled to leave it. 
 
 As Zandrie had not said all that she had meant to, 
 she wrote the rest. 
 
 "I don't know whether you understand or not; but if you 
 love me at all, please, please take my word for it that I 
 never can love you, because I love some one else much bet- 
 ter, no matter whether I ever marry him or not, and 
 that I am sorry, for my own sake more than for yours. 
 For truly, France, I have it in me to be passionate and 
 wicked and to make people unhappy, and I might have made 
 you unhappier than you think you are now, if I could have 
 loved you. If I were you, I would n't come any more to 
 see 
 
 "Yours unhappily, 
 " A.L."
 
 ZANDRIE OF THE WORLD 271 
 
 Is it necessary to write it out, that he did not fol- 
 low this friendly advice ? But whatever he may have 
 looked, he said no more about love or marriage for 
 several months, asked no questions about the man she 
 loved better, and behaved so properly that in June 
 Zandrie consented to visit his mother and sister Alice, 
 who were at their home in Boston for a few months 
 after two years in Paris. They were to return to 
 France in the fall. 
 
 And so it came about that in June the twins made 
 Mrs. Lynde a week's visit and that Zandrie did not 
 see them. And then this teeming month closed with 
 an event of more importance still, the financial col- 
 lapse of the Lynde Chemical Company.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 CONTAINING LAWYER'S ADVICE 
 
 Yes; poor, dear, scientific Poggy, who knew almost 
 everything but the science of making money, was 
 ruined, if that dramatic term befits a man who has 
 been barely able to pay the interest on a house mort- 
 gaged to two-thirds of its value, his taxes, and the 
 current expenses of housekeeping, and whose wife has 
 paid her dress-makers' bills from her own income. 
 But to the Lyndes at any rate, the past stood for the 
 day of prosperity, and the future was hard to face. 
 Their city property was attached, and the laboratory 
 bought by a company that retained Mr. Lynde on a 
 salary as master chemist ; but the salary for two years 
 would barely cover Poggy's debts, and he was de- 
 termined to pay. And so, but for Mrs. Lynde's in- 
 come, which included the rent from her sea-shore cot- 
 tage, they must ultimately have found themselves de- 
 pendent upon the charity of their creditors, relatives, 
 or friends. Trial by newspaper closed with an hon- 
 orable acquittal for Poggy. " The collapse of the 
 Lynde Chemical Company," said the Town Crier, 
 " is an honest, straightforward failure, due in part, we 
 
 272
 
 LAWYER'S ADVICE 273 
 
 are informed on irrefutable authority, to changes in 
 the tariff, and in part to bad judgment." But although 
 this verdict of " dull but good hearted " ought to have 
 sent him on his way, grateful and somewhat consoled, 
 the perverse little man hung his head, scuttling through 
 the streets in all the nervous silence of a convicted 
 felon. At a distance, he passed for an old man ; nearer, 
 he suggested a puzzled child with the eyes of a 
 whipped spaniel. His wife's jokes during the first 
 months after his failure sometimes brought a startled 
 comprehension to his eyes, but no laughter; and most 
 of them went by unheeded. She made them, nowa- 
 days, only in his presence or when she was with cer- 
 tain acquaintances of whom she was not very fond. 
 Alone with Zandrie, she was almost as silent as he, 
 and when spoken to, often answered petulantly. For 
 it was the poor lady's first meeting with poverty, and 
 the ways of that ungracious dame were little to her 
 taste. 
 
 Zandrie, meanwhile, coming to understand the de- 
 tails of the catastrophe by degrees, discovered that all 
 things may and that most things do have commercial 
 value, in the light of which prodigious knowledge she 
 began to see her past self as a thankless object of char- 
 ity, and her present self as a costly encumbrance. 
 For, through more than a year now she had been ac- 
 cepting the gifts of expensive shelter, expensive food, 
 and expensive clothes, with the unreflecting, simple in- 
 gratitude of a child. A dog, she said, would not have 
 
 18
 
 274 Z A N D R I E 
 
 taken favors so for granted. The idea that mere 
 physical existence could cost money, was absolutely 
 new to her; combined with the realization that hers 
 cost what looked, in the glare of her brand-new eco- 
 nomics, like an inordinate sum, and cost it to those 
 too who could now hardly pay for their own needs, 
 it was appalling. And so, when the Lyndes moved in 
 August into a small second-floor apartment and kept 
 no maid, Zandrie plunged into the housework with 
 frantic zeal; though as a matter of fact, some such 
 activity of body was what she had craved through 
 all the restless year of stifled passion, and was wel- 
 come even now, in August. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the sultry day on which 
 they moved, a box of roses came for her. Her eyes 
 filled as she pressed the moist, exquisitely cool petals 
 against her eyelids. It was a brilliant coup of the 
 Doctor's, that, though he sent flowers often enough, 
 to be sure. But to-day was so particularly horridly 
 hot, and the rooms in such a dreadful state of chaos! 
 And so, " dear France ! " she whispered in a sudden 
 exuberance of gratitude that Well, perhaps if he 
 had come in at that moment . . . 
 
 Yet when he did arrive only two days later, his re- 
 ception was not encouraging. She met him, in fact, 
 in a blaze of wrath. " I won't have it ! " she said, 
 when they were alone on the small balcony. " I 've 
 seen Mr. Johnson this very morning. I was writing 
 to you now. He told me."
 
 LAWYER'S ADVICE 275 
 
 Dr. Royce raised his eyebrows in innocence. " Who 
 is Mr. Johnson, in the first place ? " 
 
 Zandrie stamped her foot to keep from crying. 
 
 " On my honor," he said. " Oh, the Lyndes' law- 
 yer?" 
 
 She eyed him eloquently till she made sure of her 
 voice. " I will not have your help. I can support 
 myself soon somehow, I know I can. And I 
 ought n't to live here any longer anyway." Her logic 
 was probably not quite plain to the doctor, either. 
 " Aunt Edith does n't want me any more." She had 
 called Mrs. Lynde " Aunt Edith " since early in the 
 winter. " She does n't ! She hates me sometimes, 
 because I don't tell her everything, and because she 
 says I 'm volcanic and she hates everything that ex- 
 plodes; and yet she always wants new things, too. 
 She wants me to marry you ! " This last was punc- 
 tuated by a burst of tears. 
 
 The Doctor started towards her but wisely grasped 
 a post of the balcony instead. " My thanks to Mrs. 
 Lynde," he said. 
 
 " She she always leaves us alone together. And 
 Mr. Johnson was ab-abominable ! O how could you 
 think it would help your cause to assume so ! I never 
 encouraged you the least bit, but I loved you compared 
 with with now. I " 
 
 " Alex ! " he interrupted in a tone that caught her 
 attention, for it was neither of anger nor self-defense. 
 " I am in the dark, and I think that you are."
 
 276 ZANDRIE 
 
 She stared at him as though she were indeed. 
 
 " Suppose you tell me," he said, " what Mr. John- 
 son told you." 
 
 " About your about the offer of money, the 
 ' provision ' for me. . . . You don't mean " 
 
 " I know absolutely nothing about it. Some one 
 has offered, you say, to provide " 
 
 " And Mr. Johnson said Why France ! are 
 you sure? " 
 
 " Sure that I have n't offered to support you on the 
 assumption of a possible future right ? Yes, I 'm 
 quite sure. If you knew a little more about the 
 world, dear, " 
 
 " You know nothing about it the offer? " 
 
 " Nothing. I suppose I shall hope insanely till you 
 marry some one else, but I 'm not so stupid, in the 
 first place, as to " 
 
 " O France, I 'm sorry ! " And to prove it, she 
 did something for which of course there is no excuse ; 
 flung her arms about his neck and wilted the left side 
 of his collar with tears. " No, it 's only an apol- 
 ogy ! " she gasped, trying to withdraw. " I love any 
 one when I 've hurt their feelings ! No, don't touch 
 me any more. But, O listen how it was! I was so 
 troubled about the Lyndes' money matters and 
 could n't talk to them, of course, so I went to Mr. 
 Johnson. I wanted so much to understand better. 
 But he only smiled and advised me to marry! Oh! 
 And he said the Lyndes told him some one had of-
 
 LAWYER'S ADVICE 277 
 
 fered to provide for me, but that I should doubtless 
 marry soon anyway, and he looked so outrageously 
 sly when he said that ! O I hate him ! And of course 
 I thought " 
 
 " I see. Your apology was more than I deserved 
 although I was innocent. . . . You look as 
 though you'd been worrying. Why?" 
 
 But she scarcely heard, for the affair of the prof- 
 fered money had become a mystery demanding solu- 
 tion, which a little demon had suddenly offered in one 
 word, "Julian!" 
 
 France had to repeat his question ; " Why have 
 you been worrying?" 
 
 " The Lyndes might have taken a smaller less 
 expensive apartment but for me," she said at last, 
 "and could keep a maid." 
 
 " Mrs. Lynde never said that ! " 
 
 No answer; but as he was silent, too, she looked 
 up. He took a sudden step nearer and caught her 
 hands. "Dear! come to me! Take me on trust. 
 I '11 make you love me some day. You brave, beauti- 
 ful little girl ! I '11 make you happy somehow. Never 
 mind if you can't love me yet; I '11 be happy enough 
 just trying to make you happy. I ask for nothing 
 now but the right to do that." 
 
 " Dear France ! " she said, " perhaps you really do 
 love me a little ! " 
 
 "You '11 marry me?" 
 
 " No. Yet of course I 'd be happier oh, much
 
 278 Z A N D R I E 
 
 happier with you than here, except for poor 
 Poggy. I love him dearly. And while you spoke, I 
 even dreamed But it 's gone ! " 
 
 " Alex ! " he cried. But she herself was gone. 
 
 When she told Mrs. Lynde of her talk with the 
 lawyer and explained how she had wanted to un- 
 derstand their financial condition so as to see more 
 clearly how to help, Mrs. Lynde kissed her for the 
 first time in several weeks. 
 
 " So you do love me a little still ? " Zandrie asked. 
 
 But, " Don't be queer, dear," was the answer to 
 that. 
 
 Zandrie caught her breath, and then went on with 
 her account. 
 
 Some one had offered to provide for her, Mrs. 
 Lynde admitted, but she had not the right to tell who, 
 she said; and added that if they had thought of her 
 consulting Mr. Johnson in secret, they would have 
 asked him not to mention the matter. They had de- 
 cided to refuse the money. 
 
 Zandrie winced. " Why did you refuse ? " 
 
 " Foolish pride, perhaps. We took the responsibil- 
 ity of you and prefer to stand by it." 
 
 Stung anew by the sense of alienation, she clasped 
 her hands under her chin, and watched Mrs. Lynde 
 thread a needle. And at last, " Perhaps I ought to 
 marry France," she said. 
 
 The idea had never occurred to her before. But 
 once over the border, it invaded her thought again and
 
 LAWYER'S ADVICE 279 
 
 again, perhaps for the very reason that she fought it. 
 For all her confidence that she could soon support 
 herself, her efforts throughout the fall to earn any 
 money whatever had been in vain, and it was Decem- 
 ber at last. She had no skill in sewing, and was glad, 
 she hated it so; but she had tried to find pupils in 
 French, and had written to an institution for the deaf 
 and dumb, detailing in impassioned language her ex- 
 perience with the McClungs. And meanwhile, it was 
 plain that Mrs. Lynde, though she disliked housework 
 and appreciated Zandrie's help, was tiring of her bar- 
 gain. Inevitably, perhaps, since she was one of those 
 unemotional persons, in the first place, who find it hard 
 to believe the emotion of others quite genuine ; who at 
 best dislike its uncontrolled display, perhaps because it 
 touches their vanity, tacitly demanding something 
 more than they have in themselves to give. " Alex 
 makes me feel like a glacier," she said once. " Don't 
 see why, for I 'm neither icy nor uncommonly slow. 
 But I 'm not a volcano, either. One can love or hate, 
 I take it, as well as keep house, decently and in order." 
 But then, the irritation of living too near a volcano 
 was doubtless aggravated by the volcano's perversity. 
 When a little eruption might have made a diversion, 
 for instance, it would scarcely smoke. Zandrie's reti- 
 cences were always ill-timed, it seemed. And at last, 
 when only a miraculous combination of favoring cir- 
 cumstances could have saved the day, circumstance 
 itself turned perverse. One day in December, for in-
 
 280 Z A N D R I E 
 
 stance, Poggy came home at noon, his face drawn 
 with some new misery, and so far from seeing humor 
 in the fact that his wife was at a small fire half a mile 
 away, burst into tears. Zandrie, who had never seen 
 a man weep, kissed, comforted, and was scolding 
 gently, her arms about him, when Mrs. Lynde came in. 
 And Mrs. Lynde was a jealous soul, as Zandrie had 
 long since discovered; so the situation was trying for 
 all three. 
 
 And so it came about in one way and another 
 that Zandrie sat at her desk on a certain December 
 evening and faced what seemed but the simple fact 
 that she was refusing to exchange a home where she 
 was not needed nor really desired, for one where she 
 was wanted very much. Marriage, that is, still meant 
 little more than an exchange of homes. None of her 
 reading had taught its meaning, and she had never 
 discussed it except with Julian. And so, in refusing 
 to marry France because she did not love him, she 
 called herself a coward at last, whom a brave man 
 might well despise. A coward, and selfish; for, 
 whether France was capable of a love that would meet 
 all tests or not, he was plainly unhappy without her. 
 And she knew that he knew she had little to give. 
 
 Little indeed! And whenever more seemed most 
 possible, there would come some new, poignant re- 
 minder, like the affair of the proffered money. That 
 bothered her still at moments, for the same teasing 
 sprite that had whispered " Julian," now set specula-
 
 LAWYER'S ADVICE 281 
 
 tion whirling about the question "why? " And spec- 
 ulation brought not only memories with their dull, 
 bodily pain, but, lately, a grievous question the 
 question of Julian's love. For people could love much, 
 and cease to love. Had she not met an instance her- 
 self, in Mrs. Lynde? And a man's love, she read, 
 was oftener short lived than a woman's. And so, 
 lacking the knowledge that a man's way of life gives 
 more opportunity to forget than the lives of most 
 women, and not realizing that Julian's had become 
 like a woman's in its dearth of opportunity, she grew 
 to be tormented by doubts. When she asked herself 
 what his having offered the money might prove con- 
 cerning his love, common sense answered " nothing." 
 If he had asked permission to provide for her, it was 
 only because he was the instrument of her coming to 
 the Lyndes. It was of them that he was mindful. 
 There was nothing absolutely nothing in her pres- 
 ent life to prove or even to hint that he cared for her 
 still. 
 
 But for all that, and though she fought her own 
 passion, that passion was still the link that coupled any 
 fact to her life, as a thing of meaning and convinc- 
 ing reality. All other things became at moments a 
 whirl of unrelated, bloodless inanities at which she 
 looked as from afar, indifferent where they came 
 from or whither they went. Whatever had no kinship 
 with her love had therefore no power upon her for ill 
 or good ; could not matter. And Royce himself was a
 
 282 Z A N D R I E 
 
 part of the whirl till the day when she said " perhaps 
 I ought to marry him." For Julian was at the core 
 of every " ought " ; and justification of the sacrifice he 
 had once made was still the heart of her motive to a 
 difficult act. If marriage with France involved sacri- 
 fice of herself, what better justification of his? At 
 worst, if he loved her no longer, the score would be 
 cleared. At worst, she could still cling to the pride 
 that he had loved her once as though she were worth 
 the heavy cost; and if he no longer loved her so, 
 well, that was at least no reason why she should not 
 marry another man. The more why she should! for 
 new surroundings were the best help to forgetting, 
 people said; and she must forget, or ... 
 
 These thoughts, how well she knew them! She 
 had had little peace of her life,. these four months past, 
 because of them. She was very weary of wrestling 
 with them, at last. 
 
 Her hand moved towards the inkstand, to write to 
 Royce, and then went up to cover her eyes instead. 
 Not while Julian was living! Not while she was un- 
 certain of his love, and hope still lived. For mar- 
 riage was forever, and even for Julian's sake she 
 could hardly have killed hope with her own hands. 
 Not to-night, at any rate. 
 
 But the door of Mrs. Lynde's room opposite, opened 
 suddenly, and Poggy's voice rang out, peevish, almost 
 angry. " Why ? . . . Why, for the sake of ex- 
 citement, I suppose, for something new. Forever
 
 LAWYER'S ADVICE 283 
 
 something new ! I told you at the time, I 'd give you 
 six months to tire of your new toy. I warned " 
 
 His wife's voice interrupted. " When it came to 
 adopting her, you were as anxious as I. You were 
 more ! you know you were ! " 
 
 " Because I was a fool ! " cried Poggy, with a pas- 
 sion to which he was, in Zandrie's knowledge of him, 
 a stranger. 
 
 She had never witnessed the Lyndes at strife. And 
 she had brought it. And Poggy Poggy himself 
 had failed her. 
 
 " France," she wrote, " come to me quick! "
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the day after her note to 
 France, she stood on the steps of the Lyndes' apart- 
 ment watching his retreat. His very back was ex- 
 ultant, and when he turned at the corner to raise his 
 hat to her once more, he did it so eloquently that a 
 little newsboy yelled " Let us pray ! " an idea that 
 pleased the little boy so acutely that he yelled it in- 
 stead of his paper for several minutes; but the gen- 
 tleman who had raised his hat took no offence, so that 
 "Yah!" the little boy snorted, "but he's a soft!" 
 That he was an obnoxiously successful, happy person, 
 there was no doubt. 
 
 When he had turned the corner, Zandrie put her 
 hand over her eyes and then shivered slightly; but 
 perhaps that was because she stood there without a 
 coat. She was singing, at any rate, a few minutes 
 later as she dressed for supper at the Lawson farm 
 where she was going to-night to help celebrate Flo- 
 tilla's birthday; and she carried light-heartedness 
 there, as though some drops of the joy of the man 
 she had promised to marry had spilled over into her
 
 IN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH 285 
 
 own heart. Joy so abundant and bubbling might well 
 overflow. But whatever the reason, it was a merry 
 evening, and the first true merriment that she had 
 known in many months. She romped with the chil- 
 dren until they screamed with glee and Charley roared 
 in grief at her departure. How she loved them ! 
 funny, solemn Flotilla, and turbulent Charley, and 
 even forlorn, peevish scrap of a Jamie who smiled and 
 even laughed sometimes when she held him. As she 
 put him to bed to-night, a thought had come that shook 
 her like a burst of music : if she married France, per- 
 haps she might have children of her own! Or was 
 that miracle performed only for those who loved one 
 another, as Sister Andrea once said? Oh, surely not 
 if one were faithful as though one loved, doing daily 
 duties well; if she filled the empty vessel of love with 
 kindness, surely God would count the hard sacrifice 
 worthy of easy love's reward! 
 
