:-NRLF 
 
 

 C, t I 
 7 C? / 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
TOLD IN 
 A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 AUGUST, 1914 
 
 BY 
 
 Mildred Aldrich 
 
 Author of 
 A Hilltop on the Ma me" 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
 1916 
 
Copyright, 1916 
 BY MILDRED ALDRICH 
 
 Second Printing, October, iqzb 
 Third Printing, October, iqib 
 
 Fourth Printing, October, iqito 
 Fifth Printing, October, 79/6 
 Sixth Printing, October, 79/6 
 Seventh Printing, October, iqib 
 
 Eighth Printing, December, iqib 
 
 Jlrlntrro 
 
 S. J. PAKKHILL & Co., BOSTON, U.S.A. 
 
TO 
 
 F. E. C. 
 
 a prince of comrades and a royal 
 friend, whose quaint humor 
 gladdened the days of my early 
 struggle, and whose unfailing 
 faith inspired me in later days 
 to turn a smiling face to Fate 
 
 64, 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION 3 
 
 How We Came into the Garden 
 
 I THE YOUNGSTER S STORY ... 29 
 
 It Happened at Midnight The 
 Tale of a Bride s New Home 
 
 II THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY . 45 
 
 The Son of Josephine The Tale 
 of a Foundling 
 
 III THE CRITIC S STORY .... 60 
 
 Twas in the Indian Summer 
 The Tale of an Actress 
 
 IV THE DOCTOR S STORY .... 83 
 
 As One Dreams The Tale of 
 an Adolescent 
 
 V THE SCULPTOR S STORY ... 96 
 
 Unto This End The Tale of a 
 Virgin 
 
 VI THE DIVORCEE S STORY . . .135 
 
 One Woman s Philosophy The 
 Tale of a Modern Wife 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 VII THE LAWYER S STORY . . . .166 
 
 The Night Before the Wedding 
 The Tale of a Bride-Elect 
 
 VIII THE JOURNALIST S STORY . . . 188 
 
 In a Railway Station The Tale 
 of a Dancer 
 
 IX THE VIOLINIST S STORY . . .221 
 
 The Soul of the Song The Tale 
 of a Fiancee 
 
 X EPILOGUE 259 
 
 Adieu How We Went Out of 
 the Garden 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH 
 GARDEN 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH 
 GARDEN 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 HOW WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 IT was by a strange irony of Fate that 
 we found ourselves reunited for a sum 
 mer s outing, in a French garden, in July, 
 1914. 
 
 With the exception of the Youngster, 
 we had hardly met since the days of our 
 youth. 
 
 We were a party of unattached people, 
 six men, two women, your humble serv 
 ant, and the Youngster, who was an out 
 sider. 
 
 With the exception of the latter, we 
 had all gone to school or college or danc 
 ing class together, and kept up a sort of 
 superficial acquaintance ever since that 
 sort of relation in which people know 
 something of one another s opinions and 
 
 [ 3 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 absolutely nothing of one another s real 
 lives. 
 
 There was the Doctor, who had studied 
 long in Germany, and become an authority 
 on mental diseases, developed a distaste 
 for therapeutics, and a passion for research 
 and the laboratory. There was the Law 
 yer, who knew international law as he 
 knew his Greek alphabet, and hated a 
 court room. There was the Violinist, who 
 was known the world over in musical sets, 
 everywhere, except in the concert room. 
 There w as the Journalist, who had trav 
 elled into almost as many queer places as 
 Richard Burton, seen more wars, and fol 
 lowed more callings. There was the 
 Sculptor, the fame of whose greater father 
 had almost paralyzed a pair of good 
 modeller s hands. There was the Critic, 
 whose friends believed that in him the 
 world had lost a great romancer, but 
 whom a combination of hunger and lazi 
 ness, and a proneness to think that nothing 
 not genius was worth while, had con 
 demned to be a mere breadwinner, but a 
 breadwinner who squeezed a lot out of 
 life, and who fervently believed that in his 
 next incarnation he would really be " it." 
 Then there was " Me," and of the other 
 
 [4] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 two women one was a Trained Nurse, 
 and the other a Divorcee, and well, 
 none of us really knew just what she had 
 become, but we knew that she was very 
 rich, and very handsome, and had a lean 
 ing toward some sort of new religion. As 
 for the Youngster he was the son of an 
 old chum of the Doctor his ward, in 
 fact and his hobby was flying. 
 
 Our reunion, after so many years, was 
 a rather pretty story. 
 
 In the summer of 1913, the Doctor and 
 the Divorcee, who had lost sight of one 
 another for twenty years, met by chance 
 in Paris. Her ex-husband had been a col 
 lege friend of the Doctor. They saw a 
 great deal of one another in the lazy way 
 that people who really love France, and 
 are done sightseeing, can do. 
 
 One day it occurred to them to take a 
 day s trip into the country, as unattached 
 people now and then can do. They might 
 have gone out in a car but they chose 
 the railroad, with a walk at the end on 
 the principle that no one can know and 
 love a country who does not press its 
 earth beneath his feet, the Doctor 
 would probably have said, " lay his head 
 upon its bosom. " By an accident thev j 
 
 [ 5 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 missed a train they found themselves at 
 sunset of a beautiful day in a small village, 
 and with no possible way of getting back 
 to Paris that night unless they chose to 
 walk fifteen miles to the nearest railway 
 junction. After a long day s tramp that 
 seemed too much of a good thing. 
 
 So they looked about to find a shelter 
 for the night. The village it was only 
 a hamlet had no hotel, no cafe, even. 
 Finally an old peasant said that old Mother 
 Servin a widow living a mile up the 
 road had a big house, lived alone, and 
 could take them in, if she wanted to, 
 he could not say that she would. 
 
 It seemed to them worth trying, so they 
 started off in high spirits to tramp another 
 mile, deciding that, if worse became worst 
 well the night was warm they 
 could sleep by the roadside under the stars. 
 
 It was near the hour when it should 
 have been dark but in France at that 
 season one can almost read out of doors 
 until nine when they found the place. 
 With some delay the gate in the stone wall 
 was opened, and they were face to face 
 with the old widow. 
 
 It was a long argument, but the Doctor 
 had a winning way, and at the end they 
 [ 6 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 were taken in, more, they were fed in 
 the big clean kitchen, and then each was 
 sheltered in a huge room, with cement 
 floor, scrupulously clean, with the quaint 
 old furniture and the queer appointments 
 of a French farmhouse. 
 
 The next morning, when the Doctor 
 threw open the heavy wooden shutters to 
 his window, he gave a whistle of delight 
 to find himself looking out into what 
 seemed to be a French Paradise and 
 better than that he had never asked. 
 
 It was a wilderness. Way off in the 
 distance he got glimpses of broken walls 
 with all kinds of green things creeping and 
 climbing, and hanging on for life. Inside 
 the walls there was a riot of flowers 
 hollyhocks and giroflees, dahlias and phlox, 
 poppies and huge daisies, and roses every 
 where, even climbing old tree trunks, and 
 sprawling all over the garden front of the 
 rambling house. The edges of the paths 
 had green borders that told of Corbeil 
 d Argent in midwinter, and violets in 
 early spring. He leaned out and looked 
 along the house. It was just a jumble of 
 all sorts of buildings which had evidently 
 been added at different times. It seemed 
 to be on half a dozen elevations, and no 
 
 [ 7 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 two windows were of the same size, while 
 here and there an outside staircase led up 
 into a loft. 
 
 Once he had taken it in he dressed like 
 a flash he could not get out into that 
 garden quickly enough, to pray the Widow 
 to serve coffee under a huge tree in the 
 centre of the garden, about the trunk of 
 which a rude table had been built, and it 
 was there that the Divorcee found him 
 when she came out, simply glowing with 
 enthusiasm the house, the garden, the 
 Widow, the day everything was per 
 fect. 
 
 While they were taking their coffee, 
 poured from the earthen jug, in the thick 
 old Rouen cups, the Divorcee said: 
 
 " How I d love to own a place like this. 
 No one would ever dream of building such 
 a house. It has taken centuries of accu 
 mulated needs to expand it into being. If 
 one tried to do the thing all at once it 
 would look too on-purpose. This place 
 looks like a happy combination of circum 
 stances which could not help itself." 
 
 " Well, why not? It might be possible 
 to have just this. Let s ask the Widow." 
 
 So, when they were sitting over their 
 cigarettes, and the old woman was clear- 
 I 8 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 ing the table, the Doctor looked her over, 
 and considered the road of approach. 
 
 She was a rugged old woman, well on 
 toward eighty, with a bronzed, weather 
 worn face, abundant coarse gray hair, a 
 heavy shapeless figure, but a firm bearing, 
 in spite of her rounded back. As far as 
 they could see, they were alone on the 
 place with her. The Doctor decided to 
 jump right into the subject. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " I suppose you 
 don t want to sell this place? " 
 
 The old woman eyed him a moment 
 with her sharp dark eyes. 
 
 " But, yes, Monsieur she replied. " I 
 should like it very well, only it is not pos 
 sible. No one would be willing to pay 
 my price. Oh, no, no one. No, indeed." 
 
 " Well," said the Doctor, " how do you 
 know that? What is the price? Is it 
 permitted to ask? " 
 
 The old woman hesitated, started to 
 speak changed her mind, and turned 
 away, muttering. " Oh, no, Monsieur, 
 it is not worth the trouble no one will 
 ever pay my price." 
 
 The Doctor jumped up, laughing, ran 
 after her, took her by the arm, and led 
 her back to the table. 
 
 [ 9 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 " Now, come, come, Mother," he re 
 marked, " let us hear the price at any rate. 
 I am so curious." 
 
 " Well," said the Widow, " it is like 
 this. I would like to get for it what my 
 brother paid for it, when he bought it at 
 the death of my father it was to settle 
 with the rest of the heirs we were eight 
 then. They are all dead but me. But 
 no, no one will ever pay that price, so I 
 may as well let it go to my niece. She is 
 the last. She doesn t need it. She has 
 land enough. The cultivator has a hard 
 time these days. It is as much as I can 
 do to make the old place feed me and pay 
 the taxes, and I am getting old. But no 
 one will ever pay the price, and what will 
 my brother think of me when the bon Dieu 
 calls me, if I sell it for less than he paid? 
 As for that, I don t know what he ll say 
 to me for selling it at all. But I am get 
 ting old to live here alone all alone. 
 But no one will ever pay the price. So I 
 may as well die here, and then my brother 
 can t blame me. But it is lonely now, and 
 I am growing too old. Besides, I don t 
 suppose you want to buy it. What would 
 a gentleman do with this? " 
 
 "Well," said the Doctor, "I don t 
 [ 10 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 really know what a gentleman would do 
 with it," and he added, under his breath, 
 in English, " but I know mighty well what 
 this fellow could do with it, if he could 
 get it," and he lighted a fresh cigarette. 
 
 The keen old eyes had watched his face. 
 
 " I don t suppose you want to buy it? " 
 she persisted. 
 
 " Well," responded the Doctor, " how 
 can a poor man like me say, if you don t 
 care to name your price, and unless that 
 price is within reason? " 
 
 After some minutes of hesitation the 
 old woman drew a deep breath. Well," 
 she said, with the determination of one 
 who expected to be scoffed at, " I won t 
 take a sou less than my brother paid." 
 
 " Come on, Mother," said the Doctor, 
 "what did your brother pay? No non 
 sense, you know." 
 
 " Well, if you must know it was FIVE 
 THOUSAND FRANCS, and I can t and won t 
 sell it for less. There, now ! " 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 The Doctor and his companion avoided 
 one another s eyes. After a while, he 
 said in an undertone, in English: " By 
 Jove, I m going to buy it." 
 
 " No, no," remonstrated his companion, 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 her eyes gazing down the garden vista to 
 where the wistaria and clematis and flam 
 ing trumpet flower flaunted on the old 
 wall. " I am going to have it I thought 
 of it first. I want it." 
 
 u So do I," laughed the Doctor. 
 " Never wanted anything more in all my 
 life." 
 
 " For how long," she asked, " would a 
 rover like you want this? " 
 
 " Rover yourself ! And you? Besides 
 what difference does it make how long I 
 want it since I want it now? I want 
 to give a party haven t given a party 
 since since Class Day." 
 
 The Divorcee sighed. Still gazing 
 down the garden she said quietly : " How 
 well I remember ninety-two ! " 
 
 Then there was another silence before 
 she turned to him suddenly: " See here 
 all this is very irregular so, that be 
 ing the case why shouldn t we buy it to 
 gether? We know each other. Neither 
 of us will ever stay here long. One sum 
 mer apiece will satisfy us, though it is 
 lovely. Be a sport. We ll draw lots as 
 to who is to have the first party." 
 
 The Doctor waved the old woman 
 away. Her keen eyes watched too sharply. 
 
 [ 12 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 Then, with their elbows on the table, 
 they had a long and heated argument. 
 Probably there were more things touched 
 on than the garden. Who knows? At 
 the end of it the Divorcee walked away 
 down that garden vista, and the old woman 
 was called and the Doctor took her at her 
 word. And out of that arrangement 
 emerged the scheme which resulted in our 
 finding ourselves, a year later, within the 
 old walls of that French garden. 
 
 Of course a year s work had been done 
 on the interior, and Doctor and Divorcee 
 had scoured the department for old furni 
 ture. Water had been brought a great 
 distance, a garage had been built with serv 
 ants quarters over it there were no 
 servants in the house, but the look of 
 the place, we were assured, had not been 
 changed, and both Doctor and Divorcee 
 declared that they had had the year of 
 their lives. Well, if they had, the place 
 showed it. 
 
 But, as Fate would have it, the second 
 night we sat down to dinner in that gar 
 den, news had come of the assassination 
 of Franz Ferdinand-Charles-Louis Joseph- 
 Marie d Autriche-Este, whom the tragic 
 death of Prince Rudolphe, almost exactly 
 
 [ 13 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 twenty-four years and six months earlier 
 to a day, had made Crown Prince of Aus 
 tria-Hungary and the tone of our 
 gathering was changed. From that day 
 the party threatened to become a little 
 Bedlam, and the garden a rostrum. 
 
 In the earlier days it did not make so 
 much difference. The talk was good. 
 We were a travelled group, and what with 
 reminiscences of people and places, and 
 the scandal of courts, it was far from be 
 ing dull. But as the days went on, and 
 the war clouds began to gather, the over 
 charged air seemed to get on the nerves 
 of the entire group, and instead of the 
 peaceful summer we had counted upon, 
 every one of us seemed to live in his own 
 particular kind of fever. Every one of 
 us, down to the Youngster, had fixed ideas, 
 deep-set theories, and convictions as differ 
 ent as our characters, our lives, our call 
 ings, and our faiths. We were all Cos 
 mopolitan Americans, but ready to spread 
 the Eagle, if necessary, and all of us, 
 except the Violinist, of New England 
 extraction, which means really of English 
 blood, and that will show when the screws 
 are put on. We had never thought of the 
 Violinist as not one of us, but he was really 
 
 [ 14 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 of Polish origin. His great-grandfather 
 had been a companion of Adam Czartor- 
 iski in the uprising of 1830, and had gone 
 to the States when the amnesty was not 
 extended to his chief after that rebellion, 
 Poland s last, had been stamped out. 
 
 As well as I can remember it was the 
 night of August 6th that the first serious 
 dispute arose. England had declared 
 war. All our male servants had left us 
 except two American chauffeurs, and a 
 couple of old outside men. Two of our 
 four cars, and all our horses but one had 
 been requisitioned. That did not upset 
 us. We had taken on the wives of some 
 of the men, among them Angele, the pretty 
 wife of one of the French chauffeurs, and 
 her two-months-old baby into the bargain. 
 We still had two cars, that, at a pinch, 
 would carry the party, and we still had one 
 mount in case of necessity. 
 
 The question arose as to whether we 
 should break up and make for the nearest 
 port while we could, or " stick it out." 
 It had been finally agreed not to evacuate 
 yet. One does not often get such a 
 chance to see a country at war, and we 
 were all ardent spectators, and all unat 
 tached. I imagine not one of us had at 
 
 [ 15 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 that time any idea of being useful the 
 stupendousness of it all had not dawned 
 on any of us unless it was the Doctor. 
 
 But after the decision of " stick " had 
 been passed unanimously, the Critic, who 
 was a bit of a sentimentalist, and if he 
 were anything else was a Norman Angel- 
 lite, stuck his hands in his pockets, and 
 remarked: "After all, it is perfectly safe 
 to stay, especially now that England is 
 coming in." 
 
 " You think so? " said the Doctor. 
 
 " Sure," smiled the Critic. " The Ger 
 mans will never cross the French frontier 
 this time. This is not 1870." 
 
 u Won t they, and isn t it? " replied the 
 Doctor sharply. 
 
 " They never can get by Verdun and 
 Belfort." 
 
 " Never said they could," remarked the 
 Doctor, with a tone as near to a sneer as 
 a good-natured host can allow himself. 
 " But they ll invade fast enough. I know 
 what I am talking about." 
 
 " You don t mean to tell me," said the 
 Critic, " that a nation like Germany 
 I m talking now about the people, the 
 country that has been the hot bed of Social 
 ism, will stand for a war of invasion? " 
 [ 16 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 That started the Doctor off. He flayed 
 the theorists, the people who reasoned 
 with their emotions and not their brains, 
 the mob that looked at externals, and 
 never saw the fires beneath, the throng 
 that was unable to understand anything 
 outside its own horizon, the mass that pre 
 tended to read the history of the world, 
 and because it changed its clothes imagined 
 that it had changed its spirit. 
 
 " Why, I ve lived in Germany," he 
 cried. " I was educated there. I know 
 them. I have the misfortune to under 
 stand them. They ll stick together and 
 Socialism go hang as long as there is a 
 hope of victory. The Confederation was 
 cemented in the blood of victory. It can 
 only be dissolved in the blood of defeat. 
 They are a great, a well-disciplined, and 
 an obedient people." 
 
 " One would think you admired them 
 and their military system," remarked the 
 Critic, a bit crest-fallen at the attack. 
 
 " I may not, but I ll tell you one sure 
 thing if you want a good circus you ve got 
 to train your animals. The Kaiser has 
 been a corking ringmaster." 
 
 Of course this got a laugh, and though 
 both Critic and Journalist tried to strike 
 
 [ 17 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 fire again with words like " democracy " 
 and " civilization," the Doctor had cooled 
 down, and nothing could stir him again 
 that night. 
 
 Still the discord had been sown. I sup 
 pose the dinner-table talk was only a 
 sample of what was going on, in that 
 month, all over the world. It did not help 
 matters that as the days went on we all 
 realized that the Doctor had been right 
 that France was to be invaded, not across 
 her own proper frontier, but across unpro 
 tected Belgium. This seemed so atrocious 
 to most of us that indignation could only 
 express itself in abuse. There was not a 
 night that the dinner-table talk was not 
 bitter. You see the Doctor did not expect 
 the world ever to be perfect did not 
 know that he wanted it to be believed 
 in the struggle. On the other hand the 
 Critic, and in a certain sense the Journalist, 
 in spite of their experiences, were more or 
 less Utopian, and the Sculptor and the 
 Violinist purely spectators. 
 
 No need to go into the details of the 
 heated arguments. They were only the 
 echo of what all the world, that had 
 cradled itself into the belief that a great 
 war among the great nations had become, 
 [ 18 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 for economic as well as humanitarian rea 
 sons, impossible, were, I imagine, at this 
 time saying. 
 
 As nearly as I can remember it was on 
 August 2Oth that the climax came. Liege 
 had fallen. The English Expedition had 
 landed, and was marching on Belgium. 
 A victorious German army had goose- 
 stepped into defenseless Brussels, and was 
 sweeping out toward the French frontier. 
 The French advance into Alsace had been 
 a blunder. 
 
 The Doctor remarked that " the Eng 
 lish had landed twelve days too late," and 
 the Journalist drew a graphic, and purely 
 imaginary, picture of the pathos of the 
 Belgians straining their eyes in vain to the 
 West for the coming of the men in khaki, 
 and unfortunately he let himself expatiate 
 a bit on German methods. 
 
 The spark touched the Doctor off. 
 
 " By Jove," he said, " all you sentimen 
 talists read the History of the World with 
 your intellects in your breeches pockets. 
 War is not a game for babies. It is war 
 it is not sport. You chaps think war 
 can be prevented. All I ask you is why 
 hasn t it been prevented? In every gen 
 eration that we know anything about there 
 
 c 19 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 have been some pretty fine men who have 
 been of your opinion Erasmus for one, 
 and how many others? But since the 
 generations have contented themselves 
 with talking, and not talked war out of the 
 problem, why, I can t see, for my part, 
 that Germany s way is not as good as any. 
 She is in to win, and so are all the rest of 
 them. Schools of War are like the 
 Schools of Art you chaps talk so much 
 about it does not make much difference 
 what school one belongs to the only im 
 portant thing is making good." 
 
 " One would think," said the Journalist, 
 " that you liked such a war." 
 
 ;< Well, I don t even know that I can 
 deny that. I would not deliberately 
 choose it. But I am willing to accept it, 
 and I am not a bit sentimental about it. 
 I am not even sure that it was not needed. 
 The world has let the Kaiser sit twenty- 
 five years on a throne announcing himself 
 as God s anointed. His pretensions 
 have been treated seriously by all the 
 democracies of the world. What for? 
 Purely for personal gain. We have come 
 to a pass where there is little a man won t 
 do for personal gain. The business of 
 the world, and its diplomacy, have all be- 
 
 [ 20 ] 
 
How WE CAML INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 come so complicated and corrupt that a 
 large percentage of the brains of honest 
 mankind are little willing to touch either. 
 We need shaking up all of us. If 
 nothing can make man realize that he was 
 not born to be merely happy and get rich, 
 or to have a fine old time, why, such a 
 complete upheaval as this seems to me to 
 be necessary, and for me if this war can 
 rip off, with its shrapnel, the selfishness 
 with which prosperity has encrusted the 
 lucky: if it can explode our false values 
 with its bombs: if it can break down our 
 absurd pretensions with its cannon, all I 
 can say is that Germany will have done 
 missionary work for the whole world 
 herself included." 
 
 Before he had done, we were all on our 
 feet shouting at him, all but the Lawyer, 
 who smiled into his coffee cup. 
 
 " Why," cried the Critic, in anger, " one 
 would think you held a brief for them ! " 
 
 " I do NOT/ snapped the Doctor, " but 
 I don t dislike them any more than I do 
 well," catching himself up with a laugh, 
 " lots of other people." 
 
 " And you mean to tell me," said the 
 gentle voice of the Divorcee at his elbow, 
 " that you calmly face the idea of the hun- 
 
 C 21 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 dreds of thousands of men, well and 
 strong to-day dead to-morrow, the 
 thought of the mothers who have borne 
 their sons in pain, and bred them in love, 
 only to fling them before the cannon? " 
 
 " For what, after all, are we born?" 
 said the Doctor. " Where we die, or 
 when is a trifle, since die we must. But 
 why we die and how is vital. It is not 
 only vital to the man that goes it is 
 vital to the race. It is the struggle, it is 
 the fight, which, no matter what form it 
 takes, makes life worth living. Men 
 struggle for money. Financiers strangle 
 one another at the Bourse. People look 
 on and applaud, in spite of themselves. 
 That is exciting. It is not uplifting. But 
 for men just like you and me to march out 
 to face death for an idea, for honor, for 
 duty, that very fact ennobles the race." 
 
 " Ah," said the Lawyer, " I see. The 
 Doctor enjoys the drama of life, but he 
 does not enjoy the purely domestic drama." 
 
 " And out of all this," said the Trained 
 Nurse, in her level voice, " you are leaving 
 the Almighty. He gave us a world full 
 of beauty, full of work, full of interest, 
 and he gave us capacities to enjoy it, and 
 endowed us with emotions which make it 
 
 [ 22 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 worth while to live and to die. He gave 
 us simple laws they are clear enough 
 they mark sharply the line between good 
 and evil. He left us absolutely free to 
 choose. And behold what man has made 
 of it!" 
 
 " I deny the statement," said the Doctor. 
 
 " That s easy," laughed the Journalist. 
 
 " I believe, * said the Doctor, impa 
 tiently, " that no good comes but through 
 evil. Read your Bible." 
 
 " I don t want to read it with your eyes," 
 replied the Journalist, and marched testily 
 down the path toward the house. 
 
 "Well," snapped the Doctor, "if I 
 read it with yours, I should call on the 
 Almighty to smite this planet with his fires 
 and send us spinning, a flaming brand 
 through space, to annihilation the great 
 scheme would seem to me a failure but 
 I don t believe it is." And off he marched 
 in the other direction. 
 
 The Lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and 
 suppressed, as well as he could, a smile. 
 The Youngster, leaning his elbows on his 
 knees, recited under his breath : 
 
 " And as he sat, all suddenly there rolled, 
 " From where the woman wept upon the sod, 
 " Satan s deep voice, Oh Thou unhappy God. " 
 
 , [ 23 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 " Exactly," said the Lawyer. 
 
 ;< What s that? " asked the Violinist 
 
 " Only the last three lines of a great 
 little poem by a little great Irishman named 
 Stephens entitled 4 What Satan Said. " 
 
 " After all," said the Lawyer, " the Doc 
 tor is probably right. It all depends on 
 one s point of view." 
 
 " And one s temperament," said the 
 Violinist. 
 
 " And one s education," said the Critic. 
 
 Just here the Doctor came back, and 
 he came back his smiling self. He made 
 a dash down the path to where the Journal 
 ist was evidently sulking, went up behind 
 him, threw an arm over his shoulder, and 
 led him back into the circle. 
 
 " See here," he said, " you are all my 
 guests. I am unreasonably fond of you, 
 even if we can t see Life from the same 
 point of view. Man as an individual, and 
 Man as a part of the Scheme are two dif 
 ferent things. I asked you down here to 
 enjoy yourselves, not to argue. I apolo 
 gize all my fault unpardonable of 
 me. Come now we have decided to 
 stay as long as we can we are all inter 
 ested. It is not every generation that has 
 
 [ 24 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 the honor to sit by, and watch two systems 
 meet at the crossroads and dispute the pas 
 sage to the Future. We ll agree not to 
 discuss the ethics of the matter again. If 
 the men marching out there to the frontier 
 can agree to face the cannon and there 
 are as many opinions there as here 
 surely we can look on in silence." 
 
 And on that agreement we all went to 
 bed. 
 
 But on the following day, as we sat in 
 the garden after dinner, our attempts to 
 " keep off the grass " were miserably vis 
 ible. They cast a constraint on the party. 
 Every topic seemed to lead to the forbid 
 den enclosure. It was at a very critical 
 moment that the Sculptor, sitting cross- 
 legged on a bench, in a real Alma Tadema 
 attitude, filled the dangerous pause 
 with: 
 
 " It was in the days of our Lord 1348 
 that there happened in Florence, the finest 
 city in Italy " 
 
 And the Violinist, who was leaning 
 against a tree, touched an imaginary 
 mandolin, concluding: "A most terrible 
 plague." 
 
 The Critic leaped to his feet. 
 
 [ 25 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 " A corking idea," he cried. 
 
 " Mine, mine own," replied the Sculp 
 tor. " I propose that what those who, in 
 the days of the terrible plague, took refuge 
 at the Villa Palmieri, did to pass away the 
 time, we, who are watching the war ap 
 proach as our host says it will do 
 here. Let us, instead of disputing, each 
 tell a story after dinner to calm our 
 nerves, or otherwise." 
 
 At first every one hooted. 
 
 " I could never tell a story," objected 
 the Divorcee. 
 
 " Of course you can," declared the 
 Journalist. u Everybody in the world has 
 one story to tell." 
 
 " Sure," exclaimed the Lawyer. " No 
 embargo on subjects?" 
 
 " I don t know," smiled the Doctor. 
 " There is always the Youngster." 
 
 " You go to blazes," was the Young 
 ster s response, and he added: "No war 
 stories. Draw that line." 
 
 "Then," laughed the Doctor, "let s 
 make it tales of our own, our native land." 
 And there the matter rested. Only, when 
 we separated that night, each of us carried 
 a sealed envelope containing a numbered 
 
 [ 26 ] 
 
How WE CAME INTO THE GARDEN 
 
 slip, which decided the question of prece 
 dence, and it was agreed that no one but 
 the story-teller should know who was to 
 be the evening s entertainer, until story 
 telling hour arrived with the coffee and 
 cigarettes. 
 
I 
 
 THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 IT HAPPENED AT MIDNGHT 
 
 THE TALE OF A BRIDE S NEW HOME 
 
 THE daytimes were not ever very bad. 
 Short-handed in the pretty garden, every 
 one did a little work. The Lawyer was 
 passionately fond of flowers, and the 
 Youngster did most of the errands. The 
 Sculptor had found some clay, and loved 
 to surprise us at night with a new centre 
 piece for the table, and the Divorcee spent 
 most of her time tending Angele s baby, 
 while the Doctor and the Nurse were 
 eternally fussing over new kinds of band 
 ages and if ever we got together, it was 
 usually for a little reading aloud at tea- 
 time, or a little music. The spirt of dis 
 cussion seemed to keep as far away before 
 the lights were up as did the spirit of war, 
 and nothing could be farther than that 
 appeared. 
 
 The next day we were unusually quiet. 
 
 [ 29 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 Most of us kept in our rooms in the 
 afternoon. There were those stories to 
 think over, and that we all took it so seri 
 ously proved how very much we had been 
 needing some real thing to do. We got 
 through dinner very comfortably. 
 
 There was little news in the papers that 
 day except enthusiastic accounts of the 
 reception of the British troops by the 
 French. It was lovely to see the two races 
 that had met on so many battle fields 
 conquered, and been conquered by one an 
 other embracing with enthusiasm. It 
 was to the credit of all of us that we did 
 not make the inevitable reflections, but 
 only saw the humor and charm of the 
 thing, and remembered the fears that had 
 prevented the plans of tunnelling the 
 channel, only to find them humorous. 
 
 The coffee had been placed on the table. 
 The Trained Nurse, as usual, sat behind 
 the tray, and we each went and took our 
 cup, found a comfgrtable seat in the circle 
 under the trees, where a few yellow lan 
 terns swung in the soft air. 
 
 Then the Youngster pulled a white head 
 band with a huge " Number One " on it, 
 out of his pocket, placed it on his head 
 after the manner of the French Conscripts, 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 struck an attitude in the middle of the 
 circle, drew his chair deftly under him, and 
 with the air of an experienced monologist 
 began : 
 
 Not so very many years ago there was 
 a pretty wedding at Trinity Church in Bos 
 ton. It was quite the sort of marriage 
 Bostonians believe in. The man was a 
 rising lawyer, rather a sceptic on all sorts 
 of questions, as most of us chaps pride 
 ourselves on being, when we come out of 
 college. They were married in church to 
 please the Woman. What odds did it 
 make? 
 
 Before they were married they had de 
 cided to live outside the city. She wanted 
 a garden and an old house. He did not 
 care where they lived so long as they lived 
 together. Very proper of him, too. 
 They spent the last year of their engaged 
 life, the nicest year of some girls lives, I 
 have heard in hunting the place. What 
 they finally settled on was an old colonial 
 house with a colonnaded front, and a 
 round tower at each end, standing back 
 from the road, and approached by a wide 
 circular drive. It was large, substantial, 
 with great possibilities, and plenty of 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 ground. It had been unoccupied for many 
 years, and the place had an evil report, 
 and, at the time when they first saw it, 
 appeared to deserve it. 
 
 He had looked it over. The situation 
 was healthy. It was convenient to the 
 city. He could make it in his car in less 
 than forty-five minutes. They saw what 
 could be done with the place, and did not 
 concern themselves with why other people 
 had not cared to live there. Architects, 
 interior decorators, and landscape gar 
 deners were put to work on it, and, even 
 before the wedding, the place was well on 
 toward its habitable stage. 
 
 Then they were married, and, quite 
 correctly, went abroad to float in a gon 
 dola on the Grand Canal together; to 
 cross the Gemmi together; to stroll 
 about Pompeii and cross to Capri to 
 gether; and then ravage antiquity shops in 
 Paris together. They .returned in the 
 early days of a glorious September. The 
 house was ready for its master and mis 
 tress to lay the touch of their personality 
 on it, and put in place the trophies of their 
 Wedding Journey. 
 
 The evil look the house once had was 
 gone. 
 
 [ 32 ] 
 
THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 A few old trees had been cut down round 
 it to let in the glorious autumn sun all over 
 the house, and when, on their first morn 
 ing, after a good sound, well-earned sleep, 
 they took their coffee on the terrace off 
 the breakfast room, under a yellow awn 
 ing, they certainly did not think, if they 
 ever had, of the mysterious rumors against 
 the house which had been whispered about 
 when they first bought it. To them it 
 seemed that they had never seen a gayer 
 place. 
 