 The thought followed her as she walked home, 
 Farmer Lawson trudging beside her in silence as 
 though he too were under the spell of the marvelous 
 night ; for the full moon hung low over the hills, and 
 although Christmas was at hand, and snow on the 
 fields, the air was tremulous with reminiscences of In- 
 dian summer, and the road lay through a white, mist- 
 haunted land created by the spirits of moonlight for 
 ecstacy and dreams. 
 
 When they reached the center of the town, the 
 business streets were thronged with Christmas shop-
 
 286 Z A N D R I E 
 
 pers, whose good nature was put to the test by the 
 long halt of the farmer and his companion before a 
 window baited with a distracting bevy of silk petti- 
 coats. " My wife's mind," he murmured, " has been 
 deeply set on one of them gewgaws for I don't know 
 how long! " And he stood apparently hypnotized by 
 the spectacle till Zandrie, laughing, dragged him away. 
 She would have liked to stop herself, however, in front 
 of the Catholic church a few blocks on, to listen to the 
 music that streamed out through an open door; she 
 would have liked better still to go inside, for the night 
 was made for music, and the organist played well : she 
 knew, because he was Julian's friend and she had 
 gone to mass in order to see him and hear him play, 
 one morning during the period of sharpest conflict 
 with her own will. " I am going to mass once more," 
 she had told the Lyndes, laughing, " for old times' 
 sake ! " And she had for a fact recited her rosary 
 at the Virgin's altar, to the intent that Julian's will 
 might be turned at last. But her belief in his stead- 
 fastness was stronger than her confidence in the Vir- 
 gin's power to touch him. When she went to church 
 at all nowadays, it was with the Lyndes, who were 
 Unitarians. But the reason why she did not go into 
 the church to-night was because Farmer Lawson's own 
 mind was now deeply set upon getting her home as 
 quickly as possible, that he might hurry back to the 
 shop of silk petticoats. As for the reminder of the 
 toilsome past, brought by the organ music of Julian's
 
 IN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH 287 
 
 friend, it could not touch the peace of her present 
 hour, which was the peace of a long- fought resolve 
 and a struggle ended. 
 
 On their way through one of the quieter streets she 
 awoke to a crescendo of curious sounds that presently 
 unraveled into a creak of wheels, a shuffle of slow 
 footsteps, and a torrent of foreign words poured out 
 so rapidly that at first she did not recognize them as 
 French. Suddenly the voice was cut off by a laugh 
 at whose sound her heart-beats stopped and then leaped 
 struggling against an onslaught of smothering joy. 
 
 They were coming towards her, were almost upon 
 her, Carter and a stranger and Julian. He was 
 leaning back in his chair, without a hat, listening to 
 the hurried French of an old man with long white 
 side-whiskers, who walked beside him. The moon 
 shone full on his face, where the last of the laugh 
 lingered so that for a moment the dream-Julian of 
 the past was there before her eyes, with face un- 
 touched by passion or pain, beautiful under the magic 
 of the moon. But before he had passed, the smile was 
 gone, the lines were plain beside his mouth, and she 
 saw his face willful and human, as she had seen it 
 last, so that she must have cried out to him but for 
 the look of a stranger that he gave her. 
 
 It was over already! They had turned a corner 
 and were gone. He had passed without knowing her, 
 because her face was hid in the shadow of her hat. 
 Oh, but it was strange to feel Julian's eyes meet hers
 
 288 Z A N D R I E 
 
 without an answer! He had passed so near that by 
 stretching out her arm she might have touched his 
 forehead. But she had heard the laugh for which 
 her ears had starved for a year and a half. 
 
 Mr. Lawson turned several times to look after the 
 group. " Bust me," he said at last, " if that wa'n't 
 Billy's Mr. Furness, that chap in the chair; but 
 bust me if I know the dago with the whiskers." After 
 a profound pause he added, " He ought to dock them 
 whiskers." 
 
 A tempestuous need to be alone shook Zandrie, and 
 she stopped. " See ! " she said, " there 's no need of 
 your coming farther out of your way with me. I 'm 
 almost home, quite safe, only three blocks from 
 this corner. Thank you so much." 
 
 And so, though he demurred a little, she was rid of 
 him. 
 
 Then a blind impulse turned her back towards the 
 spot where Julian and she had met, dragging her at 
 last at a run. But when she reached it and leaned 
 faint and quivering against a fence, gripping its iron 
 palings, the emptiness of the place mocked her, till at 
 last, with hands clasped hard against her throat, she 
 began to walk on towards the corner that he had 
 turned. No trace of him : the street was as empty as 
 though she had dreamed of his passing; yet he could 
 not have gone very far; he must easily be found. 
 
 She broke into a run again. The year of struggle 
 to forget was itself forgotten, everything forgotten
 
 IN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH 289 
 
 now but Julian and the need for sight and touch and 
 sound of him once more. She ran as though pursued, 
 breathing in sobs. 
 
 All at once, before she could quite stop, she had 
 stumbled against something in her path, and then 
 stared at it in panting stupefaction. It was Julian's 
 chair. When she looked up at last, she saw that she 
 was at the steps of the Catholic church, and she un- 
 derstood ; he was in there, listening to the music. 
 
 The church was dark but for a few moonbeams 
 raveled by stained glass into strands of misty color, 
 for the little red glow of the chancel lamp, and one 
 light in the gallery of the left transept, where the 
 white-haired foreigner sat at the organ. She remem- 
 bered now how, when he had passed in the moonlight, 
 his absurdly long side-whiskers seemed to be falling 
 in two white streams down his black coat. Julian's 
 friend, the organist of the church, stood beside him 
 answering questions about the stops. Here and there 
 one could make out the kneeling figure of a woman. 
 But half way up the aisle along which Zandrie stole, 
 two men sat, one in front of the other, and the nearer 
 was Julian. With head bent low, she crept into the 
 pew behind him. 
 
 His arm lay along the back of the seat, his hand 
 so close that by bending ever so slightly, her lips could 
 have touched it. The whisper of his name could make 
 him turn and know her the lightest whisper ; yet she 
 made never a sound, nor stirred, for, blindly, some- 
 
 19
 
 290 Z A N D R I E 
 
 how, she had stumbled into the idea that to make her- 
 self known just now would spoil the peace of the hour 
 for him; that he was rarely happy to-night, so that 
 for his sake she must be still at least until the music 
 that had begun again was finished. And then ? 
 Her thought reeled, and the words " for his sake " 
 made a riot in her brain, domineering over reason and 
 even the mad impulse that hardly dared name itself 
 as yet. And in the end " for his sake " won. The 
 months in the school of self sacrifice had not gone for 
 nothing, after all; and she knelt there like a good be- 
 liever, quite still but for the trembling that she could 
 not master. But he must hear the beating of her 
 heart, she thought. 
 
 " Awful prayerful woman," Carter whispered, but 
 got no answer. 
 
 A minute later he tiptoed out to fetch the chair that 
 he had left at the foot of the steps. 
 
 If Julian had turned while he was gone . . . 
 But he was attending to the old musician who was say- 
 ing his say in the face of the moonlit night, unabashed ; 
 and because he was listening, she tried to listen too. 
 While the organ whispered violin mysteries, however, 
 it could not hold her, for in this hour she gripped real- 
 ity at its core, and mysteries, questionings, doubts, 
 withdrew till they were as though they had never 
 been. But a hymn of blaring victory and many- 
 voiced praise was another matter ; and when there had 
 come a pause out of which stole a limpid note, and
 
 IN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH 291 
 
 another joined with it, and yet others, till the throbbing 
 pedal-tones closed in, helping the chord to climb until 
 it burst at the top of its glory into a tumult of voices 
 challenging the brain and stirring the heart then 
 the heart of her leapt above the riot and rode with 
 the highest voice as a bird on the wind. 
 
 And then it was over and gone locked away for- 
 ever by the past in its cell of silence; and Julian 
 caught his breath quiveringly. 
 
 " Julien ! " the player called from his gallery. " C 
 est tine fugue effroyable <;a et immortale, 
 hein? " It was a merry old voice, silver, somehow, as 
 his hair. " Mine ! mine own fugue ! You reco'- 
 nize? You have often play it, hein? in the old 
 times ? . . Mais mon Dieu ! il est tard ! II 
 f aut que je fuisse ! " There were some hurried words 
 to the man beside him, whom he left to close the or- 
 gan ; then a clattering descent of wooden stairs. 
 
 The music was gone : a moment more and Julian 
 would follow it. One must spend well the treasure 
 still left. His hand lay so near that she could see 
 the veins and all but feel the vital warmth that 
 pledged its reality. The yearning to kiss it cut like 
 a sabre. . . . Why not kiss it? What harm if 
 she did? She owed him no more than the peace of 
 the hour just given : he had listened untroubled, and 
 the music was over. It was only silly fear of him, 
 then, that held her own hands against her lips; and 
 he had done his worst already in putting her from
 
 292 Z A N D R I E 
 
 him, to grope through the world, alone. Then why 
 not dare to snatch what draught of joy offered itself 
 in the wilderness where he had set her? 
 
 She took her hands from her lips to touch the cup. 
 It was too late. The old musician was come to take 
 the part of her fear against her. The cup was broken. 
 
 Head lifted and eyes wide with despair, she watched 
 his agile transit over the pew partitions to the aisle 
 and Julian's side. With a moonbeam blessing his 
 white head, he might have passed for some merry old 
 saint instead of a thief of hope. 
 
 When he flung an arm about Julian's neck and 
 kissed his cheek, she all but cried out " Julien 
 aime ! " She caught the whisper easily enough. " Tu 
 aurais joue aussi bien que moi. Mais oui ! c' est 
 tout certain. . . . Tu as de bien bon courage, 
 mais . . . c' est damnable ! c' est impossible ! 
 . . . Monsieur Widor remember you, he has said. 
 I have ask him always when we encounter, and he 
 has not forget. It is a grand performer, that ! 
 greater than me, hein? But! my train it will flee 
 away without me unless Au revoir. Au revoir. 
 At the next time we have plus de causerie, n' est- 
 ce pas? Au revoir! II faut que je " But he was 
 speeding down the aisle without telling what. 
 
 The young man in the organ-loft leaned over the 
 rail. " Makes a Yankee musician feel like going out 
 of business! . . . Join you outside, Furness. 
 Have to lock up. Don't wait : I '11 overtake you."
 
 IN THE CATHOLIC CHURCH 293 
 
 " Pick up your dolly, then," Julian said to Carter. 
 
 She watched Carter lift him into the chair that stood 
 at hand, facing her; and for a few seconds, in the 
 thin wash of light from the organ-loft, she saw his 
 face again, and he saw her. She saw incredulous, 
 questioning recognition flash into his eyes, but no more 
 because Carter's great body came between, blotting 
 each from the other's sight. 
 
 So he was lost again out of her life gone like 
 the passing of music. Another flower torn up by the 
 roots. The spot where his hand had lain was al- 
 ready cold. Yet a minute ago and he was there 
 within sound and touch was he not ? That present 
 while it lasted seemed real enough surely real 
 enough to have stayed a little longer ; it could not have 
 escaped so soon slipped with the cheap moments of 
 every day back into the ghost-ranks of the past. So 
 soon but a memory? She had thought she could tear 
 it out of time and so keep it and its Julian forever. 
 But reach out as she might, the place where he had 
 sat was empty. O the madness not to have kissed 
 his hand while it lay close! not to have whispered 
 his name when they were alone but for the men in 
 the far-away gallery. The bitter foolishness, too bit- 
 ter to be wept for ! 
 
 She did not remember until she reached home that 
 this was the day of her betrothal.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 INTERRUPTED 
 
 It was half past five in the afternoon, two weeks 
 lacking one day after the incident of the Catholic 
 church, and the Lyndes' dinner was in danger of be- 
 ing delayed because Mrs. Lynde had gone to the labor- 
 atory to meet Poggy, and Zandrie sat alone by the 
 kitchen table, staring at a saucepan in which the po- 
 tatoes were boiling all to pieces, yet seeing nothing 
 in the world but an aisle dim as with moonlight, that 
 dissolved now and again into a shadowy face. With a 
 little moan at last, she shut her eyes in order to see 
 the face more clearly, but with the movement of her 
 eyelids it vanished altogether. Yet the saucepan still 
 hissed with vexation and hinted in vain; for she was 
 thinking now of some words that she had written to 
 Royce on that night of the church episode and torn 
 up under the shock of the realization that in refus- 
 ing to marry him she would be breaking her word. 
 For although she had lied often, she had broken a 
 solemn promise never; and of the two offenses it 
 seemed probable that the second would be even more 
 hateful to Julian than the first. Ever since that night, 
 however, the temptation had come clamoring, and for- 
 
 294
 
 INTERRUPTED 295 
 
 bidden thoughts that she had believed conquered, had 
 swarmed back to the warfare; so that at moments, as 
 now, she would push the troubling present aside and 
 hold out a reckless hand to the past, inviting memory 
 to do its worst. But even without her will, Royce's 
 unhesitating acceptance of the gift of herself as his 
 right, and her struggle not to shrink from his caresses, 
 -these must have been bound up with comparisons 
 tormenting with their weight of forbidden fruit. 
 Memories must have come flocking, perhaps, even 
 without that glimpse of Julian's face. In spite of the 
 distractions of Christmas, she had had a bad two 
 weeks, without doubt. 
 
 Yet for all the anguish of reawakened passion; for 
 all the new terror of binding herself to another than 
 Julian; and for all the scorn of herself because she 
 could crush neither the passion nor the fear, she had 
 not once since that night wanted to die: for the first 
 time in a year and a half, she wanted passionately to 
 live. For what? For a life with France? Her 
 word was pledged to him ; yet it was impossible to pic- 
 ture her future self as France's wife, bound forever 
 to live with him in peace, grateful for his love though 
 writhing under the touch of his lips ; bound to perform 
 housewifely duties faithfully, though knowing that 
 under that faithfulness lay the love of another and 
 the will to live worthily for that other's sake. So it 
 must be, said reason; for her word was given. Yet 
 imagination balked at the task of making such a future
 
 296 Z A N D R I E 
 
 look real, and Hope laughed at the confusion he had 
 wrought. Poor Hope ! stone blind himself and 
 gone mad, of course. 
 
 Alas for the Lyndes' potatoes! Precisely as the 
 saucepan began to clatter its lid in a last frantic ef- 
 fort to attract attention, the door-bell rang, and Zan- 
 drie, flinging off the big pink apron in which Dr. 
 Royce insisted that she ought to receive all callers, 
 went to the door and opened to the Wyndam twins. 
 
 " But Mrs. Lynde said you were visiting friends, 
 this vacation ! " she gasped. " Oh, you 're so big and 
 tall ! taller than I ! How dare you ! " 
 
 Lee grinned uncontrollably upon finding that the 
 Lyndes were out. " Cousin Ju " had made them 
 come, he explained frankly; "but nobody 'd think of 
 making a regular call on you, you know." 
 
 His tactful brother groaned. " Would n't mind, 
 of course he means. . . . We 've been thinking 
 up things to talk about to the Lyndes. Lee wrote 
 some on his cuff." 
 
 Lee examined his work with pride. " Christmas 
 presents," he read. " School to-morrow ; Carter. 
 . . . Carter 's gone daown east to visit his folks." 
 
 Zandrie laughed at the reproduction of Carter's 
 Maine coast drawl. 
 
 " He 's been practicing." Marshalled grinned. 
 " Cousin Ju says ' raound ' and * daown ' himself 
 did you ever notice ? only not through his nose like 
 Carter because he 's a Marylander. . . .
 
 INTERRUPTED 297 
 
 There 's an Irishman taking Carter's place lots more 
 fun than old Cart." 
 
 Lee had been inspecting the apartment. " Stuffy 
 little hole, is n't it," was his comment. 
 
 " Seems all right, though," said his brother, " after 
 Mrs. Bright's. I say, Miss Alex ! that 's the bum- 
 mest boarding-house. Cousin Ju would n't stand it, 
 I guess, if he had to see those people shovel in their 
 meals." 
 
 " Marsh 's getting stuck up," said Lee. 
 
 " I 'm not, Miss Alex. You never saw such people. 
 There 's a Mrs. Smith comes to dinner in a a I 
 don't know what women call it, but it 's a sort of 
 pillow-case with Jap sleeves and lots of lace, and she 
 tries to pump us about Cousin Ju, and even her hus- 
 band can't stand her. And I don't see how we can 
 stay there all summer ! " 
 
 " 'T is n't decided we 've got to." 
 
 " But if only Cousin Ju 'd say positively that we 
 have n't ! I wish Grandma Wyndam had n't died this 
 fall we had such jolly good summers down there in 
 Maine. That is n't the only reason, of course," he 
 added loyally. 
 
 Zandrie had already heard from the Lyndes of the 
 older Mrs. Wyndam's death and wondered what Ju- 
 lian would do with his wards. 
 
 Marshall did his best to enlighten her. "If we 
 are n't at Mrs. Bright's, next summer, goodness knows 
 where we '11 be. Uncle John Wyndam 's nice enough,
 
 298 Z A N D R I E 
 
 but he 's got too many kids of his own to want us all 
 summer. I bet it '11 end in Aunt Marjorie's having 
 her way. She wants us Cousin Ju and us to 
 live all together with her in Maryland, in Grandpa 
 Marshall's house. She thinks we ought to have a reg- 
 ular home somewhere though seems to me school 
 does well enough." 
 
 It did not occur to Zandrie to ask who " Aunt Mar- 
 jorie " might be ; the possibility of Julian's going far 
 off to live startled away all other thought. 
 
 " We should n't be very near any water there," 
 Marshall was complaining. " And what 's the use of 
 that knock-about if we can't sail her? And besides, 
 how do we know how we'd like Aunt Marjorie? 
 Cousin Ju does n't seem to know much about her him- 
 self, it 's so long since " 
 
 " She was nice to us at the time Mother died," Lee 
 reminded. 
 
 " Why don't you say you want to live in Maryland, 
 and be done with it ? " 
 
 " 'Cause I don't happen to be spoilin' for a fight." 
 Lee smiled wickedly and picked up a book. 
 
 Until she should give Royce some notion of when 
 she would marry him, the Lyndes insisted that the 
 engagement must not be announced. It had occurred 
 to her often enough, of course, that if Julian knew, he 
 might somehow save her provided that he loved her 
 still ; might somehow understand that a horrible plexus 
 of circumstance and motive had twisted her will into
 
 INTERRUPTED 299 
 
 consent to a loveless marriage; might love her at the 
 last too well to let her go certainly and forever. It 
 was only because of a doubt of his loving her still, 
 that she had not told him of the engagement. But 
 now the doubt was overborne by the temptation of 
 the means at hand. She caught her breath, glanced at 
 Lee, who had thrown aside the book and opened a 
 window, and drew Marshall nearer. " Tell Julian," 
 she whispered, " but no one else in the world not 
 even Lee I trust you, Marsh dear Tell Julian 
 I 'm going to marry to marry some one whom I 
 don't" 
 
 But Lee's excited voice rose above hers. " It is a 
 fire, and a jolly big one! Quick, Marsh! Miss Alex! 
 O look ! it just flared up like thunder ! " 
 
 Marsh dashed to the window. The opportunity to 
 finish her message vanished with both boys, who 
 caught up their caps and fled. 
 