 But on the second night, just as the 
 Woman was putting her book aside, and 
 had a hand stretched out to shut off the 
 light, she stopped a carriage was com 
 ing up the drive. She sat up, and listened 
 for the bell. It did not ring. After a 
 few moments as there was absolutely no 
 sound of the carriage passing she got 
 up, and gently pushed the shutter her 
 room w r as on the front there was noth 
 ing there, so, attaching no importance to it, 
 she went quietly to bed, put out her light, 
 just noticing as she did so, that it was 
 midnight, and went to sleep. In the morn 
 ing, the incident made so little impression 
 on her, that she forgot to even mention 
 it. 
 
 [ 33 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 The next night, by some queer trick of 
 memory, just as she went to bed, the thing 
 came back to her, and she was surprised 
 to find that she had no sleep in her. In 
 stead of that she kept looking at the clock, 
 and just before twelve, cold chills began 
 to go down her back, when she heard the 
 rapid approach of a carriage this time 
 she was conscious that her hearing was so 
 keen that she knew there were two horses. 
 She listened intently no doubt about it 
 the carriage had stopped at the door. 
 
 Then there was a silence. 
 
 She was just convincing herself that 
 there must be some sort of echo which 
 made it appear that a team passing in the 
 road had come up the drive when she 
 was suddenly sure that she heard a hurried 
 step in the corridor it passed the door. 
 Now she was naturally a very unimagi 
 native person, and had never had occasion 
 to know fear. So, after a bit, she put out 
 her light, saying to herself that a belated 
 servant was busy with some neglected 
 work nothing more likely and she 
 went to sleep. 
 
 Again the morning sunlight, the Man s 
 gay companionship, the hundreds of de 
 lightful things to do, wiped out that bad 
 [ 34 ] 
 
THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 quarter of an hour, and again it never 
 occurred to her to mention it. 
 
 The next night the remembrance came 
 back so vividly after the Man had gone 
 to his room, that she regretted she had 
 not at least asked him if he had heard a 
 carriage pass in the night. Of course she 
 was sure that he had not. He was such 
 a sound sleeper. Besides, it was not im 
 portant. If he had, he would not have 
 been nervous about it. Still, she could 
 not sleep, and, just before the dining room 
 clock began to chime midnight she had 
 never heard it before, and that she heard 
 it now was a proof of how her whole body 
 was listening again came the rapid 
 tread of running horses. This time every 
 hair stood up on her head, and before 
 she could control herself, she called out 
 toward the open door : " Dearest, are you 
 awake? " 
 
 Almost before she had the words out 
 he was standing smiling in the doorway. 
 It was all right. 
 
 " Did you think you heard a carriage 
 come up the driveway? " she asked. 
 
 11 Why, yes," he replied, " but I didn t/ 
 
 "Listen! Is there some one coming 
 along the corridor? " 
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 He crossed the room quietly, opened the 
 door, and turned on the light. " No, 
 dear. There is no one there." 
 
 " Hadn t you better ring for your man, 
 and have him see if any of the servants 
 are up? " 
 
 He sat down on the edge of the bed, 
 and laughed heartily. 
 
 " See here, dear girl," he said, " you and 
 I are a pair of healthy people. We have 
 happened to hear a noise which we can t 
 explain. Be sure that there is rational 
 explanation. You re not afraid?" 
 
 " Well, no, I really am not," she de 
 clared, " but you cannot deny that it is 
 strange. Did you hear it last night? " 
 
 " Go on, now, with your cross-exami 
 nation," he said. u Let s go to sleep. At 
 any rate the exhibition is over for to 
 night." 
 
 The fourth night they did not speak in 
 the night any more than they had in the 
 daytime. But the next day they had a 
 long conversation, the gist of which was 
 this : That they had bought the place, that 
 except for fifteen minutes at midnight, the 
 place was ideal. They were both level 
 headed, neither believed in anything super 
 natural. Were they to be driven out of 
 
 c 36 ] 
 
THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 such a place by so harmless a thing as an 
 unexplained noise ? They could get used 
 to it. After a bit it would no more wake 
 them up, such was the force of habit 
 than the ticking of the clock. To all this 
 they both agreed, and the matter was 
 dropped. 
 
 For ten days they did not mention it, 
 but in all those ten days a sort of cres 
 cendo of emotion was going on in her. 
 At first she began to think of it as soon as 
 bed-time approached; then she felt it 
 intruding on her thoughts at the dinner 
 table; then she was unable to sleep for an 
 hour or two after the fifteen minutes had 
 passed, and, finally, one night, she fled into 
 his room to find him wide awake, just 
 before dawn, and to confess that the 
 shadow of midnight was stretched before 
 and after until it was almost a black circle 
 round the twenty-four hours. 
 
 She knew it was absurd. She had no 
 intention of being driven out of such a 
 lovely place BUT 
 
 "See here, dear," he said. "Let s 
 break our rule. We neither of us want 
 company, but let s, at least, have a big week 
 ender, and perhaps we can prove to our 
 selves that our nerves are wrong. One 
 
 [ 37 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 thing is sure, if you are going to get pale 
 over it, I ll burn the blooming house down 
 before we ll live in it." 
 
 " But you mind it yourself? " 
 
 "Not a bit!" 
 
 " But you are awake." 
 
 " Of course I am, because I know that 
 you are." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that if I slept you 
 wouldn t notice it? " 
 
 " On my honor I should not." 
 
 * You are a comfort," she ejaculated. 
 " I shall go right to sleep." And off she 
 went, and did go to sleep. 
 
 All the same, in the morning, he insisted 
 on the house-party. 
 
 " Let me see our list," he said. " Let 
 us have no students of occult; no men who 
 dabble in laboratory spiritualism; just nice, 
 live, healthy people who never heard of 
 such things if possible. You can find 
 them." 
 
 u You see, dear," she explained, " it 
 would not trouble me if I heard it and you 
 did not but " 
 
 " Oh, fudge ! " he laughed. " Just now 
 I should be sure to hear anything you did, 
 I suppose." 
 
 [38 ] 
 
THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 " You old darling," she replied, " then 
 I don t care for it a bit." 
 
 " All the same we ll have the house- 
 party." 
 
 So the following Saturday every room 
 in the house was occupied. 
 
 At midnight they were all gathered in 
 the long drawing room opening on the 
 colonnade, and, when the hour sounded, 
 some one was singing. The host and 
 hostess heard the running horses, as usual, 
 and they were conscious that one or two 
 people turned a listening ear, but evidently 
 no one saw anything strange in it, and no 
 comment was made. It was after one 
 when they all went up to their rooms, so 
 that evening passed off all right. 
 
 But on Sunday night two of the younger 
 guests had gone to sit on the front terrace, 
 and the older people were walking, in the 
 moonlight, in the garden at the back. The 
 sweet little girl, who was having her hand 
 held, got up properly when she heard the 
 carriage coming, and went to the edge of 
 the terrace to see who was arriving at mid 
 night. She had a fit of nerves as the 
 invisible vehicle and its running horses 
 seemed about to ride over her. She ran 
 
 [ 39 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 in, trembling with fear, to tell the tale, 
 and of course every one laughed at her, 
 and the matter would have been dropped, 
 if it had not happened that, just at that 
 moment a very pale gentleman came 
 stumbling out of the house with the state 
 ment that he wanted a conveyance " to take 
 him back to town," that " he refused to 
 sleep in a haunted house," that he " had 
 encountered an invisible person running 
 along the corridor to his room," in fact the 
 footsteps had as he put it " passed right 
 through him." 
 
 The host broke into laughter, but he 
 took the bull by the horns the facts, as 
 he knew them, were safer than the tales 
 which he knew would run over the city if 
 he attempted to deny things. 
 
 " See here, my good people," he said, 
 " there is a little mystery here that we 
 can t explain. The truth is, there is a 
 story about this house. It used to belong 
 to the president of a well-known railroad. 
 That was twenty-five years ago. They 
 say that one night, when he was driving 
 from a place he had up country, his team 
 was run into at a railway crossing five 
 miles from here one of those grade 
 crossings that never ought to have been 
 [ 40 ] 
 
THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 and he was killed and his horses came 
 home at midnight. 4 They say that the 
 people who lived here after that declared 
 that the horses have come home every 
 midnight since. Now, there s the story. 
 They don t do any harm. It only takes 
 them a few minutes. They don t even 
 trample the driveway, so why not? " 
 
 " All the same, I want to go back to 
 town," said the frightened guest. 
 
 " I would stay the night, if I were you," 
 said the host. " They won t come again 
 until to-morrow." 
 
 All the same, when morning came, every 
 one skipped, and as the last of them drove 
 away, the Woman put her hand through 
 the Man s arm, and smiled as she said: 
 " It s all over. I don t mind a bit. 
 When I heard you saying last night, They 
 don t even trample the driveway, so why 
 not? I said to myself, * Why not? in 
 deed." 
 
 " Good girl," he replied. " I ll bet my 
 top hat you grow to be proud of them." 
 
 I don t know that they ever did, but I 
 do know that they still live there. I went 
 to school with the son, and whenever any 
 one bragged, he used to say, " Well, we ve 
 always had a ghost. You ain t got that ! " 
 
 [ 4i ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 The Youngster threw his lighted ciga 
 rette into the air, ran under it, caught it 
 between his lips, and made a bow, as the 
 Doctor broke into a roar of laughter. 
 
 " I know that old house," he said. 
 " Jamaica Pond. But see here, Young 
 ster, your idea of ghosts is terribly illogi 
 cal. It was the man who was killed, not 
 the horses. The wrong part of the team 
 walked." 
 
 " You are particular," replied the 
 Youngster. " The man did not come 
 back, and the horses did. I can t split 
 hairs when it s a ghost story. I feel 
 afraid that I have missed my vocation, and 
 that flights in the imagination are more in 
 my line than flights in the air. I don t 
 know what you think. / think it s a 
 mighty good story. I say, Journalist, do 
 you think I could sell that story? I ve 
 never earned a dollar in my life." 
 
 "Well," laughed the Journalist, "a 
 dollar is just about what you would get 
 for it." 
 
 " If I had been doing that story," said 
 the Critic, " I should have found a logical 
 explanation for it." 
 
 " Of course you would," said the 
 Youngster. " I know one of a haunted 
 
 [ 42 1 
 
THE YOUNGSTER S STORY 
 
 house on St. James Street which had an 
 explanation." 
 
 But the Doctor cut him short with: 
 " Come now, you ve done your stunt. No 
 more stories to-night. Off to bed. You 
 and I are going to take a run to Paris to 
 
 morrow." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 * Tell you to-morrow." 
 
 As every one began to move toward the 
 house, the Violinist remarked, " I was 
 thinking of running up to Paris myself to 
 morrow. Any one else want to go with 
 me?" The Journalist said that he did, 
 and the party broke up. As they strolled 
 toward the house the Lawyer was heard 
 asking the Youngster, " What were the 
 steps in the corridor? " 
 
 " Well," replied the Youngster, " I sup 
 pose on the night that the team came home 
 there must have been great excitement in 
 the house every one running to and fro 
 and " 
 
 But the Journalist s shout of laughter 
 stopped him. 
 
 The Youngster eyed him with shocked 
 surprise. 
 
 " By Jupiter!" cried the Journalist. 
 " That is the darnedest ghost story I ever 
 
 [ 43 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 heard. Everything and everybody walked 
 but the dead man even the carriage." 
 
 " That isn t my fault," said the Young 
 ster, indignantly. 
 
 [ 44 ] 
 
II 
 
 THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 THE SON OF JOSEPHINE 
 THE TALE OF A FOUNDLING 
 
 THE house was very quiet next day. 
 All the men, except the Critic and the 
 Sculptor, had made an early and hurried 
 run to Paris. So we saw little of each 
 other until we gathered for dinner, and the 
 conversation was calm in fact subdued. 
 
 The Doctor was especially quiet. No 
 one was really gay except the Youngster. 
 He talked of what he had seen in Paris 
 the silent streets the moods of the 
 women the sight of officers in khaki fly 
 ing about in big touring cars and no one 
 asked what had really taken them to town. 
 
 The Trained Nurse and I had walked 
 to the nearest village, but we brought back 
 little in the way of news. The only inter 
 esting thing we saw was Monsieur le Cure 
 talking to a handsome young peasant 
 
 [ 45 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 woman in the square before the church. 
 We heard her say, with a sob in her 
 throat, " If my man does not come back, 
 I ll never say my prayers again. I ll never 
 pray to a God who let this thing happen 
 unless my man comes back." 
 
 " She will, just the same," said the Law 
 yer. " One of the strangest features of 
 such a catastrophe is that it steadies a race, 
 especially the race convinced that it has 
 right on its side." 
 
 " It goes deeper than that," said the 
 Journalist. " It strikes millions with the 
 same pain, and they bear together what 
 they could not have faced separately." 
 
 u True," remarked the Doctor, " and 
 that is one reason why I have always mis 
 trusted the effort of people outside the ra 
 dius of disaster to help in anyway, except 
 scientifically." 
 
 " That is rather a cruel idea," com 
 mented the Trained Nurse. 
 
 " Perhaps. But I believe organized 
 charity even of that sort is usually inef 
 fective, and weakens the race that accepts 
 it. I believe victims of such disaster are 
 healthier and come out stronger for facing 
 it, dying, or surviving, as Fate decrees." 
 
 " Keep off the grass," cried the Young- 
 [ 46 ] 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 ster. " I brought back a car full of 
 books." The hint was taken, and we 
 talked of books until the coffee came out. 
 As usual, the Trained Nurse sat behind 
 the pot, and when we were all served, she 
 pushed the tray back, folded her strong 
 capable white hands on the edge of the 
 table, and said quietly: 
 
 " Messieurs et Mes dames " 
 
 We lit our cigarettes, and she began : 
 
 It was the first year after I left home 
 and took up nursing. I had a room at 
 that time in one of the Friendly Society 
 refuges on the lower side of Beacon Hill. 
 It was under the auspices of an Episcopal 
 High Church in the days of Father Hall, 
 and was rather English in tone. Indeed 
 its matron was an Englishwoman gen 
 tle, round-faced, lace-capped, and very 
 sympathetic. I was very fond of her. I 
 had, as a seamstress, a neat little girl 
 named Josephine. 
 
 Josephine was a tiny creature, all grey in 
 tone, with mouse-colored hair. She was 
 a foundling. She had not the least no 
 tion who her people were. Her first recol 
 lections were of the orphan asylum where 
 she was brought up. In her early teens 
 
 [ 47 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 she had been bound out to a dressmaker, 
 who had been kind to her, and, when her 
 first employer died, Josephine, who had 
 saved a little money, and longed for inde 
 pendence, began to go out as a seamstress 
 among the women she had grown to know 
 in the dressmaking establishment, and went 
 to live at one of the Christian Association 
 homes for working girls. 
 
 Every one knows what those boarding 
 houses are two or three hundred girls 
 of all ages, from sixteen up, of all tem 
 peraments. All girls willing to submit to 
 control; girls with their gay days and their 
 tragic, girls of ambition, and girls with 
 faith in the future, as well as girls of no 
 luck, and girls with their simple youthful 
 romances. 
 
 Every one loved Josephine. 
 
 She was by nature a little lady, dainty 
 in her ways, industrious, unrebellious, al 
 ways ready to help the other girls about 
 their clothes, and a model of a confidant. 
 Every one told her their little troubles, 
 every one confided their little romances. 
 They were sure of a good listener, who 
 never had any troubles or romances of her 
 own to confide. 
 
 I don t know how old Josephine was at 
 
 [ 48 ] 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 that time. She might have been twenty- 
 five, looked younger, but was perhaps 
 older. She was so tiny, and such a mouse 
 of a thing that she seemed a child, but for 
 her energy, and her capacity for silence. 
 
 It was, I fancy, three years after I first 
 knew her that she one evening confided 
 to a group of her intimate friends, as they 
 sat together over their sewing, that she 
 was engaged to be married. There was 
 a great excitement. Little lonely Jose 
 phine, so discreet, who had sympathized 
 with the romances of so many of her com 
 rades, had a romance of her own. Such 
 a hugging and kissing as went on, you 
 never saw, unless you have seen a crowd 
 of such girls together. Every one was 
 full of questions, and there were almost 
 as many tears shed as questions asked. 
 
 He was a carpenter, Josephine told 
 them. She had known him ever since she 
 was with the dressmaker who took her out 
 of the asylum. He lived in Utica, New 
 York. He had a good job, and they were 
 to be married as soon as she could get 
 ready. 
 
 So Josephine set to work with her nim 
 ble fingers to make her trousseau. Dur 
 ing the years she had worked for me, the 
 
 [ 49 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 Matron at the Friendly Society, and many 
 of its patrons had come to know and love 
 dear little Josephine, and in our house 
 there was almost as much excitement over 
 the news as there was at the Association 
 at the South End. All the girls set to 
 work to make something for little Jose 
 phine. Every one for whom she had 
 worked gave her something. One lady 
 gave her black silk for a frock. All the 
 girls sewed a bit of underwear for her. 
 She had sheets and table linen, and all 
 sorts of dainty things which her girl friends 
 loved to count over, and admire in the eve 
 ning without the least bit of envy. By 
 the time Spring came Josephine had to buy 
 a new trunk to pack her things away in. 
 
 Then she told us all that she was going 
 to Utica to be married. What was the 
 use of his spending his money to come east 
 for her, and pay his expenses back? That 
 seemed reasonable, and the day was fixed 
 for her departure. 
 
 Her trunks were packed. 
 
 She took a night train so that we could 
 all go to the station to see her off, and I 
 am sure that the crowd who saw us kissing 
 her good-bye are not likely to forget the 
 scene. 
 
 [ 50 ] 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 Then the girls went home chattering 
 about " dear little Josephine." 
 
 In due time came a letter from a place 
 near Utica, where she was, she said, on her 
 little u wedding trip," and " very happy," 
 and " he " sent his love, and it was signed 
 with her new name, and she would send us 
 her address as soon as she was settled. 
 
 Time went by some months. Then 
 she did send an address, but she did not 
 write often, and when she did, she said 
 little but that she was happy. 
 
 As nearly as I can remember, it was a 
 year and a half after she left that news 
 came that Josephine had a son. By that 
 time a great many of the girls she had 
 known were gone. Changes come fast in 
 such a place. But there was great rejoic 
 ing, and those who had known her found 
 time to make something for dear little 
 Josephine s baby, and the sending of the 
 things kept up the interest in her for some 
 months. 
 
 Then the letters ceased again. 
 
 I can t be sure how long it was after that 
 that I received a letter from her. She 
 told me that her husband was dead, that 
 she never really had taken root in Utica, 
 and now that she was alone, with her baby 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 to support, she longed to come back to 
 Boston, and asked my advice. Did I think 
 she could take up her old work? 
 
 I took the letter at once to the Matron 
 of the Friendly Society I happened to 
 be resting between two cases and we 
 decided that it was safe. At least between 
 us we could help her make the trial. 
 
 A few months later she came, and we 
 went to the station to meet her. I could 
 not see that she had changed a bit. She 
 did not look a day older, and the bouncing 
 baby she carried in her arms was a darling. 
 
 Of course she could not go back to the 
 Association. That was not for married 
 women. But we found her a room just 
 across the street, and in no time, she 
 dropped right back into the place she had 
 left. Every morning she took the baby 
 boy to the creche and every night she took 
 him home, and a better cared-for, better 
 loved, more wisely bred youngster was 
 never born, nor a happier one. Every 
 one loved him just as every one loved 
 Josephine. 
 
 There I thought Josephine s story ended, 
 and so far as she was concerned, it did. 
 
 But when the baby was six years old, 
 and forward for his age, the Matron of 
 
 [ 52 ] 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 the Triendly Society came into my room 
 one day, when I was there to take a longer 
 rest than usual, after a very trying case, 
 and told me that she was in great distress. 
 A friend of hers, who had been her prede 
 cessor, and was now the Matron of an 
 Orphan Asylum in New York State, was 
 going to the hospital to have a cataract 
 removed from her eye, and had written to 
 ask her to come and take her place while 
 she was away. She begged me to replace 
 her at the Friendly Society while she was 
 gone. As her assistant was a capable 
 young woman, and my relations witn every 
 one were pleasant I was only too glad to 
 consent. She had always been so good to 
 me. 
 
 She was gone a month. 
 
 On her return I noticed that she was dis 
 tressed about something. I taxed her with 
 it. She said it was nothing she felt like 
 talking about. But one evening when 
 Josephine had been sewing for me, after 
 she was gone, the Matron, who had been 
 in my room, got up, and closed the door 
 after her. 
 
 " I ve really got to tell you what is on 
 my mind," she said. " And I am sure that 
 you will look on it as a confidence. You 
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 know the asylum where I have been is not 
 far from Utica, where Josephine went 
 when she was married. Well, one day, 
 about a fortnight after I got there, I had 
 occasion to look up the record of a child 
 in the books, and my attention was at 
 tracted by a name the same as Josephine s. 
 The coincidence struck me, and I read the 
 record that on a certain day, which as near 
 as I could calculate, must have been a year 
 after Josephine left, a person of her name, 
 written down as a widow, a member of 
 the Orthodox Church, had adopted a male 
 child a few months old. I was interested. 
 I did not suspect anything, but I asked the 
 assistant matron if she remembered the 
 case. She did, clearly. She said the 
 woman was a dear little thing, who had 
 come there shortly before, a young widow, 
 a seamstress. She was a lonely little 
 thing, and some one connected with the 
 asylum had given her work, which she had 
 done so well that she soon had all she 
 needed. She had been employed in the 
 asylum, and loved children as they did her. 
 The child in question was the son of a 
 woman who had died at its birth, from the 
 shock of an accident which had killed the 
 father. It took a fancy to Josephine, and 
 
 1 54] 
 
THF TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 she wanted to adopt it. The committee 
 took the matter up. The clergyman spoke 
 well of her, as did every one, and they all 
 decided that she was perfectly able to care 
 for it. So she took the child. All of a 
 sudden, one day, Josephine went, as she 
 had come. There was no mystery about 
 it. She told the clergyman that she was 
 homesick for her old friends, and had 
 gone east, and would write, and she always 
 has. 
 
 " Of course I was puzzled. There was 
 no doubt in my mind that it was our little 
 Josephine. Naturally I was discreet. 
 Luckily. I spoke of her to several people 
 who remembered her, and they all called 
 her dear little Josephine just as we had. 
 I talked of her with the clergyman and his 
 wife. I asked questions that were too 
 natural to rouse suspicions, when I told 
 them that I knew her, that the baby was 
 the dearest and happiest child I knew, and 
 what do you suppose I found out, more 
 by inference than facts ?" 
 
 No need to ask me. Didn t I know? 
 
 Josephine had never been married. 
 There had never been any " He." It all 
 seemed so natural. It did not shock me, 
 as it had the Matron, and I was glad she 
 
 [ 55 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 had told no one but me. Dear little 
 Josephine! Sitting there in the Associa 
 tion without family, with no friends but 
 her patrons, and those girls whose little 
 romances went on about her ! No ro 
 mances ever came her way. So she had 
 made one all of her own. I proved to the 
 Matron easily that what she had dis 
 covered by accident was not her affair, that 
 to keep Josephine s secret was a virtue, 
 and not a sin. I was sure of that, for, 
 as I watched her afterwards, I knew that 
 Josephine had played her part in her 
 dream romance so well, that she no longer 
 remembered that it was not true. She 
 had forgotten she had not really borne the 
 child she carried so lovingly in her arms. 
 
 " Is that all? " asked the Journalist. 
 
 "That is all," replied the Trained 
 Nurse. 
 
 " By Jove," said the Doctor, " that is 
 a good story. I wish I had told it." 
 
 " Thank you, Doctor," laughed the 
 Trained Nurse. " I thought it was a bit 
 in your line." 
 
 " But fancy the cleverness of the little 
 thing to do all the details up so nicely," 
 said the Lawyer. " She dovetailed every- 
 
 [ 56 ] 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 thing so neatly. But what I want to know 
 is whether she planned the baby when she 
 planned the make-believe husband?" 
 
 u I fancy not," replied the Nurse. 
 " One thing came along after another in 
 her imagination, quite naturally." 
 
 " Poor little Josephine it seems to 
 me hard luck to have had to imagine such 
 an every day fate," sighed the Divorcee. 
 
 u Don t pity her," snapped the Doctor. 
 " Poor little Josephine, indeed! Lucky 
 little Josephine, who arranged her own 
 romance, and risked no disillusion. There 
 have been cases where the joys of the 
 imagination have been more dangerous." 
 
 " You are sure she had no disillusion? " 
 asked the Critic. 
 
 " I am," said the Nurse. 
 
 " And her name was Josephine? " asked 
 the Divorcee. 
 
 " It was not, and Utica was not the 
 town," replied the Nurse. 
 
 " Perhaps her disillusion is ahead of 
 her," said the Journalist. " Say no 
 man or woman either is happy un 
 til the day of his death. " 
 
 u She is dead," said the Nurse. 
 
 " I told you she was lucky little Jose 
 phine," ejaculated the Doctor. 
 
 [ 57 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 " And she died without telling the boy 
 the truth? " asked the Journalist. 
 
 "The truth?" repeated the Nurse. 
 " IVe told you that she had forgotten it. 
 No woman was ever so loved by a son. 
 No mother ever so grieved for." 
 
 "Then the son lives?" asked the 
 Doctor. 
 
 The Nurse smiled quietly. 
 
 "Good-night," said the Doctor. "I 
 am going to bed to dream of that. It is 
 a pity some of the rest of us childless 
 slackers had not done as well as Josephine. 
 She took her risk. She was lucky." 
 
 " She did," replied the Nurse, " but she 
 did not realize anything of that. She was 
 too simple, too unanalytic." 
 
 " I wonder? " said the Critic. 
 
 " You need not, I know." Her eyes 
 fell on the Lawyer, and she caught a laugh 
 in his eye. " What does that mean? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Well," said the Lawyer, " I was only 
 thinking. She was religious, that dear 
 little Josephine?" 
 
 " At least she always went to church." 
 
 " I know the type," said the Violinist, 
 gently. " Accepted what she was taught, 
 believed it." 
 [ 58 ] 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE S STORY 
 
 " Exactly " said the Lawyer, " that is 
 what I was getting at. Well then, when 
 her son meets her an dela he will ask 
 for his father " 
 
 " Or," interrupted the Violinist, " his 
 own mother will claim him." 
 
 " Don t worry," laughed the Critic. 
 * It s dollars to doughnuts that she was 
 i dear little Josephine to all the Heavenly 
 Host half an hour after she entered the 
 4 gates of pearl. Don t look shocked. 
 That is not sacrilegious. It is intentions 
 motives, that are immortal, not facts. 
 Besides" 
 
 " Don t push that idea too far," inter 
 rupted the Doctor from the door. 
 
 " Don t be alarmed. I was only going 
 to say there are Ik Marvels au dela " 
 
 " I knew that idea was in your head. 
 Drop it! " laughed the Doctor. 
 
 " Anyway," said the Violinist, " if Life 
 is but a dream, she had a pretty one. 
 Good night." And he went up to bed, 
 and we all soon followed him, and I im 
 agine not one of us, as we looked out into 
 the moonlit air, thought that night of war. 
 
 [ 59 ] 
 
Ill 
 
 THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 TWAS IN THE INDIAN SUMMER 
 THE TALE OF AN ACTRESS 
 
 THE next day, just as we were sitting 
 down to dinner, the news came that Namur 
 had fallen. The German army had 
 marched singing into the burning town the 
 afternoon before. The Youngster had 
 his head over a map almost all through 
 dinner. The Belgians were practically 
 pushed out of all but Antwerp, and the 
 Germans were rapidly approaching the 
 natural defences of France running from 
 Lille to Verdun, through Valenciennes, 
 Mauberge, Hirson and Mezieres. 
 
 Things were beginning to look serious, 
 although we still insisted on believing that 
 the Germans could not break through. 
 One result of the march of events was that 
 we none of us had any longer the smallest 
 desire to argue. Theories were giving 
 way to the facts of every day, but in our 
 
 [ 60 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 minds, I imagine, we were every one of 
 us asking, " How long CAN we stay here? 
 How long will it be wise, even if we are 
 permitted ?" But, as if by common con 
 sent, no one asked the question, and we 
 were only too glad to sit out in the garden 
 we had all learned to love, and to talk of 
 anything which was not war, until the Critic 
 moved his chair into the middle cf the 
 circle, and began his tale. 
 
 " Let me see," he remarked. " I need 
 a property or two," and he pulled an 
 envelope out of his pocket and laid it on 
 the table, and, leaning his elbows on it, 
 began: 
 
 It was in the Autumn of Si that I last 
 saw Dillon act. 
 
 She had made a great success that win 
 ter, yet, in the middle of the season, she 
 had suddenly disappeared. 
 
 There were all kinds of newspaper ex 
 planations. 
 
 Then she was forgotten by the public 
 that had enthusiastically applauded her, 
 and which only sighed sadly, a year later, 
 on hearing of her death, in a far off Italian 
 town, sighed, talked a little, and forgot 
 again. 
 
 [ 61 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 It chanced that a few years later I was 
 in Italy, and being not many miles from 
 the town where I heard that she was 
 buried, and a trifle overstrung by a few 
 months delicious, aimless life in that won 
 derful country, I was taken with a senti 
 mental fancy to visit her grave. 
 
 It was a sort of pilgrimage for me, for 
 I had given to Dillon my first boyish 
 devotion. 
 
 I thought of her, and to remember her 
 was to recall her rare charm, her beauty, 
 her success, after a long struggle, and the 
 unexpected, inexplicable manner in which 
 she had abandoned it. It was to recall, 
 too, the delightful evenings I had spent 
 under her influence, the pleasure I had had 
 in the passion of her u Juliet," the poetic 
 charm of her "Viola"; the graceful 
 witchery of her " Rosalind"; how I had 
 smiled with her " Portia " ; laughed with 
 her "Beatrice"; wept with her " Ca- 
 mille " ; in fact how I had yielded myself 
 up to her magnetism with that ecstatic 
 pleasure in which one gets the best joys 
 of every passion, because one does not 
 drain the dregs of any. 
 
 I well remembered her last night, how 
 she had disappeared, how she had gone to 
 
 [ 62 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 Europe, how she had died abroad, all 
 mere facts known in their bareness only to 
 the public. 
 
 It was hard to find the place where she 
 was buried. But at last I succeeded. 
 
 It was in a humble churchyard. The 
 grave was noticeable because it was well 
 kept, and utterly devoid of the tawdry 
 ornamentation inseparable from such 
 places in Italy. It was marked by a monu 
 ment distinctly unique in a European coun 
 try. It was a huge unpolished boulder, 
 over which creeping green vines were 
 growing. 
 
 On its rough surface a cross was cut, 
 and underneath were the words: 
 
 "Yesterday This Day s Madness did prepare, 
 "To-morrow s Silence, Triumph or Despair." 
 
 Below that I read with , stupefaction, 
 " Margaret Dillon and child," 
 
 and the dates 
 
 "January, 1843 " 
 "July 25, 1882." 
 
 In spite of the doubts and fancies this 
 put into my mind, I no sooner stood beside 
 the spot where the earth had claimed her, 
 than all my old interest in her returned. 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 I lingered about the place, full of roman 
 tic fancies, decorating her tomb with 
 flowers, as I had once decorated her tri 
 umphs, absorbed in a dreamy adoration of 
 her memory, and singing her praise in 
 verse. 
 
 It was then that I learned the true story 
 of her disappearance, guessed at that of 
 her death, as I did at the identity of the 
 young Dominican priest, who sometimes 
 came to her grave, and who finally told 
 me such of the facts as I know. I can best 
 tell the story by picturing two nights in 
 the life of Margaret Dillon, the two fol 
 lowing her last appearance on the stage. 
 
 The play had been " Much Ado." 
 
 Never had she acted with finer humor, 
 or greater gaiety. Yet all the evening 
 she had felt a strange sadness. 
 
 When it was all over, and friends had 
 trooped round to the stage to praise her, 
 and trooped away, laughing and happy, 
 she felt a strange, sad, unused reluctance 
 to see them go. 
 
 Then she sat down to her dressing table, 
 hurriedly removed her make-up, and al 
 lowed herself to be stripped of her stage 
 finery. Her fine spirits seemed to strip 
 off with her character. She shivered 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 occasionally with nervousness, or supersti 
 tion, and she was strangely silent. 
 
 All day she had, for some inexplicable 
 reason, been thinking of her girlhood, of 
 what her life might have been if, at a 
 critical moment, she had chosen a woman s 
 ordinary lot instead of work, or if, at a 
 later day, she had yielded to, instead of 
 resisted, a great temptation. All day, as 
 on many days lately, she had wondered if 
 she regretted it, or if, the days of her 
 great triumph having passed, as pass 
 th^yjrmst, she should regret it later if 
 she did not yet. 
 
 It was probably because, early in the 
 season as it was she was tired, and the 
 October night oppressed her with the heat 
 of Indian Summer. 
 
 Silently she had allowed herself to be 
 undressed, and redressed in great haste. 
 But before she left the theatre she bade 
 every one " good night " with more than 
 her usual kindliness, not because she did 
 not expect to see them all on Monday, 
 it was a Saturday night, but because, in 
 her inexplicably sad humour, she felt an 
 irresistible desire to be at peace with the 
 world, and a still deeper desire to feel her 
 self beloved by those about her. 
 
 C 65 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 Then she entered her carriage and drove 
 hurriedly home to the tiny apartment 
 where she lived quite alone. 
 
 On the supper table lay a note. 
 
 She shivered as she took it up. It was 
 a handwriting she had been accustomed to 
 see once a year only, in one simple word of 
 greeting, always the same word, which 
 every year in eighteen had come to her on 
 New Year s wherever she was. 
 
 But this was October. 
 
 She sat perfectly still for some minutes, 
 and then resolutely opened the letter, and 
 read: 
 
 "Madge: I am so afraid that my voice 
 coming to you, not only across so many years, 
 but from another world, may shock you, that 
 I am strongly tempted not to keep my word to 
 you, yet, judging you by myself, I feel that per 
 haps this will be less painful than the thought 
 that I had passed forgetful of you, or changed 
 toward you. You were a mere girl when we 
 mutually promised, that though it was Fate 
 that our paths should not be the same, and hon 
 orable that we should keep apart, we would not 
 pass out of life, whatever came, without a fare 
 well word, a second saying good-bye. " 
 
 " It is my fate to say it. It is now God s 
 will. Before it was yours. It is eighteen years 
 since you chose my honor to your happiness and 
 mine. To-day you are a famous woman. That 
 
 [ 66 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 is the consolation I have found in your decision. 
 I sometimes wonder if Fame will always make 
 up to you for the rest. A woman s way is pe 
 culiar and right, I suppose. I have never 
 changed. My son has been a second consola 
 tion, and that, too, in spite of the fact that, had 
 he never been born, your decision might have 
 been so different. He is a young man now, 
 strangely like what I was, when as a child, you 
 first knew me, and he has always been my con 
 fidant. In those first days of my banishment 
 from you I kept from crying my agony from 
 the housetops by whispering it to him. His un 
 comprehending ears were my sole confessional. 
 His mother cared little for % his companionship, 
 and her invalidism threw him continually into 
 my care. I do not know when he began to 
 understand, but from the hour he could speak 
 he whispered your name in his prayers. But it 
 was only lately that, of himself, he discovered 
 your identity. The love I felt for you in my 
 early days has grown with me. It has survived 
 in my heart when all other passions, all prides, 
 all ambitions, long ago died. I leave you, I 
 hope, a good memory of me a man who loved 
 you more than he loved himself, who for eight 
 een years has loved you silently, yet never ceased 
 to grieve for you. But I fear that I have be 
 queathed to my son, with the name and estate of 
 his father, my hopeless love for you. If, by 
 chance, what I fear be true, if, when bereft 
 of me, he seeks you out, as be sure he will, deal 
 gently with him for his father s sake. 
 
 " There was an old compact between us, dear. 
 I mention it now r only in the hope that you may 
 
JOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 not have forgotten indeed, in the certainty 
 that you have not. I know you so well. Re 
 member it, I beg of you, only to ignore it. It 
 was made, you know, when one of us expected 
 to watch the passing of the other. This is dif 
 ferent. If this reminds you of it, it reminds you 
 only to warn you that Time cancels all such 
 compacts. It is my voice that assures you of it. 
 
 " FELIX R." 
 
 Underneath, written in letters, like, yet 
 so unlike, were the words, " My father 
 died this morning. F. R." and an uncer 
 tain mark as though he had begun to add 
 " Jr." to the signature, and realized that 
 there was no need. 
 
 The letter fell from her hands. 
 
 For a long time she sat silent. 
 
 Dead ! She had never felt that he could 
 die while she lived. A knowledge that he 
 was living, loving her, adoring her hope 
 lessly was necessary to her life. She 
 felt that she could not go on without it. 
 For eighteen years she had compared all 
 other men, all other emotions to him and 
 his love, to find them all wanting. 
 
 And he had died. 
 
 She looked at the date of the letter. He 
 would be resting in that tomb she remem 
 bered so well, before she could reach the 
 [ 68 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 place; that spot before which they had 
 often talked of Death, which had no ter 
 rors for either of them. 
 
 She rose. She pushed away her un 
 touched supper, hurriedly drank a glass of 
 wine, and, crossing the hall to her bed 
 room, opened a tiny box that stood locked 
 upon her dressing table. She took from it 
 a picture a miniature. It was of a 
 young man not over twenty-five. The 
 face was strong and full of virile sugges 
 tion, even in a picture. The eyes were 
 brown, the lips under the short mustache 
 were firm, and the thick, short, brown hair 
 fell forward a bit over the left temple. 
 It was a handsome manly face. 
 
 The picture was dated eighteen years 
 before. It hardly seemed possible that 
 eighteen years earlier this woman could 
 have been old enough to stir the passionate 
 love of such a man. Her face was still 
 young, her form still slender; her abundant 
 hair shaded deep gray eyes where the 
 spirit of youth still shone. But she be 
 longed, by temperament and profession, to 
 that race of women who guard their youth 
 marvellously. 
 
 There were no tears in her eyes as she 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 sat long into the morning, and, with his 
 pictured face before her, reflected until she 
 had decided. 
 
 He had kept his word to her. His 
 " good bye " had been loyally said. She 
 would keep hers in turn, and guard his 
 first night s solitude in the tomb with her 
 watchful prayers. She calculated well the 
 time. If she travelled all day Sunday, she 
 would be there sometime before midnight. 
 If she travelled back at once, she could be 
 in town again in season to play Monday; 
 not in the best of conditions, to be sure, 
 for so hard a role as " Juliet," but she 
 would have fulfilled a duty that would 
 never come to her again. 
 
 It was near midnight, on Sunday. 
 
 The light of the big round harvest moon 
 fell through the warm air, which scarcely 
 moved above the graves of the almost for 
 gotten dead in the country churchyard. 
 The low headstones cast long shadows 
 over the long grass that merely trembled 
 as the noiseless wind moved over it. 
 
 A tall woman in a riding dress stood 
 beside the rough sexton at the door of the 
 only large tomb in the enclosure. 
 
 He had grown into a bent old man since 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 she last saw him, but he had recognized 
 her, and had not hesitated to obey her. 
 
 As he unlocked and pushed back the 
 great door which moved easily and noise 
 lessly, he placed his lantern on the steps, 
 and telling her that, according to a family 
 custom, there were lights inside, he turned 
 away, and left her, to keep his watch near 
 by. 
 
 No need to tell her the family customs. 
 She knew them but too well. 
 
 For a few moments she remained seated 
 on the step where she had rested to await 
 the opening of the door, on the threshold 
 of the tomb of the one man among all the 
 men she had met who had stirred in her 
 heart a great love. How she had loved 
 him ! How she had feared that her love 
 would wear his out! How she had suf 
 fered when she decided that love was some 
 thing more than self-gratification, that even 
 though for her he should put aside the 
 woman he had heedlessly married years 
 before, there could never be any happiness 
 in such a union for either of them. How 
 many times in her own heart she had 
 owned that the woman would not have had 
 the courage shown by the girl, for the girl 
 did not realize all she was putting aside. 
 
 [ 71 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 Yet the consciousness of his love, in which 
 she never ceased to believe, had kept her 
 brave and young. 
 
 She rose and slowly entered the vault. 
 
 The odor of flowers, the odor of death 
 was about it. 
 
 She lifted the lantern from the ground, 
 and, with it raised above her head, ap 
 proached the open coffin that rested on the 
 catafalque in the centre of the tomb and 
 mounted the two steps. She was con 
 scious of no fear, of no dread at the idea 
 of once more, after eighteen years, look 
 ing into the face of the man she had loved, 
 who had carried a great love for her into 
 another world. But as she looked, her 
 eyes widened with fright. She bent lower 
 over him. No cry burst from her lips, 
 but the hand holding the lantern lowered 
 slowly, and she tumbled down the two 
 steps, and staggered back against the wall, 
 where, behind lettered slides, the dead 
 Richmonds for six generations slept their 
 long sleep together. Her breast heaved 
 up and down, as if life, like a caged thing, 
 were striving to escape. Yet no sound 
 came from her colorless lips, no tears were 
 in her widened eyes. 
 
 The realizing sense of departed years 
 
 [ 72 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 had reached her heart at last, and the 
 shock was terrible. With a violent effort 
 she recovered herself. But the firm step, 
 the fearless, hopeful face with which she 
 had approached the coffin of her dead 
 lover were very different from the blind 
 manner in which she stumbled back to his 
 bier, and the hand which a second time 
 raised the lantern trembled so that its 
 wavering light shed an added weirdness 
 on the still face, so strange to her eyes, and 
 stranger still to her heart. 
 
 He had been a young man when they 
 parted. To her he had remained young. 
 Now the hair about the brows was thin 
 and white, the drooping mustache that 
 entirely concealed the mouth was grizzled; 
 lines furrowed the forehead, outlined the 
 sunken eyes, and gave an added thinness 
 to the nostrils. She bent once more over 
 the face, to her only a strange cold mask. 
 A painful fascination held her for several 
 minutes, forcing her to mark how love, 
 that had kept her young, proud, content in 
 its very existence, had sapped his life, and 
 doubled his years. 
 
 The realization bent her slender figure 
 under a load of self-reproach and self- 
 mistrust. She drooped lower and lower 
 
 [ 73 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 above the sad, dead face until she slid to 
 the ground beside him. Heavy tearless 
 sobs shook her slight frame as it stretched 
 its length beside the dead love and the dead 
 dream. The ideal so long treasured in 
 her soul had lost its reality. The present 
 had wiped out the past as a sponge wipes 
 off a slate. 
 
 If she had but heeded his warning, and 
 refrained from coming until later, she 
 would have escaped making a stranger of 
 him forever. Now the sad, aged face, the 
 dead, strange face which she had seen but 
 five minutes before, had completely ob 
 scured in her memory the long-loved, 
 young face that had been with her all these 
 years. The spirit whose consoling pres 
 ence she had thought to feel upholding her 
 at this moment made no sign. She was 
 alone in the world, bereft of her one sup 
 porting ideal, alone beside the dead body 
 of one who was a stranger alike to her 
 sight and her emotions; alone at night in 
 an isolation as unexpected as it was terrible 
 to her, and which chilled her senses as if 
 it had come to oppress her forever. 
 
 The shadows which she had not noticed 
 before, the dark corners of the tomb, the 
 motionless gleam of the moon as it fell 
 
 [ 74 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 through the open door, and laid silently 
 on the floor like light stretched dead, the 
 low rustle of the wind as if Nature rest 
 lessly moved in her sleep, came suddenly 
 upon her, and brought her fear. She 
 held her breath as she stilled her sobs to 
 realize that she alone lived in this city of 
 the Dead. The chill of fright crept along 
 the surface of her body, which still vibrated 
 with her storm of grief. 
 
 She seemed paralyzed. She dared not 
 move. 
 
 Every sense rallied to her ears in dread. 
 
 Suddenly she heard her name breathed: 
 "Margaret!" 
 
 It was whispered in a voice once so 
 familiar to her ears, a voice that used to 
 say, " Madge." 
 
 She raised herself on her elbow. 
 
 She dared not answer. 
 
 She hardly dared breathe. 
 
 She was afraid in every sense, and yet 
 she hungered for another sound of that 
 loved voice. Every hour of its banishment 
 was regretted at that moment. There 
 seemed no future without it. 
 
 Every nerve listened. 
 
 At first she heard nothing but the rest 
 less moving of the air, which merely 
 
 [ 75 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 emphasized her loneliness, then she caught 
 the pulsation of slow regular breathing. 
 
 She started to her feet. 
 
 She snatched up the lantern and quickly 
 mounted to the bier. She looked sharply 
 down into the dead face. 
 
 Silent, with its white hair, and worn 
 lines, it rested on its white pillows. 
 
 No sound came from the cold still lips. 
 
 Yet, while her eyes were riveted on them, 
 once more the longed-for voice breathed 
 her name. " Margaret! " 
 
 It came from behind her. 
 
 She turned quickly. 
 
 There in the moonlit doorway, with a 
 sad, compassionate smile on his strong, 
 young face as if it were yesterday they 
 had parted stood the man she remem 
 bered so well. 
 
 Her bewildered eyes turned from the 
 silent, unfamilar face among the satin 
 cushions, to the living face in the moon 
 light, the young, brown eyes, the short, 
 brown hair falling forward over the left 
 temple, the erect, elastic figure, the strong 
 loving hands stretching out to her. 
 
 She was so tired, so heart sick, so full 
 of longing for the love she had lost. 
 
 " Felix," she sobbed, and, blindly grop- 
 [ 76 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 ing to reach what she feared was a halluci 
 nation, she stumbled down the steps, and 
 was caught up in the arms flung wide to 
 catch her, and which folded about her as 
 if forever. She sighed his name again, 
 upon the passionate young lips which had 
 inherited the great love she had put aside 
 so long before. 
 
 As the last words died away, the Critic 
 drew himself up and laughed. 
 
 He had told the story very dramatically, 
 reading the letter from the envelope he 
 had called a " property," and he had told 
 it well. 
 
 The laugh broke the spell, and the Doc 
 tor echoed it heartily. 
 
 " All right, old man," said the Critic, 
 " you owed me that laugh. You re wel 
 
 come." 
 
 ;t I was only thinking," said the Doctor, 
 his face still on a broad grin, " that we 
 have always thought you ought to have 
 been a novelist, and now we know at last 
 just what kind of a novelist you would 
 have been." 
 
 " Don t you believe it," said the Critic. 
 " That was only improvisatore that s 
 no sample." 
 
 [ 77 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 " Ho, ho ! I ll bet you anything that 
 the manuscript is up in your trunk, and 
 that you have been committing it to mem 
 ory ever since this idea was proposed/ 
 said the Doctor, still laughing. 
 
 " No, that I deny," replied the Critic, 
 " but as I am no poseur, I will own that I 
 wrote it years ago, and rewrote it so often 
 that I never could forget it. I ll confess 
 more than that, the story has been * de 
 clined with thanks by every decent maga 
 zine in the States and in England. Now 
 perhaps some one will tell me w r hy." 
 
 " I don t know the answer," said the 
 Youngster, seriously, " unless it is why 
 not? " 
 
 :t I shouldn t wonder if it were senti 
 mental twaddle," sighed the Journalist, 
 " but I don t know: 
 
 " I noticed," expostulated the Critic, 
 " that you all listened, enthralled." 
 
 " Oh," replied the Doctor, " that was a 
 tribute to your personal charm. You did 
 it very well." 
 
 " Exactly," said the Critic, " if editors 
 would let me read them my stories, I could 
 sell them like hot cakes. I never believed 
 that Homer would have lived as long as 
 he has, if he had not made the reputation 
 
 [ 78 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 of his tales by singing them centuries be 
 fore any one tried to read them. Now 
 no one dares to say they bore him. The 
 reading public, and the editors who cater 
 to it, are just like some stupid theatrical 
 managers I know of, who will never let 
 an author read a play to them for fear 
 that he may give the play some charm that 
 the fool theatrical man might not have felt 
 from mere type-written words on white or 
 yellow paper. By Jove, I know the case 
 of a manager who once bought the option 
 on a foreign play from a scenario provided 
 by a clever friend of mine and paid a 
 stiff price for it, too, and when he got the 
 manuscript wrote to the chap who did the 
 scenario Play dashety-dashed rot. If 
 it had been as good as your scenario, it 
 would have gone. And, what is more, 
 he sacrificed the tidy five thousand he had 
 paid, and let his option slide. Now, when 
 the fellow who did the scenario wrote: 
 * If you found anything in the scenario 
 that you did not discover in the play, it is 
 because I gave you the effect it would have 
 behind the footlights, which you have not 
 the imagination to see in the printed 
 words, the Manager only replied * You 
 are a nice chap. I like you very much, 
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 but you are a blanketty-blanketty fool. " 
 
 l4 Which was right? " asked the Journal 
 ist. 
 
 4 The scenario man." 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 "How do I know? Why simply be 1 - 
 cause the play was produced later ran 
 five years, and drew a couple of million 
 dollars. That s how I know/ 
 
 44 By cricky," exclaimed the Youngster, 
 " I believe he thinks his story could earn 
 a million if it had a chance." 
 
 "I don t say no, " said the Critic, 
 yawning, u but it will never get a chance. 
 I burned the manuscript this morning, and 
 now being delivered of it, I have no more 
 interest in it than a sparrow has in her last 
 year s offspring." 
 
 4 The trouble with you is that you 
 haven t any patience, any staying power. 
 That ought to have been a three volume 
 novel. We would have heard all about 
 their first meeting, their first love, their 
 separation, his marriage, her debuts, etc., 
 etc.," declared the Journalist. 
 
 44 Oh, thunder," said the Doctor. 44 1 
 think there was quite enough of it. Don t 
 throw anything at me I liked it I 
 liked it! Only I m sorry she died." 
 [ 80 ] 
 
THE CRITIC S STORY 
 
 "So am I," said the Critic. " That 
 really hurt me." 
 
 " Because," said the Doctor, shying 
 away toward the door, " I should have 
 liked to know if the child turned out to be 
 a genius. That kind do sometimes," and 
 he disappeared into the doorway. 
 
 " Anyhow," said the Critic, " I am going 
 to wear laurels until some one tells a better 
 and I d like to know why the Journalist 
 looks so pensively thoughtful?" 
 
 " I am trying to recall who she was 
 Margaret Dillon." 
 
 " Don t fret she may be a poor 
 thing/ but she is all * mine own a 
 genuine creation, Mr. Journalist. I am 
 no reporter." 
 
 "Ah? Then you are more of a senti 
 mentalist than I even dared to dream." 
 
 " Don t deny it," said the Critic, as he 
 rose and yawned. " So I am going to bed 
 to sleep on my laurels while I may. Good 
 night." 
 
 " Well," called the Sculptor after him, 
 as he sauntered away, " as one of our 
 mutual friends used to say The Indian 
 Summer of Passion scorches. 
 
 " But, alas! " added the other, " it does 
 not always kill." 
 
 [ 8! ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 " Witness " began the Journalist, but 
 the Critic cut him short. 
 
 " As you love me not that famous 
 list of yours including so many of the act 
 resses We all know. I can t bear THAT 
 to-night. After all the French have a 
 better phrase for it La Crise de quar- 
 ante ans. 
 
 The Nurse and Divorcee had been very 
 quiet, but here they locked hands, and the 
 former remarked that they prepared to 
 withdraw: 
 
 " That is our cue to disappear and 
 you, too, Youngster. These men are far 
 too wise." 
 
 So we of the discussed sex made a circle 
 with our clasped hand about the Youngster 
 and danced him into the house. The last 
 I saw of the garden that night, as I looked 
 out of my window toward the northeast, 
 with " Namur " beating in my head, the 
 five men had their heads still together, but 
 whether " the other sex " was getting 
 scientifically torn to bits, or they, too, had 
 Namur in their minds I never knew. 
 
IV 
 
 THE DOCTOR S STORY 
 
 AS ONE DREAMS 
 THE TALE OF AN ADOLESCENT 
 
 THE next day was very peaceful. We 
 were becoming habituated to the situation. 
 It was a Sunday, and the weather was 
 warm. There had been no real news so 
 far as we knew, except that Japan had 
 lined up with the Allies. The Youngster 
 had come near to striking fire by wonder 
 ing how the United States, with her dis 
 like for Japan, would view the entering 
 into line of the yellow man, but the spark 
 flickered out, and I imagine we settled 
 down for the story with more eagerness 
 than on the previous evening, especially 
 when the Doctor thrust his hands into his 
 pockets and lifted his chin into the air, as 
 if he were in the tribune. More than one 
 of us smiled at his resemblance to Pierre 
 Janet entering the tribune at the College 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 de France, and the Youngster said, under 
 his breath, " A Clinique, I suppose. " 
 
 The Doctor s ears were sharp. " Not 
 a bit," he answered, running his keen 
 brown eyes over us to be sure we were 
 listening before he began : 
 
 In the days when it was thought that the 
 South End was to be the smart part of 
 Boston, and when streets were laid out 
 along wide tree shaded malls, with a square 
 in the centre, in imitation of some quarters 
 of London, for Boston was in those 
 days much more English in appearance 
 than it is now, there was in one of those 
 squares a famous private school. In those 
 days it was rather smart to go to a private 
 school. It was in the days before Boston 
 had much of an immigrant quarter, when 
 some smart families still lived in the old 
 Colonial houses at the North End, and 
 ministers and lawyers and all professional 
 men sent their sons and their daughters to 
 the public schools, at that time probably 
 the best in the world. 
 
 At this private school, there was, at the 
 time of which I speak, what one might 
 almost call a " principal girl." 
 
THE DOCTOR S STORY 
 
 She was the daughter of a rich banker 
 
 his only daughter. The gods all 
 seemed to have been very good to her. 
 She was not only a really beautiful girl, 
 she was, for her age, a distinguished girl, 
 
 one of the sort who seemed to do every 
 thing better than any one else, and with a 
 lack of self-consciousness or pretension. 
 Every one admired her. Some of her 
 comrades would have loved her if she had 
 given them the chance. But no one could 
 ever get intimate with her. She came and 
 went from school quite alone, in the habit 
 of the American girl of those days before 
 the chaperon became the correct thing. 
 She was charming to every one, but she 
 kept every one a little at arm s length. 
 Of course such a girl would be much talked 
 over by the other type of girl to whom con 
 fidences were necessary. 
 
 As always happens in any school there 
 was a popular teacher. She taught his 
 tory and literature, and I imagine girls get 
 more intimate with such a teacher than 
 they ever do with the mathematics. 
 
 Also, as always happens, there was 
 a " teacher s pet," one of those girls that 
 has to adore something, and the literature 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 teacher, as she was smart and good look 
 ing, was as convenient to adore as anything 
 else, and more adjacent. 
 
 Of course " teacher s pet " never has 
 any secrets from the teacher, and does not 
 mean to be a sneak either. Just can t help 
 turning herself inside out for her idol, and 
 when the heart of a girl of seventeen turns 
 itself inside out, almost always something 
 comes out that is not her business. That 
 was how it happened that one day the 
 literature teacher was told that the u Prin 
 cipal Girl " was receiving wonderful boxes 
 of violets at the school door, and " Don t 
 you know ONE DAY she was seen by a 
 group of pupils who happened to be going 
 home, and were just behind her, getting 
 into a closed carriage and driving away 
 from the corner of the street! " 
 
 Now the literature teacher did not, as 
 a rule, encourage such confidences, but this 
 time it seemed useful. She liked the 
 Principal Girl admired her, in fact. 
 She was terribly shocked. She warned 
 her pet to talk to no one else, and then she 
 went at once to the clergyman who was at 
 the head of the school. She knew that he 
 felt responsible for his pupils, and this had 
 an unpleasant look. He took the pains 
 
 [ 86 1 
 
THE DOCTOR S STORY 
 
 to verify the two statements. Then there 
 was but one thing to do to lay the mat 
 ter before the parents of the girl. 
 
 Now, as so often happens in American 
 families, the banker and his wife stood in 
 some awe of their daughter. There was 
 not that confidence between them which 
 one traditionally supposes to exist between 
 parents and children. I imagine that there 
 is no doubt that the adolescent finds it 
 much easier to confide in some one other 
 than the parents who would seem to be 
 her proper confidants. 
 
 At any rate, the banker and his wife 
 were simply staggered. They dared not 
 broach the subject to the Principal Girl, 
 and in their distress turned to the family 
 lawyer. As they were too cowardly to 
 take his first advice perhaps they were 
 afraid the daughter would lie, they some 
 times do in the best regulated families, 
 it was decided to put a discreet person " on 
 the job," and discover first of all what was 
 really going on. 
 
 The result of the investigation was at 
 first consoling, and then amazing. 
 
 They discovered that the bunches of 
 violets were ordered at a smart down town 
 florist by the girl herself, and by her order 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 delivered at the school door by a liveried 
 messenger boy, who, by her orders, 
 awaited her arrival. As for the closed 
 carriage, that she also bespoke herself at 
 a smart livery stable where she was known. 
 When she entered it, she was at once 
 driven to the Park Street station, where 
 she bought a round trip ticket to Waltham. 
 There she walked to the river, hired a 
 boat, rowed herself up stream, tied her 
 boat at a wooden bank, climbed the slope, 
 and sat there all the afternoon, sometimes 
 reading, and sometimes merely staring out 
 at the river, or up at the sky. At sunset 
 she rowed back to the town, returned to 
 the city, and walked from the station to 
 her home. 
 
 This all seemed simple enough, but it 
 puzzled the father, it made him unquiet 
 in his mind. Why all this mystery? 
 Why well, why a great many things, 
 for of course the Principal Girl had to 
 prepare for these absences, and, although 
 the little fibs she told were harmless 
 enough well, why? The literature 
 teacher, who had been watching her care 
 fully, had her theory. She knew a lot 
 about girls. Wasn t she once one herself? 
 So it was by her advice that the family doc- 
 [ 88 ] 
 
THE DOCTOR S STORY 
 
 tor was taken into the family confidence, 
 chiefly because neither father nor mother 
 had the pluck to tackle the matter they 
 were ashamed to have their daughter 
 know that she had been caught in even a 
 small deception it seemed so like intrud 
 ing into her intimate life. 
 
 There are parents like that, you know. 
 
 The doctor had known the girl since he 
 ushered her into the world. If there were 
 any one w r ith whom she had shown the 
 slightest sign of intimacy, it was with him. 
 Like all doctors whose associations are so 
 largely with women, and who are moder 
 ately intelligent and temperamental, he 
 knew a great deal about the dangers of the 
 imagination. No one ever heard just 
 what passed between the two. One thing 
 is pretty sure, he made no secrets regard 
 ing the affair, and at the end of the inter 
 view he advised the parents to take the 
 girl out of school, take her abroad, keep 
 her active, present her at courts, show her 
 the world, keep her occupied, interest her, 
 keep her among people whether she liked 
 it or not. 
 
 The literature teacher counted for some 
 thing in the affair, and I imagine that it 
 was never talked over between the parents 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 and daughter, who soon after left town 
 for Europe, and for three years were not 
 seen in Boston. 
 
 When they did return, it was to an 
 nounce the marriage of the Principal Girl 
 to the son of the family lawyer, a clever 
 man, and a rising politician. 
 
 Relations between the literature teacher 
 and the Principal Girl had never wholly 
 broken off, so ten years after the school 
 adventure it happened one beautiful day 
 in early September that the teacher was a 
 guest at the North Shore summer home of 
 the Principal Girl, now the mother of two 
 handsome boys. 
 
 That afternoon at tea, sitting on the 
 verandah, watching the white sails as the 
 yachts made for Marblehead harbor, and 
 the long line of surf beating against the 
 rugged rocks beyond the wide pebbly 
 beach on which the dragging stones made 
 weird music, the literature teacher, sup 
 posing the old story to be so much an 
 cient history that it could, as can so many 
 of the incidents of one s teens, be referred 
 to lightly, had the misfortune to mention 
 it. To her horror, the Principal Girl 
 gave her one startled look, and then rolled 
 over among the cushions of the hammock 
 
 [ 90 ] 
 
THE DOCTOR S STORY 
 
 in which she was swinging, and burst into 
 a torrent of tears. 
 
 When the paroxysm had passed, she sat 
 up, wiped her eyes in which, however, 
 there was no laughter, and said passion 
 ately : 
 
 " I suppose you think me the most un 
 grateful woman in the world. I know 
 only too well that to many women my 
 position has always appeared enviable. 
 Poor things, if they only knew! Of 
 course, my husband is a good man. In all 
 ways I do him perfect justice. He is 
 everything that is kind and generous 
 only, alas, he is not the lover of my dreams. 
 My children are nice handsome boys, but 
 they are the every day children of every 
 day life. I dreamed another and a differ 
 ent life in which my children were oh, so 
 different, and beside which the life I try 
 to lead with all the strength I have is no 
 more like the life I dreamed than my boys 
 are like my dream children. If you think 
 it has not taken courage to play the part 
 I have played, I am sorry for your lack 
 of insight." 
 
 And she got up, and walked away. 
 
 It was as well, for, as the literature 
 teacher told the doctor afterward, it was 
 
 [ 91 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 one notch above her experience, and she 
 absolutely could have found no word to 
 say. When the Wife came back to the 
 hammock, ten minutes later, the cloud was 
 gone from her face, and she never men 
 tioned the subject again. And you may 
 be sure that the literature teacher never 
 did. She always looked upon the incident 
 as her worst moment of tactlessness. 
 
 " Bully, bully! " exclaimed the Lawyer. 
 " Take off your laurels, Critic, and crown 
 the Doctor ! " 
 
 " For that little tale," shouted the 
 Critic. " Never! That has not a bit of 
 literary merit. It has not one rounded 
 period." 
 
 " The Lawyer is a realist," said the 
 Sculptor. " Of course that appeals to 
 him." 
 
 " If you want my opinion, I consider 
 that there is just as much imagination in 
 that story as in the morbid rigmarole you 
 threw at us last night," persisted the Law 
 yer. 
 
 "Why," declared the Critic, "I call 
 mine a healthy story compared with this 
 one. It is a shocking tale for the oper 
 ating room I mean the insane asylum." 
 
 [ 92 ] 
 
THE DOCTOR S STORY 
 
 " All right," laughed the Doctor, " then 
 we had all better go inside the sanitarium 
 walls at once." 
 
 " Do you presume," said the Journalist, 
 " to pretend that this is a normal inci 
 dent?" 
 
 " I am not going into that. I only 
 claim that more people know the condition 
 than dare to confess it. It is after all only 
 symbolic of the duality of the soul or 
 call it what you like. It is the embodi 
 ment of a truth which no one thinks of 
 denying that the spirit has its secrets. 
 Imagination plays a great part in most of 
 our lives it is the glory that gilds our 
 facts it is the brilliant barrier which 
 separates us from the beasts, and the only 
 real thing that divides us into classes, 
 though, of course, it does not run through 
 the world like straight lines of latitude and 
 longitude, but like the lines of mean tem 
 perature." 
 
 " The truth is," said the Lawyer, " if 
 the Principal Girl had been obliged to 
 struggle for her living, the fact that her 
 imagination did not run at any point into 
 her world of realities would not have been 
 dangerous." 
 
 " Naturally not," said the Doctor, " for 
 
 [ 93 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 she would have been a great novelist, or a 
 poor one, and all would have been well, or 
 not, according to circumstances." 
 
 " All the same," persisted the Critic, " I 
 think it a horrid story and " 
 
 " I think," interrupted the Doctor, 
 "that you have a vicious mind, and " 
 Here the Doctor cast a quick look in the 
 direction of the Youngster, who was 
 stretched out in a steamer chair and had 
 not said a word. 
 
 " All right," said the Trained Nurse, 
 " he is fast asleep." And so he was. 
 
 " Just as well," said the Doctor, 
 " though it does not speak so well for the 
 story as it might." 
 
 " Well," laughed the Journalist, " you 
 have had a double success, Doctor. You 
 have been spontaneously applauded by the 
 man of law, and sent the man of the air to 
 faire dodo. I reckon you get the laurels." 
 
 " Don t you be in such a hurry to award 
 the palm," protested the Sculptor. 
 There are some of us who have not 
 spoken yet. I am going to put some bril 
 liant touches on mine before I give my 
 star performance." 
 
 "What s that about stars?" yawned 
 the Youngster, waking up slowly. 
 [ 94 ] 
 
THE DOCTOR S STORY 
 
 " Nothing except that you have given 
 a very distinguished and unexpected star 
 performance as a sleeper," said the Doc 
 tor. 
 
 "I say!" he exclaimed, sitting up. 
 " By Jove, is the story of the Principal 
 Girl all told? That s a shame. What 
 became of her? " 
 
 "You ll never know now," said the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " Besides," said the Critic, " you would 
 not understand. You are too young." 
 
 " Well, I like your cheek." 
 
 " After all," said the Journalist, " it is 
 only another phase of the Dear Little 
 Josephine, and I still think that is the ban 
 ner story." 
 
 " Me, too," said the Doctor, as we went 
 into the house. 
 