 " You can come too, Miss Alex," Lee managed to 
 articulate on his wild course down stairs, " if you can 
 run!" 
 
 She stood at the open window, unhearing, scarcely 
 seeing. 
 
 It was after seven o'clock at last, and the Lyndes 
 had not returned. Mrs. Lynde had probably per- 
 suaded poor Poggy to escort her to the fire, which was 
 evidently in the center of the town and by no means 
 small. So, when half past seven came, and yet no 
 Lyndes, she ate her dinner (minus potatoes) alone,
 
 300 Z A N D R I E 
 
 amused but also disgusted by her adopted aunt's in- 
 veterate childishness. At eight she began to work on 
 some translations of French poems that she was mak- 
 ing, at a suggestion of one of her friends, for a new 
 magazine. She had already received the lordly sum 
 of twenty dollars for two translated stories. 
 
 No sign of the Lyndes until half past eight, when 
 Mrs. Lynde telephoned. " So sorry not to have 
 thought of telephoning sooner, but such an excite- 
 ment ! We'll be home soon now if we don't die 
 of starvation en route. Any dinner left? . . . 
 To the fire? Why of course! Thought we might 
 find you there, though the crowd was so thick that 
 Poggy and I both came out an inch taller. . . . 
 Don't know where it was ? Why my dear ! the 
 printing house on Center street, and Mrs. Bright's too. 
 Greatest sight you ever But we Ve been telephon- 
 ing to every hotel in town twice over, to find Julian. 
 Can't imagine where he 's been spirited away to. 
 Seemed only friendly to look after him if we could, 
 but he 's given us the slip. Vanished vanished like 
 smoke ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 CONTAINING PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 It was true that although presumably alive and un- 
 scathed, he was by no means to be found, even when 
 the Lyndes renewed their inquiries at the hotels and 
 sought out his distracted landlady, whom they found 
 searching the ruins of her home for her mother's china 
 teaset. "Mr. Furness? . . . He's went," she 
 sobbed. " They 've all went. Everything 's went." 
 That her boarders had gone, seemed not wholly to 
 their discredit, considering that the house was roofless, 
 floorless, and very damp; but the poor woman took 
 their departure from the premises as a desertion and 
 affront. For the loss of the teaset she was inconsola- 
 ble. The house was insured, O yes ! but in- 
 surance obviously would not put shattered ancestral 
 china together. She thought the last name of Mr. 
 Carter's substitute was Hogan, but did not know his 
 initials or address, and had no idea where he had 
 taken his employer. She considered it unbecoming 
 of Mr. Furness not to have communicated with her. 
 
 There being nine Hogans in the directory, the 
 Lyndes did not follow up that clue. The twins had 
 not returned to them that evening, and as Julian had 
 
 301
 
 302 Z A N D R I E 
 
 not written to inquire about them, it seemed prob- 
 able that they had met him, spent the night where he 
 had doubtless at the house of some friend and 
 gone back to school the next morning. Mrs. Lynde 
 wrote to them but had not extracted an answer. Mean- 
 while she remembered that the last time she had seen 
 him, he had said he might take his doctor's urgent 
 advice some day and consult a Boston surgeon who had 
 treated several cases of spinal injury with brilliant 
 success ; it was possible, she thought, that the fire had 
 precipitated his decision. " Telephone his doctor 
 here," Poggy suggested; but the doctor himself was 
 in Boston at a G. A. R. convention. " And what 's 
 the use of all this detective work anyway?" Mrs. 
 Lynde asked, " seeing we could n't offer him more 
 than standing-room, and our little Peggy's suits 
 supposing his own went up in smoke, which they prob- 
 ably did n't Poggy's would be yards too short ? 
 What should we say to him if we found him? Really 
 now, I wonder what it 's all been for this chase ? " 
 
 It had served at least to keep Julian well in mind. 
 
 On the sixth day after the fire, two letters came, 
 which Zandrie opened without enthusiasm, though the 
 first held a check for ten dollars from the new maga- 
 zine that had already accepted two of her transla- 
 tions, and the other was from her fiance. 
 
 " Dear little girl," the letter began, and there fol- 
 lowed phrases which lovers have written before to 
 their absent ladies and which had already lost their
 
 PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 303 
 
 novelty for Zandrie; following these, the news that 
 his sister Alice was to be married in Paris in June. 
 Seeing that it was a long letter, she sat down on the 
 lowest step of the stairs with a little sigh. The sec- 
 ond sheet promised more interest, however. " Did I 
 ever tell you of a brilliant fellow I once heard play 
 the organ in Paris? You've heard of Widor, of 
 course. He was a friend of Uncle Louis's Moth- 
 er's French brother-in-law and used to let me come 
 up to his organ-loft to see him make his feet go. Great 
 sport ! Well, one day as I was passing St. Sulpice and 
 heard the organ going like mad, I went in. ' Jove ! ' 
 I thought, ' he must have had a good dinner ! ' It 
 was more joyous somehow than his usual playing. 
 When it stopped, I started up to the gallery, but met 
 a fellow of about my age on the stairs. ' Monsieur 
 Widor 's still up there?' I asked in perfectly good 
 French. ' Did n't notice him,' he answered in Eng- 
 lish for which alone I could have collared him of 
 course. 'Wasn't he playing just now?' I asked in- 
 stead. ' Heaven forbid ! ' said he. * I Ve been toot- 
 ing up there these last two hours.' Well, his six feet 
 of magnificent, healthy body did n't fit my idea of a 
 musical prodigy, and I swore mildly in French. ' Not 
 such a sacre bleu fool as I look, you mean ? ' he 
 called back with a smile of happy insolence. When I 
 asked Widor about him, he said he could do anything 
 he wanted with an organ but did n't always want 
 and added that his manners were ' tres americaines.
 
 304 Z A N D R I E 
 
 Mais ce ne veut rien dire il est plein de genie,' 
 for playing, at least, but I believe he said he had n't 
 any great gift for composition. I did n't see him 
 again except once at the Bal Bullier, where he was 
 flirting with the best-dressed girl in sight; and his 
 flirting was as his playing masterly, joyous, and 
 'plein de genie'. Every girl in the room had at least 
 the corner of her eye on him, and he was a contrast 
 to their Frenchmen. I was standing next a miserable 
 little Italian artist, I remember, who shrugged his 
 shoulders when I spoke of him, and called him 
 ' American-ne devil.' Somehow the mere sight of 
 him roused my envy, and I 've always pictured his 
 career as an irresponsible progress through whatever 
 triumphs happened to hit his fancy, from the out-play- 
 ing of Widor, to the cracking of what lady's heart 
 he chose. Well, this morning Ward called me to 
 help at the examination of a man who has come to be 
 operated on experimented on, I 'd rather say, 
 though Ward is confident as usual and at first sight 
 I knew I 'd seen him before. Though his manner 
 did n't invite familiarity, I asked him who and what 
 he was, and * a proof reader ' was all he vouchsafed 
 at first." Zandrie caught her breath and read on now 
 as though this were the letter of a lover she loved. 
 " ' Maybe so,' said I, ' but whatever you 've made 
 yourself, the Lord made you something else.' ' Only 
 a d d musician,' says he, with a delightful smile. 
 And then I recognized him as my Paris man. And
 
 PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 305 
 
 what do you suppose his enviable career has been? 
 Just after I saw him, he was crippled for life; and in 
 a day or two I 'm to give him ether for an operation 
 that at best can probably only lessen the pain he has 
 had these nine years that I 've been envying him. A 
 regular Sunday-school story, you see. If he had a 
 little Alex to love him, I might envy him still 
 though I '11 make you love me to distraction yet see 
 if I don't! I hope to find time to see something of 
 my genius with the spoiled life: he looks interesting, 
 and he has pluck. Whew ! I tell you, dear, if a doc- 
 tor has a sense of the dramatic and an eye for color, 
 his life" 
 
 But the rest had no bearing on Zandrie's life. 
 
 However good an eye Dr. Royce undoubtedly had, 
 it had failed in the present case to see quite all the 
 colors. 
 
 The man must be Julian: the coincidences shoved 
 all doubt aside; and in her own room, with the door 
 locked, she re-read, feverishly, greedily, the letter that 
 at first had seemed too long. 
 
 An hour later she was on her way down stairs, 
 dressed for going out; and when Mrs. Lynde asked 
 where she was going, she answered " to the Lawson 
 farm," caring not at all that it was a lie. First, she 
 cashed her check at the bank where Poggy had de- 
 posited for her the twenty dollars already earned by 
 her translations, though she had begged the Lyndes 
 
 to accept the money and so to let her feel that she 
 20
 
 306 Z A N D R I E 
 
 was helping. Next she took a train for Boston. 
 During the hour in her room, the sickness of excite- 
 ment that had confused her thought since the inci- 
 dent of the Catholic church and yet more during the 
 week since the fire, passed, leaving reason to travel 
 smoothly to its ends. And first, reason saw that her 
 hope now lay in Julian's knowing all. If he knew 
 that for all her fight to forget, the past was meeting 
 her, lasso in hand, at every turn; if he knew that there 
 was a thwarting spirit on her track, forever snaring 
 her with fatal reminders; if he knew that she loved 
 him invincibly still, and that because of that very 
 love, and to prove herself worthy, she had bound her- 
 self to another man "Oh, but I was mad!" she 
 moaned if he knew and if he loved her still, he 
 would take her back and save her. And perhaps if 
 France too knew all, he would release her of his own 
 accord from her promise ; or if not, no matter ! She 
 would break it herself, if need be, and compel Julian to 
 understand the need. France knew that she loved 
 some one else than himself, but no more, she 
 thought. It had never seemed strange that he asked 
 no questions. He seemed as confident that her love 
 would meet his at last, as though he had forgotten 
 what she had told him that there was an Other 
 One whom she loved though she could not have him. 
 . . . Curious, that Julian's renunciation should 
 ever have seemed so final! . . . Even if France 
 had discovered lately that Julian and she had known
 
 PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 307 
 
 each other, could he guess that Julian was that Other 
 One? If he had guessed, and if he loved her as 
 well, as Julian had loved her would he not have 
 spoken? have asked if he could help her? But she 
 believed he could not have guessed. Nor could Julian 
 possibly know that she was engaged, unless Marshall 
 had given her message, which was unlikely, consid- 
 ering the excitement of the fire. The boy had hardly 
 heard the message himself. 
 
 So she was going to Boston to tell the truth to 
 each; and going secretly lest Mrs. Lynde should in- 
 sist upon going with her, and make delay. And de- 
 lay might bring confusion of thought once more, and 
 the distortion of vision that had made it seem neces- 
 sary to marry France. Besides, she knew nothing 
 about Julian's plans: he might be going to Maryland 
 in a day or two, for all she knew of operations. 
 
 Dr. Ward's private hospital was part of a prosperous 
 block near Back Bay station. The liveried person who 
 opened the door, left her in a reception room while 
 he went to ask whether Mr. Furness could receive vis- 
 itors. She smiled at the memory of another visit to 
 a hospital, and its precious absurdities. To-day there 
 would be no Mrs. Deming, at least ! But although that 
 episode was so long ago fifty years at the lowest 
 and so very absurd, her eyes filled. And when she 
 brushed away the tears, she saw that some one was 
 watching her from the doorway. 
 
 It was a lady in black, with a widow's veil, from
 
 308 ZANDRIE 
 
 under which her blue eyes regarded Zandrie very 
 searchingly. "You wanted to see my son?" she 
 asked at last, moving forward but watching Zandrie 
 still. She stepped with exquisitely supple grace. 
 
 "Your son? ... No." , 
 
 " Mr. Furness ? It was you who asked to see Mr. 
 Furness, was n't it ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 A little flush stole to the lady's face, but her eyes 
 still met Zandrie's. " He is my son. I am Mrs. 
 Roswell." 
 
 " He has no mother," Zandrie said at last. " His 
 father and mother are dead, like mine." Though 
 she stared at the woman who called herself Julian's 
 mother, she saw instead Julian's young face on Father 
 Haggarty's pillow, the forehead puckered with little 
 lines of pain as she asked " And are your father and 
 mother dead too ? " and he answered almost sullenly, 
 " Yes both." Yet it was not wholly a hullucina- 
 tion, for the eyes into which her own were actually 
 looking, were so like Julian's, that She sank back 
 into the chair from which she had risen. 
 
 Mrs. Roswell smiled. " You 're surprised ? But 
 it 's really not so strange after all. Several of his 
 acquaintances don't know of his mother, perhaps, of 
 his having a mother alive ; for you see, I married again 
 when he was so very young, and have lived all over the 
 world ever since, the way we poor wives of navy 
 officers have to. We Ve actually hardly known each
 
 PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 309 
 
 other till lately Sonnie and I. He telegraphed me 
 of his sudden decision to have this operation, and I 
 arrived here from St. Louis last night. But I '11 never 
 leave him again, shall never have to, as my poor 
 husband My dear child, you 're ill ! " 
 
 The lady's voice seemed to come from far away, 
 borne on the sound of rushing waters that Zandrie 
 could not see because of a sudden darkness. But she 
 felt a hand on her shoulder, and the light returned 
 so that she saw Julian's no, the lady's eyes, once 
 more: and there was no kindness in them, in spite of 
 the kindly attitude and the kindly, musical voice. 
 "I '11 send for one of the nurses. You 're faint." 
 
 " No," and Zandrie sat up bravely. " I only want 
 to see Julian. Then it will all be right. He '11 
 tell me the truth, and " 
 
 " You can't see him now. I 'm sorry, but even his 
 mother can't see him now. He 's barely out of the 
 ether." 
 
 "He has had the operation?" 
 
 " Early this morning, and " 
 
 " It 's all over ? Then I can see him and I must. 
 Dr. Royce ! " she started towards the door "I 
 must see Dr. Royce ! He '11 let me see Julian." 
 
 The liveried person was entering the room. Dr. 
 Royce had left the hospital an hour ago, he said : would 
 she leave a message? 
 
 Was it true that no one could see Mr. Furness ? she 
 asked.
 
 310 ZANDRIE 
 
 Quite impossible to-day, he told her. 
 
 The disappointment was exquisite . . . And 
 yet, had she really believed that she should see and 
 speak with him to-day? The idea of life without him 
 had taken such root after all, that she could not tear 
 it out all at once. 
 
 Mrs. Roswell stood at the window a silhouette 
 whose every curve held grace. Even at fifty, Mar- 
 jorie Marshall was one of the most beautiful women 
 that Zandrie had seen. The poor child went to her at 
 last and took her hands. " I believe you are his 
 mother, though he never spoke of you except once, 
 years ago, when he said yes, he said you were dead. 
 Perhaps I shall understand some day. " 
 
 Mrs. Roswell smiled. " It must have been when 
 I was in Hawaii, and there was a report of Captain 
 Roswell's death and mine. Will you tell me who 
 you are ? " 
 
 " I am Zandrie." 
 
 " Zandrie . . . It 's an odd, sweet name, but 
 I have to admit it 's new to me." 
 
 "He never?" 
 
 " No, Zandrie, he never spoke of you. Do par- 
 don me ! but since you would ask me And he 
 told me a great deal, last night ; but . . . We 're 
 going to be very happy together, I think, Sonnie and 
 I. He has needed me for so long ! so long ! But 
 I 've come back to him to stay, at last . . . Will 
 you leave any message ? "
 
 PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 311 
 
 There was a desk in the room, for the use of 
 visitors. Zandrie wrote her message. 
 
 " JULIAN : 
 
 " I had to come : don't be displeased. I will never come 
 again if you tell me not to. I am engaged to a man I don't 
 love. You see, I can't live with the Lyndes any more be- 
 cause they are very poor now and yet won't let me help them 
 with my own money that I have earned; and besides, they 
 don't love me any more, all through my own fault ; and this 
 man I '11 tell you his name if ever I see you again 
 wanted me so much that at last I promised to marry him, 
 because it seemed my duty. I think now that I was insane; 
 yet I shall keep my promise, of course, unless you love me 
 still. I have often doubted lately that you loved me still. 
 It seemed as though, if you did, you must somehow know my 
 trouble and speak to me that night in the church, for 
 instance. That is a foolish idea, perhaps. But at any rate, 
 some people can stop loving in a year and a half, even 
 good, noble people; and if you are one of them, I shall never 
 blame you in my inmost thought. 
 
 " Julian ! I thought I knew you, but of a sudden I doubt 
 that too. Why did you never tell me you had a mother? 
 I am all confused. But this I know : either that you will 
 write to me, and all will be well forever after; or that you 
 don't love me, and I shall marry the other man and never 
 see you again, nor you, me. God knows which, you and 
 God. If you don't love me, you will not write, and so I 
 shall know. You could never do me the bitter wrong to 
 pretend to love me. And so, if you don't write, I shall 
 understand and never trouble you again. But if you do 
 happen to love me still, my knowing it will do no harm at 
 least, will it? Oh, if you do, you must tell me ! I am quite 
 grown up now. ZANDRIE."
 
 3 i2 ZANDRIE 
 
 She gave the folded sheets to Julian's mother. 
 
 " You came from out of town to see my dear boy? " 
 Mrs. Roswell asked; and again there was no kindness 
 in her eyes, though she smiled. " He '11 be so sorry, 
 I 'm sure. Perhaps you '11 come again ? " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 " Or visit us in Maryland ? That would be delight- 
 ful. We 're going there as soon as he is able, and we 
 southerners keep open house, you know." Her smile 
 of invitation and dismissal was wholly exquisite. 
 Zandrie caught her out-stretched hand up to her lips. 
 
 As she had written to Julian, she was confused. 
 Her first thought, after leaving the hospital, was to 
 find France and tell him what she had planned to tell. 
 But even supposing that she could find him, would 
 it not be better to wait until hearing from Julian 
 if indeed he should write? For, if he did 
 not answer her note, there would be nothing left for 
 her but to marry France and try to make him happy ; 
 and he would be none the happier for knowing all. 
 She shivered a little . . . and decided to wait. 
 
 Upon reaching the Lyndes' at four o'clock, she 
 found them worried and puzzled, for Royce had come 
 at noon, had gone to the Lawsons' for her and learned 
 that she had not been there ; then had telephoned to all 
 her other friends in the hope of finding her. Her 
 train must have passed his on her way home. 
 
 When she had to acknowledge that she had told a
 
 PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE 313 
 
 lie, and refused to explain, even Poggy was hurt to the 
 verge of anger. 
 
 During her absence, as she learned that evening, a 
 letter had come from Marshall Wyndam telling of 
 Julian's where-abouts and how the three of them had 
 spent the night of* the fire at the house of his 
 friend, the organist of the Catholic church. " Old 
 lady Bright's house was beginning to go up in smoke 
 when we got there and the policemen did n't want to let 
 us through the line, but we told them it was our board- 
 ing house, but we did n't have a chance to rescue 
 Cousin Ju because the Irishman had done it already 
 and we met them outside near the ropes talking with 
 Cousin Ju's friend, and he made us all pile into his 
 house where he lives with his brother and mother, quite 
 a nice old lady, for the night. Cousin Ju saved some 
 papers and Mother's miniature but not many other 
 articles and we all had to get some new clothes, but 
 never mind, it was a great old lark."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 SHORT BECAUSE HURRIED 
 
 If ever a poor soul had reason for feeling dis- 
 couraged, Mrs. Lynde insisted, or excuse for breaking 
 his engagement if he wanted to break it, and she 
 really did n't see why he should n't want to, at this 
 rate Dr. Royce was the soul. Zandrie had been 
 outrageously capricious, not to say absolutely cruel, of 
 late. 
 
 And Zandrie assented. 
 
 "Yet I do believe you're fond of him. If not 
 But he 's so nice ! Alex, what is the 
 
 matter?" 
 
 At least half the matter though she did not ex- 
 plain to Mrs. Lynde was that Julian had not an- 
 swered her note. And it was now four months since 
 her trip to Boston. 
 
 Two months and a half after that, he had written 
 to the Lyndes, apologizing for not having thanked 
 them sooner for the kindly interest they had taken in 
 his welfare at the time of the fire, and explaining how 
 he and the twins had spent the night with his friend; 
 also, how the destruction of his quarters combined 
 
 314
 
 SHORT BECAUSE HURRIED 315 
 
 with his decision to live with his mother, had made it 
 seem best to go to Boston at once for the operation 
 which was proving successful, he said. " The wicked 
 old pain is almost gone and I 'm learning to walk three 
 steps on crutches. I could have done it years ago, but 
 for the pain. Don't I feel right capable ! " He and 
 his mother were planning to move to the old Marshall 
 house in Maryland, in a month or two. And then he 
 ended the letter with " regards to Zandrie." 
 
 Her despair, leagued perhaps with wounded pride, 
 held her from asking the Lyndes anything about his 
 mother, and their few comments on his plan to live 
 with her threw little light on the history of Marjorie 
 Marshall. 
 
 Five weeks later there was another letter, from 
 Maryland and quite short, ending with " Dr. Royce 
 tells me he is engaged to Zandrie. Please congratu- 
 late her for me." 
 
 " But why in the world should France have told 
 him ? " Mrs. Lynde asked. " He was n't to tell a 
 soul but his family and Dr. Ward." 
 
 But Zandrie offered no reason; and if France ex- 
 plained, it was not in his fiancee's presence. His 
 having told, of course argued some intimacy with 
 Julian; yet, though her eyes questioned him at times 
 w r ith an almost angry envy that he might and perhaps 
 did see Julian daily, she asked nothing in words. And 
 Royce himself had not mentioned him since the letter 
 about him, except briefly in another, in which he had
 
 316 ZANDRIE 
 
 written " by the way," that the man whom he had 
 heard play in Paris turned out to be a certain Furness, 
 who came from her town and knew herself and the 
 Lyndes. But that was all he said. And it did not 
 seem strange to her that it was all. 
 
 Mrs. Lynde, meanwhile, continued to take her to 
 task. " France thinks you are ill. But . 
 My dear, if you would only tell things ! only take 
 your friends into your confidence! But you never 
 have. Of course if you don't care to ... 
 Don't you ever tell things even to France ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I would," said Zandrie, " if he ever 
 asked questions." 
 
 Mrs. Lynde asked no more, perhaps because Royce's 
 step was on the stairs. It was early in May, and so 
 warm that the front door had been left open. He had 
 telegraphed that he was coming " with some news," 
 
 Zandrie was at the top of the stairs before he, and 
 took his face between her hands. " You 're pale," she 
 said. 
 
 " I 've been working rather extra hard." 
 
 " Yet I still believe that if I loved you, you 'd stop 
 loving me ! " 
 
 " Try it and see." 
 
 She kissed his forehead gravely. "Never ! " But 
 it was the first kiss she had given him of her own 
 accord. 
 
 " You shall ! " He caught her in his arms ; and at 
 first she neither answered nor resisted. But when
 
 SHORT BECAUSE HURRIED 317 
 
 his clasp began to relax, " No, hold me," she whisp- 
 ered, "I'm safer so, safe from the dream. The 
 strength of your arms is good." Then, " Take me out 
 with you," she said. " Have you time? " 
 
 " Time ? when you want me a little ? " He 
 laughed happily. " I 'd break an engagement with 
 the archangel Mike, if you asked me to stay." 
 
 " That sounds like naughty me," she said. " Don't 
 grow like me, France. It's awful to be me." 
 
 " What did you mean by ' the dream ' ? " he asked 
 very gravely, when they had been walking a few 
 minutes. 
 
 " Ah ! " and she shivered. " The dream of dark 
 water into which I 'm falling. It comes so often now, 
 and the ghost of it haunts me through the day some 
 clays. I can't explain but of a sudden I see it 
 a dark, still pool somewhere down below me. 
 . Oh ! and I gasp and catch at something 
 to keep from falling, and there 's nothing to catch ; 
 and then the pool itself is gone everything gone but 
 the terror." 
 
 He took her hand. " Dear, you must n't ! " 
 
 " I know it ; it 's morbid of me. But I can't seem to 
 fight it, even, any more." 
 
 He let go her hand. After a pause, " It isn't the 
 Lyndes? the trouble, I mean, that brings bad 
 dreams? It isn't the absurd idea the Lyndes don't 
 love you? " 
 
 "Mrs. Lynde doesn't love me; and Poggy doesn't
 
 3 i8 ZANDRIE 
 
 " she was going to say "does n't dare." But she 
 said instead, " I almost think nobody truly loves me 
 not even you." 
 
 "And that 's the trouble ? " He asked it as though 
 he were thinking of something else; thinking very 
 hard. " As though he were in a feud with himself," 
 Zandrie thought. And then she remembered that she 
 had said that of Julian. 
 
 As in the case of Julian and herself, the man's 
 spiritual conflict whatever it 's cause broke the 
 wires of understanding between them. A minute ago 
 and the impulse to confide her trouble had been urgent. 
 It had seemed as though it would be a relief to tell; 
 and what harm to France, who knew already that she 
 loved another better than him? unless he had for- 
 gotten. She sometimes believed he had. What harm 
 to remind him, though ? Better so ! But the impulse 
 to tell him that the man she loved was his own friend 
 Julian, who no longer loved her the mood that had 
 made the confidence seem easy, was now destroyed by 
 France himself, how or why, she could not say. 
 
 They walked in silence till he drew a letter from his 
 pocket and gave it her to read. It was from his 
 mother, telling that for a complication of reasons, his 
 sister Alice was to be married on May twelfth instead 
 of in June, and urging him to come to the wedding. 
 If he sailed at once, he would be in time. Alice her- 
 self had added a sweet, importunate postscript. 
 
 " Are you going ? " Zandrie asked.
 
 SHORT BECAUSE HURRIED 319 
 
 He was watching her. " I came this morning to 
 say good-by. I got the letter five days ago, but I 
 did n't engage passage till yesterday. I 'm going to 
 sail from Boston this afternoon at five. I Ve cabled 
 Mother to expect me." 
 
 " To be gone how long? " 
 
 " Six weeks, I think." 
 
 She felt the blood leave her lips. Suddenly she 
 caught his arm. " France ! " 
 
 " You don't want me to go ? " 
 
 "I'm afraid! Oh, you mustn't leave me! It 
 would n't be right." 
 
 He seized both her hands. " You don't mean " 
 
 "No, no ! I don't love you, France ! But don't 
 leave me. Something will happen if you leave me 
 alone if you go so far! O France ! " 
 
 "Come with me! Why not! Why not marry me 
 to-day? Alex! I had n't dreamed of that! But 
 why not ? " 
 
 " O no i O no ! " She shrank back from him. 
 " Why did you think of going so far? " 
 
 " Alex, are you going to marry me ever ? You 
 must say. It 's only fair." 
 
 " Perhaps. I don't know. But you must n't go." 
 She leaned against a fence and covered her face. 
 
 After a pause he bent over her. His voice shook. 
 " I believe it 's now or never. Come with me, dear. 
 You '11 be happier away from the Lyndes. I Ve 
 got to go, this very afternoon. I was going back to
 
 320 Z A N D R I E 
 
 Boston in half an hour, but there 's a later train 
 twelve : twenty-five. It could be done before then, I 
 think. Our marriage, I mean." He was so near that 
 she heard his trembling. " Beloved ! Try it ! You '11 
 be happier even with me. Try it. You were going 
 to marry me any way. . . . It 's a double state- 
 room the only one I could get. I 'm not super- 
 stitious, but it 's all quite possible, you see. Come 
 away, dear, from bad dreams from all this miser- 
 able life!" 
 
 " But you 're not going not really, France ! " 
 " I 'm going this afternoon at five. And you 're 
 coming with me." 
 
 " No," she whispered. " But if I don't But if 
 I don't " 
 
 Suddenly she caught his coat with her left hand, 
 covering her eyes with the other. " Take me away 
 with you somewhere O yes, way off ! to Paris, 
 I mean. Something will happen if you leave me all 
 alone." 
 
 " You mean you '11 marry me ? " 
 " Yes yes . . . take me with you." 
 Although three persons were passing, Royce caught 
 her in his arms, laughing softly. " We 've just two 
 hours to get married in ! " 
 
 They turned to go back to the Lyndes'. Zandrie 
 was walking very fast. " Why were you going to 
 leave me ? " she asked. 
 
 " I thought it might be better. I could n't decide,
 
 SHORT BECAUSE HURRIED 321 
 
 at first; but I thought if I went for a while . 
 I had n't much hope, but " 
 
 "You thought it might help me to know whether I 
 really could live without you. Well, I could n't, 
 it seems. But perhaps I can't live with you either." 
 
 " Thank God, you 're willing to try." 
 
 " You 're the only one, you see, who loves me at all. 
 And I ... When one has no father nor 
 mother, one dies without love." 
 
 It was half past ten and beginning to rain, when they 
 reached the house. The Lyndes were out. After 
 some sternly practical discussion concerning clothes 
 and the necessity of buying a steamer-rug in Boston, 
 France left his intended bride to pack a small trunk, 
 while he rushed forth in search of Poggy, Mrs. Lynde, 
 a clergyman, a license, and a ring. With the possible 
 exception of the license, Mrs. Lynde was the least 
 easily procured; but by dint of much telephoning and 
 the exercise of a wit worthy of Sherlock Holmes, 
 Poggy tracked her to a milliner's and ran her to cover 
 on the steps of that establishment. When they 
 reached home, it was ten minutes to twelve, and the 
 minister already there. 
 
 The Doctor and his bride caught the twelve : twenty- 
 five train by precisely three quarters of a minute. 
 
 21
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 IN THE HOUR OF NEED 
 
 If the elderly couple in the dining car, who had 
 nudged each other behind the backs of a younger 
 couple, could have seen the bride an hour later, they 
 might well have looked as puzzled as the bridegroom. 
 He looked not only bewildered, but dismayed. For 
 the bride lay huddled almost as far from him as space 
 allowed in the carriage that was taking them from the 
 Boston depot to the wharf. Her hands lay in her lap 
 nerveless, and so cold that anxiety began to sharpen 
 the lines of perplexity on her husband's forehead. He 
 had laid one of his hands on hers, till she had drawn 
 hers away. " I think I understand, dear," he said at 
 last. " But you know what I what we " 
 
 She shrank yet farther from him. " I know you 're 
 kind." 
 
 When he next spoke, the cheerfulness of his voice 
 was purely professional. " The rain can't last much 
 longer. It '11 use itself all up at this rate." 
 
 But she did not hear, because her mind was busy 
 with other words, spoken between them on the train. 
 She was trying to recall them calmly, exactly. 
 
 322
 
 IN THE HOUR OF NEED 323 
 
 " We 've promised to live together," those were 
 some of her own " but why do married people have 
 to make such a promise ? It 's only when men and 
 women agree to live together, that they promise so; 
 is n't it? And why? I never could see." And as he 
 was silent, she had repeated very earnestly, " Why ? 
 Other friends don't promise so." And then he had 
 turned to her with such a startled question in his eyes, 
 that she leaped to a strange, frightened suspicion. 
 " There 's something I don't understand ! " And at 
 last he had said " Dear child ! Dear child ! " as 
 though appalled and full of compassion. Five min- 
 utes later, panic had fallen upon her. 
 
 He was bent upon diverting her now, on their way 
 to the wharf ; but it was not till his third attempt, that 
 she heard his words. " Think of everybody's sur- 
 prise! The family and Dr. Ward are the only ones 
 who knew of so much as our engagement. That is 
 . . . " He flushed. Then he sat a little 
 straighter. " Yes, who knew even of our engage- 
 ment. When the wedding 's announced, there '11 
 be " 
 
 Zandrie had clasped her hands tensely. " You told 
 some one else. Whatever you do, France, don't lie to 
 me, ever." 
 
 "Oh . . . well, one or two friends, per- 
 haps ... I mean yes, just recently. I 
 knew I could depend on their " 
 
 "Who was it?"
 
 324 Z A N D R I E 
 
 Something in her tone perhaps broke through his 
 guard of feigned carelessness, for he did not speak 
 again until she had repeated the question. 
 
 The stony, monotonous rattle of the cab ceased sud- 
 denly because of a block of vehicles ahead, and the 
 manifold roar of the city surged into its place. It was 
 like a change of mood from common-place to earnestly 
 significant. 
 
 " The man I wrote you about, then," he answered at 
 last. "You . . . knew it?" 
 
 " Tell me everything," Zandrie said in a voice that 
 was slightly hoarse. 
 
 "I ... had n't meant to speak of him." 
 
 " I know it. Now it will be better to, you see." 
 
 He was pale, and worked at the window strap. 
 " Perhaps it will . . . Mrs. Lynde once told me 
 about your leaving the convent and coming north to 
 find a friend a man who had been taken care of at 
 the convent a friend of the Lyndes, through whom 
 they knew you. She told me his name. And she 
 told me you had quarreled and seen nothing of him 
 for some time . . . That was all she told me. 
 But I suspected couldn't help it that he 
 this friend might . . . might be the one 
 whom 
 
 But she gave him no help. 
 
 " I did n't know, of course," he went on. " I don't 
 know now; though I ... Well, I wanted to 
 know from no one but yourself. And then he
 
 IN THE HOUR OF NEED 325 
 
 Furness came to the hospital ; and when I heard his 
 name and where he 'd been living, and that he came 
 originally from Maryland then I was sure he was 
 the friend, at least. He did n't invite familiarity, as 
 I wrote " 
 
 " You wrote that letter, knowing " 
 
 " No ! I had n't caught his name when Ward in- 
 troduced him : thought it was Ferns. I did n't get it 
 right or learn anything about him till after I 'd mailed 
 the letter next morning. I 'd long since forgotten the 
 name of the man I 'd heard play in Paris if I ever 
 knew it." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 "Well ... I told him I thought he knew 
 the Lyndes and you ; and he said ' yes ' and that 
 he had n't seen Miss Lynde he started to say * Miss 
 Donallon ' for some time ; and then changed the 
 subject. And then I wrote that second letter, because 
 I thought if you cared to to speak of him, it would 
 give you the chance . . . And because you 
 did n't, I did n't speak of him again. Mrs. Lynde 
 asked me, two or three weeks ago, why I 'd told him of 
 our engagement he 'd spoken of it to her, it seems 
 I forgot to ask him not to and she evidently 
 wanted to talk. But I wouldn't naturally." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " And just because I suspected, I tried to keep 
 away from him too. Any man in my place would. 
 But circumstances kept forcing us together. He was
 
 326 Z A N D R I E 
 
 at the hospital three months or more. We got to be 
 fairly good friends. But we did n't speak of you 
 again till the night before he left. And then he asked 
 suddenly how you were; and from something in his 
 manner I don't know what or perhaps because I 
 was on the look-out, however much against my will 
 I could n't help seeing he was more than ordinarily in- 
 terested though I 'd supposed from what you told 
 me, that he did n't love you, that that was the reason 
 why ... He paused. " I told him you 
 
 were n't very well." 
 
 " He must have guessed that already." 
 
 But France seemed not to hear that. " Then I told 
 him of our engagement I 'm not proud of myself 
 for that. I just did it to to make surer. And if 
 he had n't had such a hell of a life, I 'd have been small 
 enough to " 
 
 " He knew it already." 
 
 "He knew?" 
 
 " He knew I was going to marry somebody. And 
 he did n't care." 
 
 " And you he . My suspicions, then " 
 
 " You did n't suspect. You knew he was the 
 Other One." There was a long pause. " I wrote him 
 . You may as well know all the rest now 
 and forever. I came here to Boston to see him and 
 you, the day I got your letter when you went to the 
 Lyndes' and could n't find me." 
 
 " I was n't in an enviable mood that day."
 
 IN THE HOUR OF NEED 327 
 
 " I went to Boston to tell him about you, and you 
 about him. And when I could n't see him, I wrote 
 a note which . . . He would have answered it, 
 if if he had cared for me at all ... Oh, 
 give me time ! . .1 wrote him I was engaged to 
 
 to some one I did n't love. But he never answered." 
 
 " He said he did n't know you were engaged." 
 
 "He did know. ... He said that? . . . 
 France ! " She turned and seized his arm. " France ! 
 What makes you think he said such a thing? Oh, re- 
 member carefully ! every word ! I gave the note 
 to his mother." Zandrie was trembling. "Quick! 
 Remember what he said ! " 
 
 "He said he 'd heard nothing about it your en- 
 gagement. He said what I told you, ' I did n't 
 know she was engaged to any one.' And I saw it was 
 a shock, too a bad one, I think. He turned white. 
 And I was devil enough to " 
 
 "I gave the note to his mother . . . But he 
 couldn't lie." 
 
 " He was n't lying." 
 
 After another long pause, " And God let me marry 
 you. O Mother of Heaven!" 
 
 The cab had stopped again. They were at the 
 wharf. France held out his hand to help her, but 
 she avoided it. He looked rather as though he needed 
 help himself. 
 
 Neither spoke to the other again till they were in 
 their stateroom. It was very small in spite of its
 
 328 Z A N D R I E 
 
 two berths. At sight of it, Zandrie had clasped her 
 hands against her throat. 
 