 And I thought to myself, " I can tell 
 a third phase the tragic when my 
 turn comes," and I was the only one who 
 knew that my story would come last. 
 
 C 95 3 
 
V 
 
 THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 UNTO THIS END 
 THE TALE OF A VIRGIN 
 
 IT was on August 26th that we were 
 first sure that the Allied forces and the 
 German army had actually come in con 
 tact. It seemed impossible for us to real 
 ize it, but, in the afternoon the Doctor, 
 the Lawyer, and the Youngster took one 
 of the cars, and made a run to the north 
 east. The news they brought back did not 
 at all coincide with the hopeful tone of the 
 morning papers. In fact it was not only 
 evident that the fall of Namur had been 
 followed almost immediately by that of 
 Mons and Charleroi, but that the German 
 hordes were well over the French fron 
 tier, and advancing rapidly, and the Al 
 lied armies simply flying before them. 
 
 The odd part was, that though the 
 Youngster said that they had only run out 
 
 [ 96 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 fifty miles, they had heard the guns, and 
 " the Doctor thinks," he added, under his 
 breath, " that we may be able to stick it 
 out to the last day of the month. Any 
 way, I advise you girls to look over your 
 kits. We may fly in a hurry such of 
 us as must fly." 
 
 However, we managed to get through 
 dinner quite gaily. We simply could not 
 realize the menace, and the Doctor evi 
 dently meant that we should not. He was 
 in gayer spirits than he had been since the 
 days of the great discussions, and after 
 the few facts he had brought back were 
 given us, he kept the talk on other mat 
 ters, until the Sculptor, who had been lying 
 back in his chair, blowing smoke rings in 
 the air, stretched himself into his most 
 graceful position, and called attention even 
 to his pose, before he threw his cigarette 
 far from him with a fine gesture, settled 
 his handsome head into his clasped hands, 
 and began: 
 
 I had been ten years abroad. 
 
 In all that time I had been idle, pros 
 perous, and wretched. 
 
 Every time Fate wrenched my heart 
 with one of her long thin pitiless hands, 
 
 [ 97 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 she recompensed me with what the world 
 calls " good luck." Every hope I had 
 cherished failed me. Every faith I had 
 harbored deserted me. Every venture in 
 which neither heart nor soul was con 
 cerned flourished and flaunted its success 
 in the face of the world, where I was con 
 sidered a very fortunate man. 
 
 In the ten years of my exile I had trav 
 elled much, had been in contact with all 
 kinds of people, had served some, and 
 tried in vain to be concerned for them 
 while I served. If it had been my fate to 
 make no friends, it was within my choice 
 to be never alone. 
 
 I had that in my memory which I 
 hoarded, and yet with which I would not 
 allow myself to be deliberately alone. 
 The most terrible hours of my life were 
 those when, toward morning, the rest of 
 the world all the world save me hav 
 ing no past to escape, no enticing phantom 
 to flee, went peacefully off to bed, and I 
 was left alone in the night to drug mem 
 ory, fight off thought, outwit imagination 
 by any means that I might and some of 
 them were desperate enough. 
 
 Ten years had passed thus. 
 
 [ 98 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 Another tenth of August had come 
 round ! 
 
 Only a man who has but one anniversary 
 in his life, the backward and forward 
 shadows of which make an unbroken cir 
 cle over the whole year, can appreciate my 
 existence. One cannot escape such a date. 
 You may never speak of it. You may 
 forswear calendars, abjure newspapers, re 
 fuse to date a letter; you may even lose 
 days in a drunken stupor. Still there is 
 that in your heart and your brain which 
 keeps the reckoning. The hour will 
 strike, in spite of you, when the day comes 
 round on the dial of the year. 
 
 I had been living for some time in a 
 city far distant from my native land. 
 Half the world stretched on either side be 
 tween me and the spot I tried to forget, 
 and which floated forever, like a vision, 
 between me and reality. 
 
 I had remained longer than usual in this 
 city, for the simple reason that it was the 
 hot season, and while the natives could 
 stand it by day, visitors, unused to the 
 heat, were forced to sleep by day and wan 
 der abroad by night, a condition that made 
 it possible for me to feel my fellowmen 
 
 [ 99 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 about me nearly the entire twenty-four 
 hours. 
 
 It was night. 
 
 I was sitting alone on the balcony of my 
 room, looking down on to the crowded 
 bridges of the city where throngs were 
 passing, and filled my eyes and mind. 
 
 It was the very hour at which I had last 
 seen her. There was no clock in sight 
 I always guarded against that in selecting 
 my room. I had long ceased to carry a 
 watch. 
 
 Yet I knew the hour. 
 
 I had been sitting there for hours 
 watching the crowd. I had not been 
 drinking. I had long ago abandoned 
 that. No stimulant could blur the fixed 
 regret, no narcotic numb my full sense of 
 it. Sleep, whether I rose to it, or fell to 
 it only brought me dreams of her. 
 Desperate nourishing of a great misery, in 
 a nature that resented it, even while cher 
 ishing it, had made me a conscious mono 
 maniac. Fate had thwarted me, and dis 
 torted me. I had become jealous and 
 morbid, bitterly reviling my hurt, but vio 
 lently preventing its healing. 
 
 There was a moon just as there had 
 been that night, only now it fell on a many 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 bridged river across which were ghostly 
 cypress trees, rising along the hill-side to 
 a strangely outlined church behind ruined 
 fortifications. I was wondering, against 
 my will, at what hour that moon rose over 
 the distant New England village, which 
 came before me in a vision that wiped out 
 the wooded heights of reality. 
 
 Suddenly all the pain dropped away 
 from me. 
 
 I drew a long breath in amazement. 
 
 Where was the weight under which I 
 had staggered, mentally, all these years? 
 Whence came the peace that had so sud 
 denly descended upon me? In an instant 
 it had passed, and I could only remember 
 my bitter mood of ten years as if it had 
 been a dream that I had lived so long un- 
 consoled by that great healer, Time. 
 
 As the torturing jealousy dropped from 
 me, a gentle sadness took its place. In an 
 instant my mind was made up. I would 
 go back. 
 
 This idea, which had never come to me 
 in ten years, seemed now perfectly natu 
 ral. I would return at once to that far off 
 village where, for a brief hour, I had 
 dwelt in a " Fool s Paradise," through 
 which my way had lain but a brief span, 
 
 [ 101 ] 
 
TOLD TN A FKENCH GARDEN 
 
 and where I had passed, like the fabled 
 bird, that " floats through Heaven, but 
 cannot light." 
 
 I remember but little of the journey 
 home, save that it was long, and that I 
 slept much. But whether it was months 
 or years I never knew. I seemed to be 
 making up what I had lost in ten years. 
 Time occupied itself in restoring the bal 
 ance I had taken so much pains to upset. 
 
 It was night when I reached the place 
 at last. 
 
 I found it as I had left it. Had a 
 magic sleep settled there it could not have 
 been less changed. 
 
 I was recognized in the small bare office 
 of the one tavern. I felt that my sudden 
 appearance surprised no one. But I did 
 not wonder why. 
 
 Oddly enough, I never asked a question. 
 I had not even questioned myself as to what 
 I expected to find. Years afterward I was 
 convinced, in reviewing the matter, that 
 my soul had known from the first. 
 
 I dined alone, quite calmly, after which 
 
 I stepped out into the starlight. I turned 
 
 up the hill, and struck into the familiar 
 
 road I had so often travelled in the old 
 
 [ 102 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 days. It led toward the river, and along 
 the steep bank of the rapid noisy stream. 
 The chill wind of an early autumn night 
 moaned sadly in the tall trees, and the 
 dead leaves under my feet rustled a sad 
 accompaniment to my thoughts, which at 
 last, unhooded, flew back to the past 
 
 Below rushed the river, whose torrent 
 had ever been an accompaniemnt to all my 
 recollections of her as inseparable from 
 them as the color of her eyes, or the tones 
 of her voice. 
 
 I could not but contrast my present calm 
 with the mad humor in which I had last 
 rushed down the slope I was so quietly 
 climbing. As I went forward, I began to 
 ask myself, "Why?" I could not an 
 swer that, but I began to hurry. 
 
 Suddenly I stopped. 
 
 The moon had emerged above the trees 
 on the opposite side of the river. It 
 struck and illumined something white 
 above me. I was standing exactly where 
 I had stood on that fatal tenth of August, 
 so many years before. 
 
 I came to my senses as if by an electric 
 shock. 
 
 At last everything was clear to me. At 
 last I understood whence had gone all my 
 
 [ 103 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 vanity and jealousy. At last I understood 
 the spell of peace that had settled on me 
 in that moonlit tenth of August, in that far 
 off city. 
 
 My burden had passed through the Val 
 ley of the Shadow of Death with her 
 for I was standing at the door of her 
 tomb! 
 
 I did not question. I knew, I compre 
 hended. 
 
 In no other way could I have found such 
 calm. 
 
 Though I flung myself on the shining 
 marble steps that led in the moonlight up 
 to the top of the knoll where the tomb 
 stood, I had no tears to shed. 
 
 The present floated still further away. 
 
 Even the rush of the torrent died out of 
 my ears. 
 
 Once more it seemed to me that lovely 
 day in May when we three had marched, 
 shoulder to shoulder, down the city street 
 that spring day in the early sixties, 
 when the North was sending her flower to 
 fight for a united country. 
 
 Again I felt the warm sunshine on my 
 head. 
 
 Once more I heard the ringing cheers, 
 saw the floating flags, and the faces of 
 
 [ 104 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 women who wept as well as women who 
 smiled in the throngs that lined the street. 
 
 Just as in all my life it had been his emo 
 tions and his enthusiasms that led me, it 
 was his excitement that impelled me for 
 ward at this moment. His was the hand 
 that in my school days, at college, in our 
 Bohemian days abroad, had swept my re 
 sponsive nature as a master hand strikes 
 a harp, and made harmonies or discords 
 at his will or, I should say, according 
 to his mood. 
 
 I used to think in those days that he 
 never willfully wronged any one, but I 
 had to own also that he never deliberately 
 sacrificed himself for any one. And, if I 
 were the victim of his temperament, he 
 was no less so. But he was an artist. I 
 was not. All things either good or bad 
 were merely material to him. With me it 
 was different. 
 
 He and I were alone in the world. But 
 beside us marched, that May morning, 
 with the glory of youth on his handsome 
 but weak face, one whose " baptism of 
 fire " was to make him a hero, who had 
 else been remembered a coward. 
 , The story of the girl he had wronged, 
 and fear of whom had even reconciled l*i.s 
 
 [ 105 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 family to his enlisting, was common prop 
 erty, and had been for several seasons. 
 There was a child, too, a little daughter, 
 fondly loved, but unacknowledged, the 
 fame of whose childish beauty many a 
 heedless voice had already sung. 
 
 He, poor youngster, looked on his all 
 that morning. 
 
 Once more I saw the flag draped house 
 where his mother waved a brave farewell 
 to him. 
 
 But there was another later picture in 
 my mind. Again I heard the blare of the 
 band before us as it flung its satire of 
 " The Girl I Left Behind Me," into the 
 spring air. I saw once more in my mind 
 the child, with her floating red gold curls, 
 raised above the crowd on the shoulders of 
 tall men. Her eyes were too young for 
 tears and for that matter, tears came 
 to her but seldom in later years and the 
 lips that shouted " bood-bye " smiled, un 
 conscious of bravery, as she swung her hat 
 with its symbolic colors above her shining 
 head. 
 
 That was the picture that three of us 
 carried to the front. 
 
 We left him all his errors redeemed 
 [ 106 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 by a noble death with his face turned up 
 to the stars, as silent, as mysterious as they, 
 after our first battle. 
 
 From the horrors of that night we two 
 came away bound by an oath to care for 
 that child. 
 
 Again my memory shifted to the days 
 that found her a woman. Fair, beautiful, 
 dainty, her father s daughter in looks, but 
 inheriting from a rare mother a peculiar 
 strength of character, a moral force rarely 
 found with such a temperament and such 
 beauty. 
 
 We had aided to raise her as became the 
 child of her father, whose story she knew 
 as soon as she was able to understand, but 
 she knew it from the lips of the brave 
 mother, who cherished his memory. Un 
 til she was a woman grown it was I, how 
 ever, who, of her two self-appointed 
 guardians, had watched over her. Chil 
 dren did not interest him. 
 
 He had married some years before that 
 time, married well with an eye to a calm 
 comfortable future, as became an artist 
 who could not be hampered by the need 
 of money. 
 
 [ 107 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 Indeed, it was not until he knew that I 
 was to marry her that he really looked at 
 her. 
 
 And I, with all my experience of him, 
 simply because I was never able to under 
 stand the dual nature, failed at that fatal 
 hour when we stood together beside our 
 protegee to apply to the situation the 
 knowledge that years of experience should 
 have taught me. 
 
 I was so bound up in my own feelings 
 that I failed to remember that, until then, 
 I had never had a great emotion that 
 his nature had not acted as a lens in the 
 kindling. 
 
 Then, too, there was a dense sense of 
 the conventional a logical enough 
 birthright in my make-up. I, who had 
 known him so long, so well, seemed, never 
 theless, when he married, to have fancied 
 there was some hocus-pocus in the cere 
 mony, which should make a definite change 
 in a man s character, as well as a presum 
 able change in his way of life. 
 
 It must have been that there, in the 
 open, at the foot of the knoll, I slept, as 
 one does the first night after a long 
 awaited death, when the relief that pain is 
 passed, and suspense ended, deadens grief. 
 [ 108 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 She was no longer in this world of torture. 
 That helped me. 
 
 The next I knew, it was the sun, and not 
 the moon which was shining on me. 
 
 The wind had stilled its sobbing in the 
 trees. 
 
 Only the rushing of the river sounded 
 in my ears. 
 
 I rose slowly, and mounted the steps. 
 
 A tiny white marble mosque of wonder 
 ful beauty for he who erected it was 
 one of the world s great artists, whose 
 w r orks will live to glorify his name and his 
 art when all his follies shall have been for 
 gotten stood in a court paved with mar 
 ble. 
 
 It was encircled with a low coping of the 
 whitest of stone. Over this low wall vines 
 were already growing, and the woodbine 
 that was mingled with it was stained with 
 those glorious tints in which Nature says 
 to life, " Even death is beautiful." 
 
 The wide bronze doors on either side 
 were open. 
 
 I accepted the fact without even wonder 
 ing why or asking myself who, in open 
 ing them, had discovered my presence 1 
 
 I entered. 
 
 [ 109 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 For a brief time I stood once more 
 within the room where she lay. 
 
 An awful peace fell on my soul, as if 
 her soul had whispered in the words we 
 had so often read together: 
 
 " I lie so composedly 
 " Now in my bed " 
 
 I knew at last, as I gazed, that all her 
 life, and all mine, as well, had been to his 
 profit. That out of this, too, he had 
 wrought some of his greatness. 
 
 The interior of the vault was of red 
 marble, and, such of chiselling as there was 
 done, seemed wonderful to me even in my 
 frame of mind. I took it all in, through 
 unwilling, though fascinated eyes. 
 
 I have never seen it since. I can never 
 forget it. 
 
 Yet art is, and always has been, so much 
 to me, that I could not help, even in my 
 strangely wrought-up mental condition, 
 comprehending and admiring his scheme 
 and the masterly manner in which he had 
 worked it out. 
 
 At my feet, as I stood on the threshold, 
 
 was an elaborate scroll engraved on the 
 
 stone and surrounded with a wreath of 
 
 leaves, that vied with the tombs of the old 
 
 [ no ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 world. As I gazed at it, and read the 
 gothic letters in which it was set forth that 
 this monument was erected in adoration of 
 this woman, how well I remembered the 
 day when we had crouched together over 
 those stones in the crypt at Certosa, to 
 admire the chiselling of Donatello which 
 had inspired this. 
 
 There was a space left for the signature 
 of the artist, which would, I knew, some 
 day be written there boldly enough ! 
 
 In the centre stood the sarcophagus. 
 
 I felt its presence, though my eyes 
 avoided it. 
 
 Above, on the wall, were the words 
 borne along by carved angels : 
 
 " My love she sleeps: Oh, may her sleep 
 As it was lasting, so be deep." 
 
 And I seemed to hear her voice intone 
 the words as I had heard them from her 
 lips so many times. 
 
 And then my eyes fell on her ! Aye ! 
 On her, stretched at full length in her 
 warm and glorious tomb. For above her 
 mortal remains slept her effigy wrought 
 with all the skill of a great art. 
 
 I had feared to look upon it, but hav 
 ing looked, I felt that I could never tear 
 
 [ in ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 myself away from its peace and loveliness. 
 
 The long folds of the drapery fell 
 straight from the small, round throat to 
 the tiny unshod feet, and so wonderfully 
 was it wrought, that it seemed as if the 
 living beautiful flesh of the slender body 
 was still quick beneath it. The exquisite 
 hands that I knew so well so delicate, 
 and yet so strong were gently crossed 
 upon her breast, and her arms held a long 
 stemmed lily, emblem of purity, and it 
 looked to me there like a martyr s palm. 
 
 Perhaps it was the pale reflection from 
 the red walls, but the figure seemed too 
 real to be mere stone ! 
 
 I forgot the irony of the fact that I was 
 merely seeing her through his eyes the 
 eyes of the man who had robbed me. I 
 felt only her presence. I fell on my 
 knees. I flung my arms across the beauti 
 ful form no colder to my embrace than 
 had been the living woman! As I re 
 coiled from the death-like touch, my eyes 
 fell on the words carved on the face of the 
 sarcophagus, and once more, it was like 
 the voice that was hushed in my ears. 
 
 " I pray to God that she may lie 
 Forever with unopened eye 
 While the dim sheeted ghosts go by." 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 " Amen," I said, with all my heart, to 
 the words he had carved above her, for 
 what, after the fever of such a life, could 
 be so welcome to her as dreamless, eternal 
 silence, in which there would be no more 
 passion, no more struggling, no more love? 
 
 And, if I wished with all my soul, that 
 the great surprise of death might, for her, 
 have been peace and silence, did I not bar 
 myself as well as him from the hope of 
 Heaven? 
 
 How long I stood there, with hungry 
 eyes devouring the marble effigy of her I 
 so loved now tortured by its fidelity, 
 now punished by its coldness I never 
 knew. 
 
 Sometimes I noticed the changing of the 
 light, the shifting of the shadows, as the 
 sun swung steadily upward, but it was a 
 subconscious observation which did not re 
 call me to myself and the present. 
 
 Back, back turned my thoughts to the 
 past. 
 
 Here, where she now lay in her gor 
 geous tomb, had then stood an arbor, and 
 below had roared the rushing river. 
 
 It was the night of our wedding. 
 
 Then, as now, on this very spot, I had 
 looked down on that fair pale face, and 
 
 c us i 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 then it had given me back a gaze as life 
 less as this. 
 
 I had missed my bride from the little 
 throng in the quaint house beyond. I had 
 stolen out to seek her. Instinctively I had 
 turned to the old arbor above the river, 
 where her hours of meditation had always 
 been passed. 
 
 It was there I had found her as a child, 
 when I came to bring her father s dying 
 message. It was there I had asked her to 
 become my wife. It was there we three 
 had first stood together. 
 
 For a week before the wedding she had 
 been in a strange mood, tearless, but nerv 
 ous, and sad ! Still, it had not seemed to 
 me an unnatural mood in such a woman, 
 on the eve of her marriage. 
 
 Fate is ironical. 
 
 I remembered that I was serenely happy 
 as I sped up the hill in search of her, and 
 so sure that I knew where to find her. 
 Light scudding clouds crossed the track 
 of the moon, which, with a broadly smil 
 ing face, rolled up the heavens at a spin 
 ning pace, now appearing, now disappear 
 ing behind the flying clouds. 
 
 I was humming gaily as I strode along 
 the narrow path. Nothing tugged at my 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 heart strings to warn me of approaching 
 sorrow. There was no signal in all na 
 ture to prepare me for the end in a com 
 plete shipwreck of all my dreams. The 
 peace about me gave no hint of its cynic 
 ism. Nothing, either within or without, 
 hinted that my hours of happiness and con 
 tent were running out rapidly to the last 
 sand! 
 
 I had reached the shallow steps that led 
 up the knoll to the arbor ! 
 
 At that moment the clouds were swept 
 off from the face of the moon, and the 
 white light fell full on her. 
 
 But she was not alone. She rested in 
 the arms of my friend, as, God help me, 
 she had never rested in mine in an aban 
 don that was only too eloquent. 
 
 What was said? 
 
 Who but God knows that now ? 
 
 What do men like us, who have thought 
 themselves one in all things, until one love 
 rends them asunder, say at such a time? 
 As for me, I cannot recall a word! 
 
 I did not even see his face. 
 
 I think he saw mine no more. 
 
 We seemed to see into the soul of each 
 other, through the very heart of that frail 
 woman between us, that slender creature in 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 the bridal dress, who sank down before us, 
 as if the colliding passions of two strong 
 men had killed her. 
 
 It was he who raised her up. His 
 hands placed her in my arms. No need to 
 say that she was blameless. I knew all 
 that. 
 
 It was only Fate after all, that I blamed, 
 yet the fatalist is human. He suffers in 
 living like other men sometimes more, 
 because he refuses to struggle in the 
 clutches of Chance ! 
 
 As I gazed down into her white face, I 
 heard the steps of my friend, even above 
 the roaring of the river, as he strode down 
 the hillside, out of my life ! And I know 
 not even to-day which was the bitterest 
 grief, the loss of my faith in being loved, 
 or the passing from my heart of that man ! 
 
 Of the pain of the night that followed, 
 only the silence and our own hearts knew. 
 
 Love and passion are so twinned in 
 some hours of life that one cannot distin 
 guish in himself the one from the other. 
 
 Into my keeping " to have and to hold," 
 
 the law had given this beautiful woman, 
 
 " until death should us part." I loved 
 
 her! But, out of her heart, at once 
 
 [ "6 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 stronger and weaker than mine, my friend 
 had barred me. 
 
 It is not in hours like these, that all men 
 can be sane. 
 
 I thought of what might have been, if 
 they had not met that night, and my ig 
 noble side craved ignorance of that 
 Chance, or the brutality to ignore it. 
 
 I looked down into that cold face as I 
 laid her from the arms that had borne her 
 down the hill laid her on what was to 
 have been her nuptial couch and closed 
 the door between us and all the world. 
 
 We were together alone at last! 
 
 I had dreamed of this hour. Here was 
 its realization. I watched the misery of 
 remembrance dawn slowly on her white 
 face. I pitied her as I gazed at her, yet 
 my whole being cried out in rage at its 
 own pity. On her trembling lips I 
 seemed to see his kisses. In her fright 
 ened eyes I saw his image. The shudder 
 that shook her whole body as her eyes 
 held mine, confessed him and that con 
 fession kept me at bay. 
 
 All that night I sat beside her. 
 
 What mad words I uttered a merciful 
 nature never let me recall. 
 
 [ "7 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 In the chill dawn I fled from her pres 
 ence. 
 
 The width of the world had lain be 
 tween us, me and this woman whom I 
 had worshipped, of whom a consuming 
 jealousy had made ten years of my life a 
 mad fever, which only her death had 
 cured. Saner men have protested against 
 the same situation that ruined me and 
 yet, even in my reasoning moments, like 
 this, I knew that to have rebelled would 
 have been to have forced a tragic climax 
 before the hour at which Fate had fixed it. 
 
 When something I know not what 
 recalled me again to the present, I found 
 that I had sat by her a day, as, on our last 
 meeting, I watched out the night. The 
 sun, which had sent its almost level rays 
 in at the east door of the tomb when I en 
 tered, was now shining in brilliant almost 
 level rays in at the west. 
 
 The day was passing. 
 
 A shadow fell from the opposite door. 
 I became suddenly conscious of his pres 
 ence, and, once more, across her body, I 
 looked into my friend s eyes. 
 
 Between us, as on that dreadful night, 
 she was stretched ! 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 But she was at peace. 
 
 Our colliding emotions might rend us, 
 they could never again tear at her gentle 
 heart. That was at rest. 
 
 Over her we stood once more, as if 
 years had not passed years of silence. 
 
 Above the woman we had both loved, 
 we two, who had stood shoulder to shoul 
 der in battle, been one in thought and am 
 bition until passion rent us asunder, met 
 as we parted, but she was at peace ! 
 
 We had severed without farewells. 
 
 We met without greetings. 
 
 We stood in silence until he waved me 
 to a broad seat behind me, and sank into 
 a similar niche opposite. 
 
 We sat in the shadow. 
 
 She lay between us in the level light of 
 the setting sun, which fell across her from 
 the wide portal, and once more our eyes 
 met on her face, but they would not disturb 
 her calm. 
 
 His influence was once more upon me. 
 
 In the silence for it was some time 
 before he spoke, and I was dumb my 
 accursed eye for detail had taken in the 
 change in him. Yet I fancied I was not 
 looking at him. I noted that he had aged 
 that this was one of the periods in him 
 
 [ "9 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 which I knew so well when a passion for 
 work was on him, and the fever and fervor 
 of creation trained him down like a race 
 horse, all spirit and force. I noted that 
 he still wore the velveteens and the broad 
 hat and loose open collar of his student 
 days. 
 
 Sitting on either side of the tomb he had 
 built to enshrine her, on carved marble 
 seats such as Tuscan poets sat on, in the 
 old days, to sing to fair women, with our 
 gaze focussed on the long white form be 
 tween us ah, between us indeed! his 
 voice broke the long silence. 
 
 He leaned forward, his elbows on his 
 knees, and the broad brim of his soft hat 
 swept the marble floor with a gentle rhyth 
 mic swish, as it swung idly from his loos 
 ened grasp. I heard it as an accompani 
 ment to his voice. 
 
 His eyes never once strayed from her 
 face. 
 
 You think you are to be pitied/ he 
 said. "You are wrong! No one who 
 has not sinned against another needs pity. 
 I meant you no harm. Fate my tem 
 perament, your immobility, the very gifts 
 that have made me what I am were to 
 blame if blame there were. Every one 
 [ 120 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 of us must live out his life, according to 
 his nature. I, as well as you ! 
 
 " When, on this very spot where we last 
 parted, you told me that you loved her, I 
 swear to you, if need be, that I rejoiced. 
 I was glad that she would have you to 
 make the future smooth for her. Later I 
 grew to envy you. It was for your safety, 
 as well as mine and hers, that I decided to 
 see neither of you again until she had been 
 some time your wife. No word of love, 
 no confidence of any kind, had ever passed 
 between us. When I wrote you that I 
 should not be here to see you married, and 
 when not even your reproaches could move 
 me, I had already engaged my passage on 
 a sailing ship bound for the Azores. I 
 had planned to put a long uncertain voyage 
 between you and any possibility that I 
 might mar your chances for happiness, for 
 the nearer the day came, the more in 
 spite of myself I resented it! 
 
 " My good intentions were thwarted by 
 Fate. 
 
 " For some reason, forgotten and unim 
 portant, the Captain deferred lifting an 
 chor for a whole week. I called myself 
 unpretty names for thinking that I could 
 not even see her without danger. I de- 
 
* TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 spised myself for the judgment that ac 
 cused me of being such a scamp as to think 
 I would do anything to rob her of the pro 
 tection and safety you could give her, and 
 I could not, and an egoist for being pos 
 sessed with the idea that I could if I would. 
 
 " Suddenly I felt quite sure of myself. 
 
 " Yet I had meant to see her without 
 being seen, when I hurried so unexpectedly 
 down here on your wedding night. I fan 
 cied I only longed to see what a lovely 
 bride she would make she who as a 
 child, a girl, a maiden, had been in your 
 eyes the most exquisite creature you had 
 ever known; she whom I had avoided for 
 years, because I, of all men, could least 
 afford to take a place in her life! I 
 longed to see those eyes, still so pure, un 
 der her bridal veil. 
 
 " I came in secret ! I saw her - and 
 all prudence fled out of me, leaving but 
 one instinct. 
 
 " Was it my fault that, alone, she fled 
 from the house? That, with her veil 
 thrown over her arm, she ran directly by 
 me, like a sprite in the moonlight, to this 
 spot? 
 
 The rest you know. 
 
 " It is not you who need pity ! 
 [ 122 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 1 You have the pain of an imperishable 
 loyalty in your soul. It is like a glory 
 in your face, in spite of all you have suf 
 fered. As I look at you, it seems but yes 
 terday that all was well between us. 
 
 ;< I lost much in losing you. 
 
 " Nor am I sure that you were right to 
 go ! But that was for your own nature to 
 decide. In your place I should have 
 fought Fate, I expected you to do it. 
 
 " I loved her first, because she satisfied 
 my eyes. I loved her the more that she 
 was denied to me ! Yet I knew always 
 that this love was not in me what it was 
 in you. With me it was, like many other 
 emotions of a similar sort a sentiment 
 that would pass. I tried to think other 
 wise. But I had awakened her heart, and 
 you, to whom the law had given her, were 
 gone ! 
 
 u I waited long for your return, or for 
 some sign. 
 
 You neither came nor spoke. 
 
 " I argued that something must be done. 
 I owed it to her to offer her my protec 
 tion. 
 
 " I came back here. I met her on this 
 very spot. I said to her, You are alone 
 in the world your mother has married 
 
 [ 123 1 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 she has other children. I have sad 
 dened your life with my love. Let me at 
 least help to cheer it again. You need 
 affection. Here it is in my arms! 
 
 " And, while I waited for her answer, I 
 prayed with all my soul that she might 
 deny me. 
 
 " God bless her! She did! I turned 
 away from her with a glad heart, and in 
 that heart I enshrined this woman, who, 
 loving me, had denied me. There I set 
 up her image, pure and inviolate. Two 
 long years I stayed away from her, and as 
 I worked, I worshipped her, and out of 
 that worship I wrought a great thing. 
 
 " With time, however, her real image 
 grew faint within me. Other emotions, 
 other experiences seemed to blur and dim 
 it. In spite of myself, I returned here. 
 Once more I stood on this spot, within 
 the gaze of her deep eyes. I began to be 
 lieve that a love everlasting, all enduring, 
 had been given me ! But still it was pas 
 sion that pleaded for possession, and still it 
 was self-knowledge that looked on in fear. 
 
 "Passion bade me plead: ( You love 
 me ! You need me ! Come to me ! 
 And fear kept my heart still, in dread of 
 her consent. 
 
 [ 124 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 " But she looked up into my face with 
 eyes that seemed to widen under mine, and 
 simply whispered, * My mother. The 
 heart that knew and understood now all 
 that sad history seemed to feel that her 
 act might re-open the mother s old wound; 
 that the verdict like mother, like daugh 
 ter would turn virtue back to sin again. 
 
 " Once more I went out into the world 
 with a light heart! Her virtue, her 
 strength, seemed to be mine. I went back 
 to my work with renewed spirit, back to 
 my life with no new self-reproach. 
 
 " But once more I swung round the cir 
 cle. With a perversity that, dreading suc 
 cess, and conscious of fear, yet longs to 
 strive for what it dreads to win, I returned 
 to her again. The death of her mother 
 was my new excuse. 
 
 " She came to me here, as usual. 
 But this time she came leading by the hand 
 her little sister, and I felt her armored 
 against me even before I spoke. 
 
 You, who used to believe in a merci 
 ful God, can you explain to me why he has 
 left in the nature of man, created so you 
 believe in His own image that im 
 pulse to destroy that which he loves? I 
 loved her for exactly what she was. I 
 
 C 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 loved her because she had the courage to 
 resist me. Yet from each denial so ar 
 dently desired, so thankfully received, my 
 soul sprang up strengthened in desire. 
 Safe above me I worshipped her. Once 
 in my arms, I knew, only too well, that 
 even that love would pass as all other emo 
 tions had done. I knew I should put her 
 aside, gently if I could, urgently, if I must, 
 and pass on. That is my Fate! Every 
 thing that enters my life leaves something 
 I need and departs ! For what I have 
 not, I hunger. What I win soon wearies 
 me. It is the price life exacts for what it 
 gives me. 
 
 " So, when August of this year came 
 round, I found myself once more standing 
 here. 
 
 Ten years had passed since we stood 
 here with her between us ten years that 
 had laid their richest gifts on her beauty. 
 This time she was indeed alone. As I 
 looked into her face, I somehow thought 
 of Agamemnon s fair daughter doomed to 
 die a virgin. You can see my Iphigenia 
 in the spring, if you chance to be in Paris. 
 
 * This time, self-knowledge deserted 
 me. The past was forgotten. The fu 
 ture was undreaded. The passion in my 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 heart spoke without reserve or caution! 
 I no longer said : You need me ! You 
 love me ! I cried out : * I can no longer 
 live without you ! I no longer said, 
 * Come to me ! I pleaded, * Take me to 
 your heart. There, where my image is, 
 let me rest at last. I have waited long, 
 be kind to me. 
 