 "Would you rather go back to the Lyndes?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " There may be another room for you. There 
 sometimes are rooms at the last moment. I '11 find 
 out as soon as I get back." He had to return to 
 Boston for several errands. He gave her seventy- 
 five dollars, meanwhile. " That would get you to 
 Paris in fine style, if anything But nothing but 
 loss of life or limb could detain me, you know. My 
 business can't take more than an hour. Still, if 
 you 're the least bit nervous " 
 
 " I 'm not." 
 
 "You'd rather stay here?" 
 
 " On deck/' she said. 
 
 By the time that the deck steward had been found, 
 and chairs engaged, France had to go. His eyes 
 plead, but she had nothing to give. For many min- 
 utes after the steward had left her in her chair, 
 wrapped in her husband's rug, she lay as still as 
 though frozen. 
 
 In her first terror on the train, she had compelled 
 France to tell her that marriage was a less simple 
 relationship than she had supposed. And she was 
 the more terrified now, perhaps, in that she was un- 
 certain whether even yet she understood fully. But, 
 although she recoiled from France because of what
 
 IN THE HOUR OF NEED 329 
 
 she half knew, she hated him first of all as the em- 
 blem of her own undoing. Yes, her own undo- 
 ing, wrought by none but herself. And yet so easy 
 for a God of mercy to have prevented. Rather, it 
 seemed that some demon hungry for malice, had 
 brought her to such woe, driving her to the madness 
 of this marriage. Married forever! to a man from 
 whose touch she shrank, now that she guessed the 
 meaning of marriage. Married, when the mere sus- 
 picion would surely have saved her. Why had Mrs. 
 Lynde not guessed her convent ignorance? not 
 asked a question at the last moment, as a mother 
 would surely have done? Then she remembered that 
 the clergyman was already there and every one wait- 
 ing, when Mrs. Lynde arrived. No, she was not to 
 blame; only herself Zandrie and the malignant 
 Power that led her to marry because of what had 
 seemed proof that Julian no longer loved her, when 
 least suspicion of the validity of the evidence would 
 have saved her. 
 
 Could she question its validity now? . . . But 
 surely, Julian could not lie. . . . And why should 
 he have lied to France? . . . And France saw 
 that he loved her, that the news of her engagement 
 was a shock. 
 
 She sat up suddenly, as the full meaning of what 
 France had said in the carriage, broke upon her. So 
 he had thought, formerly, that Julian did not love her ; 
 thought that was what kept Julian and herself apart!
 
 330 Z A N D R I E 
 
 He had married her, knowing or suspecting he 
 must have suspected that she dreamed of dark 
 waters because she believed that the man she loved 
 did not love her. He had discovered that Julian was 
 the man, and that Julian loved her; and yet he had 
 married her without saying a word without a sin- 
 gle effort to help, because he himself could not love 
 her well enough to give her up. He had stolen her 
 hope, with his eyes open. His love had failed at 
 its first test. It was not till later that she could own 
 that the test was hard. The thing he had failed to 
 do, that was the cause of her undoing, she said 
 now. The sole cause. A greater hearted man could 
 not have failed. " Traitor to Julian too," she whis- 
 pered. And then she covered her eyes, to shut the 
 sight of France from her mind. 
 
 Her note had not reached Julian. Oh no; of that 
 there could be no doubt. His mother had lost it, 
 perhaps. But had she not told him of Zandrie's visit? 
 Could she have forgotten that? And if she had told, 
 would he have written, if he . . . She struggled 
 to think out all the possible results of her encounter 
 with Mrs. Roswell; but her thought only sank into 
 a whirlpool of incoherence, whence somehow, at 
 last, hope emerged. The sickness of certainty that 
 Julian did not love her that, at least, was gone. 
 
 She flung her wraps open and sprang up to give 
 vent to the formless, surging hope that had like to 
 burst her heart. Her feet carried her, she did not
 
 IN THE HOUR OF NEED 331 
 
 know how, to the boat deck, where wind and rain 
 beat unheeded on her face. 
 
 I believe that her last flight to Julian was resolved 
 as innocently as the first, when she trudged with a lit- 
 tle bundle of clothes under her arm, three miles from 
 the convent to the hospital, to tell her Knight that she 
 had come to stay. She had gone to him then as 
 metal to its magnet, without debate of right or wrong, 
 except for the question of what Sister Angela would 
 say, and the exhilarating certainty that the nun would 
 punish her if she could. She had gone to him to be 
 saved. To whom else should she go? So now. 
 And there was no conflict of conscience now, except 
 for a moment, in the matter of leaving France after 
 her vow to abide with him for better or for worse. 
 But the fact that she had signed that contract ig- 
 norant of its terms, must absolve her in the eyes of 
 God and of Julian. Knowledge of its terms had re- 
 vealed this: that of all lives, married life with France 
 was the least thinkable, the most impossible, the most 
 revolting to every instinct. But the thought of re- 
 turn to the Lyndes held cruelly little welcome was 
 equally impossible. And so, from the intolerable im- 
 passe, she flew once more for help, to the one whom 
 since childhood she had made the repository of all her 
 confidence, of the only vital faith her nature had 
 yielded. For help that was all out of a misery 
 that, like the water of her dream, snatched her feet
 
 332 ZANDRIE 
 
 with a threat to suck her down to destruction. She 
 would go to Julian to find whether he loved her still ; 
 and if he loved her, she would tell him all; and then, 
 after that . . . All must be somehow well, if he 
 loved her. And he would tell her how. 
 
 She had intended to leave a note for France, saying 
 that she had decided not to go with him ; but when she 
 reached the writing room, it was a quarter after four, 
 and she dared not stop. For, if he returned before 
 she left the boat, he might insist upon taking her 
 back to the Lyndes. To avoid all risk of hindrance, 
 it would be better, since she could not write, that he 
 should believe her on board till after the boat had 
 sailed. So she left her suit-case in the state room, 
 taking out only a few small things that could be 
 wrapped in a piece of paper. Everything would point 
 to her having gotten up from her steamer chair mere- 
 ly to wander about. On so large a boat, two persons 
 might easily miss meeting one another for an hour; 
 and without proof of her having gone ashore, he 
 would not dare to let it sail without him. Her brain 
 was very clear now, working readily for the first 
 time in four months. 
 
 But although she left no note for France, she slipt 
 her wedding ring under the lower berth in his room, 
 where it would tell him, that night, all he need know 
 for the present.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 " NO PAST IS MINE ; NO FUTURE " 
 
 The long journey was over, and with it, the rain. 
 Out of the west, from under a sluice-gate of metal- 
 gray, ribbed cloud, the sun rolled a tide of mellow 
 light flushing the pools with liquid gold; and on the 
 back of the tide, a warm west wind sang down the 
 street, begging their golden drops from the syca- 
 mores and oaks, yet all so softly that robins and 
 orioles almost drowned its voice. 
 
 It was a street of none but very old houses this 
 Marshall street its dwellings hospitably ample 
 though guarded by jealous, intertwining trees; gra- 
 cious with vines and exquisite with the mezzotints 
 of decay: at sunset, a street of remembered romance, 
 dying passion, and half-realized dreams. 
 
 One old brick house, with its wide, welcoming 
 veranda and vine-bound columns, so wrought its spell 
 of reminiscent beauty that Zandrie lingered at its 
 gate, watching where the sunset light filtered through 
 between knotted ropes of wisteria and their burdens 
 of blossoms, to warm the old, rose-red hearts of the 
 bricks. It stood back from the street behind a cedar 
 
 333
 
 334 Z A N D R I E 
 
 hedge, flanked by undisciplined body-guards of 
 beeches, sycamores, and sweeping pines, apple-trees 
 clinging to their handfuls of late blossoms, lilacs 
 loaded to bending, and brave camellias, all a tangle 
 of crimson, white, violet, and the whole gamut of 
 greens. Somewhere, perhaps near, perhaps in the 
 heart of some thicket far to the back where the ground 
 fell to the level of a secret brook, a veery thrush 
 twisted his mysterious spirals of song. 
 
 When Zandrie met a child whom she asked to point 
 out the old Marshall house, and found it was Julian's 
 gate at which she had lingered, the coincidence 
 seemed a happy omen. 
 
 It was not till the cry of her name reached her 
 that she saw him, because of a dizziness that blinded 
 her at first, and because the long room between them 
 was in twilight. He was at the piano, from whose 
 shadow some one started up and stood curiously still 
 while Zandrie crossed the room to Julian's side. He 
 took both her hands and repeated her name, low, in- 
 credulously. His back was to the western windows, 
 so that she still barely saw his face; but their hands 
 clung together and she knew that there was no need 
 of the question she had come to ask. 
 
 The figure at the farther end of the piano stirred at 
 last. " Introduce us, laddie." It was the exquisite 
 voice of Mrs. Roswell. 
 
 Julian started slightly and released Zandrie's hands.
 
 'NO PAST IS MINE' 335 
 
 " My mother, Mrs. Roswell Miss Donallon I 
 mean Miss Lynde." 
 
 Mrs. Roswell laughed softly. " Is it too dark to 
 see which ? " She brought a chair and rang for a 
 maid, chatting while a massive negress lighted can- 
 dles and a lamp and peered curiously at the guest 
 towards whose face her master's was turned so search- 
 ingly. But Zandrie did not look at him yet not 
 with others in the room. 
 
 Mrs. Roswell exclaimed when the candles on the 
 piano were lighted. " Ah ! I thought as much. 
 We 've met before, Miss Lynde or Miss Donallon? 
 . . . at the hospital, was n't it ? Dr. Ward's, in 
 Boston ? " The voice was sweet with friendly sur- 
 prise. " I hoped we 'd surely meet again. Indeed, 
 I 'd have written if I 'd only known your name and 
 address, but you told me only your first name, you 
 know and I forgot that. O careless me ! But 
 I forget everything! And that was a day of such 
 anxiety. If you only knew " Her voice was 
 pleading now ; her eyes sought Julian's. " If you 
 knew, you 'd forgive me. Sonnie, I hardly dare 
 confess ! I did n't dare at the time. But it 's bound 
 to come out, that I lost that note. She came to 
 the hospital, laddie, and left a note, the very day 
 of your operation; and somehow or other it got mis- 
 laid. Everything was in such confusion especially 
 my poor wits. And then when I absolutely could n't
 
 336 Z A N D R I E 
 
 find it, nor remember her name Zandrie, was it, 
 that you called her just now ? well, then I was too 
 ashamed. I knew you 'd be so disgusted with your 
 poor, weak-minded mother. But I was sure she 'd 
 write, or come again." Her eyes were wide with ap- 
 peal. " I always do confess my sins in spite of my- 
 self!" 
 
 Her smile, if the tales of Marjorie Marshall are 
 true, had bewitched many a man and woman too, 
 before Zandrie, who, looking into her blue eyes, for- 
 got distrust and laid forgiveness at her feet. 
 
 " And I came again." It was all she could find 
 to say, because she was still trying not to look at 
 Julian. 
 
 " I hoped for it," said Mrs. Roswell, " I Ve felt so 
 guilty ; and besides . . . Ah Julian ! you ras- 
 cal ! " Her voice dropped to a tremulous violin-tone. 
 " And I thought poor, silly me ! that I knew so 
 much about you." 
 
 He caught her hand almost roughly to push her 
 away. " I must be alone with her," he said. 
 
 Her lips still smiled although they were pale. 
 
 His hands found Zandrie's again as each stared at 
 the other in the candle-light. " What has hap- 
 pened ? " he asked at last. 
 
 "Tell me/' said Zandrie, "truthfully ..." 
 She thought he could read the question from her eyes. 
 
 Perhaps he did, for his own turned from her, and
 
 "NO PAST IS MINE' 337 
 
 his face grew pale. " You are engaged ... to 
 Royce." 
 
 " No. Don't speak of him now." 
 
 "You aren't ... ? " He looked up with 
 startled, shining eyes. " Not . . . ? " 
 
 " I hate him. I never loved him. I came to be 
 saved from him." She knelt beside him as of old. 
 " Do you love me ? Answer ! " 
 
 " You don't love Royce ? You are n't ... O 
 my God!" 
 
 A minute later, " Ah! " she gasped, laughing softly, 
 "you're strong!" Then tears shut him from her 
 sight and she huddled close, clinging with both hands, 
 her face in the hollow of his shoulder, and sobbed 
 till the steady strength of his clasp brought her peace. 
 " You '11 not send me away again ! " It was an 
 ecstatic assertion not a question. 
 
 He kissed her eyes. " Sometimes," he said, " I 
 dared hope for this. Sometimes though seldom 
 till he told me, four weeks ago . . . and 
 then" 
 
 " You mean if I 'd come before, you 'd have let 
 me stay?" She challenged him with sudden, pro- 
 found surprise. 
 
 " Lately, since the operation especially, I thought 
 that if you loved me still after you were all grown 
 up ... I did n't believe you would, quite, 
 but if you did and ever came of your own free will, 
 
 I thought I 'd have more right " 
 22
 
 338 Z A N D R I E 
 
 " I came. I came. . . ." 
 
 " You came to the hospital, my mother said in 
 the same way ? " 
 
 " Yes And O Julian ! I '11 try to forgive her 
 for forgetting ! " 
 
 " And I ... Tell me about it." 
 
 But instead, "Do you love her very much?" she 
 asked. " I did n't know you had a mother, till that 
 day. That seems so strange still." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " I thought You surely told me she was dead." 
 
 " And you don't know why ? Mrs. Lynde never 
 told you? That was good of her." He would not 
 meet her eyes just then. 
 
 " Perhaps I understand, dear," she said at last. 
 " You thought, because she married again and went 
 away, she did n't love you." 
 
 " I think she did n't very much." 
 
 " I love you," Zandrie whispered. 
 
 " I forbade you to." 
 
 " It was arrogant just like you, dear ! " Then 
 she caught his face between her hands and turned it 
 to the light. "Yes! yes. It's Julian! . . . 
 The past is a dream." 
 
 I think she believed that it was indeed. 
 
 He summoned Carter to carry him to a couch near 
 an open window, through which the western breeze, 
 sunk to a breath, drifted in, heavy with the fragrance 
 of lilac. Zandrie crouched on cushions on the floor
 
 "NO PAST IS MINE' 339 
 
 beside him. He asked no questions. " I had to 
 come," she whispered once of her own accord, and he 
 seemed content. When she spoke of the languorous 
 beauty of the old house and grounds, " Shall we stay, 
 then? " he asked. But she would neither talk of the 
 future herself nor let him. She was jealous, she said, 
 for their first perfect hour; and it was true, though 
 whatever fear she might have was not of the future 
 itself, which had no meaning now, but of its claiming 
 a meaning, perhaps at the fire of some word which 
 might be the signal for fears to rush upon and rob 
 her blissful hour. For her, time was become a star- 
 lit river, flowing from bliss to nowhere but bliss 
 again. " The past is a dream," she said once more. 
 " And if there were a future, it could hold only you 
 and me. It would be this." 
 
 Yet she led him to talk of his own past as though 
 it were real: of his boyhood, before he went abroad; 
 of old haunts and friends, including his first organ 
 master, the Russian, who was actually an exile as 
 gossip had it, though by no means a hurler of bombs; 
 it was he who had played that night in the Catholic 
 church, he said . . . But she would not speak of 
 that evening yet. So he told of the somber evenings 
 in his father's house, and the far from somber nights 
 in his grandfather's, with the godless old man and his 
 merry associates. He told all the best there was to 
 tell of Colonel " Jehu " ; but of his mother he spoke 
 not at all, shrinking in his turn perhaps from what
 
 340 Z A N D R I E 
 
 might soil the beauty of the hour; and Zandrie was 
 satisfied with her own account of his silence. But 
 " I hardly believed good women were made," he 
 said, " till I knew my aunt. I 'm glad you don't 
 know what a devil I was, the first few years after 
 my mishap. But she made me ashamed. I wish she 
 could have lived till you came." 
 
 Of herself, Zandrie would tell only how she believed 
 she had lost the love of the Lyndes, partly through 
 her own fault of silence, " and because I was as a 
 thankless child," she said, " until it was too late." 
 And then she told how she had followed him into the 
 church. " And you did n't know it was I, until the 
 last ? " She rose to her knees and bent over him. 
 " Julian ! did n't you love me at all, that night 
 enough to know when I was calling to you just to 
 turn and save me ? " 
 
 He caught her to him. " I never dreamed but that 
 you were happier than I. Even at the last, when I 
 saw you, I thought it was chance that you 'd come 
 to pray in the church, or to listen. If you had spoken 
 that night " 
 
 " I was afraid," she said. " But I 'm saved now." 
 
 And as long as she touched him, she believed it. 
 That certainty of his bodily presence, and the pas- 
 sionate delight of the certainty, left no room for fear. 
 Nothing else had meaning. 
 
 At eleven o'clock Mrs. Roswell came into the room.
 
 "NO PAST IS MINE' 341 
 
 " I thought this hour would stay," Zandrie whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " It 's coming again," he said, " ten thousand times, 
 and mornings too, and afternoons! . . . 
 Kiss me once more, good-night." 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 ' Yes, for you 're tired. When you first came in, 
 you looked almost ill, so that I was frightened. 
 You 're tired from the long journey." 
 
 Mrs. Roswell was standing very still near the door. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " you 're forgiven ! She 's 
 come back. She 's come back ! I have her ! And 
 George Deming 's coming over to marry us ... 
 when ? to-morrow ? Monday morning ? A day 
 and a half 's a long enough engagement, in all 
 conscience! . . . Here, Mother take her up- 
 stairs, quick ! if you can get her ! " And he 
 laughed softly as he caught her to him again and 
 held her as though he would never let her go, crush- 
 ing out the fear that had entered with that word, 
 " marry " ; kissing his own exultation into her. 
 
 Mrs. Roswell did not stir until Zandrie went to 
 her and took her hand; and then there was no re- 
 sponse but a smile of the lips that meant nothing 
 not love, at least. But a minute later, she was the 
 gracious hostess, thoughtful for the comfort of her 
 guest, whom she led to a room furnished with shining 
 old mahogany, the bed, a great four-poster, hos-
 
 342 Z A N D R I E 
 
 pitably opened, its linen and crisp hangings haunted 
 with old garden perfumes. Maryland biscuit and a 
 glass of wine stood with the candles on a table beside 
 it. " Ring for your breakfast whenever you choose," 
 she said. " We lazy southerners sleep till when we 
 please and breakfast in our rooms." 
 
 So she played the part of gracious hostess, mistress 
 of herself until she bade her guest good-night and 
 reached the door. But there she fumbled for the 
 knob, and let it go when found, and wheeled about, her 
 shadow on the wall trembling. The sweetness went 
 from her voice, leaving it a little hoarse. " Is it true 
 what he said that you 're going to marry him ? " 
 
 " Yes," Zandrie answered, and believed it ; for, 
 though removed from the contagion of Julian's own 
 blind joy, a new thought had come to feed hers. The 
 thought of divorce. There was an institution called 
 divorce, by which marriages were somehow cancelled, 
 vows abrogated. She knew little about it ; had thought 
 little about it, till of a sudden it was the pivotal inter- 
 est of her life. 
 
 Julian's mother took a step nearer and then stood 
 trembling. " You 're taking all I have left. I 'd al- 
 most won him almost ! And I '11 win yet. Have 
 you broken your word to Dr. Royce? Or did he jilt 
 you? . . . Julian has more money, to be sure. 
 But have you thought of the life here? have you 
 thought of that? Do you suppose people will call on 
 you much more than me? For he really is my son,
 
 "NO PAST IS MINE' 343 
 
 you see I reckon you believe he 's got a mother, 
 at last and I 'm in the house. I 've been here four 
 weeks and no one has called yet, but little Gray 
 Summers. Do you suppose you '11 be recognized 
 either? To be sure, Gray Summers Deming may ask 
 you to a quiet little family supper ; but that 's because 
 she's George Deming's a minister's wife, and an 
 opposite neighbor, and kind to all deserving people, 
 whether their connections are strictly respectable or 
 not. Delightful diversion little Gray's family sup- 
 pers! Oh yes, and some of Julian's men friends, 
 maybe, will drop in to smoke with him even after 
 he 's got a wife. But for the rest have you really 
 thought? day after day in this house, alone with a 
 crippled man and me. And there '11 be little love lost 
 between you and me I can promise that if I lose 
 him through you. I tell you, if I lose him, you shall 
 lose him too O yes you shall ! if he does n't 
 tire of you anyhow without my help." She stopped, 
 while her eyes looked Zandrie over from head to foot. 
 Her own face was almost beautiful still, in spite of its 
 passion of hate. " You ! . . . My lips are as red 
 as yours, I reckon. You 're pale ! You look starved 
 sick! What's been happening? Your Doctor 
 tired of you so soon? Doctors want a rest from their 
 practice, to be sure, when they come home. All men 
 want happy, well fed women. And Julian 's a 
 man, you know, if he is a cripple. He has senses. 
 And he 's a Marshall, too. He could have done what
 
 344 Z A N D R I E 
 
 he chose with women ; they 're mad about him those 
 who meet him even now. And he knows his own 
 power be sure of that ! And when he 's done with 
 you . . . Unless your skill " She laughed. 
 " Marry him, dear ! Marry him. I 'm not afraid. 
 Your day will be short and none too joyful." 
 
 For a full minute after the door had closed, Zan- 
 drie leaned against a carved post of the bed, her 
 hands at her ears because the voice seemed to assail 
 them still. Yet she was too tired to understand more 
 now than that she was hated by Julian's mother. Most 
 of the words were forgotten already. She was too 
 tired to be frightened or even unhappy, or to seek out 
 Julian for the reassuring touch of his hand. The 
 knowledge that he was within reach to-night and for- 
 ever that was enough now. And as soon as she 
 lay in the great bed, sleep drowned her, body and 
 soul, in fathomless peace.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE LAST JOUST 
 
 The negress who brought her breakfast at half past 
 ten was bubbling with sly chuckles. " You 've 'cumu- 
 lated more 'n yo' beauty sleep, an' yo' young man 
 he 's gettin' uneasy about you' not gettin' within 
 hand-reach yet. Who you s'pose, now, devised on 
 the idea of that effulgious bouquet?" She pointed 
 eloquently to some wood-violets on the tray. 
 
 There was a note too, in a sealed envelope; but 
 when Zandrie took it up, the happiness to which she 
 had waked met its first check, for the writing was not 
 Julian's. 
 
 " Zandrie," she read, " I am on my knees to you. 
 You could be jealous yourself, though, for the man 
 you love, and suppose he were all you had to love 
 or to love you, and that after you had been cruelly 
 separated from him for years, you thought you had 
 him safe again for the rest of your life. And then 
 suppose that another woman dropped from the sky 
 into his very arms, and he and she just turned to you 
 and said * You may go now.' You are generous and 
 good although you are happy. If Julian knew how 
 
 345
 
 346 Z A N D R I E 
 
 I spoke to you last night he could never forgive me, 
 but you will and I think he won't know till I myself 
 confess, as I shall some miserable day of course. I 
 am very miserable, Zandrie, but you will be kind to 
 me? 
 
 " MARJORIE ROSWELL." 
 
 Zandrie kissed the signature. What was there to 
 forgive but some poor, foolish words wrung out of 
 jealousy? Of course she would not tell Julian the 
 few she remembered though she would keep from 
 him nothing else in the world. She would tell him 
 about France. . . . Well, she would not kiss him 
 till she had told. But the idea of telling him held no 
 terror, for even if fear seized her while she spoke, 
 he would hold her close and show her the way to the 
 Land of Heart's Desire. 
 
 And their day began with laughter, when she found 
 him in the long west room, alone, seated on the sill 
 of a window that opened to the fragrant, sunshot gar- 
 den, and she gave him both her hands, but nothing 
 more at first, according to her promise. " Not yet," 
 she said, breathing fast as his hold of her hands tight- 
 ened, and his eyes laughed at denial. " No ! no ! 
 I made a promise." 
 
 But it was broken. Well, she had broken other 
 promises and no harm had come yet. She could af- 
 ford to break yet more for this. 
 
 A minute later she took his face between her hands.
 
 THE LAST JOUST 347 
 
 " It 's almost the same as when I saw it first when 
 I sat on the convent wall and you galloped past." 
 
 " And I put you on the saddle before me, did n't 
 I? and we galloped through ten years to this? 
 Well, we 're here ! What does it matter, the way we 
 came ? " 
 
 " What does it matter," she repeated. " Remem- 
 ber you said that." But she shied away from the 
 question in his eyes, as from whatever might carry her 
 out of the enchanted present. 
 
 He took her hands again. " Listen, what an old 
 sport I am ! I came here from the piano all alone 
 well, with crutches of course, but wholly without Car- 
 ter except that he sort of started me. I reckon I made 
 the trip in less than three minutes." He launched this 
 boast with the glee of a boy who has broken a record. 
 
 " And you can play." 
 
 " Some. Not much man's-size music, but But 
 I bet I could ride now if they 'd tie me on! I can 
 drive, anyhow. Will you go driving with me ? We '11 
 drive all over the map. And maybe I '11 let you ride 
 with Mother she 's off riding now if you 're right 
 careful when roads are icy. Mother 's a wonder at 
 it. Over fifty, and a seat in the saddle 'most as good 
 as her son's in his day. . . . What 's the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 She smiled through tears. " Nothing . . . 
 nothing but just brave you." 
 
 " Me ! Crying over me ! . . . because I 'm so
 
 348 Z A N D R I E 
 
 happy, the gods would destroy me right quick if they 
 heard about it ? " He laughed and crushed her to 
 him. " What more do I want ! . . . Don't leave 
 me again that 's all. When '11 you marry me ? 
 This afternoon? The Reverend George Deming " 
 
 But she put a hand over his mouth. " You asked 
 what more you could want than this." 
 
 " But this means " 
 
 " Not yet ! " and she twisted away as far as his 
 grasp of one of her wrists would allow, to pick up a 
 book that he had dropped as she came in. " ' Cyrano 
 de Bergerac'," she read, to change the talk. " Poor, 
 brave Cyrano how I 've cried over him ! " 
 
 " I never cried over him." 
 
 " You 're making fun of me. I always cry over 
 very brave men who lose everything." 
 
 He admitted that Cyrano had a hard time. " But 
 he did n't lose everything, you know, after all not 
 what he probably cared about most of all." 
 
 "He lost Roxane!" 
 
 Julian was turning the pages. " Remember the 
 ending ? " 
 
 She looked over his shoulder and read aloud: 
 
 " ' Que dites-vous ? . . . C est inutile ? . . . Je le 
 
 sais! 
 
 Mais on ne se bat pas dans 1'espoir du succes ! 
 Non ! non ! c' est bien plus beau lorsque c' est inutile !
 
 THELASTJOUST 349 
 
 Je sais bien qu' a la fin vous me mettrez a has; 
 N' importe : je me bats ! je me bats ! je me bats ! 
 Oui, vous m'arrachez tout, le laurier et la rose ! 
 Arrachez ! II y a malgre vous quelque chose 
 Que j' emporte, et ce soir, quand j' entrerai chez Dieu, 
 Mon salut balaiera largement le seuil bleu, 
 Quelque chose que sans un plis, sans une tache, 
 J' emporte malgre vous, et c'est. . . . 
 
 (Roxane) C'est? . . . 
 
 (Cyrano) Mon panache!" 
 
 "His 'panache'," she pouted. "What did he 
 mean? I never liked that, because I never knew what 
 it could mean. You don't think he cared most for 
 his stupid ' panache ' ? most of all for that ! 
 more than for Roxane?" 
 
 " His honor, does n't it mean? " 
 
 "Oh ... But what of that?" 
 
 He tossed the book on the sill and caught her in his 
 arms, laughing. 
 
 " You would have cared most for it then, like Cy- 
 rano ? " she said, " more than for me ? " 
 
 "Jealous?" he mocked, " but you are my 
 panache! " 
 
 Yet, though she could hardly have told why, she 
 was not satisfied. 
 
 But when they went into the garden, under the fall- 
 ing petals of apple-blossoms, enchanted peace wrapped 
 her about once more. Cedars and lilacs shut them 
 in a magic ring; the world was a thousand leagues
 
 350 Z A N D R I E 
 
 away so they believed, till it sent a messenger 
 through the faery garrison of trees. 
 
 It was a little girl with a close-cropped head and 
 defiant eyes that examined Zandrie with unwavering 
 interest; Louie Deming, from over the way, Julian 
 explained without enthusiasm. " Got whooping- 
 cough," she announced joyously. " Whooped twice 
 yesterday. Lots of fun. Don't have to go to Sun- 
 day-school. Do anything I please." 
 
 But her pleasure at the moment was to climb an 
 apple-tree, from which she fell. 
 
 One of her wrists was ominously swollen, and 
 there was nothing for it but that Zandrie should 
 take her home. And then, both the Reverend George 
 Deming and his wife being out, she had to stay with 
 the sobbing youngster while the only servant in the 
 house went for the doctor; so that, though she kissed 
 and soothed, she all but hated the little breaker of the 
 morning's spell. And when she could go back to look 
 for it at last, Marjorie Marshall was there in its 
 place. 
 
 Her greeting was a pretty, appealing little smile, 
 and out-stretched hands which Zandrie caught up to 
 her lips in token of understanding and forgiveness. 
 " How is the poor little sprained arm? " Mrs. Roswell 
 asked. " How nice of you to stay with her. A hurt 
 child is absolutely more than I can bear. Sonnie 
 must inherit his mother's tender-heartedness; he 
 has n't smiled once since Louie's fall."
 
 THE LAST JOUST 351 
 
 And it was true that the gaiety which, an hour since, 
 had almost wiped the lines from his face, was gone, 
 though Zandrie had believed that, like her own hap- 
 piness, it had come to stay. A vague fear shot at 
 her own. " Look at me," she whispered, raising his 
 face by a hand under his chain. " Louie's arm hurt, 
 of course, but ... do you think it did n't hurt 
 more what you did to me two years ago ? when 
 you sent me away?" She winced at sight of the 
 lines that deepened about his eyes, but fear egged her 
 on. " It was a grievous mistake." 
 
 " Forgive me," he said. 
 
 " We '11 justify it somehow." 
 
 " You 're generous." 
 
 " I can afford to be ... now." She stood 
 beside him, looking down at his bent head. " Now," 
 she repeated, touching his hair. 
 
 When she turned, Mrs. Roswell was stripping the 
 green from a twig of cedar, and her hands were 
 trembling. But during dinner, which was brought 
 out to them, she was so delightfully merry that, if 
 Mrs. Deming senior ever insisted that Marjorie Mar- 
 shall charmed only with her comeliness of body, it 
 must be that she never dined with her under a May 
 sky, to an orchestra of orioles and bees. 
 
 They were not alone together again Zandrie and 
 Julian till a shower had sent them in; and then, 
 " Your mother 's very beautiful," Zandrie said. 
 
 He agreed with a yes that sounded almost grudg-
 
 352 ZANDRIE 
 
 ing. " So beautiful," he added after a pause, " that 
 
 that it 's hard to believe . . ." 
 "Believe what?" 
 
 " Something it 's right hard to tell you." He 
 looked as though it were hard. " But I 've got to, 
 since the Lyndes did n't. They must be good friends 
 of mine. . . . But now I want to get it over 
 and done with. It 's your right to know now. But 
 I 'm sorry. . . . She my mother " he 
 gripped the arms of his chair " when all 's said and 
 done, she is my mother, and it 's hard to judge 
 her. Circumstances were against her too, instead 
 of ever helping as they helped me. I might have 
 been much worse might have gone to the devil 
 entirely, maybe, if if I had n't been prevented, you 
 see." He flushed to his forehead and locked his 
 hands together. " I '11 tell you about myself too. I 
 
 I almost let you come in, that night at Mrs. Bright's 
 . . . you! But I had n't begun to love you then. 
 . . . But even before loving you even in Paris 
 I used to try, sometimes with all my might, to be 
 
 good. And when I failed when the bad in me 
 won out I was ashamed, always. I want you to 
 know that ; that I 'd known what it was to be mortally 
 ashamed even before you came. For it 's only be- 
 cause of that because I 've fought myself and been 
 ashamed, that I 've any right at all to judge her. 
 It 's not really worse, of course, for a woman to be 
 bad, than for a man if they both care about good-
 
 THELASTJOUST 353 
 
 ness and honor enough to make themselves better. 
 If she were honestly ashamed ... if she 'd ever 
 really cared . . ." 
 
 Zandrie's hands were clasped against her throat, 
 but only because he was in a distress from which she 
 could see no way to help him yet. His words so far 
 had meant little more to her than that he was acutely 
 unhappy. " I know," she said, " that your mother 
 left you when your father died, and married; but " 
 
 " I was nineteen when my father died. She left 
 him when I was a baby and took me with her, 
 though Father and the law made her give me back. 
 She left him for another man." 
 
 "Oh! . . ." 
 
 " You understand . . . You see now why I 
 would n't have her touch you, if I could help it. She 
 is ... not good." 
 
 " Because she loved another man better than her 
 husband? You don't mean " 
 
 " And went to him left her husband, and and 
 never really " 
 
 " You mean you think that was so very dreadful?" 
 She had risen and gripped the back of his chair. 
 
 He looked up and then reached for one of her 
 hands. " Dear heart ! it 's a shock. I should have 
 told you better, but I did n't know how. . . . It's 
 hard to believe she is n't what she seems. She 's so 
 beautiful. But you understand now why I never 
 spoke of her. She wrecked my father's life. Peo- 
 
 23
 
 354 Z A N D R I E 
 
 pie thought it hard of him not to divorce her, but they 
 did n't know ... It was n't revenge. He did n't 
 believe in divorce in such a case; and I think he was 
 right. But anyhow, the only times he spoke of 
 her, it was as though she were dead. And when she 
 came to me . . . she came to my aunt's to see 
 me, after my mishap, and I was n't kind. I 
 could n't be. It seemed like disloyalty to my father, 
 to be good to her. She spoiled his life. But she 'd 
 always kept track of me through Aunt Emily, and 
 even came again when my aunt died, and cried on 
 her knees ; but Roswell's successor was living then, 
 so she did n't need me. But now she 's alone and 
 almost friendless. Heaven knows why she wanted to 
 come back here where people won't even bow to her. 
 It was n't bravado exactly, but . . . Well, I 
 could n't refuse her, dear. And it seemed easy enough 
 till you came. But now " 
 
 " Oh, it was right to let her come back ! . . . 
 right and merciful." 
 
 " Yes, right. But you can understand how I 
 feel about you . . . how it hurts to see her touch 
 you, to think what you must suffer because of her, 
 if you marry me. Yet I think you will marry me 
 
 She caught her hand wildly from his. " Julian ! 
 Speak plainly ! simply ! I can't see ! Was that all 
 just to leave her husband for the man she loved ? " 
 
 His surprise answered her so that she covered her
 
 THELASTJOUST 355 
 
 eyes. " And you shudder from her still for that ? 
 just for that?" 
 
 He laid his hand on her arm. 
 
 "So dreadful? . . . because she ... Is 
 that always so wicked? Bad? She's a bad woman 
 just for that? O no! don't answer. I couldn't 
 live." She clasped her hands and bent till her face 
 was hidden against his shoulder. " Julian ! Be mer- 
 ciful to me! me too! Don't send me away!" 
 She slipped to her knees. " I came to be saved. I 
 never loved any one but you. He knew I did n't 
 love him when he married me. I thought . . . 
 I did n't know you loved me still. I thought you 
 did n't, because of that note " 
 
 He had gripped her shoulder, pushing her away till 
 he could see her face. His own was gray. " Mar- 
 ried? " 
 
 "Ah Julian!" 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Be merciful! I didn't know ... I could- 
 n't stay with him." 
 
 " You 're married? " 
 
 " Only two days ! " 
 
 "To Royce?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He lay back in his chair, motionless but for a 
 twitching of the lips, till some one knocked at the 
 door. " Get up," he said, and she obeyed and was
 
 356 Z A N D R I E 
 
 standing when a servant entered with afternoon tea. 
 
 " Mis' Roswell say she 's comin' presently, and 
 makes request " the negress stopped in the act 
 of putting down the tray. " Lord' sake, Mis' Julian ! 
 looks like you need somethin' mo' powerful than tea, 
 yo'self." 
 
 " Ask Mrs. Roswell," he said, " tell her we " 
 
 But she herself was entering the room. The 
 negress set the tray on a table and puttered over the 
 arrangement of the cups, eyeing Julian with mys- 
 terious grimaces till her mistress stopped chatting, to 
 dismiss her. 
 
 But when the servant was gone, Marjorie Marshall 
 chatted on. If she saw her son's white face, by 
 which one read a despair that seemed like to throttle 
 whatever remained of the joy of life, or if she saw 
 the misery of a terrified child, she made no sign that 
 she had seen, unless in her dismissal of the servant. 
 She invited Zandrie to sit by the table, and gave her 
 a cup that Zandrie had to take with both hands. But 
 when Julian refused tea, " What 's the matter with 
 you ? " she asked, " have you quarreled already, 
 then?" 
 
 He raised his head slowly, looking at her as though 
 he understood only the tone of the question. " No." 
 And then, " When you 've finished your tea please 
 leave us. Forgive me. We have had some bad 
 news." 
 
 Mrs. Roswell did not finish her tea; and the rustle
 
 THELASTJOUST 357 
 
 of her skirts as she went out, murmured of assaulted 
 vanity. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, staring at the door that his 
 mother had closed behind her. 
 