 " I saw her sway toward me as once be 
 fore she had done. It was too late to 
 look backward or forward. I had con 
 quered. In my weakness I believed it was 
 thus ordained that I deserved some 
 credit for waiting so long. 
 
 " Yet, when she left me here alone, hav 
 ing promised, with downcast eyes that 
 avoided mine, to place her hand in mine, 
 and walk boldly beside me down the for 
 bidden path of the world, I fell down on 
 the spot her feet had pressed, and wept 
 bitterly, as I had never done before in all 
 my life. Wept over the shattered ideal, 
 the faith I had so wilfully torn down, the 
 miserable victory of my meanest self. 
 
 " I thought the end was come. Fate 
 was merciful to me, however! 
 
 " I had myself fixed the following 
 Thursday as the day for our departure. 
 As I dated a letter to her that night my 
 
 [ 127 3 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 mind involuntarily reckoned the days, and 
 I was startled to find that Thursday fell on 
 that fatal tenth of August. 
 
 " I had not thought I could be so tor 
 tured in my mind as I was by the dread 
 that she should notice the dire coinci 
 dence. 
 
 " She did! 
 
 " The hour that should have brought 
 her to me, brought a note instead. It was 
 dated boldly August tenth. It was with 
 out beginning or signature. It said I 
 can repeat every word * Of the two 
 roads to self-destruction open to me, I 
 have chosen the one that will, in the end, 
 give the least pain to you. I love you. I 
 have always loved you since I was a child. 
 I do not regret anything yet! Thank 
 God for me that I depart without ever 
 having seen a look of weariness in the eyes 
 that gazed so lovingly into mine when we 
 parted, and thank Him for yourself that 
 you will never see a look of reproach in 
 mine. I know no time so fitting to say a 
 long farewell for both of us as this 
 Farewell, then. 
 
 " I knew what I should find when I went 
 up the hill. 
 
 " The doctors said heart disease. 
 [ 128 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 She had been troubled with some such 
 weakness. I alone knew the truth ! As I 
 had known myself, she had known me ! 
 
 " You think you suffer you, who 
 might, but for me, have made her happy, 
 as such women should be, in a world of 
 simple natural joys! My friend, loss 
 without guilt is pain but it is not with 
 out the balm of virtuous compensation. 
 You have at least a right to grieve. 
 
 " But I ! I am forced to know myself. 
 To feel myself borne along in spite of 
 myself; and to realize that she who should 
 have worn a crown of happy womanhood, 
 lies there a sacrifice, to be bewailed like 
 Jepthah s one fair daughter; and to sit 
 here in full dread of the ebbing of even 
 this great emotion, knowing too well that 
 it will pass out of my life when it shall have 
 achieved its purpose, leaving only as evi 
 dence this another great work, crystal- 
 ized into immortality in everlasting stone. 
 I know that I cannot long hold it here in 
 my heart. The day will come perhaps 
 soon when I shall stand outside that 
 door, and recognize this as my work, and 
 be proud of it, without the power to grieve, 
 as I do now; when I shall approve my own 
 handiwork, and be unable to mourn for 
 
 [ 129 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 her who was sacrificed to achieve it. 
 What is your pain to mine? " 
 
 And I saw the hot tears drop from his 
 eyes. I saw them fall on the marble floor, 
 and they watered the very spot where his 
 name was so soon to spring up in pride to 
 confess his handiwork. 
 
 I looked on her calm face. I knew she 
 did not regret her part ! I rose, and, with 
 out a word, I passed out at the wide door, 
 and, without looking back, I passed down 
 the slope in the dusk, and left them to 
 gether the woman I had loved, and the 
 friend I had lost ! 
 
 As his voice died away, he sat upright 
 quickly, threw a glance about the circle, 
 and, with another fine gesture said : " Et 
 
 The Doctor was the only one to really 
 laugh, though a broad grin ran round the 
 circle. 
 
 " Well," remarked the Doctor, who had 
 been leaning against a tree, and indulging 
 in shrugs and an occasional groan, which 
 had not even disconcerted the story teller, 
 " I suppose that is how that very great 
 man, your governor, did the trick. I can 
 see him in every word." 
 
 [ 130 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 " That is all you know aboi t it," 
 laughed the Sculptor. " That is not a bit 
 how the governor did it. That is how I 
 should have done it, had I been the gov 
 ernor, and had the old man s chances. I 
 call that an ideal thing to happen to a 
 
 man." 
 
 " Not even founded on fact which 
 might have been some excuse for telling 
 it," groaned the Critic. " I d love to 
 write a review of that story. I d polish 
 it off." 
 
 " Of course you would," sneered the 
 Sculptor. " That s all a critic is for 
 to polish off the tales he can t write. I 
 call that a nice romantic, ideal tale for a 
 sculptor to conceive, and as the Doctor 
 said the other night, it is a possible story, 
 since I conceived it, and what the mind of 
 mortal can conceive, can happen." 
 
 The trouble," said the Journalist, 
 " with chaps like you, and the Critic, is 
 that your people are all framework. 
 They re not a bit of flesh and blood." 
 
 " I d like to know," said the Sculptor, 
 throwing himself back in his chair, " who 
 has a right to decide that?" 
 
 "What I d like to know," said the 
 Youngster, " is, what did she do between 
 
 3 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 times? Of course he sculped, and earned 
 slathers of money. But she ?" 
 
 " Oh, ouch help ! " cried the Sculp 
 tor. " Do I know?" 
 
 " Exactly! " answered the Critic, " and 
 that you don t sticks out in every line of 
 your story." 
 
 " Goodness me, you might ask the same 
 thing about Leda, or Helen of Troy." 
 
 "Ha! Ha!" laughed the Doctor. 
 " But we know what they did! " 
 
 " A lot you do. It is because they are 
 old classics, and you accept them, whereas 
 my story is quite new and original and 
 you were unprepared for it, and so you 
 can t appreciate it. Anyway, it s my first 
 born story, and I ll defend it with my life." 
 
 Only a laugh replied to the challenge, 
 and the attitude of defense he struck, as he 
 leaped to his feet, though the Journalist 
 said, under his breath, " It takes a carver 
 in stone to think of a tale like that ! " 
 
 " But think," replied the Doctor, " how 
 much trouble some women would escape if 
 they kept on saying ABC like that for 
 the A B C is usually lovely and when 
 it was time to X Y Z often terrible, 
 they just slipped out through the * open 
 door. " 
 
 [ 132 ] 
 
THE SCULPTOR S STORY 
 
 " On the other hand, they risk losing 
 heaps of fun," said the Journalist. 
 
 " What I like about that story," said the 
 Lawyer, " is that it is so aristocratic. 
 Every one seems to have plenty of money. 
 They all three do just what they like, have 
 no duties but to analyze themselves, and 
 evidently everything goes like clockwork. 
 The husband enjoys being morbid, and has 
 the means to be gloriously so. The sculp 
 tor likes to carve Edgar Allan Poe all over 
 the place, and the fair lady is able to 
 gratify the tastes of both men." 
 
 " You can laugh as much as you please," 
 sighed the Sculptor, " I wish it had hap 
 pened to me." 
 
 "Well," said the Doctor, " you have 
 the privilege of going to bed and dreaming 
 that it did." 
 
 " Thank you," answered the Sculptor. 
 That is just what I am going to do." 
 
 " What did I tell you last night? " said 
 the Doctor, under his breath, as he 
 watched the Sculptor going slowly toward 
 the house. " Bet he has been telling that 
 tale to himself under many skies for 
 years!" 
 
 " I suppose," laughed the Journalist, 
 " that the only reason he has never built 
 
 C 133 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 the tomb is that he has never had the 
 money." 
 
 "Oh, be fair!" said the Violinist. 
 " He has not built the tomb because he is 
 not his father. The old man would have 
 done it in a minute, only he lacked imagi 
 nation. You bet he never day-dreamed, 
 and yet what skill he had, and what adven 
 tures! He never saw anything but the 
 facts of life, yet how magnificently he 
 recorded them." 
 
 " It is a pity," sighed the Violinist, 
 " that the son did not seek a different 
 
 career." 
 
 4 What difference does it make after 
 all? " remarked the Doctor. u One never 
 knows when the next generation will step 
 up or down, and, after all, what does it 
 matter?" 
 
 " It is all very well for you to talk," 
 said the Critic. 
 
 " I assure you that the great pageant 
 would have been just as interesting from 
 any other point of view. It has been a 
 great spectacle, this living. I m glad 
 I ve seen it." 
 
 " Amen to that," said the Divorcee. 
 " I only hope I am going to see it again 
 even though it hurts." 
 
 [ 134 ] 
 
VI 
 
 THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 ONE WOMAN S PHILOSOPHY 
 THE TALE OF A MODERN WIFE 
 
 As I look back, I remember that the 
 next night was one of the most trying of 
 the week. 
 
 As we came down to dinner we all had 
 visions of the destruction of Louvain, and 
 the burning of the famous library. It is 
 hard enough to think of lives going out; 
 still, as the Doctor was so fond of saying, 
 " man is born to die, and woman, too," 
 but that the great works of men, his be 
 quest to the coming generations, should be 
 wantonly destroyed, seemed even more 
 horrible, especially to those who love 
 beauty, and the idea of the charred leaves 
 of the library flying in the air above the 
 historic city of catholic culture, made us 
 all feel as if we were sitting down to a 
 funeral service rather than a very good 
 dinner. 
 
 [ 135 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 Matters were not made any gayer be 
 cause Angele, who was waiting on table, 
 had rings round her eyes, which told of 
 sleepless nights. And why? We were 
 mere spectators. We had been interested 
 to dispute and look on. But she knew that 
 somewhere out there in the northeast her 
 man was carrying a gun. 
 
 Yet all about us the country was so 
 lovely and so tranquil, horses were walking 
 the fields, and, even as we sat at dinner, 
 we could hear the voices and the heavy 
 feet of the peasant women as they went 
 home from their work. The garden had 
 never been more beautiful than it was that 
 evening, with the silver light of the moon 
 through the trees, and the smell of the 
 freshly watered earth and flowers. 
 
 We had no doubt who was to contribute 
 the story. The Divorcee was dressed with 
 unusual care for the role, and carried a 
 big lace bag on her arm, and, as she leaned 
 back in her chair, she pulled one of the 
 big old fashioned candles in its deep glass 
 toward her, and said with a nervous laugh : 
 
 " I shall have to ask you to let me read 
 my story. You know I am not accustomed 
 to this sort of thing. It is really my very 
 4 first appearance/ and I could not possibly 
 
 [ 136 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 tell it as the rest of you more experienced 
 people can do," and she took the manu 
 script out of her lace hag, and, settling 
 herself gracefully, unrolled it. The 
 Youngster put a stool under her pretty 
 feet, and the Doctor set a cushion behind 
 her back, while the Journalist, with a 
 laugh, poured her a glass of water, and 
 the Violinist ceremoniously leaned over, 
 and asked, " Shall I turn for you? " 
 
 She could not help laughing, but it did 
 not make her any the less nervous, or her 
 voice any the less shaky as she began: 
 
 It was after dinner on one of those rare 
 occasions when they dined alone together. 
 
 They were taking coffee in Mrs. Shat- 
 tuck s especial corner of the drawing-room, 
 and she had just asked her husband to 
 smoke. 
 
 She was leaning back comfortably in a 
 nest of cushions, in her very latest gown, 
 with a most becoming light falling on her 
 from the tall, yellow-shaded lamp. 
 
 He was facing her astride his chair, 
 in a position man has loved since creation. 
 
 He was just thinking that his wife had 
 never looked handsomer, finer, in fact, in 
 all her life- quite the satisfactory, all- 
 
 [ 137 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 round, desirable sort of a woman a man s 
 wife ought to be. 
 
 She was wondering if he would ever be 
 any less attractive to all women than he 
 was now at forty-two or any better able 
 to resist his own power. 
 
 As she put her coffee cup back on the 
 tiny table at her elbow, he leaned forward, 
 and picked up a book which lay open on a 
 chair near him, and carelessly glanced at it. 
 
 u Schopenhauer," and he wrinkled his 
 brows and glanced half whimsically down 
 the page. "I never can get used to a 
 woman reading that stuff and in French, 
 at that. If you took it up to perfect your 
 German there would be some sense in it." 
 
 Mrs. Shattuck did not reply. When a 
 moment later, she did speak it was to 
 ignore his remark utterly, and ask: 
 
 " The Kaiser Wilhelm got off in good 
 season this morning speaking of Ger 
 man things? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," was the indifferent reply, 
 " at ten o clock, quite promptly." 
 
 " I suppose she was comfortable, and 
 that you explained why I could not come ? " 
 
 " Certainly. One of your beastly head 
 aches. She understood." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 [ 138 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 Shattuck yawned lazily, and changed the 
 subject, which did not seem to interest 
 him. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," he asked, still 
 turning the leaves of the book he held, 
 " that this pleases you? " 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 "Well, amuses you? Instructs you, if 
 you like that better? " 
 
 " No, I mean to say simply since you 
 insist that he speaks the truth, and there 
 are some even among women who 
 must know the truth and abide by it." 
 
 " Well, thank Heaven," said the man, 
 pulling at his cigar, " that most women 
 are more emotional than intelligent as 
 Nature meant them to be." 
 
 Mrs. Shattuck examined her daintily 
 polished nails, rubbed them carefully on 
 the palm of her hand, as women have a 
 trick of doing, and then polished them on 
 her lace handkerchief, before she said, 
 " Yes, it is a pity that we are not all like 
 that, a very great pity for our own 
 sakes. Yet, unluckily, some of us will 
 think." 
 
 " But the thinking woman is so rarely 
 logical, so unable to take life impersonally, 
 that Schopenhauer does her no good. He 
 
 [ 139 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 only fills her mind with errors, mistrust, 
 unhappiness." 
 
 You men always argue that way with 
 women as if life were not the same for 
 us as for you. Pass me the book. I 
 wager that I can open it at random, and 
 that you cannot deny the truth of the first 
 sentence I read." 
 
 He passed her the book. 
 
 She took it, laid it open carelessly on 
 her knees, bending the covers far back 
 that it might stay open, and she gave her 
 finger tips a final rub with her handkerchief 
 before she looked at the page. She 
 paused a bit after she glanced at it, then 
 picked up the book and read: " L homme 
 est par Nature porte a I inconstance dans 
 V amour, la femme a la fide lite. U amour 
 de I homme balsse d une faqon sensible a 
 partir de I* instant ou il a obtenu satisfac 
 tion: il semble que toute autre femme ait 
 plus d attrait que celle qu il possede. 
 
 She laid the book down, but she did not 
 look at him. 
 
 u Rubbish," was his remark. 
 
 * Yes, I know. You men always find 
 it so easy to say * rubbish to all natural 
 truths which you prefer not to discuss." 
 
 " Well, my dear Naomi, it seems to me 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 that if you are to advocate Schopenhauer, 
 you must go the whole length with him. 
 The fault is in Nature, and you must 
 accept it as inevitable, and not kick against 
 it." 
 
 " I don t kick against Nature as you 
 put it I kick against civilization, which 
 makes laws regardless of Nature, which 
 deliberately shuts its eyes to all natural 
 truths in regard to the relations of men 
 to women, and is therefore forced to 
 continually wink to avoid confessing its 
 folly." 
 
 " Civilization seems to me to have done 
 the best it could with a very difficult 
 problem. It has not actually allowed dif 
 ferent codes of morals to men and women, 
 and it may have had to wink on that 
 account. Right there, in your Schopen 
 hauer, you have a primal reason, that is, 
 if you chose to follow your philosopher to 
 the extent of actually believing that Nature 
 has deliberately, from the beginning, pro 
 tected women against that sin of which so 
 much is made, and to which she has, as 
 deliberately, for economic reasons of her 
 own, tempted men." 
 
 " I do believe it, truly." 
 
 1 You are no more charitable toward 
 
 c 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 my sex than most women are. Yet neither 
 your teacher nor you may be right. A 
 theoretic arguer like Schopenhauer makes 
 good enough reading for calm minds, but 
 he is bad for an emotional temperament, 
 and, by Jove, Naomi, he was a bad ex 
 ample of his own philosophy." 
 
 u My dear Dick, I am afraid I read 
 Schopenhauer because I thought what he 
 writes long before I ever heard of him. 
 I read him because did I not find a clear 
 logical mind going the same way my mind 
 will go, I might be troubled with doubts, 
 and afraid that I was going quite wrong. * 
 
 " Well, the deuce and all with a woman 
 when she begins to read stuff like that is 
 her inability to generalize. You women 
 take everything home to yourselves. You 
 try to deduct conclusions from your own 
 lives which men like Schopenhauer have 
 scanned the centuries for. The natural 
 course of your life could hardly have 
 provided you with the pessimism with 
 which I hope you will pardon my re 
 mark, my dear you have treated me 
 several times in the past few months. 
 Chamfort and Schopenhauer did that. 
 But these are not subjects a man discusses 
 easily with his wife." 
 
 [ 142 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 " Indeed? Then that is surely an error 
 of civilization. If a man can discuss such 
 matters more easily with a woman who is 
 not his wife, it is because there is no frank 
 ness in marriage. Dick, did it ever occur 
 to you that a man and woman, strongly 
 attracted toward one another, might live 
 together many years without understand 
 ing each other? " 
 
 " God forbid!" 
 
 " How easily you say that ! " 
 
 " I have heard that most women think 
 they are not understood, but I never 
 reflected on the matter." 
 
 " You and I have not troubled one 
 another much with our doubts and per 
 plexities." 
 
 " You and I have been very happy to 
 gether I hope." There was a little 
 pause before the last two words, as if he 
 had expected her to anticipate them with 
 something, and there was a half interroga 
 tive note in his voice. She made no re 
 sponse, so he went on, " I ve surely not 
 been a hard master and I hope I ve not 
 been selfish. I know I ve not been unlov- 
 ing." 
 
 " And I hope you ve not suffered many 
 discomforts on my account. I think, as 
 
 [ 143 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 women go, I am fairly reasonable or 
 I have been." 
 
 For some reason Shattuck seemed to 
 find the cigar he was smoking most unsat 
 isfactory. Either it had been broken, or 
 he had unconsciously chewed the end a 
 thing which he detested and there was 
 a pause while he discarded the weed, and 
 selected a fresh one. He appeared to be 
 reflecting as he lighted it, and if his mind 
 could have been read, it would have prob 
 ably been discovered that he was wonder 
 ing how it had happened that the conver 
 sation had taken this turn, and mentally 
 cursing his own stupidity in making any 
 remarks on the Schopenhauer. He was 
 conscious all the time that his wife was 
 looking rather steadily at him, and he 
 knew that at least a conventional reply was 
 expected of him. 
 
 " My dear girl," he said, " I look back 
 on ten very satisfactory years of married 
 life. You have been a model wife, a 
 charming companion and if occasionally 
 it has occurred to me just lately that 
 my wife has developed rather singular, to 
 say the least, unflattering ideas of life, why, 
 you have such a brilliant way of putting it, 
 that I am more than half proud that you ve 
 [ 144 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 the brains to hold such ideas, though they 
 are a bit disconcerting to me as a husband. 
 I suppose the development is logical 
 enough. You were always, even as a girl, 
 inclined to making footnotes. I suppose 
 their present daring is simply the result 
 of our being just a little older than we 
 used to be. I suppose if we did not out 
 grow our illusions, the road to death 
 would be too tragic." 
 
 For a moment she made no reply. 
 Then, as if for the first time owning to 
 the idea which had long been uppermost 
 in her mind, she said suddenly: "The 
 truth of the matter is, that I really believe 
 marriage is foolish. I do believe that no 
 man ever approached it without regretting 
 that civilization had made it necessary, and 
 that many men would escape, at the very 
 last moment, if women did not so rigidly 
 hold them to their promises, and if, be 
 tween two ridiculous positions, marriage 
 having been pushed nearest, had not 
 become desperately inevitable." 
 
 " How absurd, Naomi, when you see 
 the whole procession of men walking, 
 according to their dispositions calmly 
 or eagerly to their fate every day." 
 
 u Nevertheless, I think the pre-nuptial 
 
 [ 145 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 confessions of a majority of men of our 
 class, would prove that what I say is true." 
 
 " Are you hinting that it was true in 
 your case? " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 Shattuck gave an amused laugh. " Do 
 you mean to say that you kept me to the 
 point?" 
 
 " Not exactly. At that time I had an 
 able bodied father who would have had 
 to be dealt with. Besides, a man does not 
 own up even to himself not always 
 when he finds himself face to face with the 
 inevitable. I am not speaking of what 
 men talk about in such cases, or of what 
 they do, but of what they feel, of the 
 fact that, in too many instances, Nature 
 not having meant men for bondage, after 
 they have passed the Rubicon to that spot 
 from which the code of civilized honor 
 does not permit them to turn back, they 
 usually have a period of regret, and are 
 forced to make a real effort to face the 
 Future, to go on, in fact." 
 
 The smile had died out of Shattuck s 
 face and he said quite seriously: u As far 
 as we are concerned, Naomi, I have very 
 different recollections of the whole affair." 
 
 " Have you? And yet, months before 
 
 [ H6 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 we were married, I knew that it would not 
 have broken your heart if the wedding had 
 not come off at all." 
 
 " My dear, the modern heart does not 
 break easily in this age. We are schooled 
 to meet the accidents of life with some 
 philosophy." 
 
 " And yet to have lost you then, would 
 have killed me." 
 
 Shattuck looked at her sharply, with, 
 one might almost have said, a new interest, 
 but she was no longer looking at him. 
 She went on, hurriedly: u You loved me, 
 of course. I was of your world. I was 
 a woman that other men liked, and there 
 fore a desirable woman. I was of good 
 family altogether your social equal, in 
 fact, quite the sort of woman it became 
 you to marry. I pleased you and I 
 loved you." 
 
 Thank you, my dear," he said. " In 
 ten years, I doubt if you have ever made so 
 frank a declaration as that in words." 
 He was wondering, if, after all, she were 
 going to develop into an emotional woman, 
 and his heart gave a quick leap at the very 
 thought for there are hours when a 
 woman who runs too much to head has a 
 man at a cruel disadvantage. 
 
 c 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 1 Things are so much harder, so much 
 more complex for a woman," she went on. 
 
 " For the protection of the commun 
 ity?" 
 
 " Perhaps. Still, it is not always pleas 
 ant to be a woman, and yet think ; a 
 woman whose reason has been mistakenly 
 developed at the expense of her capacity 
 to enjoy being a woman, and who is forced 
 at the same time to encounter the laws of 
 Nature, and pay at the same time, the 
 penalty of being a woman, and the penalty 
 of knowledge. For, just so surely as we 
 live, we must encounter love* " 
 
 You might take it out," interrupted 
 the husband, " in feeling flattered that it 
 takes so much to conquer such as you." 
 
 " So we might, but that, once conquered, 
 neither man nor Nature has any further 
 use for us, and regret, like art, is long. 
 Not even you can deny," she exclaimed, 
 sitting up in some excitement, and letting 
 her cushions fall in a mess all about her, 
 " that life is very unfair to women." 
 
 " Well, I don t see that. Physically it 
 is a little rough on you, but there are 
 compensations." 
 
 " I have never been able to discover 
 them. Love itself is hard on a woman. 
 [ 148 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 It seems to stir a man s faculties heathily. 
 They seem the stronger and more fit for 
 it. It does not seem to uproot a man s 
 whole being. Does it serve women in that 
 way?" 
 
 " I bear witness that it makes some of 
 you deucedly handsome. And I have 
 heard that it makes some of you good." 
 
 " Yes, as chastisement does. No, Life 
 seems to have adjusted matters between 
 men and women very badly, very unjustly." 
 
 " And yet, as this life is the only one 
 we know we must adjust ourselves to it as 
 we find it." 
 
 " No, no. We had better have accepted 
 the thing as Nature gave it to us. We 
 came into this world like beasts why 
 aren t we content to live like beasts, and 
 make no pretenses? Women would have 
 nothing to expect then, and there d be no 
 such thing as broken hearts. In spite of 
 all the polish of civilization, man is simply 
 bent on conquest. Woman is only one 
 phase of the chase to him a chase in 
 which every active virile man is occupied 
 from his cradle to his grave. You are 
 the conquerors. We are simply the 
 conquered." 
 
 Shattuck tried to make his voice light, 
 
 [ 149 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 as he said: " Not always unhappy ones, 
 I fancy." 
 
 " I suppose all men flatter themselves 
 that way, and argue that probably the 
 Sabine women preferred their fate to no 
 fate at all." 
 
 : * Don t be bitter on so old and imper 
 sonal a topic, Naomi. It is the law of life 
 that one must give, and one must take. 
 That the emotions differ does not prove 
 that one is better than the other." 
 
 Shattuck took a turn up and down the 
 long room, not quite at ease with him 
 self. 
 
 Mrs. Shattuck seemed to be thinking. 
 As he passed her, he stopped, picked up 
 her cushions, and re-arranged them about 
 her, with an idle caress by the way, a kiss 
 gently dropped on the inside of her white 
 wrist. 
 
 She followed his every movement with 
 a strange speculative look in her eyes, al 
 most as if he were some new and strange 
 animal that she was studying for the first 
 time. 
 
 When she spoke again, it was to go on 
 as if she had not been interrupted, " It 
 seems to me that man comes out of a great 
 passion just as good as new, while a 
 
 [ 150 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 woman is shattered in a moral sense 
 and never fully recovers herself." 
 
 Shattuck s back was toward her when he 
 replied. " Sorry to spoil any more illu 
 sions, dear child, but how about the long 
 list of men who are annually ruined by it? 
 The men in the prisons, the men who kill 
 themselves, the men who hang for it? " 
 
 " Those are crimes. I am not talking 
 of the criminal classes, but of the world in 
 which normal people live." 
 
 " Our set," he laughed, " but that is not 
 the whole world, alas ! " 
 
 " I know that men well bred, culti 
 vated, refined, even honorable men, seem 
 to be able to repeat every emotion of life. 
 A woman scales the heights but once. 
 Hence it must depend, in the case of 
 women capable of deep love on the men 
 whether the relation into which marriage 
 betrays them be decent or indecent. What 
 I should like to be able to discover is 
 what provision does either man or civiliza 
 tion propose to make for the woman whom 
 Fate, in wanton irony, reduces, even in 
 marriage, to the self-considered level of 
 the girl in the street?" 
 
 There was amazement even a fore 
 boding on Shattuck s face as he paused 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 in his walk, and, for the first time speaking 
 anxiously ejaculated, " I swear I don t fol 
 low you ! " 
 
 She went on as if she had not been inter 
 rupted, as if she had something to say 
 which had to be said, as if she were reason 
 ing it out for herself: " Take my case. 
 I don t claim that it is uncommon. I do 
 claim that I was not the woman for the 
 situation. I was an only child. My 
 father s marriage had not been happy. I 
 was brought up by a disappointed man on 
 philosophy and pessimism." 
 
 " Old sceptics, and modern scoffers. I 
 remember it well." 
 
 14 Before I was out of my teens, I had 
 imbibed a mistrust for all emotions. Per 
 haps you did not know that? You may 
 have thought, because they were not all on 
 the outside, that I had none. My poor 
 father had hoped, with his teachings, to 
 save me from future misery. He had 
 probably thought to spare me the com 
 monplace sorrows of love. But he could 
 not." 
 
 u There is one thing, my child, that the 
 passing generation cannot do for its heirs 
 live for them luckily. Why, you 
 might as well forbid a rose to blossom by 
 
 c 152 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 word of mouth, as try to thwart nature 
 in a beautiful healthy woman." 
 
 " It seems to me that to bring up a 
 woman as I was brought up only prepares 
 her to take the distemper the quicker." 
 
 " I do not remember that of you. But 
 I do know that no woman was ever wooed 
 as hotly as you were or ever I swear 
 it more ardently desired. No woman 
 ever led a man the chase you led me. If 
 ever in those days you were as anxious for 
 my love as you have said you were this 
 evening, no one would have guessed it, 
 least of all I." 
 
 " My reason had already taught me that 
 mine was but the common fate of all 
 women : that life was demanding of me the 
 usual tribute to posterity: that the sweet 
 ness of the emotion was Nature s trick to 
 make it endurable. But according to 
 Nature s eternal plan, my heart could not 
 listen to my head it beat so loud when 
 you were by, it could not hear, perhaps. 
 But there was something of my father s 
 philosophy left in me, and when I was 
 alone it would speak, and be heard, too. 
 Even when I believed in you because I 
 wanted to and half hoped that all my 
 teaching was wrong, I made a bargain with 
 
 C 153 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 myself. I told myself, quite calmly, that 
 I knew perfectly well all the possibilities of 
 the future. That if I went forward with 
 you, I went forward deliberately with open 
 eyes, knowing what, logically, I might 
 expect to find in the future. Ignorance 
 that blissful comfort of so many women, 
 was denied me. Still, the spell of Nature 
 was upon me, and for a time I dreamed 
 that a depth of passionate love like mine, 
 a life of loyal devotion might wrap one 
 man round, and keep him safe might in 
 fact, work a miracle and make one po 
 lygamous man monogamous. But, even 
 while that hope was in my heart, reason 
 rose up and mocked it, bidding me advance 
 into the Future at my peril. I did it, but 
 I made a bargain with myself, I agreed 
 to abide the consequences and to abide 
 them calmly." 
 
 " And during all those days when I sup 
 posed we were so near together you 
 showed me nothing of this that was in your 
 heart. 7 
 
 " Men and women know very rarely 
 anything of the great struggles that go on 
 in the hearts of one another. Besides, I 
 knew how easily you would reply 
 naturally. We are all on the defensive in 
 
 [ 154 1 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 this life. It was with things deeper than 
 words that I was dealing the things one 
 does not says. Even in the early days 
 of our engagement I knew that I was not 
 as essential to you as you were to me. 
 Life held other interests for you. Even 
 the flattery of other women still had its 
 charm for you. Young as I was, I said 
 to myself : If you marry this man with 
 your eyes open blame yourself, not him, 
 if you suffer. I do believe that I have 
 been able to do that." 
 
 Shattuck was astride his chair again, his 
 elbows on the back, his chin in his hands. 
 He no longer responded. Words were 
 dangerous. His lips were pressed close 
 together, and there was a long deep line 
 between his eyes. 
 
 " My love for you absorbed every other 
 emotion of my life. But I seemed to lack 
 some of the qualities that aid to reconcile 
 other wives to life. I seemed to be with 
 out mother-love. My children were dear 
 to me only because they were yours. The 
 maternal passion, which in so many women 
 is the absorbing emotion of life, was 
 denied me. My children were to me 
 merely the tribute to posterity which Life 
 had demanded of me as the penalty of 
 
 c 155 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 your love nothing more. I must be 
 singularly unfitted for marriage, because, 
 when the hour came in which I felt that I 
 was no longer your wife, your children 
 seemed no longer mine. They merely rep 
 resented the next generation born of 
 me. I know that this is very shocking. I 
 have become used to it, and, it is the 
 truth. I have not blamed you, I could not 
 and be reasonable. No man can be 
 other than Nature plans or permits, but 
 how I have pitied myself! I have been 
 through the tempest alone. In spite of 
 reason, in spite of philosophy I have 
 suffered from jealousy, from shame, from 
 rage, from self contempt. But that is all 
 past now." 
 
 She had not raised her voice, which 
 seemed as without feeling as it was without 
 emphasis. She carefully examined her 
 handkerchief corner by corner, and he 
 noticed for the first time how thin her 
 hands had become. 
 
 u Naturally," she went on in that color 
 less voice, " my first impulse was to be 
 done with life. But I could not bring 
 myself to that, much as I desired it. It 
 would have left you such a wretched mem 
 ory of me. You could never have par- 
 
 [ 156 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 doned me the scandal and I felt that I 
 had at least the right to leave you a decent 
 recollection of me." 
 
 Shattuck s head fell forward on his 
 arms. The idea of denial or protest did 
 not occur to him. 
 
 The steady voice went monotonously on. 
 " I could not bear to humble you in the 
 eyes of others even by forcing you to face 
 a scandal. I could not bear to humble 
 you in your own eyes by letting you suspect 
 that I knew the truth. I could not bring 
 myself to disturb the outward respect 
 ability of your life by interrupting its out 
 ward calm. To be absolutely honest 
 though I had lost you, I could not bring 
 myself to give you up, as I felt I must, 
 if I let any one discover most of all you 
 what I knew. So, like a coward, I lived 
 on, becoming gradually accustomed to the 
 idea that my day was past, but knowing 
 that the moment I was forced to speak, I 
 would be forced to move on out of your 
 life. Singularly enough, as I grew calm, 
 I grew to respect this other woman. I 
 could not blame her for loving you. I 
 ended by admiring her. I had known her 
 so well she was such a proud woman ! 
 I looked back at my marriage and saw the 
 
 c is? ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 affair as it really was. I had not sold my 
 self to you exactly I had loved you too 
 much to bargain in that way; nevertheless, 
 the marriage had been a bargain. In 
 exchange for your promise to protect and 
 provide for me, to feed me, clothe me, 
 share your fortune with me, and give me 
 your name, I had given you myself, 
 openly sanctioned by the law, of course 
 I was too great a coward to have done it 
 otherwise, in spite of the fact that the 
 law gives that same permission to almost 
 any one who asks for it." 
 