 Zandrie shivered. The few feet of polished floor 
 between them had become a chasm. She clung to 
 the back of a chair not his. " Be merciful," she 
 whispered across the chasm. 
 
 " Why did you come ? " 
 
 " I did n't know I did n't know what marriage 
 was, until . . ." Her voice trailed off into a 
 moan that broke into a convulsion of sobs. When 
 they had quieted so that the sound of his voice speak- 
 ing her name could reach her, she groped her way to 
 him and he took her hand. " We must n't be chil- 
 dren," he said, brushing tears from his own cheeks. 
 " We must talk it over and understand." 
 
 " It was because you did n't get my note. I 
 thought you did n't love me ; and France did. So 
 it seemed right to marry him, till he told me . . ." 
 She drew her hand from his. " Did your father or 
 mother tell you what marriage means? No one 
 told me till we were on the train, France and I. 
 After the wedding." 
 
 She told him how it had come about, but brokenly, 
 by degrees. 
 
 " You gave the note to my mother," he asked, 
 " unsealed? " And in the silence that followed her 
 assent, the old lines of bodily pain grew sharply dis-
 
 358 Z A N D R I E 
 
 tinct, and a flush of savage anger swept over his face. 
 Zandrie suddenly understood, and the ugly suspicion 
 locked her own teeth, like his, against words that 
 neither might speak in the other's hearing. 
 
 After she had finished her story, she knelt with her 
 hands clasped on the arm of his chair; but he neither 
 looked at her nor touched her. 
 
 " I can save your honor," he said at last. " But 
 you must help. . . . You '11 go back to the 
 Lyndes first." 
 
 "Never that!" 
 
 " Until you and your husband can arrange 
 about your future." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " Then God help us all." 
 
 "There is divorce," she whispered. 
 
 " Divorce. Yes ; my mother wanted divorce. My 
 mother! ... I don't know the law about it, but 
 . . . You! . . . O my God!" His voice 
 fell, and terror tied her own. " I can save your 
 honor," he said again. " My right to say I love you 
 is gone, but I can prove it that way at least." 
 
 " You care more for honor than for me." 
 
 " They 're the same, are n't they? " 
 
 After a pause, "If they 're not," she said, " is poor 
 honor worth the saving?" 
 
 Incredulous questioning came to his eyes. " Are 
 you a child still, then? I believe in you so much that 
 . . . I believe you 're a child."
 
 THELASTJOUST 359 
 
 "No! . . . no." 
 
 " That you don't understand what you 're saying." 
 
 " I only understand that I want you . . . you. 
 To stay with you ! " Her hands shot out to him, but 
 although he snatched them, he held her off. After a 
 pause in which her eyes fell before the searching in 
 his, " Try to understand," he said, " what your stay- 
 ing would mean." 
 
 "Yes . . . Oyes! That 's why I came." 
 
 " Try to understand. It would be wrong a great 
 wrong to yourself as well as others." 
 
 " France is the only one. And he married me, 
 knowing I thought you did n't love me, and he knew 
 you did. My heart is dead when it thinks of him. 
 . . . And I don't care for my broken vow. I 
 made it in the dark. . . . Ah Julian ! you 
 can't care about that! Why should you care about 
 such things? " 
 
 "Your honor? . . ." 
 
 " About honor and and wrong. Oh, I used to 
 care about such things once . . . sometimes, but 
 not much, and only for your sake never for those 
 things in themselves. I told you once, I 'd be wicked 
 without you. But with you ... by staying 
 with you I may be good at last ; who knows ? You 're 
 all the conscience I ever had, I think. . . . And 
 I must stay." 
 
 He turned his face away and did not speak for a 
 minute or two. "My mother " he began, but his
 
 360 Z A N D R I E 
 
 voice broke so that he stopped again. Then, " Do 
 you think my mother is happy? . . . If I let 
 you stay. ... If you stayed, and understood 
 what your staying meant as you would at last 
 you 'd understand this too, that I 'd wronged you 
 beyond any reparation. It could n't be undone. And 
 you 'd ask how I had the heart to rob you of your 
 last chance for happiness ... to steal your 
 honor. Yes; and your faith in me would be gone, 
 and you 'd loathe me at last. And so ... O 
 my God! After last night! After last night 
 . . ." He caught her hands up against his breast 
 and bent forward suddenly with closed eyes, shaken 
 as though by bodily anguish. The blow of her con- 
 fession had fallen before he could arm himself as he 
 had had time to do when their wills met two years 
 before; and by that last cry she knew it, and her 
 terror fell away. 
 
 "Julian! Julian! . . . Listen, Julian. You 
 sent me away before, and it was a grievous mistake. 
 We '11 justify it yet, but it was a terrible mistake." 
 " My fault," he sobbed. " My fault. My fault." 
 " And you were so sure. ... Do you dare be 
 sure again? . . . Oh, if there's a God that 
 cares ! ... he made us for one another. He '11 
 see that we do no harm you and I. What wrong 
 that we live under one roof? in one garden for 
 each other's happiness ? where no one can see ? 
 . . . Feel me, Julian ! I 'm here ! here ! God
 
 THELASTJOUST 361 
 
 showed me the way. But what does it matter 
 the way we came? you said. O I was frightened! 
 But see ! I have you, touch you, feel your heartbeats, 
 know your voice will feed my ears when they starve. 
 And I '11 answer when you call. Think ! how you 
 called me in the echoing, empty nights, and there was 
 no answer. Think how you were alone with the mis- 
 ery of your own making and the tears you were 
 ashamed of because you were a man. They scorched 
 your eyelids and the sobs hurt. O beloved, how 
 they hurt, body and soul ! You 'd have sold your soul 
 for a touch of Zandrie's hand. You groped in the dark 
 and there was no comfort. . . . And then of a 
 sudden this! Zandrie's head on your breast, and 
 her arms . . . so ! " 
 
 The pain of his clasp was ecstacy wherein she 
 would fain have stayed; but even his voice was slip- 
 ping from her, and the darkness with which she 
 fought was stronger than she.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE WHITE PLUME 
 
 She believed that she had won. She believed it 
 remembering the clasp of his arms in which she had 
 fainted, but, better still, the look in his eyes when hers 
 had opened and found him by the couch where she 
 had been laid, leaning towards her across an arm 
 of his chair. For there was no accusation in that 
 look; no questioning nor incredulous wonder, nor 
 high will; but only concern and yearning tenderness 
 that changed through the gladness of relief to the 
 electric joy of answered passion. That was the last 
 she had seen, because other persons had come be- 
 tween, one holding wine to her lips, another fanning, 
 while a voice that for all its greatness seemed to come 
 from afar over the sound of rushing waters, issued 
 commands. "No, young woman; you don't sit up 
 yet, or there '11 be another scene." The order was 
 superfluous with Dr. Summers's hand against her 
 shoulder. Then a form still more massive than the 
 old doctor's lifted her in its arms, its forehead crim- 
 son and perspiring, though not with the physical diffi- 
 culties of its task; for it was Carter. 
 
 362
 
 THE WHITE PLUME 363 
 
 She lay on the four-post bed now in the twilight, as 
 happy, almost, as when she woke that morning in the 
 belief that Julian would let her stay. For she be- 
 lieved it still. She believed that in their struggle she 
 had prevailed, so working upon his pity as well as pas- 
 sion, that he could not let her go. If he grieved for 
 the pain of a child whom he loved not at all, strange 
 if he had no pity for Zandrie's tears! 
 
 She had said when they talked of honor and right, 
 that for " those things in themselves " she had little 
 concern; that he was her only conscience. And per- 
 haps it was true; for in all her life her motives were 
 made of loves and hates. Love of her volatile, in- 
 dulgent father, love of the Virgin, and of Sister Isi- 
 dore and Sister Andrea; love of the Julian of her 
 dreams, they had all served as the reasons for her 
 acts. The more ardent the love, the more possible 
 to choose a difficult course that she thought would 
 be the choice of her beloved. So in her ethical deci- 
 sions of the last two years, ' right ' meant only what 
 she believed Julian w r ould approve if he knew, or 
 else what would be for his welfare. Other * right ' 
 had no meaning, no claim on her attention. She un- 
 derstood it not at all, for the simple reason that 
 gray-clad abstractions never got beyond the ante- 
 chamber of her thought. What chance had they, 
 sober Puritans, to win notice at a court where most 
 went clad in the hues of the passion-flower? 
 
 But within a few hours, even the thought of what
 
 364 Z A N D R I E 
 
 Julian himself called ' wrong ' had grown so dull be- 
 side the rainbow-hued giant of joy in his bodily near- 
 ness even that thought could win small notice now. 
 
 In spite of Dr. Summers's command to go to sleep, 
 she had not undressed, expecting that the curious 
 weakness which followed her still more unaccountable 
 fainting would leave her soon so that she might go 
 down stairs to Julian. For with all her belief in her 
 ultimate victory, she knew that only the spell of her 
 bodily presence could win over those well-drilled 
 ranks of thought and feeling which she saw in him 
 without comprehension but with none the less dread. 
 Every moment that he was alone with them held 
 danger for her. Yet the stars had begun to swim 
 out of the dusk, and she still lay in a tingling 
 weakness from which she had not the will to free 
 herself. 
 
 She had lain in the starlight but half an hour, she 
 thought, when the knob of her door was quietly 
 turned. " I am awake," she said, seeing the silhouette 
 of Julian's mother against the light of the hall. 
 
 Mrs. Roswell shut the door and crossed the room 
 to an open window, where she stood twisting a corner 
 of the curtain for several minutes before she spoke. 
 Marjorie Marshall could speak to the point, when she 
 chose. " He says he has lost you through me. Is it 
 true?" 
 
 " Because of the note you " 
 
 "Is it true?" she interrupted. "You're married
 
 THE WHITE PLUME 365 
 
 already, but is it true that he has lost you? " She 
 came to the bed and leaned over so close that Zandrie 
 felt her breath. " He tried to explain that you were 
 so immeasurably innocent. But why did you come, 
 if you 're going back? Are you going back?" 
 
 Zandrie's hands shot out to her. " Oh, it was cruel! 
 . . . whether you only lost it, or the other way. 
 Surely . . . surely that was enough. Remem- 
 ber your own unhappiness and be kind at last ! Don't 
 take part against me. How could my staying cut off 
 the love he gives you already? How could it, when 
 he has loved me all along? I shan't come between 
 him and you." 
 
 Mrs. Roswell pulled away from the supplicating 
 hands with a short, low laugh. " I 'd like But 
 he '11 know soon enough if he does n't know it al- 
 ready that you 're not so different from . . . 
 most of us. Oh, but I wish you joy of him when he 
 knows ! " After a pause, " He was like his father 
 to-night. I 've seen it before ; but to-night I could 
 hate him. ... I wish I could! . . . His 
 father could n't have said such things. He could n't 
 kill like Julian. Oh! . . ." A sob shook her 
 from head to foot. 
 
 Zandrie was at her side, her arms about her. 
 " He '11 forgive you if if you '11 be my friend. It 's 
 all past the trouble about the note. All trouble 
 past ! We '11 forget everything but the happiness to 
 come."
 
 366 Z A N D R I E 
 
 The other thrust her away. " What makes you 
 think you can stay ? that he '11 let you stay ? " 
 
 " I think he will" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I think he can't let me go." 
 
 "You little fool! ... You little fool! 
 . . . And if you did succeed in the end Well, 
 we 'd have each other to fall back on then you and 
 I ! When he chose to speak to you as he spoke to me 
 this evening to insult you . . . you 'd have 
 my sympathy at least. Oh, but wait! ... If 
 he let you stay if he couldn't let you go . . ." 
 She caught her breath and, after a pause, laughed 
 again the short, low laugh. Then she seized Zan- 
 drie's arm in a grip that hurt. " Zandrie ! stay ! 
 . . . stay! Make him keep you, somehow. Make 
 him! ... I love him so! I want more than 
 just his little, indulgent love. Don't you see? We 'd 
 be equals we three if his own honor . . . 
 Oh, his precious honor ! Why, he was n't born for 
 a saint any more than the rest of us, not much ! 
 He said as much himself, this very night. But he 
 believes some stuff about having won back what- 
 ever he once lost. Too bad women can't do that way ! 
 . . . Zandrie ! you. understand ! I '11 help you 
 if you stay. And I '11 make amends, you '11 see." 
 
 Yes; Zandrie understood. Julian's mother was 
 right in that, though she could hardly guess how vital, 
 new, and illuminating that understanding was. The
 
 THE WHITE PLUME 367 
 
 flash of it stunned her senses so that she heard noth- 
 ing more of what the other said. 
 
 At first it was scarcely more than the slimy ugliness 
 suddenly uncovered to her eyes, that sickened her; 
 till the full length of its meaning and implications 
 had crawled by inches into her understanding; and 
 when it was all there, she fell on her knees and wept 
 for loathing and shame. 
 
 " Julian ! " she moaned later. " Forgive ! . . . 
 forgive." 
 
 Out of the sickness of repulsion from the poison- 
 ous thing she had seen, she passed to a passion of 
 pity that its coils should lie where Julian must see them 
 too, even in that path of his life which should have 
 been most fair; and from compassion she rose into a 
 clear, still air where all things that concerned herself 
 and him stood sharply outlined in the burning light. 
 And first, she saw herself as a beggar with bandaged 
 eyes, and hands stretched out for none but their own 
 needs. Unbelievable blindness, that had shut out the 
 most salient the supremely significant fact of all 
 that Julian's honor was bound with hers! She knew 
 enough now of the world to know that. Yet till this 
 hour the knowledge had lain in some corner of her 
 mind, drugged, dormant, unnoticed, ineffective. 
 
 In all his pleading for her honor, he had not once 
 plead for his own the plume whose whiteness he re- 
 joiced, like Cyrano, to carry with him from the ruin 
 of his life " what Cyrano cared most for after
 
 368 Z A N D R I E 
 
 all," he had said ; and he could not have said it unless 
 knowing the gladness of that pride. Even his mother 
 could know that he had that! And stripped of his 
 white plume, what had he left? What had she 
 Zandrie to give in its place, but knowledge that the 
 woman he loved was content to despoil him? And 
 scarcely less bitter for him would be the knowledge 
 that she was less than he had thought; one whom 
 other women had a right to insult, if they did not 
 choose rather to pass her by in silence. Sublime, 
 mistaken generosity! . . . mistaken as the gen- 
 erosity that had refused the first gift of herself. 
 
 She forgot now that she had believed he was going 
 to let her stay; or if the thought entered, it was shorn 
 of significance by the great company into which it 
 strayed. So too his mother's half-charges, and his 
 own fragmentary confession that had had little mean- 
 ing for her even while he spoke. But the incident 
 of the breakfast at Mrs. Bright's took meaning sud- 
 denly; and because its insult reached through herself 
 to him, she writhed. But only because it reached to 
 him; for personal pride, that had leapt up after the 
 lightning-bolt by which she saw another's soiled soul 
 and knew her own to be white by contrast that 
 pride had soon burnt out. In this, the supreme hour 
 of her life, self as well as self's desires sank molten in 
 the blaze of her new vision. 
 
 And so, when she rose to go in the spreading dawn, 
 the will to leave him to his white plume had grown
 
 THE WHITE PLUME 369 
 
 up knowing nothing of conflict, as a flower in the 
 sun. 
 
 She stole on tiptoe to where he lay asleep. His 
 left arm, flung back over his head, disordered his hair, 
 which in the wan light looked gray, so that she had to 
 bend close to make sure that it was not. But his face 
 was gray, except for his lips and the shadows below 
 his eyes. She studied it line by line, long, and as one 
 who has the right; and at last she smoothed the hair 
 back from his forehead. When he opened his eyes, 
 she knelt by him. " Remember," she said, " that I 
 went of my own will remember that ! because I 
 worshipped you. I 'm going out into the darkness. 
 I don't know where it leads, but if there is light, it 
 will be somehow where you are. It has always been 
 so. ... Julian say my name." 
 
 He said it, but she saw that he scarcely compre- 
 hended yet. " Kiss me," she said. " It can do no 
 harm. I 'm strong now." 
 
 When she knelt powerless against the strength of 
 his arms, " I 'm faint," she whispered at last ; and at 
 that his clasp relaxed a little, so that she could slip 
 suddenly down and out of reach. 
 
 He called her name once and again, and the last 
 time it was like a cry, but she did not answer, except 
 to turn on the threshold for a final look. 
 
 How long she had sat in the waiting room of the 
 station, she neither knew nor cared, nor whether trains 
 
 24
 
 370 Z A N D R I E 
 
 had come or gone; for where should she -go after all 
 on any train? For what was she waiting? 
 
 After the breathless rush of resolve that had caught 
 her up out of reach of clutching desires had dropped 
 her back into the flesh; after the exaltation was gone 
 and a mortal weariness in its place, from which, look- 
 ing out on her life, she saw it barren even of hope, a 
 wilderness without a pillar of cloud, wherein she could 
 see no foothold for herself, then she had asked for 
 what was she waiting? What was there in all the 
 darkness ahead to wait for? For, looking back, she 
 saw that in the two years of her passion and privation 
 of what she called life itself, she had lived on hope 
 and the will to pay a debt; and at the last, she was 
 Julian's debtor no longer. She saw that too; that 
 her own sacrifice had cleared the score. Unless 
 She sat up suddenly. Unless he was her 
 debtor now. For after all, had she not left him with- 
 out proof that he had refused to keep her? No 
 longer ago than last night she had believed that he 
 would; that she had prevailed; which would have 
 meant that she was stronger at last than he whom she 
 had called her conscience. He had been more than 
 her conscience, however: she saw that too that he 
 had been the only real god of her worship. 
 
 When she had left him, she had been at pains to tell 
 him that she went of her own accord. She had been 
 quite sure of course that he would have compelled her 
 to go, had she tried to stay ; but she had wished him to
 
 THE WHITE PLUME 371 
 
 know that she went of her own will, because she 
 thought that the knowledge would please him. Yet 
 he had tried to call her back. Was it possible that at 
 last he prized her living presence above the plume 
 whose whiteness she had been at such pains to help 
 him save? Would he take her back? 
 
 Yet she did not start up to find out. That was the 
 curious fact, whose significance yet found no place 
 among her jostling thoughts, the fact that although 
 her heart beat wildly, it was not with hope, but a 
 new, strange fear lest she might have her heart's desire 
 after all; fear lest the great act of her life might be a 
 mocking act of blindness by proving Julian to be less 
 than she had believed. 
 
 "Not that!" she whispered. "Never that!" 
 And she pleaded with her doubt, saying that he had 
 loved honor and " goodness " so well that she had 
 asked why. Had he answered? She could not re- 
 member; but it seemed now that when she had stood 
 on her pinnacle that morning, seeing things not 
 glimpsed before, the light had streamed from some 
 near source of ecstacy. The throne of God? She 
 had not looked to see, content with the new bliss of the 
 light itself. 
 