 " Naomi," he groaned from his covered 
 mouth, " what ghastly philosophy." 
 
 " Isn t that the marriage law? How 
 much better am I after all than the poor 
 girl in the street, who is forced to it by 
 misery? To be sure, I believe there is 
 some farcical phrase in the bargain about 
 promising to love none other, a bare 
 faced attempt to outwit Nature, at which 
 Nature laughs. Yet this other woman, 
 proud, high-minded, unselfish, hitherto 
 above reproach, had given herself for love 
 alone with everything to lose and noth 
 ing to gain. I have come to doubt myself. 
 I have had my day. For years it was an 
 enviable one. No woman can hope for 
 
 [ 158 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 more. What right have I to stand in the 
 way of another woman s happiness? A 
 happiness no one can value better than I, 
 who so long wore it in security. I bore 
 my children in peace, with the divine con 
 solation of your devotion about me. 
 What right have I to deny another woman 
 the same joy? " 
 
 Shattuck sprang to his feet. 
 
 " It s not true ! " he gasped. " It s not 
 true!" 
 
 The woman never even raised her eyes. 
 She went on carefully inspecting the filmy 
 bit of lace in her hands. 
 
 " It is true," she replied. " Never 
 mind how I discovered it. I know it. 
 That is why she has gone abroad alone. 
 I did not speak until I had to. I am a 
 coward, but not enough of one to bear the 
 thought of her alone in a foreign country 
 with mind and emotions clouded. I may 
 be cowardly enough to wish that I had 
 never found it out, I am not coward 
 enough to keep silent any longer." 
 
 A torrent of words rushed to the man s 
 lips, but he was too wise to make excuses. 
 Yet there were excuses. Any fair-minded 
 judge would have said so. But he knew 
 better than to think that for one moment 
 
 [ 159 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 they would be excuses in the mind of this 
 woman. Besides, the first man s excuse 
 for the first sin has never been viewed with 
 much respect under the modern civiliza 
 tion. 
 
 He felt her slowly rise to her feet, and 
 when he raised his head to look at her 
 not yet fully realizing what had happened 
 to him all emotion seemed to have be 
 come so foreign to her face, that he felt 
 as if she were already a stranger to him. 
 
 She took a last look round the room. 
 Her eyes seemed to devour every detail. 
 
 " I shall find means to give you your 
 freedom at once." 
 
 " You will actually leave me go 
 away? " 
 
 " Can we two remain together now? " 
 
 " But your children?" 
 
 11 Your children, Dick I have for 
 gotten that I have any. I have had my 
 life. You have still yours to live." 
 
 She swept by him down the long room, 
 everything in which was so closely associ 
 ated with her. Before she reached the 
 door, he was there and his back against 
 it. She stopped, but she did not look at 
 him. If she could have read the truth in 
 his face, it would have told her that she 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 had never been loved as she was at that 
 moment. All that she had been in her 
 loyalty, her nobility, was so much a part of 
 this man s life. What, compared to that, 
 were petty sins, or big ones? He saw the 
 past as a drowning man sees the panorama 
 of his existence. Yet he knew that every 
 thing he could say would be powerless to 
 move her. 
 
 It was useless to remind her of their 
 happy years together. They could never 
 be happy again with this between them. 
 It would be equally useless to tell her that 
 this other woman had known, but too well, 
 that he would never desert his wife for her. 
 Had he not betrayed her? 
 
 Of what use to tell her how he had 
 repented his folly, that he could never 
 understand it himself? There were the 
 facts, and Nature, and his wife s phi 
 losophy against him. 
 
 And he had dared be gay the moment 
 the steamer slid into the channel! Was 
 that only this morning? It seemed to be 
 in the last century. 
 
 She approached, and stretched her hand 
 toward the door. 
 
 He did not move. 
 
 " Don t stop me," she pleaded. 
 
 [ 161 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 " Don t make it any harder than it is. 
 Let me take with me the consolation of a 
 decent life together a decent life de 
 cently severed." 
 
 He made one last appeal he opened 
 his arms wide to her. 
 
 She shrank back with a shudder, crying 
 out that he should spare her her own con 
 tempt that he should leave her the 
 power to seek peace and her voice had 
 such a tone of terror, as she recoiled from 
 him, that he felt how powerless any protest 
 would be. 
 
 He stepped aside. 
 
 Without looking at him she quickly 
 opened the door and passed out. 
 
 The Divorcee nervously rolled up her 
 manuscript. 
 
 The usual laugh was not forthcoming. 
 No one dared. Men can t rough-house 
 that kind of a woman. 
 
 After a moment s silence the Critic 
 spoke up. " You were right to read that 
 story. It is not the sort of thing that 
 lends itself to narrating. Of course you 
 might have acted it out, but you were wise 
 not to." 
 
 " I can t help it got to say it," said 
 
 [ 162 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 the Journalist : " What a horrid woman ! " 
 
 The Divorcee looked at him in amaze 
 ment. " How can you say that? " she 
 exclaimed. " I thought I had made her 
 so reasonable. Just what all women ought 
 to be, and what none of us are." 
 
 " Thank God for that," said the Jour 
 nalist. " I d as lief live in a world created 
 and run by George Bernard Shaw as in 
 one where women were like that." 
 
 " Come, come," interrupted the Doctor, 
 who had been eyeing her profile with a 
 curious half amused expression, all through 
 the reading: " Don t let us get on that 
 subject to-night. A story is a story. You 
 have asked, and you have received. None 
 of you seem to really like any story but 
 your own, and I must confess that among 
 us, we are putting forth a strange bag 
 gage." 
 
 " On the contrary," said the Critic, " I 
 think we are doing pretty well for a crowd 
 of amateurs." 
 
 You are not an amateur," laughed the 
 Journalist, " and yours was the worst yet." 
 
 "I deny it," said the Critic. " Mine 
 had real literary quality, and a very dra 
 matic climax." 
 
 " Oh, well, if death is dramatic per- 
 
 c 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 haps. You are the only one up to date 
 who has killed his heroine." 
 
 " No story is finished until the heroine 
 is dead," said the Journalist. " This wo 
 man, I ll bet she had another romance." 
 
 "Did she?" asked the Critic of the 
 Divorcee, who was still nervously rolling 
 her manuscript in both hands. 
 
 " I don t know. How should I? And 
 if I did I shouldn t tell you. It isn t a 
 true story, of course." And she rose 
 from her chair and walked away into the 
 moonlight. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," ejaculated the 
 Violinist, who admired her tremendously, 
 " that she made that up in the imagination 
 she carries around under that pretty fluffy 
 hair? I d rather that it were true that 
 she had picked it up somewhere." 
 
 As we began to prepare to go in, the 
 Doctor looked down the path to where the 
 Divorcee was still standing. After a 
 moment s hesitation he took her lace scarf 
 from the back of her chair, and strolled 
 after her. The Sculptor shrugged his 
 shoulders with such a droll expression that 
 we all had to smile. Then we went in 
 doors. 
 
 " Well," said the Doctor, as he joined 
 [ 164 ] 
 
THE DIVORCEE S STORY 
 
 her she told me about it afterwards 
 " was that the way it happened? " 
 
 " No, no," replied the Divorcee, petu 
 lantly. " That is not a bit the way it 
 happened. That is the way I wish it had 
 happened. Oh, no. I was brought up to 
 believe in the proprietary rights in mar 
 riage, and I did what I thought became a 
 womanly woman. I asserted my rights, 
 and made a common or garden row." 
 
 The Doctor laughed, as she stamped 
 her foot at him. 
 
 " Pardon pardon," said he. " I was 
 only going to say Thank God. You 
 know I like it best that way." 
 
 " I wish I had not told the old story," 
 she said pettishly. " It serves me quite 
 right. Now I suppose they ve got all 
 sorts of queer notions in their heads." 
 
 "Nonsense," said the Doctor. "All 
 authors, you know, run the risk of getting 
 mixed up in their romances think of 
 Charlotte Bronte." 
 
 " I m not an author, and I am going to 
 bed, to repent of my folly," and she 
 sailed into the house, leaving the Doctor 
 gazing quizzically after her. Before she 
 was out of hearing, he called to her: " I 
 say, you haven t changed a bit since 92." 
 
 She heard but she did not answer. 
 
 [ 165 ] 
 
VII 
 
 THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING 
 THE TALE OF A BRIDE-ELECT 
 
 THE next day we all hung about the 
 garden, except the Youngster, who disap 
 peared on his wheel early in the day, and 
 only came back, hot and dusty, at tea-time. 
 He waved a hand at us as he ran through 
 the garden crying: " I ll change, and be 
 with you in a moment," and leapt up the 
 outside staircase that led to the gallery on 
 which his room opened, and disappeared. 
 
 I found an opportunity to go up the 
 other staircase a little later the Young 
 ster was an old pet of mine, and off and 
 on, I had mothered him. I tapped at the 
 door. 
 
 " Can t come in! " he cried. 
 
 "Where ve you been?" 
 
 " Wait there a minute and mum . 
 I ll tell you." 
 
 So I went and sat in the window looking 
 [ 166 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 down the road, until he came, spick and 
 span in white flannels, with his head not 
 yet dried from the douching he had taken. 
 
 " See here," he whispered, " I know you 
 can keep a secret. Well, I ve been out 
 toward Cambrai only sixty miles and 
 I am tuckered. There was a battle there 
 last night English driven back. They 
 are only two days march away, and oh ! 
 the sight on the roads. Don t let s talk 
 of it." 
 
 In spite of myself, I expect I went white, 
 for he exclaimed: " Darn it, I suppose I 
 ought not to have told you. But I had to 
 let off to some one. I don t want to tell 
 the Doctor. In fact, he forbade my going 
 again." 
 
 " Is it a real German victory? " I asked. 
 
 " If it isn t I don t know what you d call 
 it, though such of the English as I saw 
 were in gay enough spirits, and there was 
 not an atmosphere of defeat. Fact is 
 I kept out of sight and only got stray 
 impressions. Go on down now, or they ll 
 guess something. I m not going to say a 
 word yet. Awful sorry now I told 
 you. Force of habit." 
 
 I went down. I had hard work for a 
 few minutes to throw the impression off. 
 
 [ 167 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 But the garden was lovely, and tea being 
 over, we all busied ourselves in rifling the 
 flowerbeds to dress the dinner table. If 
 we were going in two days, where was the 
 good of leaving the flowers to die alone? 
 I don t suppose that it was strange that the 
 table conversation was all reminiscent. 
 We talked of the old days : of ourselves 
 when we were boys and girls together: of 
 old Papanti, and our first Cotillion, of 
 Class Days, and, I remembered afterward, 
 that not one of us talked of ourselves 
 except in the days of our youth. 
 
 When the coffee came out, we looked 
 about laughing to see which of the three 
 of us left was to tell the story. The Law 
 yer coughed, tapped himself on his chest, 
 and crossed his long legs. 
 
 It was a cold December afternoon. 
 
 The air was piercing. 
 
 There had been a slight fall of snow, 
 then a sudden drop in the thermometer 
 preceded nightfall. 
 
 Miss Moreland, wrapped in her furs, 
 was standing on a street corner, looking in 
 vain for a cab, and wondering, after all, 
 why she had ventured out. 
 
 It was somewhat later than she had 
 [ 168 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 supposed, and she was just conventional 
 enough, in spite of her pose to the exact 
 contrary, to hope that none of her friends 
 would pass. She knew her set well enough 
 to know that it would cause something 
 almost like a scandal if she were seen out 
 alone, on foot, on the very eve of her 
 wedding day, when all well bred brides 
 ought to be invisible repenting their 
 sins, and praying for blessings on the future 
 in theory, but in reality, fussing themselves 
 ill over belated finery. 
 
 She had had for some years a number 
 of poor protegees in the lower end of the 
 city, which she had been accustomed to visit 
 on work of a charitable nature begun when 
 she was a school girl. She had found 
 work enough to do there ever since. 
 
 It was work of which her father, a hard 
 headed man of business, strongly disap 
 proved, although he was ready enough to 
 give his money. Jack was of her father s 
 mind. She realized that when she re 
 turned from the three years trip round the 
 world, on which she was starting the day 
 after her wedding, she would have other 
 duties, and she knew it would be harder to 
 oppose Jack, and more dangerous 
 than it had been to oppose her father. 
 
 [ 169 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 In this realization there was a touch of 
 self-reproach. She knew, in her own 
 heart, that she would be glad to do no 
 more work of that sort. Experience had 
 made her hopeless, and she had none of 
 the spiritual support that made women like 
 St. Catherine of Sienna. But, if experi 
 ence had robbed her of her illusions, she 
 knew, too, that it had set a seal of pain 
 on all the future for her. She could never 
 forget the misery she had seen. So it had 
 been a little in a desire to give one more 
 sop to her conscience, that she had dedi 
 cated her last afternoon to freedom to her 
 friends in the very worst part of the 
 town. 
 
 If her mother had remained at home, 
 she would never have been allowed to go. 
 All the more reason for returning in good 
 season, and here it was dark! Worse 
 still, the trip had been in every way unsuc 
 cessful. She had turned her face home 
 ward, simply asking herself, as she had 
 done so many times before, if it were 
 " worth while," and answered the question 
 once more with: "Neither to me nor to 
 them." She had already learned, though 
 too young for the lesson, that each indi 
 vidual works out his own salvation, that 
 
 [ 170 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 neither moral nor physical growth ever 
 works from the surface inward. Oppor 
 tunity she could perhaps give that in the 
 future, but she was convinced that those 
 who may give of themselves, and really 
 help in the giving, are elected to the task 
 by something more than the mere desire to 
 serve. In her case the gift of her youth 
 and her illusions had done others no real 
 good, and had more or less saddened her 
 life forever. If she were to really go on 
 with the work, it would only be by giving 
 up the world her world, abandoning 
 her life, with its luxury, its love, everything 
 she had been bred to, and longed for. 
 She did not feel a call to do that, so she 
 chose the existence to which she had been 
 born; the love of a man in her own set, 
 but the shadow of too much knowledge sat 
 on her like a shadow of fear. 
 
 She was impatient with herself, the 
 world, living, and there was no cab in 
 sight. 
 
 She looked at her watch. Half past 
 four. 
 
 It was foolish not to have driven over, 
 but she had felt it absurd, always, to go 
 about this kind of work in a private car 
 riage, and to-day she could not, as she 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 usually did, take a street car for fear of 
 meeting friends. They thought her queer 
 enough as it was. 
 
 An impatient ejaculation escaped her, 
 and like an echo of it she heard a child s 
 voice beside her. 
 
 She looked down. 
 
 It was a poor miserable specimen. At 
 first she was not quite sure whether it were 
 boy or girl. 
 
 Whimpering and mopping its nose with 
 a very dirty hand, the child begged money 
 for a sick mother a dying mother 
 and begged as if not accustomed to it 
 all the time with an eye for that dread of 
 New England beggars, the man in the blue 
 coat and brass buttons. 
 
 Miss Moreland was so consciously irri 
 tated with life that she was unusually 
 gentle. She stooped down. The child 
 did not seem six years old. The face was 
 not so very cunning. It was not ugly, 
 either. It was merely the epitome of all 
 that Miss Moreland tried to forget the 
 little one born without a chance in the 
 world. 
 
 With a full appreciation of the child s 
 fear of the police, begging is a crime in 
 many American towns she carefully 
 
 [ 172 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 questioned her, watching for the dreaded 
 officer herself. 
 
 It was the old story a dying mother 
 no father no one to do anything a 
 child sent out to cunningly defy the law, 
 but it seemed to be only for bread. 
 
 Obviously the thing to do was to deliver 
 the child up to the police. It would be at 
 once properly cared for, and the mother 
 also. 
 
 But Miss Moreland knew too much of 
 official charity to be guilty of that. 
 
 The easiest thing was to give her money. 
 But, unluckily, she belonged to a society 
 pledged not to give alms in the streets, and 
 her sense of the power of a moral obliga 
 tion was a strong notion of duty, which 
 had descended to her from her Puritan 
 ancestors. There was one thing left to do. 
 
 " Do you know Chardon Street? " she 
 asked. 
 
 The child nodded. 
 
 There was a flower shop on the corner. 
 She led the child across to it, entered, and 
 asked for an envelope. She wrote a few 
 lines on a card, enclosed it and sealed the 
 envelope. Then she went out to the side 
 walk again with the child. Stooping over 
 her she made sure that the little one really 
 
 C 173 3 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 did know the street. " It isn t far from 
 here," she said. " Give that to any one 
 there, and somebody will go right home 
 with you to see your mother, to warm you, 
 you poor little mite, and feed you, and 
 make you quite happy." 
 
 She did not explain, and the child would 
 not have understood, that she vouched for 
 a special donation for the case as a sort of 
 commemorative gift. The sum was large 
 it was a quixotic sort of salve to a sick 
 conscience which told her that she ought 
 to go herself. 
 
 The child, still sobbing, turned away, 
 and drearily started up the hill. She did 
 not go far, however. Miss Moreland had 
 her misgivings on that point. And, just 
 as she was about to draw a breath of relief, 
 convinced that, after all, she would go, the 
 girl stopped deliberately in the shadow of 
 a tree, and sat down on the snow-covered 
 curbstone. 
 
 No need to ask what the trouble was. 
 The poor are born with a horror of 
 organized charity. It obliges them to be 
 looked over in all their misery; it presumes 
 a worthiness, or its pretence, which they 
 resent almost as much as they do the intru- 
 
 [ 174 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 sion of the visiting committee. This dis 
 inclination is as old as poverty, and is the 
 rock ahead of all organized charity. Its 
 exemplification was very trying to Miss 
 Moreland at that moment, and the crouch 
 ing figure was exasperating. 
 
 She pursued the child. She pulled her 
 rather roughly to her feet. It was so pro 
 voking to have her sit down in the cold, 
 and to so personify all that she wanted so 
 ardently, it was purely selfish, she knew 
 that, to put out of her mind. There 
 seemed but one thing to do: go with the 
 child. 
 
 She knew that if she did not, she would 
 not sleep that night, nor smile the next day 
 and that seemed so unfair to others. 
 Besides, it was not yet so very late. 
 
 Bidding the child hurry, she followed 
 her up the hill, and down the other side to 
 a part of the city with which she was not 
 familiar. 
 
 The child cried quietly all the way. 
 
 Miss Moreland was too vaguely uncom 
 fortable to talk to her, as they hurried 
 along. 
 
 It was in front of a dark house that they 
 finally stopped, and went up the stone steps 
 
 [ 175 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 into a hall so dark that she was obliged to 
 take the child s dirty cold hands in hers to 
 be sure of the way. 
 
 Perhaps it was a foolish distaste for 
 the contact, combined with her frame of 
 mind, which prevented her from noticing 
 facts far from trifles, which came back to 
 her afterward. 
 
 She groped her way up the uncarpeted 
 stairs, and followed her still whimpering 
 guide along what seemed an upper corri 
 dor, stumbled on what she immediately 
 knew was the sill of a door, lurched for 
 ward as the child let go of her hand, and, 
 before she recovered her balance, the door 
 closed behind her. 
 
 She called to the child. No answer. 
 
 She felt for the door, found it it was 
 locked. 
 
 She was in perfect darkness. 
 
 A terrible wave of sickness passed over 
 her and left her trembling and weak. 
 
 All she had ever heard and found it 
 difficult to believe, coursed through her 
 mind. 
 
 The folly of it all was worse. Fifteen 
 minutes before all had been well with her 
 and now ! 
 
 Through all her terror one idea was 
 
 [ 176 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 strong within her. She must keep her 
 head, she must be calm, she must be alertly 
 ready for whatever happened. 
 
 The whole thing had seemed so simple. 
 The crying child had been so plausible ! 
 Yet to enter a strange dark house, in 
 an unknown part of the city ! How absurd 
 it was of her ! And that after noticing 
 as she had that, cold as the halls 
 were and uncarpeted, there was neither 
 smell of dirt nor humanity in the air ! 
 
 While all these thoughts pursued one an 
 other through her mind she stood erect 
 just inside the door. 
 
 She really dared not move. 
 
 Suddenly a fear came to her that she 
 might not be alone. For a moment that 
 fear dominated all other sensations. She 
 held her breath, in a wild attempt to hear 
 she knew not what. 
 
 It was deathly still! 
 
 She backed to the door, and began 
 cautiously feeling her way along the wall. 
 Inch by inch, she crept round the room, 
 startled almost to fainting at each obstacle 
 she encountered. 
 
 It was a large room with an alcove a 
 bedroom. There was but little furniture, 
 one door only, two windows covered with 
 
 [ 177 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 heavy drapery, the windows bolted down, 
 and evidently shuttered on the outside. 
 
 When she returned to the door, one 
 thing was certain, she was alone. The 
 only danger she need apprehend must come 
 through that one door. 
 
 Yet she pushed a chair against the wall 
 before she sat down to wait for what? 
 Ah, that was the horror of it! Was it 
 robbery? There was her engagement 
 ring, a few ornaments like her watch, and 
 very little money! Yet, as she had seen 
 misery, even that might be worth while. 
 But was this a burglar s method? A 
 ransom? That was too mediaeval for an 
 American city. If neither, then what? 
 
 She had but one enemy in the world, her 
 Jack s best friend, or at least, he was his 
 best friend until the days of her engage 
 ment. But he was a gentleman, and these 
 were the days when men did not revenge 
 themselves on women who frankly rejected 
 the attentions they had never encouraged. 
 It was weak, she knew it, to even remember 
 the words he had said to her when she had 
 refused to hear the man she was to marry 
 slandered by his chum still she wished 
 now that she had told Jack, all the same. 
 
 If she could only have a light! There 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 was gas, but no matches. To sit in the 
 dark, waiting, she knew not what, was 
 maddening. 
 
 Then a new terror came over her. Sup 
 pose she should fall asleep from fatigue 
 and exhaustion, and the effect of the dark? 
 
 It seemed days that she sat there. 
 
 She knew afterward that it was only five 
 hours and a half, but that five hours and a 
 half were an eternity three hundred and 
 thirty minutes, each one of which dragged 
 her down, like a weight, into the black 
 abyss of the unknown; three hundred and 
 thirty minutes of listening to the labored 
 beating of her own heart it was an age, 
 after all! 
 
 Only once did she lose control of her 
 self. She imagined she heard voices in the 
 hall that some one laughed was there 
 still laughter in the world? In spite of 
 herself, she rushed to the door, and 
 pounded on it. This was so useless that 
 she began to cry hysterically. Yet she 
 knew how foolish that was, and she stum 
 bled back to her chair, sank into it, and 
 calmed herself. She would not do that 
 again. 
 
 What was her mother thinking? Poor 
 mama! What would Jack say, when, at 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 eleven o clock, he ran in from his bachelor s 
 dinner his last which he was giving 
 to a few friends ? What would her father 
 say? He had always prophesied some 
 disaster for her excursions into the slums. 
 
 Her imagination could easily picture the 
 mad search that would be made but 
 who could find a trace of her? 
 
 The blackness, the fear, the dread, were 
 doing their work ! She was numb ! She 
 began to feel as if she were suspended in 
 space, as if everything had dropped away 
 from her, as if in another instant she would 
 fall _ and fall and fall . 
 
 Suddenly she heard a laugh in the hall 
 again this time there was no mistake 
 about it, for it was followed by several 
 voices. Some one approached the door. 
 
 A key was inserted and turned in the 
 lock. 
 
 She started to her feet, and steadied 
 herself! 
 
 The door swung open quickly some 
 one entered. By the dim light in the hall 
 behind, she saw that it was a man a 
 gentleman in evening clothes, with a hat on 
 the back of his head, and a coat over his 
 arm. 
 
 But while her alert senses took that in, 
 [ 180 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 the door closed again the man had re 
 mained inside. 
 
 The thought of making a dash for the 
 door came to her, but it was too late. 
 
 She heard the scratching of a match 
 a muttered oath at the darkness in a thick 
 voice then a sudden flood of light 
 blinded her. 
 
 She drew her hands quickly across her 
 eyes, and was conscious that the man had 
 flung his hat and coat on the bed before 
 he turned to face her. 
 
 In a moment all her fear was gone. 
 
 She stumbled weakly as -she ran toward 
 him, crying hysterically, " Jack, dear Jack, 
 how did you find me ? I should have gone 
 mad if you had been much later ! Take 
 me home! Take me home " 
 
 Had Miss Moreland fainted, as a well- 
 conducted girl of her class ought to have 
 done, this would have been a very differ 
 ent kind of a story. 
 
 Unluckily, or luckily, according as one 
 views life in the relief of his presence, 
 all danger of that fled. Unluckily for 
 him, also, the appearance of his bride- 
 elect in such an unexpected place was so 
 appalling to him that his nerve failed him 
 entirely. Instead of clasping her in his 
 
 C 181 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 arms as he should have done, he had the 
 decency to recoil, and cover his face in 
 stinctively from her eyes. 
 
 Miss Moreland stopped as if turned to 
 stone. 
 
 She was conscious at first of but one 
 thing he had not expected to find her 
 there. He had not come to seek her. 
 Then, for what? 
 
 A sudden flash illumined her ignorance, 
 and behind it she grasped at the vague ac 
 cusation her other suitor had tried to make 
 to her unwilling ears. 
 
 Her outstretched hands fell to her sides. 
 
 He still leaned against the wall, where 
 the shock had flung him. The exciting 
 fumes of the wine he had drunk too reck 
 lessly evaporated, and only a dim recol 
 lection remained in his absolutely sobered 
 brain of the idiotic wager, the ugly jest, 
 the still more contemptible bravado that 
 had sent him into this hell. 
 
 He did not attempt to speak. 
 
 When her strained voice said: " Take 
 me home, please," he started and the fear 
 that had been on her face was now on his. 
 A hundred dangers, of which she did not 
 dream, stood between that room and a 
 safe exit in which she should not be seen, 
 
 [ 182 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 and that much of this wretched business 
 which he understood now only too well 
 miscarry. 
 
 He started for the door. " Stay here," 
 he said. " You are perfectly safe," and 
 he went out, and closed and locked the 
 door behind him. 
 
 For the man who plotted without, and 
 the woman who sat like a stone within that 
 room, the next half hour were equally hor 
 rible. But time was no longer measured 
 by her ! 
 
 She never remembered much more of 
 that evening. She had a vague recollec 
 tion that he came back. She had a re 
 membrance that he had helped her stand 
 given her a glass of water and led 
 her down the uncarpeted stairs out into 
 the street. Then she was conscious that 
 she w r alked a little way. Then that she 
 had been helped into a carriage, and then 
 she had jolted and jolted and jolted over 
 the pavings, always with his pale face op 
 posite, and she knew that his eyes were full 
 of pity. Then everything seemed to stop, 
 but it was only the carriage that had come 
 to a standstill. She was in front of her 
 own door. 
 
 A voice said in her ear, " Can you 
 
 [ 183 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 stand?" And she knew she was on the 
 steps. She heard the bell ring, but before 
 her mother could catch her in her arms as 
 she fell, she heard the carriage door bang, 
 and he was gone forever. 
 
 All that night she lay and tossed and 
 wept and raved, and longed in her fever 
 to die. 
 
 And all night, he walked the streets 
 marvelling at himself, at Nature, and at 
 Civilization, between which he had so dis 
 astrously fallen, and wondering to how 
 many men the irremediable had ever hap 
 pened before. 
 
 And the next morning, early, messen 
 gers were flying about with notices of the 
 bride s illness. Miss Moreland s wed 
 ding was deferred by brain fever. 
 
 When she recovered, her hair was white, 
 and she had lost all taste for matrimony, 
 but she had found instead that desire for 
 anything rather than personal existence, 
 which made her the ardent, self-abnegat 
 ing worker for the welfare of the down 
 trodden that the world knew her. 
 
 There was a moment of surprised si 
 lence. 
 
 Some one coughed. No one laughed. 
 
 [ 184 ] 
 
THE LAWYER S STORY 
 
 Then the Journalist, always ready to leap 
 into a breach, gasped: " Horrible! " 
 
 4< Getting to be a pet word of yours," 
 said the Lawyer. 
 
 The Violinist tried to save the situation 
 by saying gently: "Well, I don t know. 
 It is the commonest of all situations in a 
 melodrama. So why fuss?" 
 
 The Trained Nurse shrugged her shoul 
 ders. " I know that story," she said. 
 
 " You do not," snapped the Lawyer. 
 " You may know a story, but you never 
 heard that one." 
 
 " All right," she admitted. " I am not 
 going to add footnotes, don t be alarmed." 
 
 " You don t mean to say that is a true 
 story?" ejaculated the Divorcee. 
 
 " As for me," said the Critic, " I don t 
 believe it." 
 
 " No one asked you to," replied the 
 Lawyer. " It is only another case of the 
 Doctor s pet theory that whatever the 
 mind of mortal mind can conceive, can 
 come to pass." 
 
 " I suppose also that it is a proof of 
 another of his pet theories. Scratch civil 
 ized man, and you find the beast." 
 
 The Doctor was lying back in his chair. 
 He never said a word. Somehow the 
 
 c 185 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 story seemed a less suggestive topic of con 
 versation than usual. 
 
 " The weather is going to change," said 
 the Doctor. ** There s rain in the air." 
 
 " Well, anyway," said the Journalist, as 
 we gathered up our belongings and pre 
 pared to shut up for the night, " the 
 Youngster s ghost story was a good night 
 cap compared to that." 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said the Critic. 
 " There s the foundation of a bully melo 
 drama in that story, and I m not sure that 
 it isn t the best one yet so full of re 
 
 serves." 
 
 " No imagination, all the same," an 
 swered the Critic. " As realistic in sub 
 ject, if not in treatment, as Zola." 
 
 " Now give us some shop jargon," 
 laughed the Lawyer. " You ve not really 
 treated us to a true touch of your methods 
 yet." 
 
 " I only do that," laughed the Critic, 
 " when I m getting paid for it. After all, 
 as the Violinist remarked, the situation is 
 a favorite one in melodrama, from the 
 money-coining Two Orphans down. 
 The only trouble is, the Lawyer poured his 
 villain and hero into one mould. The 
 other man ought to have trapped her, and 
 C 186 ] 
 
LAWYER S STORY 
 
 the hero rescued her. But that is only the 
 difference between reality and art. Life 
 is inartistic. Art is only choosing the best 
 way. Life never does that." 
 
 " Pig s wrist," said the Doctor, and that 
 settled the question. 
 
 C 187 ] 
 
VIII 
 THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 IN A RAILWAY STATION 
 THE TALE OF A DANCER 
 
 ON Friday night, just as we were finish 
 ing dinner we had eaten inside the 
 Divorcee said: " It may not be in order 
 to make the remark, but I cannot help say 
 ing that it is so strange to think that we are 
 sitting here so quietly in a country at war, 
 suffering for nothing, very little inconven 
 ienced, even by the departure of all the 
 men. The field work seems to be going 
 on just the same. Every one seems calm. 
 It is all most unexpected and strange to 
 
 me." 
 
 " I don t see it that way at all," said the 
 Journalist. " I feel as if I were sitting on 
 a volcano, knowing it was going to erupt, 
 but not knowing at what moment." 
 
 " That I understand," said the Di 
 vorcee, " but that is not exactly what I 
 [ 188 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 mean. I meant that, in spite of that feel 
 ing which every one between here and 
 Paris must have, I see no outward signs 
 of it." 
 