 God! . . . Julian had known where to find 
 Him perhaps, for he had called out of his grief on 
 God's name. Had the nuns known where ? In those 
 days she had not needed to ask them ; and she had not 
 asked Julian, because he himself had filled all her need.
 
 372 Z A N D R I E 
 
 If he took her back, would he fill it still? Compared 
 with her present need, all past hunger of soul was a 
 shrunken trifle. Yet if he took her back, loving her 
 more than what he himself called goodness if he 
 took her back so, would he satisfy still? 
 
 Poor, puzzled child! The question itself was the 
 core of her despair; but if it was also, by that same 
 fact, the birth of her soul, how was she to know? 
 The strain of the unhappy months had done its work 
 on her body at last, and from the stress of troubling 
 questions she slipped into unconsciousness, fainting 
 quietly there where she had sat for two hours with 
 her hands clasped under her chin.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE GARDEN OF LOST DELIGHT 
 
 One day somebody woke from a sleep full of 
 dreams, and seeing shadows on the wall, did not know 
 what they were. A confused something was in the 
 air. It was sound; but the listener could not re- 
 member what sound was, neither its name, nor 
 how it differed from shadow. At the next awaken- 
 ing, however, a tiny thrill of pleasure ran through 
 the tired brain as it knew and named both shadows 
 and sound. But what who was the somebody 
 who had waked and now lay still, yet struggling 
 oh, struggling very hard with something? That 
 was harder to tell. But when the dreamer woke 
 for the third time, the awakening brought the 
 peace of a struggle ended; and if questions came, 
 their answers often slipped in at their side, so that 
 it became a game to watch them. " Who am I ? " 
 was one of the questions at last; and the answer 
 danced to meet it, " I am Zandrie." 
 
 Later she seemed to lie on a beach, under a sun that 
 comforted, near water that made no more sound on 
 the sand than slow breathing ; and on the water floated 
 bits of a something half known, which, by stretching 
 
 25 373
 
 374 Z A N D R I E 
 
 out her hand, she could make her own; but if she did 
 that, the sun might burn and the waves threaten, for 
 the floating pieces were bits of a past. For several 
 days she was content to let them stay there; but the 
 temptation to reach for them grew till it had power 
 to trouble her. And it was then, when she needed 
 a friend, that one came. Her second-best friend, she 
 called Mrs. George Deming in after days. 
 
 It was she who told Zandrie that she was in a 
 hospital, to which she had been brought from the 
 station six weeks ago. " I think I remember," said 
 Zandrie, daring to reach for one of the floating bits, 
 now that some one was near to save her if the waves 
 threatened; for she felt already that her second-best 
 friend was good at saving. 
 
 No one else but the nurse and doctor came to see 
 her ; though the Lyndes had written, Mrs. George said, 
 and would come at a day's notice if . . . But 
 Zandrie whispered no. 
 
 A week later she had made many of the floating bits 
 her own; yet for some reason the waves had not 
 caught her. Was it possible that she was going to 
 be safe from the past forever? When Gray Deming 
 was by, she almost believed so. " Why are you so 
 good to me ? " she asked at last ; to which Gray an- 
 swered, " At first because Julian asked me to, and be- 
 cause you were so nice to Louie ; but now well, 
 because " But Zandrie did not hear the rest, be-
 
 GARDEN OF LOST DELIGHT 375 
 
 cause that mention of Julian was the first, and she had 
 known Gray two weeks now. 
 
 " He thought it would be so dreadful," Gray went 
 on, " not to have a friend here when you woke up, and 
 your friend Dr. Royce agreed. And so I came." 
 
 Zandrie turned her face to the wall. "Where is 
 he?" 
 
 " In Boston." 
 
 "Julian?" 
 
 "Oh! . . . Why, he's left home all of 
 them Carter and Mrs. Roswell and the twins. 
 They 've gone to the Italian Lakes." 
 
 " When will he come back? " 
 
 " Not for a long time, I 'm afraid. Zandrie dear, 
 you don't mind my knowing about it all? I just 
 had to, you see, if I was to be any use at all." 
 
 But Zandrie did not mind. " Why did he go? " 
 
 To make it easier for everybody, Gray said ; he had 
 gone as soon as he knew she was getting well. " He 
 went because he 's a right good man. In fact, George 
 and I think he 's one of the best we know." And a 
 minute later she added, " And we think and Julian 
 thinks your friend Dr. Royce is a right good man 
 too. We got to know him while he was here, while 
 you were sick." 
 
 But Zandrie hardly heard that either, being con- 
 cerned only with the news that Julian had justified 
 her faith; that he was " good " beyond a doubt.
 
 376 Z A N D R I E 
 
 But the next day the past had all come back; and 
 such a dreariness fell upon her, that she begged to be 
 taken to the children's ward. The doctor refused, 
 but a small boy was brought to her, to whom she told 
 half-believed old tales of saints till he forgot about his 
 worthless little legs. And after that, he and one or 
 two others came daily for " more," till she left the 
 hospital and went to the George Demings'. 
 
 Gray had told her already that Julian was planning 
 not to come back at all, but at sight of the closed 
 blinds opposite, the full, intolerable meaning of his ab- 
 sence swept upon her for the first time. Forgetting 
 all but the bitterness of bereavement, she asked aloud, 
 "Why did he go?" 
 
 Gray, who was picking marigolds in her front yard, 
 dropped them in dismay. " But dear! I thought 
 you understood." 
 
 " Because he was good. O yes ! But Gray, Gray ! 
 Who could count such a marriage as France's and 
 mine, forever? a service I didn't understand, or 
 I 'd never have made its promises ? Never ! And ' 
 who dares say such promises shall bind Julian and me 
 and France himself to ruin forever? God him- 
 self would laugh at a man who said that." 
 
 Gray bent to pick up the marigolds she had dropped. 
 " France hopes to win you yet." 
 
 "And that's why Julian is gone! . . . But 
 if France can't win me? " 
 
 Gray would not meet her eyes. " He knew France
 
 GARDEN OF LOST DELIGHT 377 
 
 did n't want to give up trying to win you, and had the 
 right to try. He thinks your first duty now is to 
 France. And anyway, on your own account he 
 said he would n't marry you even if France wanted 
 to give you up." 
 
 "France could cancel our marriage, then! if he 
 wanted. It would be a wicked law, that did n't let us. 
 But why but why should n't Julian marry me then ? 
 . . . The foolish old reason? But that was gone, 
 when I came back to him and he did n't know about 
 France. He was going to marry me right off! He 
 saw aright at last." 
 
 " George thinks he did right to go," said Gray. 
 " And George himself is almost always right." 
 
 " Not as right as Julian ! except when Julian's 
 blind. He can be so blind! Yet always good. It 
 was good of him to go. Perhaps right too. Yes 
 to go till the marriage is cancelled, maybe. But he 's 
 wrong wrong to say my first duty 's to France, 
 because of such a marriage." 
 
 "France said he would give you up, if Julian and 
 you both wanted it. But Julian said no ; and then he 
 went. . . . Oh, he was sure you 'd do the right, 
 in any case ; and he just went, to make it easier " 
 
 "For France to do the wrong. For France, who 
 hates us both. He must hate me, to try to keep Julian 
 from me forever. He tried to marry me, knowing 
 that Julian and I ... Live with France? 
 Does Julian think that of me ? that I 'd live with a
 
 378 Z A N D R I E 
 
 man I don't love? that I'd marry France really? 
 I '11 never even see him again. I '11 not be called by 
 his name : I '11 be Zandrie Donallon, whether the law 
 allows it or not. But it could n't mind ! 
 Gray, would you have me live with France? " 
 
 Then Gray looked her in the eyes, and answered 
 " No." 
 
 " But Julian would ? . . . Oh, is there a 
 woman in the world who can understand?" 
 
 " He only wanted what he thought would be best 
 for you in the end." 
 
 " He can't be so blind, and love me." 
 
 " He loves you so much that he has all faith in you, 
 believes you 're as strong as he. And he 's very 
 wonderful and strong himself. And yet, when he 
 was talking with George, the night before he left, 
 George says the tears " 
 
 "Don't!" Zandrie interrupted sharply; and then, 
 " But I 'm glad if it hurt him to be so strong ! He 
 did n't need me, so he left me to starve. O wonder- 
 ful, to be as strong as that ! I hate him too ! I hate 
 him too ! " And from her wild words against him, 
 she fled across the street to the empty garden. 
 
 She named it The Garden of Lost Delight. Long 
 ago, for an hour, she had called it Paradise. It 
 seemed fitting that it should be empty, after all, for 
 who might be gardeners of Paradise? 
 
 On the ground where she had knelt beside him, she 
 lay now on her face, shaken by desire for his living
 
 GARDEN OF LOST DELIGHT 379 
 
 presence, at war with pride in him for having justified 
 her faith, and anger because, for all the pride, she 
 could yet not quite understand him. She called him 
 blind, and many a harder name. She would tear the 
 love of him out, she said, and love France instead. 
 But while saying it, the thought came, that if Royce 
 were not living, Julian w r ould surely come back; so, 
 " I wish France would die ! " she sobbed. And then 
 she saw that if she tried to live with France, the wish 
 would come again, and that the very will the need 
 of willing to shut it out, would poison her peace. 
 And besides, how could she love him, remembering 
 the part that the selfishness of what he called his own 
 love, had played in her undoing ? It was then that she 
 cried aloud " Speak to me, Julian ! " And when there 
 was no answer, she whispered "Then I choose not to 
 live." 
 
 But it was the last time that she made that choice, 
 and Julian's letter, which she found awaiting her 
 across the street, she said afterwards was the reason 
 why. 
 
 It was written at Bellagio, on July eleventh. 
 
 " My BEST FRIEND : 
 
 " If I did wrong to give you up two years ago, I think 
 yes, I know that you forgive me because I thought it was 
 for the best. It seemed so wrong for me to marry any one 
 you of all people ! And even now I 'd hate to imagine 
 you the wife of a man who could n't run with you in the 
 wind; for you see, when I thought I could have you to
 
 380 Z A N D R I E 
 
 keep, nine weeks ago, I was too drunk with happiness at 
 the wonder of your loving me still just at the sight of 
 you to see anything surely aright. Yet when I did what 
 I felt sure was right, two years ago, trouble came to you. 
 You say I made a mistake. So do I, when I think of the 
 trouble. And yet George Deming says that a man who 
 has done a hard thing because it honestly seemed the right, 
 can't have made a mistake ' in the final sense.' That 's the 
 top of faith, I reckon; but if my Best Friend can reach it, 
 I '11 pull myself up after her somehow. And you must have 
 reached it, for you said ' If it 's a mistake, we '11 justify it.' 
 Well, and if we believed that, it would mean for both 
 of us the possibility of a life turned from bitterness and 
 failure to a good account. So I will. If you set out to 
 justify my own mistake, shall I lag behind ? You '11 be 
 patient, and strong to ' do out the duty ', whatever it is ; and 
 the knowing that, helps me to do my part. It goes without 
 saying that the duty won't be easy. It will be easier for us 
 both, I think, if we don't write. I shall hear of you through 
 the George Demings, whom I wish you could live near, for 
 they are the sort that help. Perhaps they can help your 
 husband to win you. But whatever you do, remember this, 
 that my belief that you '11 somehow ' justify my mistake,' is 
 what turns my own life from utter failure to hope and new 
 purpose. Dear, you must understand it that through you, 
 all the best in my life has come. I don't know how to say 
 it, but it is so that even if you loved some one else better 
 than me, I 'd still have you here at the core of me, and be 
 the happier for having known you, even apart from you 
 as I am, losing what many call the best of life. If I could 
 believe that your life hasn't been spoiled, that you feel, 
 like me, that the best isn't lost after all But you are so 
 great-hearted that I have to believe it of you; and just that 
 keeps me well, as happy as most men, maybe. Isn't love 
 queer, that way ! I reckon it means there 's more of it com- 
 ing in the next world."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 WHO MAY BE GARDENERS OF PARADISE 
 
 " Stories of fairies and gnomes," said Mrs. Deming, 
 " are unfit even for sick children. If I 'd known those 
 were what Mrs. Royce I shall call her that, what- 
 ever she calls herself If I 'd known those were what 
 she was going to tell her hospital children, I 'd have 
 urged my son George against it." 
 
 And the Ladies' Aid understood this sibylline 
 utterance, having discussed It some twenty-four times 
 in the past twelve months. They knew, for instance, 
 that It stood on the list of philanthropic organizations 
 of a neighboring city, and that the Rev. George 
 Deming had established It himself, by means of a 
 fund which some one name not published had 
 given him for that purpose. "No need to publish the 
 name," said Mrs. Deming's sister. " But if it was 
 Julian Furness's idea " 
 
 " It was n't," said Gray Deming. " It was mine. 
 When I saw what a talent she had for amusing chil- 
 dren even Louie ! it just all came to me at once. 
 And George and Julian just carried it out. And 
 Julian said he 'd have given the money for such a 
 
 381
 
 382 Z A N D R I E 
 
 charity, whether my friend Zandrie had been in 
 question for the position or not. But of course she 
 was just the one, so George " 
 
 "You mean," her mother-in-law interrupted, "that 
 stories of fairies and gnomes, told every day to sick 
 children . . . Well ! all I can say is, that 
 what a man of Julian Furness's sterling qualities 
 and my son George can find to admire in that 
 flighty young woman " 
 
 " And my husband ! " Mrs. Summers interrupted. 
 
 " And her husband ! " Mrs. Deming's sister inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Summers. " Though to be sure, it looks 
 now as of Dr. Royce " 
 
 " Please, Myra, let me finish my sentences," said 
 Mrs. Deming. "I was saying I 've always said 
 that Dr. Royce was much to be pitied " 
 
 " Because he married her ? or because, having 
 married her, he could n't have her ? or because, now 
 that he does n't want to have her, he 's getting a 
 divorce? I think it was perfectly dog-in-the-manger- 
 ish not to get it sooner, especially as it was so easy." 
 
 " If you would let me finish," Mrs. Deming began 
 patiently But the unforeseen and tempestuous 
 entrance of Zandrie almost finished Mrs. Deming her- 
 self. 
 
 Zandrie got Gray out into the hall. " Any letter 
 this week? "
 
 GARDENERS OF PARADISE 383 
 
 Gray shook her head. " You did n't desert your 
 poor sick kiddies just to ask - 
 
 "O dear no ! " Zandrie had her arms about her 
 and was laughing. " And I '11 tell them about the 
 darlingest, hunchiest goblin tomorrow. 
 Gray ! what was the really real reason why Julian 
 went ? " 
 
 " Why why, because you and Dr. Royce " 
 
 " Got married once, by a wedding service and 
 promises I did n't even understand. No more mar- 
 ried than that. No; and the realest reason was just 
 that Julian 's a most stupid man, and thought, because 
 France never rode horseback too fast on an icy road 
 he honestly thought France would make me a better 
 husband ! So he was bound to give him every chance. 
 There may have been other reasons at the time, too. 
 But now that France finds he absolutely can't have me 
 ever Now that Julian knows he 's not keeping us 
 apart, and France wants to give up trying is all out 
 of patience for I 've never even let him see me, you 
 know, this year and a half " 
 
 It was wonderful to see, how Gray's eyes were 
 shining; but what she said was " Poor France." 
 
 " Pity France ? Well, yes ! because he never 
 could know what Julian and I know, not even 
 when he marries some one else. And think how 
 miserable he 'd have been with me ! It takes an 
 arrogant, terrible man like Julian, to keep me in order.
 
 384 Z A N D R I E 
 
 And Gray, darling ! Now that there 's no possible 
 good reason . . . Oh, I 've thought a lot, this 
 year and a half, about right and wrong. Think of 
 that! And I know absolutely and forever that it 
 would have been wrong wrong to have lived 
 with France. We never were really married in any 
 way, and never could be married in heart. And I 
 know there 's no wrong in cancelling such a no-mar- 
 riage. But I Ve waited patiently for France to 
 lose patience, because Julian wanted me to. And 
 meanwhile . . ." 
 
 "Well?" said Gray. 
 
 " I 've made the strangest discoveries ! Remember 
 what George said that the best flowers grew in the 
 Garden of Lost Delight? " 
 
 "Of course I remember what George says." 
 
 "Well, he was mistaken! though Julian himself 
 thought he was right I know that from his letter 
 of a year and half ago. But the strange thing is, the 
 best flowers grow in a Place beyond the Garden. 
 Only, you have to go through the Garden to get to it. 
 And you can't possibly get to it even then, unless 
 you've seen the flowers in the Garden, and seen that 
 they 're very fair, and picked them to keep. They're 
 your passport to the Place beyond the Garden. And 
 Julian has picked them all. But could his dear, great 
 soul be less great for having the flowers of its delight 
 at last ? Gray darling, are n't you proud to know 
 such a man ? "
 
 GARDENERS OF PARADISE 385 
 
 " Very proud." 
 
 " Oh, I love you! . . . And what if a man like 
 that loved you ? " 
 
 " George does" said his loyal wife. 
 
 Zandrie laughed. " I 'm glad you don't quite un- 
 derstand Julian. And that 's another queer thing 
 that if we 'd had each other any sooner than right 
 now, I should n't have understood him myself. He 
 thinks, you see ; and I 'd have made him quite un- 
 happy if I could n't do it sometimes too. It 's what 
 I 've been doing this whole year and a half ! when 
 I have n't been raging with impatience. It 's lucky 
 he made me leave him blind that he was ! three 
 years and a half ago. But even then, I never began 
 to understand him till I left him myself, a year and 
 a half ago. No matter how mistaken, you see, he was 
 always good, and yet not mistaken! Oh, I see it 
 all, at last! It's one of the flowers I 've picked for 
 my passport. And another flower " 
 
 "Well?" said Gray. 
 
 " I 've made myself not hate and despise France, 
 because Julian did n't. But even then, there 's no 
 telling how I 'd have scrambled after him through the 
 Garden without the help of hope. And now and 
 now . . . I '11 never tease him to marry me, 
 again ; but I 've engaged a substitute for six 
 months, and I shan't have money enough to get back ! 
 I 'm going to see him his very self his very self 
 in Lausanne, two weeks from to-day. I 'm going
 
 3 86 Z A N D R I E 
 
 to make him understand me at last, that I'm all 
 grown up and know my own need. He could n't be 
 so arrogant as to choose for me still ! He stood aside 
 to let me run in the wind with a man I did n't love. 
 Yet the very first day I saw Julian, he carried my 
 heart up a mountain. What do men think we want? 
 He would n't listen, when I told him. But he '11 not 
 wrong me so again. . . . Two whole weeks, 
 Gray ! . . . But they '11 pass they '11 pass. 
 And then I '11 show him where the perfect flowers 
 grow."
 
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