 " They are all about us just the same," 
 remarked the Doctor, " whether you see 
 them or not. Did it ever happen to you 
 to be walking in some quiet city street, near 
 midnight, when all the houses were closed, 
 and only here and there a street lamp 
 gleamed, and here and there a ray of light 
 filtered through the shuttered window of 
 some silent house, and to suddenly remem 
 ber that inside all these dark walls the 
 tragedies of life were going on, and that, 
 if a sudden wave of a magician s wand 
 were to wipe away the walls, how horri 
 fied, or how amused one would be? " 
 
 " Well," said the Lawyer, " I have had 
 that idea many times, but it has come to 
 me more often in some hotel in the moun 
 tains of Switzerland. I remember one 
 night sitting on the terrace at Murren, 
 with the Jungfrau rising in bridal white 
 ness above the black sides of the Schwarze- 
 Monch, and the moon shining so brightly 
 over the slopes, that I could count any 
 number of isolated little chalets perched 
 on the ledges, and I never had the feeling 
 
 [ 189 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 so strongly of life going on with all its 
 joys and griefs and crimes, invisible, but 
 oppressive. 7 
 
 " I am afraid," said the Doctor, " that 
 there is enough of it going on right here 
 if we only knew it. I had an example 
 this afternoon. I was walking through 
 the village, when an old woman called to 
 me, and asked if I were the doctor from 
 the old Grange. I said I was, and she 
 begged me to come in and see her daugh 
 ter-in-law. She was very ill, and the local 
 doctor is gone. I found a young, very 
 pretty girl, with a tiny baby, in as bad a 
 state of hysteria as I ever saw. But that 
 is not the story. That I heard by degrees. 
 It seems the father-in-law, a veteran of 
 1870, now old, and nearly helpless, is of 
 good family, but married, in his middle 
 age, a woman of the country. They had 
 one son who was sent away to school, and 
 became a civil engineer. He married, 
 about two years ago, this pretty girl whom 
 I saw. She is Spanish. He met her 
 somewhere in Southern Spain, and it was 
 a desperate love match. The first child 
 was born about six weeks before the war 
 broke out. Of course the young husband 
 was in the first class mobilized. The 
 [ 190 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 young wife is not French. She doesn t 
 care at all who governs France, so that her 
 man were left her in peace. I imagine 
 that the old father suspected this. He had 
 never been happy that his one son married 
 a foreigner. The instant the young wife 
 realized that her man was expected to put 
 love of France before love of her, she 
 began to make every effort to induce him 
 to go out of the country. To make a long 
 story short, the son went to his mother, 
 whom he adored, made a clean breast of 
 the situation, and proposed that, to satisfy 
 his wife, he should start with her for the 
 Spanish frontier, finding means to have her 
 brother meet them there and take her 
 home to her own people. He promised 
 to make no effort to cross the frontier him 
 self, and gave his word of honor to be 
 with his regiment in time. He knew it 
 would not be easy to do, and, in case of 
 accident, he wished his mother to be able 
 to explain to the old veteran. But the lad 
 had counted without the spirit that is dom 
 inant in every French woman to-day. 
 The mother listened. She controlled her 
 self. She did not protest. But that night, 
 when the young couple were about to leave 
 the house, carrying the sleeping baby, they 
 
 C 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 found the old man, pistol in hand, with his 
 back against the door. The words were 
 few. The veteran stated that his son 
 could only pass over his dead body that 
 if he insisted, he would shoot him before 
 he would allow him to pass: that neither 
 wife nor child should leave France. It 
 was in vain that the wife, on her knees, 
 pleaded that she was not French that 
 the war did not concern her that her 
 husband was dearer to her than honor 
 and so forth. The old man declared that 
 in marrying his son she became French, 
 though she was a disgrace to the name, 
 that her son was a born Frenchman; that 
 she might go, and welcome, but that she 
 would go without the child, and, of course, 
 that ended the argument. The next morn 
 ing the baby was christened, but the tale 
 had leaked out. I suppose the Spanish 
 wife had not kept her ideas absolutely to 
 herself and the son joined his regiment. 
 The Spanish wife is still here, but, need 
 less to say, she is not at all loved by her 
 husband s family, who watch her like 
 lynxes for fear she will abduct the child, 
 and she has developed as neat a case of 
 hysterical mania of persecution as I ever 
 encountered. So you see that even in this 
 [ 192 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 quiet place there are tragedies behind the 
 walls. But I seem to be telling a story 
 out of my turn! " 
 
 " And a forbidden war story, at that," 
 said the Youngster. " So to change the 
 air whose turn is it? " 
 
 The Journalist puffed out his chest. 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," he said, as he 
 rose to his feet, and struck the traditional 
 attitude of a monologist, " I regret to in 
 form you that you will be obliged to have 
 a taste of my histrionic powers. I ve got 
 to act out part of this story couldn t 
 seem to tell it in any other form." 
 
 "Dora!" 
 
 A slender young woman turned at the 
 word, so sharply spoken over her shoulder, 
 and visibly paled. 
 
 She was strikingly attractive, in her 
 modish tailor frock, and her short tight 
 jacket of Persian lamb, with its high col 
 lar of grey fur turned up to her ears. 
 
 Her singularly fair skin, her red hair, 
 her brown eyes, with dark lashes, and nar 
 rowly pencilled eyebrows that were al 
 most black, gave her a remarkable look, 
 and at first sight suggested that Nature 
 had not done it all. But a closer obser- 
 
 [ 193 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 vation convinced one that the strange com 
 bination of such hair and such eyebrows 
 was only one of those freaks by which Na 
 ture now and then warns the knowing to 
 beware even of marvellous beauty. In 
 this case it stamped a woman as one who 
 by several signs might be identified 
 by the initiated as one of those, who, with 
 out reason or logic, spring now and again 
 from most unpromising soil! 
 
 She had walked the entire length of the 
 station from the wide doors on the street 
 side to the swing doors at the opposite end 
 which gave entrance to the tracks. 
 
 As she passed, no man had failed to turn 
 and look after her, as, with her well hung 
 skirts just clearing the wet pavement, she 
 stepped daintily over the flagging, and so 
 lightly that neither boots nor skirt were 
 the worse for it. One sees women in 
 Paris who know that art, but it is rare in 
 an American. 
 
 She must have been long accustomed to 
 attracting masculine eyes, and no wonder, 
 for when she stepped into the place she 
 seemed to give a color to the atmosphere, 
 and everything and everybody went grey 
 and commonplace beside her. 
 
 It was a terrible night in November. 
 
 [ 194 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 The snow was falling rapidly outside, 
 and the wind blew as it can blow only on 
 the New England coast. 
 
 It was the sort of night that makes one 
 forced to be out look forward lovingly to 
 home, and think pityingly of the unfortu 
 nate, while those within doors involun 
 tarily thank God for comfort, and hug at 
 whatever remnant of happiness living has 
 left them. 
 
 The railway station was crowded. 
 
 The storm had come up suddenly at the 
 close of a fair day. It was the hour, too, 
 at which tradespeople, clerks, and laborers 
 were returning home to the suburbs, and 
 at which the steamboat express for New 
 York was being made up although it 
 was not an encouraging night for the lat 
 ter trip. 
 
 The pretty young woman with the red 
 hair had looked through the door near the 
 tracks, and glanced to the right, where the 
 New York express should be. The gate 
 was still closed. She was much too early! 
 For a second she hesitated. She glanced 
 about quickly, and the look was not with 
 out apprehension. It was evident that she 
 did not see the man who was following 
 her, and who seemed to have been waiting 
 
 [ 195 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 for her near the outer door. He did not 
 speak, nor attract her attention in any way. 
 The crowd served him in that ! 
 
 After a moment s hesitation, she turned 
 toward the ladies waiting room, and just 
 as she was about to enter, the man behind 
 addressed her and the word v/as said 
 so low that no one near heard it though, 
 by the start she gave, it might have been 
 a pistol shot. 
 
 " Dora ! " 
 
 She stood perfectly still. The color 
 died out of her face; but only for an in 
 stant. She looked alarmed, then per 
 plexed, and then she smiled. She was evi 
 dently a young woman of resources. 
 
 The man was a stalwart handsome fel 
 low of his class though it was almost 
 impossible to guess what that was save that 
 it was not that which the world labels by 
 exterior signs " gentleman." He might 
 easily have been some sort of a mechanic. 
 Fie was certainly neither a clerk nor the 
 follower of any of the unskilled profes 
 sions. He was surely countrybred, for 
 there was a largeness in his expression as 
 well as his bearing that spoke distinctly of 
 broad vistas and exercise. He was tall 
 and broad-shouldered. He stood well on 
 
 [ 196 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 his feet, hampered as little by his six feet 
 of height and fourteen stone weight as he 
 was by the size of his hands. One would 
 have easily backed him to ride well and 
 shoot straight, though he probably never 
 saw the inside of what is called a " draw 
 ing-room." 
 
 There was the fire of a mighty emotion 
 in his deep-set eyes. There were signs of 
 a tremendous animal force in his square 
 chin and thick neck, but it was balanced 
 well by his broad brow and wide-set eyes. 
 He seemed at this moment to hold himself 
 in check with a rigid stubbornness that an 
 swered for his New England origin, and 
 Puritan ancestry ! Indeed, at the moment 
 he addressed the woman, but for his eyes, 
 he might have seemed as indifferent as any 
 of the stone figures that upheld the iron 
 girders of the roof above him ! 
 
 Still smiling archly she moved forward 
 into the waiting room and, passing through 
 the dense crowd that hung about the door, 
 crossed the room to an open space. 
 
 Without a word the man followed. 
 
 The room was dimly lighted. The 
 crowd that surged about them, coming and 
 going, and sometimes pressing close on 
 every side, seemed not to note them. 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 And, if they had, they would have seen 
 nothing more remarkable than an ex 
 tremely pretty young woman conversing 
 quietly with a big fellow in a reefer and 
 long boots a rig he carried well. 
 
 " Dora! " he said again, and then had 
 to pause to steady his voice. 
 
 Dora wet her red lips with the pointed 
 tip of her tiny tongue; swallowed nerv 
 ously once or twice, before she spoke. 
 She was now facing him, and still smil 
 ing. 
 
 He kept his eyes fixed on her face. He 
 did not respond to the smile. His eyes 
 were tragic. He seemed to be seeking 
 something in her face as if he feared her 
 mere words would not help him. 
 
 " Why, Zeke," she said at last, when she 
 realized that he could not get beyond her 
 name, " I thought you had gone home an 
 hour ago! Why didn t you take the 5.15 
 train?" 
 
 " I changed my mind ! To tell you the 
 truth, I heard that you were in town this 
 afternoon. I have been watching for you 
 for some time." 
 
 " Well, all I can say is you are fool 
 ish. Where s the good for you fretting 
 yourself so? I can take care of myself." 
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 " I can t get used to you being about in 
 the city streets alone." 
 
 "How absurd!" 
 
 " I have been absurd a great many times 
 of late in your eyes. Our ideas don t 
 seem to agree any more." 
 
 "No, Zeke, they don t!" 
 
 " Why speak to me in that tone, Dora? 
 Don t do it!" 
 
 He looked over her head, as if to be 
 sure of his hold on himself. He was 
 ghastly white about his smooth-shaven, 
 thick lips. Both hands were thrust deep 
 into his reefer pockets. 
 
 "What s come to you, Zeke?" she 
 asked nervously. His was not exactly the 
 face one would see unmoved! 
 
 He answered her without looking at her. 
 It was evident he did not dare just yet. 
 " Nothing much, I reckon. I ve been a 
 bit down all day. I really don t know 
 why, myself. I ve had a queer presenti 
 ment, as if something were going to hap 
 pen. As if something terrible were com 
 ing to me." 
 
 * Well, I m sorry. You ve no occasion 
 to feel like that, I m sure." 
 
 ." All right, if you say so. What train 
 shall we take?" 
 
 [ 199 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 He stretched out one hand to take the 
 small bag she carried. 
 
 She shrank back instinctively, and with 
 drew the bag. He must have felt rather 
 than seen the movement, it was so slight. 
 
 His hand fell to his side. 
 
 Still, he persisted. 
 
 " I m dead done up, Dora. I need my 
 dinner, come on ! " 
 
 " Then you d better take the 6.00 train. 
 You ve just time," she said hurriedly. 
 
 "All right. Come on!" 
 
 He laid his hand on her shoulder with 
 a gesture that was entreating. It was the 
 first time he had touched her. A fright 
 ened look came into her eyes. He did not 
 see it, for he was still avoiding her face. 
 It was as if he were afraid of reading 
 something there he did not wish to know. 
 
 Her red lips had taken on a petulant 
 expression that of one who hated to be 
 " stirred up." In a childish voice 
 which only thinly veiled an obstinate de 
 termination she pouted : " I m not go 
 ing yet." 
 
 The words were said almost under her 
 breath, as if she were fearful of their ef 
 fect on him, yet was determined to carry 
 her point. 
 [ 200 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 But the man only sighed deeply as he 
 replied : " I thought your dancing lessons 
 were over. I hoped I was no longer to 
 spend my evenings alone. Alone ! Look 
 ing round at the things that are yours, and 
 among which I feel so out of place, except 
 when you are there to make me forget. 
 God ! What damnable evenings I ve 
 spent there feeling as if you were slip 
 ping further and further out of my life 
 as if you were gone, and I had only the 
 clothes you had worn, an odor about me 
 somewhere to convince me that I had not 
 dreamed you! Sometimes that faint, in 
 distinct, evasive scent of you in the room 
 has almost driven me out of my head. I 
 wonder I haven t killed you before now 
 to be sure of you ! I m afraid of Hell, I 
 suppose, or I should have." 
 
 The woman did not look at all alarmed. 
 Indeed there was a light in her amber eyes 
 that spoke of a kind of gratification in stir 
 ring this young giant like that this huge 
 fellow that could so easily crush her but 
 did not! She knew better why than he 
 did but she said nothing. 
 
 With his eyes still fixed on space 
 after a pause he went on : "I was fool 
 enough to believe that that was all over, 
 
 [ 201 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 at last, that you had danced to your heart s 
 content, and that we were to begin the old 
 life the life before that nonsense 
 over again. You were like my old Dora 
 all day yesterday ! The Dora I loved and 
 courted and married back there in the 
 woods. But I might have known it wasn t 
 finished by the ache I had here," and he 
 struck himself a blow over the heart with 
 his clenched fist, " when I waked this morn 
 ing, and by the weight I ve carried here all 
 day." And he drew a deep breath like 
 one in pain. 
 
 The woman looked about as if appre 
 hensive that even his passionate undertone 
 might have attracted attention, but only a 
 man by the radiator seemed to have no 
 ticed, and he had the air of being not quite 
 sober enough to understand. 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 The woman glanced nervously at the 
 clock. 
 
 The man was again staring over her 
 head. 
 
 It was quarter to six. Her precious 
 minutes were flying. She must be rid of 
 him! 
 
 " See here, Zeke, dear," she said, in des 
 peration, speaking very rapidly under her 
 [ 202 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 breath no fear but he would hear 
 " the truth is, that I m not a bit better 
 satisfied with our sordid kind of life than 
 I was a year ago, when we first discussed 
 it. I m awfully sorry! You know that. 
 But I can t change and there is the 
 whole truth! It s not your fault in one 
 way and yet in one way it is. God 
 knows you have done everything you could, 
 and more some ways than you ought. 
 But, unluckily for you, gratifying me was 
 not the way to mend the situation for your 
 self. It is cruel but it is the truth ! If 
 a man wants to keep a woman of my dis 
 position attached to him, he d do far bet 
 ter to beat her than over-educate her, and 
 teach her all the beauties of freedom. 
 He should keep her ignorant, rather than 
 cultivate her imagination, and open up the 
 wonders of the world to her. It s rough 
 on chaps like you, that with all your clev 
 erness you ve no instinct to set you right 
 on a point like this but it is lucky for 
 women like me at times ! You were 
 determined to force all this out of me, so 
 you may as well hear the whole brutal 
 truth. I m sick of our stupid ways of life 
 I have been sick of it for a long time. 
 I ve passed all power to pretend any 
 
 [ 203 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 longer. I have learned that there is a 
 great and beautiful world within the reach 
 of women who are clever enough and 
 brave enough to grasp at an opportunity, 
 without looking forward or back. I want 
 to walk boldly to this. I m not afraid of 
 the stepping-stones ! This is really all 
 your fault. When you married me, five 
 years ago, I was only sixteen, and very 
 much in love with you. Now, why didn t 
 you make me do the housework and drudge 
 as all the other women on the farms about 
 yours did? I d have done it then, and 
 willingly, even to the washing and scrub 
 bing. I had been working in a cotton 
 mill. I didn t know anything better than 
 to drudge. I thought that was a woman s 
 lot. It didn t even seem terrible to me. 
 But no you set yourself to amuse me. 
 You brought me way up to town on a wed 
 ding journey. For the first time in my life 
 I saw there idle women in the world, who 
 wore soft clothes and were always dressed 
 up. You bought me finery. I was clever 
 and imitative. I pined for all the excite 
 ment and beauty of city life when we were 
 back on the farm, in the life you loved. I 
 cried for it, as a child cries for the moon. 
 I never dreamed of getting it. And you 
 [ 204 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 surprised me by selling the farm, and com 
 ing nearer the town to live. Just because 
 I had an ear for music, and could pick out 
 tunes on the old melodeon, I must have a 
 piano and take lessons. Just because my 
 music teacher happened to be French and 
 I showed an aptitude for studying, that 
 must be gratified. Can you really blame 
 me if I want to see more of the wide world 
 that opened up to me? Did you really 
 think French novels and music were likely 
 to make a woman of my lively imagination 
 content with her lot as wife of a mechanic 
 however clever ? " 
 
 The man looked down at her as if 
 stunned. Arguments of that sort were a 
 bit above the reasoning of the simple mas 
 culine animal, who seemed to belong to 
 that race which comprehends little of the 
 complex emotions, and looks on love as 
 the one inevitable passion of life, and on 
 marriage as its logical result and everlast 
 ing conclusion. 
 
 It was probable at this moment that he 
 completed his alphabet in the great lesson 
 of life and spelled out painfully the aw 
 ful truth, that not all the royal service of 
 worship and love in a man s heart can hold 
 a woman. 
 
 [ 205 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 There was something akin to a sob in 
 his throat as he replied: " You were so 
 young so pretty! I could not bear to 
 think that you should soil your hands for 
 me ! I wanted to make up to you for all 
 the hardships and sorrows of your child 
 hood. I dreamed of being mother and 
 father as well as husband to you. I 
 thought it would make you happy to owe 
 everything to me as happy as it made 
 me to give. I would willingly have car 
 ried you every step of your life, rather 
 than you should have tired your feet. Is 
 that a sin in a woman s eyes?" 
 
 A whimsical smile broke over the wom 
 an s face. It quivered on her red lips for 
 just a breath, as if conscious how ill-timed 
 it was. " I really like to tire my feet," 
 she murmured, and she pointed the toe of 
 her tiny boot, as if poised to dance, and 
 looked down on it with evident admira 
 tion. 
 
 The man caught his breath sharply. 
 
 " It s that damned dancing that has up 
 set you, Dora ! " 
 
 "Sh! Don t swear! I do like danc 
 ing! I have always told you so. It was 
 you who first admired it. It was you who 
 let me learn." 
 [ 206 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 " You were my wife ! I thought that 
 meant everything to you that it meant to 
 me. I loved your beauty because it was 
 yours; your pleasures because they gave 
 you pleasure. All my ideas of right and 
 wrong in marriage which I learned in my 
 father s honest house bent to your desires 
 and happiness." 
 
 She looked nervously at the clock. Ten 
 minutes to six. 
 
 " Dora for God s sake look at me ! 
 Dora you re not leaving me? " 
 
 It was an almost inarticulate cry, as of 
 a man who had foreseen his doom, and 
 only protested from some unconquerable 
 instinct to struggle ! 
 
 She patted his clenched hand gently. 
 
 It was plainly evident that she hated the 
 sight of suffering, and hated more not hav 
 ing her own way, and was possessed by a 
 refined kind of cowardice. 
 
 " Don t make a row, there s a dear boy ! 
 It is like this: I am going over to New 
 York, just for a few weeks. I would 
 have told you yesterday, only I hated spoil 
 ing a nice day. It was a nice day ? with 
 a scene. You ll find a nice long letter at 
 home it s a sweet one, too telling 
 you all about it. Don t take it too hard ! 
 
 [ 207 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 I am going to earn fifty dollars a week 
 just fancy that and don t blame me too 
 much!" 
 
 He didn t seem to hear! He hung his 
 head the veins in his forehead swelled 
 there were actually tears in his eyes 
 and the mighty effort he made to restrain 
 a sob was terrible and six feet of Amer 
 ican manhood, as fine a specimen of the 
 animal as the soil can show, animated by 
 a spirit which represented well the dignity 
 of toil and self-respect, stood bowed down 
 with ungovernable grief and shame before 
 a merely ornamental bit of femininity. 
 
 Fate had simply perpetrated another of 
 her ghastly pleasantries ! 
 
 The woman was perplexed natu 
 rally! But it was evidently the sight of 
 her work, and not the work itself, that 
 pained her. 
 
 " Don t cut up so rough, Zeke, please 
 don t," she went on. " I m very fond of 
 you you know that but I detest the 
 odor of the shop, and it is so easy for us 
 both to escape it." 
 
 He shrank as if she had struck him. 
 
 Instinctively he must have remembered 
 the cotton mill from which he took her. 
 A man rarely understands a woman s fac- 
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 ulty for forgetting that is to say, no 
 man of his class does. 
 
 " Doesn t it seem a bit selfish of you," 
 she went on, " to object to my earning 
 nearly three times what you can and so 
 easily and prettily?" 
 
 " I wanted you to be happy with what 
 I could give you." 
 
 " Well, I m sorry, but I m not. No use 
 to fib about it! It is too late. Your no 
 tions are so queer." 
 
 " I suppose it is queer to love one 
 woman and to love her so that laboring 
 for her is happiness ! I suppose you do 
 find me a queer chap, because I am not 
 willing that my wife flesh of my flesh 
 should flaunt herself, half dressed, to ex 
 cite the admiration of other men all for 
 fifty dollars a week! " 
 
 " See here, Zeke, you are making too 
 much of this! If it is the separation you 
 can t stand why come, too! I ll soon 
 enough be getting my hundred a week, and 
 more. That is enough for both of us. 
 You can be with me, if that is what you 
 mind!" 
 
 " If that is what I mind? You know 
 better than that! Am I such a cur that 
 you think, if there were no other reason, 
 
 [ 209 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 I d pose before the world as the husband 
 of a woman who owes nothing to him 
 as if I were " 
 
 She interrupted him sharply. 
 
 " What odds does it make tell me 
 that which of us earns the money? To 
 have it is the only important thing! " 
 
 The man straightened up and 
 squared his broad shoulders. A strange 
 change came over him. 
 
 He laid his heavy hand on her shoulder, 
 and, for the first time, he spoke with a dis 
 regard for self-control, although he did 
 not raise his voice. 
 
 " Look at me, Dora, and be sure I mean 
 what I say. Leave me to-day, and don t 
 you ever come back to me. It may kill me 
 to live without you. Well, better that 
 than than the other ! I married you to 
 live with you not merely to have you ! 
 I ve been a faithful husband to you! I 
 shall remain that while I live. I never 
 denied you anything I could get for you! 
 But this I will not put up with ! I thought 
 you loved me even if you were some 
 times vain, and now and then cruel. If 
 you re ill if you disappoint yourself, I ll 
 be ready to take care of you as I prom- 
 [ 210 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 ised. But don t never dare to come back 
 to me otherwise ! Unless you re in want 
 and homeless, unless you can t live, but 
 by the labor of my hands, I ll never sleep 
 under the same roof with you again. 
 Never !" 
 
 " What nonsense, Zeke ! Of course I ll 
 come back! You won t turn me away! 
 I only want to see a little of the world, to 
 get a few of the things you can t give me 
 no blame to you, either! " 
 
 He did not seem to hear her. 
 
 Almost as if speaking to himself, he 
 went on : " I ve feared for some time you 
 didn t love me. I didn t want to believe 
 it. I was a coward. I shut my eyes. I 
 took what you gave me I daren t think 
 of this which has come to me ! I dared 
 not! God punishes idolatry! He has 
 punished mine. Be sure you re not mak 
 ing a mistake, Dora ! There may be 
 other men will admire you, my girl will 
 any of them love you as I do? There s 
 never a minute I m not conscious of you, 
 sleeping or waking. Think again, Dora, 
 before you leave me ! " 
 
 " I can t, Zeke. I ve signed a contract. 
 I couldn t reconsider if I wanted to. It s 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 just seven minutes to train time. Kiss me 
 there s a dear lad and don t row me 
 any more ! " 
 
 She raised herself on tip toes and ap 
 proached her red lips to his face lips 
 of an intense color to go with the marked 
 pallor of the rest of the face, and which 
 surely were never offered to him in vain 
 before but he was beyond their seduc 
 tion at last. 
 
 "You ve decided?" he said. 
 
 " Of course ! " 
 
 " All right ! Good-bye, then i You 
 promised to cleave to me through thick 
 and thin c till death did us part. I ll have 
 no halfway business," and he turned on his 
 heel, and without looking back he pushed 
 his way through the crowd, which chatted 
 and fussed and never even noted the pass 
 ing of a broken heart. 
 
 The pretty creature watched him out of 
 sight. 
 
 There was a humorous pout on her lips. 
 But she seemed so sure of her man! He 
 would come back, of course when she 
 called him if she ever did! Probably 
 she liked him better at that moment than 
 she had liked him in two years. He had 
 opposed her. He had defied her power 
 [ 212 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 over him. He had once more become a 
 man to conquer if she ever had time ! 
 
 But just now there was something more 
 important. That train! It was three 
 minutes to the schedule time. 
 
 As he disappeared into the crowd she 
 drew a breath of relief, and hurried out of 
 the waiting room and pushed her way to 
 the platform, along which she hurried to 
 the parlor car, v/here she seated herself 
 comfortably, as if no man with a broken 
 life had been set down that day against 
 her record. 
 
 To be sure, she could not quite rid her 
 self of thoughts of his face, but the recol 
 lection rather flattered her, and did not in 
 the least prevent her noticing the looks of 
 admiration with which two men on the 
 opposite side of the car were regarding 
 her. 
 
 Once or twice she glanced out of the 
 window, apparently alternately expecting 
 and dreading to see her stalwart husband 
 come sprinting down the platform for the 
 kiss he had refused. 
 
 He didn t come ! 
 
 She was relieved as the train started 
 yet she hated to feel he could really let her 
 go like that! 
 
 [ 213 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 She never guessed at the depth of suf 
 fering she had brought him. How could 
 she appreciate what she could never feel? 
 She never dreamed that as the train pulled 
 out into the storm he stood at the end of 
 the station, and watched it slowly round 
 the curve under the bridge and pass out of 
 sight. No one was near to see him turn 
 aside, and rest his arms against the brick 
 wall, to bury his face in them, and sob like 
 a child, utterly oblivious of the storm that 
 beat upon him. 
 
 And he sat down. 
 
 " Come on," yelled the Youngster, 
 " where s the claque? " And he began to 
 applaud furiously. 
 
 " Oh, if there is a claque, the rest of us 
 don t need to exert ourselves," said the 
 Lawyer, indolently. 
 
 " But I say," asked the Youngster, after 
 the Journalist had made his best bow. " I 
 AM disappointed. Was that all? " 
 
 " My goodness," commented the Doc 
 tor, as he lighted a fresh cigar. " Isn t 
 that enough? " 
 
 " Not for me" replied the Youngster. 
 " I want to know about her debut. Was 
 she a success? " 
 
 [ 214 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 " Of course," answered the Journalist. 
 " That sort always is." 
 
 " And I want to know," insisted the 
 Youngster, " what became of him? " 
 
 "Why," ejaculated the Sculptor, "of 
 course he cut his big brown throat ! " 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said the Critic. 
 " He probably went up to New York, and 
 hung round the stage door." 
 
 " Until she called in the police, and had 
 him arrested as a common nuisance," 
 added the Lawyer. 
 
 " I ll bet my microscope he didn t," 
 laughed the Doctor. 
 
 " And you won t lose your lens," re 
 plied the Journalist. " He never did a 
 blooming thing that is, he didn t if he 
 existed." 
 
 " Oh, my eyes," said the Youngster. 
 " I am disappointed again. I thought 
 that was a simon-pure newspaper yarn 
 one of your reporter s dodges real jour 
 nalese!" 
 
 " She is true enough," answered the 
 Journalist, " and her feet are true, and so 
 is her red hair, and, unless she is a liar, 
 and most actresses are, so is he and her 
 origin, but as for the way she cut him out 
 well, I had to make that up. It is bet- 
 
 c 215 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 ter than any of the six tales she told as 
 many interviewers, in strict secrecy, in the 
 days when she was collecting hearts and 
 jewels and midnight suppers in New 
 York." 
 
 " Is she still there? " asked the Young 
 ster, " because if she is, I ll go back and 
 take a look at Dora myself after the 
 war!" 
 
 " Well, Youngster," laughed the Jour 
 nalist, " it will have to be * after the war, 
 as you will probably have to go to Berlin to 
 find her." 
 
 "That s all right!" retorted the 
 Youngster. " I am going with the Al 
 lied armies." 
 
 We all jumped up. 
 
 " No ! " cried the Divorcee. " No ! 1 " 
 
 " But I am. Where s the good of keep 
 ing it secret? I enlisted the day I went 
 to Paris the first time so did the Doctor, 
 so did the Critic, and so did he, the inno 
 cent looking old blackguard," and he 
 seized the Journalist by both shoulders 
 and shook him well. " He thought we 
 wouldn t find it out." 
 
 " Oh, well," said the Journalist, " when 
 one has seen three wars, one may as well 
 
 [ 216 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 see one more. This will surely be my 
 last." 
 
 " Anyway," cried the Youngster, u we ll 
 see it all round the Doctor in the Field 
 Ambulance, me in the air, the Critic is 
 going to lug litters, and as for the Jour 
 nalist well, I ll bet it s secret service for 
 him ! Oh, I know you are not going to 
 tell, but I saw you coming out of the Eng 
 lish Embassy, and I ll bet my machine 
 you ve a ticket for London, and a letter to 
 the Chief in your pocket." 
 
 " Bet away," said the Critic. 
 
 "What d I tell you what d I tell 
 you? He speaks every God-blessed lan 
 guage going, and if it wasn t that, he d tell 
 fast enough." 
 
 " Never mind," said the Trained Nurse, 
 " so that he goes somewhere with the 
 rest of us." 
 
 "You You?" exclaimed the Di 
 vorcee. 
 
 ; Why not? I was trained for this sort 
 of thing. This is my chance." 
 
 14 And the rest of us?" 
 
 The Doctor intervened. " See here, 
 this is forty-eight hours or more earlier 
 than I meant this matter to come up. I 
 
 [ 217 ] 
 
.TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 might have known the Youngster could 
 not hold his tongue." 
 
 " I ve been bursting for three days." 
 
 * Well, youVe burst now, and I hope 
 you are content. There is nothing to 
 worry about, yet. We fellows are leav 
 ing September ist. The roads are all 
 clear, and it was my idea that we should all 
 start for Paris together early next Tues 
 day morning. I don t know what the rest 
 of you want to do, but I advise you" turn 
 ing to the Divorcee, " to go back to the 
 States. You would not be a bit of good 
 here. You may be there." 
 
 " You are quite right," she replied 
 sadly. " I d be worse than no good. I d 
 need first aid/ at the first shot." 
 
 " I m going with her," said the Sculp 
 tor. " I d be more useless than she 
 would." And he turned a questioning 
 look at the Lawyer. 
 
 " I must go back. I ve business to at 
 tend to. Anyway, Td be an encumbrance 
 here. I may be useful there. Who 
 knows?" 
 
 As for me, every one knew what I pro 
 posed to do, and that left every one ac 
 counted for except the Violinist. He had 
 been in his favorite attitude by the tree, 
 
 [ 218 ] 
 
THE JOURNALIST S STORY 
 
 just as he had been on that evening when 
 it had been proposed to " tell stories," 
 gazing first at one and then at another, as 
 the hurried conversation went on. 
 
 " Well," he. said, finding all eyes turned 
 on him, " I am going to London with the 
 Journalist if he is really going." 
 
 " All right, I am," was the reply. 
 
 " And from London I shall get to St. 
 Petersburg. I have a dream that out of 
 all this something may happen to Poland. 
 If it does, I propose to be there. I ll be 
 no good at holding a gun I could never 
 fire one. But if, by some miracle, there 
 comes out of this any chance for the * Fair 
 Land of Poland to crawl out, or be 
 dragged out, from under the feet of the 
 invader well, I ll go home and 
 and " 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " And grow up with the country," 
 shouted the Youngster. " Bully for you." 
 
 " I may only go back to fiddle over the 
 ruins. But who knows? At all events, 
 I ll go back and carry with me all that 
 your country had done for three genera 
 tions of my family. They ll need it." 
 
 " Well," said the Doctor, " that is all 
 settled. Enough for to-night. We ll still 
 
 [ 219 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 have one or two, and it may be three days 
 left together. Let us make the most of 
 them. They will never come again." 
 
 " And to think what a lovely summer 
 we had planned," sighed the Divorcee. 
 
 "Tush!" ejaculated the Doctor. 
 We had a lovely time all last year. As 
 for this summer, I imagine that it has been 
 far finer than what we planned. Anyway, 
 let us be thankful that it was this summer 
 that we all found one another again." 
 
 " Better go to bed," cried the Critic; 
 "the Doctor is getting sentimental a 
 bad sign in an army surgeon." 
 
 " I don t know," remarked the Trained 
 Nurse; "I ve seen those that were more 
 sentimental than the Journalist, and none 
 the worse for it." 
 
 [ 220 ] 
 
IX 
 
 THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE SONG 
 THE TALE OF A FIANCEE 
 
 ON Saturday most of the men made a 
 run into Paris. 
 
 It had finally been decided as best that, 
 if all went well, we should leave for Paris 
 some time the next day. There were 
 steamer tickets to attend to. There were 
 certain valuables to be taken up to the 
 Bank. The Divorcee had a trunk or two 
 that she thought she ought to send in order 
 that we might start with as little luggage 
 as possible, so both chauffeurs were sent up 
 to town with baggage, and orders to wait 
 there. The rest of us had been busy do 
 ing a little in the way of dismantling the 
 house. The unexpected end of our sum 
 mer had come. It was sad, but I imagine 
 none of us were sorry, under the circum 
 stances, to move on. 
 
 It was nearly dinner time when the cars 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 came back, almost together, and we were 
 surprised to see the Doctor going out to 
 the servants quarters instead of joining 
 us as he usually did. In fact, we did not 
 see him until we went into the dining room 
 for dinner. 
 
 As he came to the head of the table, he 
 said: "My good people, we will serve 
 ourselves as best we can with the cook s 
 aid. We have no waitress to-night. But 
 it is our last dinner. A camp under 
 marching orders cannot fuss over trifles. " 
 
 "Where is Angele?" asked the Di 
 vorcee. " Is she ill?" And she turned 
 to the door. 
 
 "Come back!" said the Doctor, 
 sharply. " You can t help her now. Bet 
 ter leave her alone ! " 
 
 As if by instinct, we all knew what had 
 happened. 
 
 "Who brought the news?" some one 
 asked. 
 
 " They gave it to me at the Maine as 
 I passed," replied the Doctor, " and the 
 garde champetre told me what the envel 
 ope contained. He fell at Charleroi." 
 
 " Poor Angele," exclaimed the Trained 
 Nurse. " Are you sure I could not help 
 her?" 
 
 [ 222 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 " Sure," said the Doctor. " She took it 
 as a Frenchwoman should. She snatched 
 the baby from its cradle, and held it a 
 moment close to her face. Then she 
 lifted it above her head in both hands, and 
 said, almost without a choke in her throat, 
 Vive la France, quand meme! and 
 dropped. I put them on the bed together, 
 she and the boy. She was crying like a 
 good one when I left her. She s all 
 right." 
 
 "Poor child and that tiny baby! 1 
 exclaimed the Divorcee, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " Fudge," said the Doctor. "She is 
 the widow of a hero, and the mother of 
 the hero s son. Considering what life is, 
 that is to be one of the elect of Fate. 
 She ll go through life with a halo round 
 her head, and, like most of the French 
 women I have seen, she ll wear it like a 
 crown. It becomes us, in the same spirit, 
 to partake of the food before us. This 
 life is a wonderful spectacle. If you saw 
 an episode like that in a drama, at the 
 theatre, you would all cheer like mad." 
 
 We knew he was right. 
 
 But the Youngster could not help add 
 ing, " That s twice two days running, 
 that the Doctor has told a story out of his 
 
 [ 223 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 turn, and both times he outraged the con 
 sign, for both times it was a war story." 
 That seemed to break the ice. We 
 talked more or less war during dinner, but 
 this time there were no disputes. Still I 
 think we were glad when the cook trotted 
 in with the trays, and with our elbows on 
 the table, we turned toward the Violinist, 
 who leaned against the high back of his 
 chair, and with his long white hands rest 
 ing on the carved arms, and his eyes on 
 the ceiling an attitude that he did not 
 change during the narrative, began : 
 
 It was in the early eighties that I re 
 turned from Germany to my native land, 
 and settled myself and my violin in the city 
 of my birth. 
 
 I was not rich as my countrymen judge 
 wealth, but, in my own estimation, I was 
 well to do. I had enough to live without 
 labor, and was, therefore, able to devote 
 myself to my art without considering too 
 closely the recompense. 
 
 In addition to that, I was still young. 
 
 I had more love for my chosen mistress 
 
 Music than the Goddess had for me, 
 
 for, while she accepted my worship with 
 
 indulgence, she wasted fewer gifts on me 
 
 [ 224 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 than fell to the lot of many a less faithful 
 follower. 
 
 Still, I was happy and content in my love 
 for her, and only needed her to keep me so 
 until, a year after my return, I met one 
 woman, loved her, and begged her to share 
 with my music, my heart, and its adora 
 tion. 
 
 That satisfied her, since, in her own 
 love for the same art, she used to assure 
 me that she possessed, by proxy, that 
 other half of myself which I still dedi 
 cated to the Muse. 
 
 Perhaps it was the vibrant spirit of this 
 woman which seemed musical to me, and 
 which I so ardently loved, for she ap 
 peared to have a veritable violin soul. 
 Her face was often the medium through 
 which I saw the spirit of the music I was 
 playing, as it sang in gladness, sobbed in 
 sadness, thrilled in passion along the 
 strings of my Amati. 
 
 I knew that I never played so well as 
 when her face was before me. I felt that 
 if ever I approached my dreams in 
 achievement, it would be her soul that in 
 spired me. So like was she, in my fancy, 
 to a musical instrument, that I used to tell 
 her, when the wind swept across her bur- 
 
 [ 225 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 nished hair, that the air was full of mel 
 ody. And when she looked especially 
 ethereal as she did at times I would 
 catch her in my arms, and bid her tell me, 
 on peril of her life, what song was hidden 
 in her heart, that I might teach it to my 
 violin, and die great. Yet, remarkable as 
 it seems to me still, the Spirit of Music 
 that surely dwelt within her, dwelt there 
 a dumb prisoner. It had no audible voice, 
 though I was not alone in feeling its pres 
 ence in her eyes, on her lips, in her spir 
 itual charm. 
 
 She had a voice that was melody itself, 
 yet she never sang. I always fancied her 
 hands were a musician s hands, yet she 
 never played. This was the more singu 
 lar as her mother had been a great singer, 
 and her father, while he had never risen 
 above the desk of chef d orchestre in a 
 local playhouse, was no mean musician. 
 
 Often, when the charm of her spirit was 
 on me, I would pretend to weave a spell 
 about her, and conjure the spirit that was 
 imprisoned in the heart that was mine, to 
 come forth from the shrine he was so im 
 pudently usurping. 
 
 Ah, those were the days of my youth ! 
 
 We had been betrothed but a brief time 
 [ 226 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 when Rodriguez, for some seasons a Eu 
 ropean celebrity, made his first appear 
 ance in our city. 
 
 I had heard most of the great violinists 
 of that time, had known some of them well, 
 had played with many of them, as I did 
 later with Rodriguez, but I had never 
 chanced to see or hear him. 
 
 His fame had, however, preceded him. 
 The newspapers were full of him. Faster 
 even than the tales of his genius had trav 
 elled the tales of his follies tales that 
 out-Don- Juaned the famous rake of tradi 
 tion. 
 
 However little credence one gives to 
 such reports mad stories of a scan 
 dalous nature these repeated episodes 
 of excesses, only tolerated in the conspicu 
 ous, do color one s expectations. I sup 
 pose that, being young, I expected to see 
 a man whose face would bear the brand 
 of his errors as well as the stamp of his 
 genius. 
 
 That was not Rodriguez s fate. What 
 ever the temperamental struggle had been, 
 he was " take him for all in all," the least 
 disappointing famous man that my experi 
 ence had ever shown me. He was more 
 virile than handsome, and no more aesthetic 
 
 [ 227 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 to look at than he was ascetic. At that 
 time he was on the sunny side of forty, and 
 not yet at the zenith of his great career. 
 His face was fine, manly, and sympathetic. 
 His brow was broad, his eyes deep-set 
 and widely spaced, but very heavy lidded. 
 The mouth and chin were, I must own, too 
 delicate and sensitive for the rest of the 
 face. His dark hair, young as he was, 
 had streaks of grey. In bearing he was 
 so erect, so sufficient, that he seemed taller 
 than he was. If he had the vanity which 
 so often goes with his kind of tempera 
 ment, it was most cleverly concealed. 
 Safe in the dignified consciousness of his 
 unquestioned gifts, secure in his achieve 
 ments, he had a winning gentleness, and 
 an engaging manner difficult to resist. 
 
 But for a singular magnetic light in his 
 eyes, which belied the calm of his bearing, 
 when he chanced to raise the heavy lids 
 full on one they usually drooped a lit 
 tle but for a sensitive quiver along the 
 too full lips, as if they still trembled from 
 the caress of genius the royal accolade 
 of greatness he might have looked to 
 me, as he did to many, more the diplomat 
 than the artist. 
 
 It would be useless for me to analyse his 
 
 [ 228 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 command of his instrument. I could not. 
 It would be superfluous for me to recount 
 his triumphs. They are too recent to 
 have been forgotten. Both tasks have, 
 moreover, been done better than I could 
 do either. 
 
 This I can do, however, bear witness to 
 the glowing wings of hope, of longing, of 
 aspiration which his singing violin lent to 
 hearts oppressed by commonplace every 
 day cares, to the moments of courage, of 
 re-awakened endeavor which he inspired 
 in his fellowmen, to the marvellous mag 
 netism of his playing which seemed for the 
 moment to restore to a soul-weary world 
 its illusions, and to strike off the fetters of 
 despondency which bind mortality to earth. 
 
 It was not alone the musically intelli 
 gent who felt this, for his playing had a 
 universal appeal. Thorough musicians 
 marvelled at and envied him his mystery 
 of the details of his art, but it seemed to 
 me that those who knew least of its tech 
 nique were equally open to his influence. 
 
 I don t presume to explain this. I 
 merely record it. There were those who 
 analysed the fact, and explained it on the 
 ground of animal magnetism. For my 
 self, I only know that, as the magic music 
 
 [ 229 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 which Hunold Singref played in the streets 
 of Hamelin, whispered in the ears of little 
 children words of promise, of happiness, 
 of comfort that none others could hear, so, 
 to the emotional heart, Rodriguez s violin 
 spoke a special message. 
 
 The man who sets the faces of the 
 throng upward, and lights their eyes with 
 the magic fire of hope, has surely not lived 
 in vain, whatever personal offerings he 
 may have made on the altar of his genius 
 to keep alive the eternal spark. It cannot 
 be denied that Art has fulfilled some part 
 of its mission on earth, if, but for one hour, 
 thousands, marshalled by its music, as the 
 children of Israel by the pillar of flame, 
 have looked above the dull atmosphere 
 where pain and loss and sorrow are, to 
 feel in themselves that divine longing 
 which is ecstasy, that soaring of the spirit 
 which, in casting off fear and rising above 
 doubt, can cry out in joy, " Oh, blessed 
 spark of Hope this soul which can so 
 rise above sorrow, so mount above the 
 body, must be immortal. This which can 
 so cast off care cannot die I " 
 
 All the great acts of life, and all the 
 great arts, are purely emotional. I know 
 that modern cults deny this, and work to 
 [ 230 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 see everything gauged by reason. But 
 thus far musicians and painters, preachers 
 and orators all approach their goal by the 
 road to the emotions if they hope to 
 win the big world. Patriotism, fidelity 
 love of country, like love of woman are 
 emotions, and it would puzzle logicians, I 
 am afraid, to be sure that these emotions, 
 at times sublime, might not be as sensual 
 as some of Rodriguez s critics found his 
 music. 
 
 The series of concerts he gave was very 
 exhausting to me, owing to the novelty of 
 some of his programs, and the constant 
 rehearsals. The final concert found me 
 quite worn out. 
 
 During the latter part of the evening I 
 had been too weary to even raise my eyes 
 to the balcony in front of me, where, from 
 my position among the first violins, I could 
 see the fair face of my beloved. 
 
 The evening had been a great triumph, 
 and when it was all over the audience was 
 quite mad with enthusiasm. It was one of 
 Rodriguez s inviolable rules to play a pro 
 gram exactly as announced, and never to 
 add to it. In the month he had been in 
 town, the public had learned how impossi- 
 
 [ 231 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 ble it was to tempt him away from his 
 rule. But Americans are persistent! 
 
 Again and again he had mounted the 
 steps to the platform, and calmly bowed 
 his thanks, while long drawn cheers surged 
 through the noise of hand-clapping, as 
 strains on the brass buoy up the melody. 
 I lost count of the number of times he had 
 ascended and descended the little flight of 
 steps which led, behind a screen, from the 
 artist s room to the stage, when, having 
 turned in my seat to watch him, as he came 
 up and bowed, and walked off again, I saw 
 him, as he stood behind the screen, gazing 
 directly over our heads, suddenly raise his 
 violin to his ear and slowly draw the bow 
 across the strings. 
 
 Almost before we could realize what 
 had happened, he crossed the stage, 
 stepped to his stand, and drew his bow 
 downward. 
 
 The applause died sharply on the crest 
 of a crescendo, and left the air trembling. 
 There was a sudden hush. A few sank 
 back in their seats, but most of them re 
 mained standing where they were, just as 
 we behind him were suddenly fixed in our 
 positions. 
 
 I have since heard a deal of argument 
 [ 232 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 as to the use and power of music as the 
 voice of thought. I was not then and 
 I am not now of that school which 
 holds music to be a medium to transmit 
 anything but musical ideas. So, of the 
 effect of Rodriguez s music on my mind, or 
 the possibility that, for some occult reason, 
 I was for the moment en rapport with him, 
 as after events forced me to believe, I shall 
 enter into no discussion. I am merely 
 going to record, to the best of my ability, 
 my thoughts, as I remember them. I no 
 more presume to explain why they came 
 to me, than I do to analyse my trust in im 
 mortality. 
 
 As he drew his bow downward, as the 
 first chord filled my ears, everything else 
 faded away. 
 
 There was the merest prelude, and then 
 the theme, which appeared, disappeared 
 and re-appeared again and again to be 
 woven about every emotion, at once devel 
 oped and dominated me. 
 
 I seemed at first to hear its melody in 
 the fresh morning air, where it soared up 
 ward above the gentle breezes, mingling in 
 harmony with the matins of the birds and 
 the softly rustling trees. Hopeful as 
 youth, careless as the wind, it sang in glad- 
 
 [ 233 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 ness and in trust. Then I heard the same 
 melody throb under the noonday glow of 
 summer. Its tone was broadened and 
 sweetened, but still brave and pure, when 
 all else in Nature, save its clear voice, 
 seemed sensuous. I saw gardens in a riot 
 of color; felt love at its passionate con 
 summation, ere the light seemed to fade 
 slowly toward the sunset hour. The 
 world was still pulsing with color, but the 
 grey of twilight was slowly enwrapping it. 
 Then the simple melody soared above the 
 day s peacefulest hour, firm in promise 
 on the hushed air. In the mystery of 
 night which followed, when black clouds 
 snuffed out the torches of heaven, when the 
 silence had something of terror even for 
 the brave, that same steadfast loving hope 
 ful theme moved on, consoling as trust in 
 immortality. Through youth to maturity, 
 and on to age, it sang with the same re- 
 iterant, subduing, infallible loyalty the 
 crystallized melody of all that is spiritual 
 in love, in adoration, in passion. 
 
 As it died away into the distance, as if 
 its spirit, barely audible, were translated to 
 the far off heavenly host, I strained my 
 hearing to catch that " last fine sound " 
 that passed so gently one " could not be 
 [ 234 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 quite sure where it and silence met," and 
 for the first and last time in my life I had 
 known all that a violin can do. 
 
 For a moment the hush was wonderful. 
 
 Rodriguez stood like a statue. His 
 bow still touched the strings. Yet there 
 was no sound that one could hear, though 
 his own fine head was still bent, as though 
 he, too, listened. 
 
 He gently dropped his bow he smiled 
 we all came back to earth together. 
 
 Then such a scene followed as beggars 
 description. 
 
 But he passed hurriedly out of sight, 
 and no amount of tumult could induce him 
 to even show himself again. 
 
 Slowly, reluctantly, the audience dis 
 persed, still murmuring. The musicians 
 picked up their traps, and wildly or soberly 
 according to their temperaments, began to 
 dispute. It was everywhere the same 
 topic the unknown work that Rodriguez 
 had so marvellously played. 
 
 As for me as he played, I seemed to 
 be in the very heart of the melody, singing 
 it too, as his violin sang it. As the song 
 soared upward, my heart was filled with 
 longing, with pain, with joy, with regret. 
 As it gradually died into silence a mist 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 seemed to pass from before my eyes, and 
 I became suddenly conscious of the sweet 
 face of my beloved, growing more and 
 more distinct, until, as the last note died 
 away, I was fully conscious that the music 
 had passed between us, like a cloud, to 
 obscure my sight utterly, and to recede as 
 slowly, leaving her face before me. 
 
 I knew afterward, that, to all appear 
 ances, I had been gazing directly into her 
 face all the time. 
 
 Through it all I had a vague sense that 
 what he played was not new to me. It 
 seemed like something I had long known 
 and tried to say, but could not. 
 
 In a daze, I left the stage. Silently I 
 put my violin in its case, pulled on my 
 great coat, and turned up the collar about 
 my face. I was sure I was haggard, and 
 I did not wish her to remark it. I knew 
 that I should find her waiting in the corri 
 dor with her father. 
 
 Just as I passed out of the artists* room, 
 I was surprised to see Rodriguez standing 
 there in conversation with her, and her 
 father. He was, however, just leaving 
 them, and did not see me. 
 
 I knew that her father had known him 
 in Vienna, when the now great violinist 
 
 [ 236 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 was a mere lad, and I had heard that he 
 forgot no one, so the sight gave me a 
 merely momentary surprise. 
 
 As I joined her, and we stepped out into 
 the night together, I could not help won 
 dering if Rodriguez had noticed her sensi 
 tive violin face, as I tried to get a look 
 into her eyes. I remembered afterward 
 that, so wrapped was I in my own emo 
 tions, and so sure was I of her sympathy, 
 that I neither noted nor asked how the 
 music had affected her. 
 
 It was bitterly cold. We walked 
 briskly, and parted at the door. 
 
 As I look back, I realize how much an 
 egoist an emotional man can be, and in 
 good faith be unconscious of it. 
 
 The day after the concert was Satur 
 day a day on which I rarely saw her, as 
 it was my habit to spend all Sunday with 
 her. I was always somewhat an epicure 
 in my moral nature. I liked to pet my in 
 clinations, as I have seen good livers whet 
 their appetites, by self-denial. 
 
 All day I was restless and depressed. 
 
 At the piano, with my violin in my hand, 
 it was still that same haunting melody that 
 bewitched my fingers. Whatever I es 
 sayed led me, unconsciously, back to the 
 
 [ 23? ] 
 
. 
 TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 same theme; and whenever that motif fell 
 from my fingers her face appeared before 
 my eyes so distinctly that I would have to 
 dash my hand across them to wipe away 
 the impression that it was the real face 
 that was before me. Afterward, when I 
 was calmer, I knew that this was nothing 
 singular since, whether I had ever re 
 flected on the fact or not, she was rarely 
 from my mind. 
 
 As I played that melody over and over 
 again, it puzzled me more and more. I 
 could find nowhere within my memory 
 anything that even reminded me of it. 
 Yet I was vaguely familiar with it. 
 
 When evening came on I was more rest 
 less than ever. By nine o clock I found 
 it impossible to bear longer with my own 
 company, and I started out. I had no des 
 tination. Something impelled me toward 
 the Opera House, though I cared little for 
 opera as a rule, that is, opera as we have 
 it in America fashionable and Philis 
 tine. t 
 
 I entered the auditorium the opera 
 was " Faust " just in season to hear the 
 last half of the third act. 
 
 As the sensuous passionate music 
 swelled in the sultry air of the dark gar- 
 
 c 238 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 den at Nuremburg, I listened, moved by 
 it as I always am when I cannot see 
 the over-dressed, lady-like Marguerite 
 that goes a-starring in America. My eyes 
 wandered restlessly over the audience. 
 Suddenly there was a rushing, like the 
 surging of waters, in my ears, which 
 drowned the music, and I saw Rodriguez 
 sitting carelessly in the front of a stage 
 box. His eyes were fixed on me, and I 
 thought there was an expression of relief 
 in them. 
 
 Shocked that the unexpected sight of the 
 man should have such an effect on me, I 
 pulled myself together with an effort. 
 The sound of the waters receded, the 
 music rushed back, leaving me amazed at 
 a condition in myself which should have 
 rendered me so susceptible, in some sub 
 conscious way, to the undoubted magnet 
 ism of the man whose violin had so af 
 fected me the night before, and so haunted 
 me all day, and in regard to whose com 
 position I had an ill-defined, but insistent, 
 theory which would intrude into my mind. 
 
 In vain I turned my eyes to the stage. 
 I could not forget his presence. Every 
 few minutes my glance, as if drawn by a 
 magnet, would turn in his direction, and 
 
 [ 239 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 as often as that happened, whether he 
 were leaning back to speak to some one 
 hidden by the curtain, or watching the 
 house, or listening intently to the music, I 
 never failed to find that his eyes met mine. 
 
 I sat through the next act in this con 
 dition. Then I could stand it no longer. 
 I felt that I might end by making myself 
 objectionable, and that, after all, it was 
 far wiser to be safe at home, than sitting 
 in the theatre where I occupied myself in 
 staring at but one person. 
 
 I made my way slowly up the aisle and 
 into the foyer, and had nearly reached the 
 outer lobby, when I suddenly felt sure that 
 he was near. 
 
 I looked up ! 
 
 Yes, there he was, and he was looking 
 me directly in the face again. An odd 
 smile came into his eyes. He nodded to 
 me as he approached, and, with a quaint 
 shake of the head, said: " I just made a 
 wager with myself. I bet that if I en 
 countered you in the lobby, without actu 
 ally seeking you, andiyou saw me, I d speak 
 to you and ask a favor of you. I am 
 going to win that wager." 
 
 He did not seem to expect me to answer 
 him. He simply turned beside me, thrust 
 [ 240 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 his arm carelessly through mine, and 
 moved with me toward the exit. 
 
 " Let us step outside a moment," he 
 said. It was easy to understand why. 
 The hero of the night before could not 
 hope to pass unnoted. 
 
 He stepped into the street. 
 
 It was a moonlit night. I remember 
 that distinctly. 
 
 He lighted his cigarette, and held his 
 case toward me. I shook my head. I 
 had no desire to smoke. 
 
 We walked a few steps together in si 
 lence before he said: "I am trying to 
 frame a most unusual request so that it 
 may not seem too fantastic to you. It is 
 more difficult than writing a fugue. The 
 truth is I have gotten myself into a bit 
 of a fix and I want to guard against its 
 turning into something worse than that. 
 I need some man s assistance to extricate 
 myself." 
 
 I probably looked alarmed. Those 
 forebears of mine will intrude when I am 
 taken by surprise. He saw it, and said, 
 quickly: " It is nothing that a man, will 
 ing to be of service to me, need balk at; 
 nothing, in fact, that a chivalrous man 
 would not be glad to do. You may not 
 
 [ 241 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 think very well of me afterward, but be 
 sure you will never regret the act. I was 
 in sore need of a friend. There was none 
 at hand if such as I ever have friends. 
 Suddenly I saw you. I remembered your 
 violin as I heard it behind me last night 
 an Amati, I fancy? " 
 
 I nodded assent. 
 
 " A beautiful instrument. I may some 
 day ask you to let me try it you and I 
 can never be quite strangers after to 
 night." 
 
 He paused, pounded the sidewalk with 
 his stick, impatiently, as if the long pre 
 amble made him as nervous as it did me. 
 Then, looking me in the face, he said rap 
 idly: "This is it. When I leave the 
 box, after the next act, do you follow me. 
 Stay by me, no matter what happens. 
 Stick to me, even though I ask you to leave 
 me, so long as there is any one with me. 
 Do more stay by me, until, in your 
 room or mine, you and I sit down together, 
 and well, I will explain what must, until 
 then, seem either mad or ridiculous. Is 
 that clear?" 
 
 I assured him that it was. 
 
 " Agreed then," he said. 
 
 By this time we were back at the door. 
 [ 242 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 The whole thing had not taken five min 
 utes. We re-entered the theatre, and 
 walked hurriedly through the lobby to the 
 foyer. As we were about to separate, he 
 laid a hand on either of my shoulders, and 
 with a whimsical smile, said: "I ll dare 
 swear I shall try to give you the slip." 
 The smile died on his lips. It never 
 reached his eyes. " Don t let me do it. 
 After the next act, then," and, with a wave 
 of his hand, he disappeared. 
 
 I thought I was ridiculous enough when 
 he had gone, and I realized that I had 
 promised to follow this man, I did not 
 know where, I did not know with whom, I 
 did not know why. 
 
 It was useless for me to go back into 
 the auditorium. I could not listen to the 
 music. In spite of myself, I kept ap 
 proaching the entrance opposite the box, 
 and peering through the glass, like a de 
 tective. I knew I was afraid that he 
 would keep his word and try to give me 
 the slip. I never asked myself what differ 
 ence it would make to me if he did. I 
 simply took up the strange unexplained 
 task he had given me as if to me it were a 
 matter of life or death. 
 
 Even before the curtain fell, I had hur- 
 
 [ 243 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 ried round the house and placed myself 
 with my back to the door, so that I could 
 not miss him as he passed, and yet had no 
 appearance of watching him. It was well 
 that I did, for in an instant the door 
 opened. He came out and passed me 
 quickly, followed by a tall slender woman 
 in a straight wrap that fell from her head 
 to the ground, and the domino-like hood 
 which completely concealed her face. 
 
 As he drew her hand through his arm, 
 he looked back at me, over his shoulder. 
 His eyes met mine. They seemed to say, 
 " Is it you, old True-penny? " But he 
 merely bent his head courteously and with 
 his lips said, " Come ! " I felt sure that 
 he shrugged his shoulders resignedly, as 
 he saw that I kept my word, and followed. 
 
 At the door he found his carriage. He 
 assisted his companion in. Then in the 
 gentlest manner he said in my ear, as he 
 stood aside for me to enter, " In with you. 
 My honor is saved, but repentance dogs its 
 heels." 
 
 To the lady he said, " This is the friend 
 whom you were kind enough to permit me 
 to ask for supper." 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 I uncovered my head to salute her, mur- 
 
 [ 244 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 muring some vague phrase of thanks, 
 which was, I am sure, inaudible. Then 
 Rodriguez followed, and took his place 
 beside me on the front seat. 
 
 As the door banged I could have sworn 
 that the lady, whose face was concealed 
 behind the falling lace of her hood, as if 
 by a mask, spoke. 
 
 He thought so, too, for he leaned for 
 ward as if to catch the words. Evidently 
 we were mistaken, for he received no re 
 sponse. He murmured an oath against 
 the pavements and the noise, and turned 
 a smiling face to me and I ? Why, I 
 smiled back ! 
 
 As we rattled over the pavings, through 
 the lighted streets, no one spoke. The 
 lady leaned back in her corner. Opposite 
 her Rodriguez hummed " Salve! dirnora " 
 and I beside him, sat strangely confused 
 and inert, still as if in a dream. 
 
 I had not even noted the direction we 
 were taking, until I found that we had 
 stopped in front of a French resturant, one 
 of the few Bohemian resorts the town 
 boasted. 
 
 Rodriguez leaped out, assisted the lady, 
 and I followed. 
 
 Just as we reached the top of the stairs, 
 
 [ 245 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 as 1 was about to follow them into one of 
 the small supper rooms, like a flash, as if 
 I were suddenly waking from a dream into 
 conscious, with exactly the same sensation 
 I have experienced many and many a morn 
 ing when struggling back to life from sleep, 
 I realized that the slender figure before 
 me was as familiar as my own hand. 
 
 As the door closed behind us, I called 
 her by name and my voice startled even 
 myself. 
 
 She threw back the hood of her cape and 
 faced me. 
 
 Rodriguez had heard, too. He wheeled 
 quickly toward us, as nearly broken from 
 his self-control as a man so sure of himself 
 could be. 
 
 Under the flash of our eyes the color 
 surged up painfully in her pale face. 
 There was much the same expression in 
 our eyes, I fancy, Rodriguez s and mine 
 but I felt that it was at his face she 
 gazed. 
 
 I have never known how far it is given 
 to woman to penetrate the mysteries of 
 human nature, for she is gifted, it seems 
 to me, with a dissimulation in which she 
 wraps herself, as with an impenetrable 
 veil of outward innocence, and ignorance, 
 
 [ 246 ]. 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 from our less acute perception and ruder 
 knowledge. 
 
 There were speeches enough that it 
 would have become a man in my position 
 to make. I knew them all. But I said 
 nothing. Some instinct saved me; some 
 vague fore-knowledge made me feel I 
 knew not why that there was really 
 nothing for me to say at that moment. 
 
 For fully a minute none of us moved. 
 
 Rodriguez recovered himself first. I 
 cannot describe the peculiar expression of 
 his eyes as he slowly turned them from her 
 face to mine. So bound up was he in him 
 self that I was confident that he did not 
 yet suspect more than that she and I had 
 met before. What was in her mind I 
 dared not guess. 
 
 He composedly crossed to her. He 
 gently unfastened her heavy wrap, care 
 fully lifted it from her shoulders. He 
 pushed a high backed chair toward her, 
 and, with a smile, forced her to sit she 
 did look dangerously white. She sank 
 into it, and wearily leaned her pretty head 
 back, as if for support, and I noticed that 
 her slender hands, as they grasped either 
 arm of the chair, trembled, in spite of the 
 grip she took to steady herself. I felt her 
 
 [ 24? ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 whole body vibrate, as a violin vibrates 
 for a moment after the bow leaves the 
 strings. 
 
 " It is a strange chance that you two 
 should know each other," he said, " and 
 very well, too, if I may judge from your 
 manner of addressing her? " 
 
 I moved to a place behind her chair, and 
 laid my hand on it. " This lady is my 
 affianced wife," I replied. 
 
 He did not change color. For an 
 instant not a muscle moved. He did not 
 stir a step from his place before the fire, 
 where he stood, with his gaze fixed on her 
 face. For one instant he turned his widely 
 opened eyes on me brief as the glance 
 was, I felt it was critical. Then his lids 
 quivered and drooped completely over his 
 eyes, absolutely veiling the whole man, and, 
 to my amazement, he laughed aloud. 
 
 But even as he did so, he spread his 
 hands quickly toward us as if to apologize, 
 and ghastly as the comment was, grotesque 
 even, as it all seemed, I think we both 
 understood. He hardly needed to say, 
 " Pardon me," as he quickly recovered his 
 strong hold on himself. 
 
 The next instant he was again standing 
 erect before the fire, with his hands thrust 
 
 [ 248 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 deep into his pockets, and his voice was 
 absolutely calm as he turned toward me 
 and said, with a smile under his half 
 lowered heavy lids, " I promised you, when 
 I asked you to accompany me, that before 
 we slept to-night I would explain my singu 
 lar request. I hardly thought that I 
 should have to do it, whether I would or 
 not, under these circumstances. Indeed, 
 it appears that you have the right to de 
 mand of me the explanation I so flippantly 
 offered you an hour ago. I am bound to 
 own that, had I dreamed that you knew 
 this lady that a relation so intimate 
 existed between you I should surely 
 never have done of my own will this which 
 Fate has presumed to do for me. What 
 can I say to you two that will help or mend 
 this to you, my fellow musician, who 
 were willing to stand -my friend in need, 
 without question; and to the woman you 
 love, and to whom I owe an eternal debt 
 that we may have no doubts of one 
 another in the future? I cannot make 
 excuses well, even if I have the right to. 
 I only hope we are all three so constituted 
 that we may be able to feel that for a 
 little we have been outside common causes 
 and common results, and that you may 
 
 [ 249 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 listen to an explanation which may seem 
 strange, pardon me, and part from me 
 without resentment, being sure that I shall 
 suffer, and yet be glad." 
 
 The face against the high-backed chair 
 was very pale. She closed her eyes. His 
 gaze was on her. He marked the change, 
 I was sure. He thrust his hands still 
 deeper into his pockets, as if to brace him 
 self, and went on. " Last night her pure 
 eyes looked into mine. I had seen her 
 face before me night after night, never 
 dreaming who she was. I had always 
 played to her, and it had seemed to me at 
 times as if the music I made was in her 
 face. I could see nothing else. I seemed 
 to be looking through her amber eyes, 
 down, down into her deep beautiful soul, 
 and my soul reached out toward her, with 
 a sudden knowledge of what manhood 
 might have been had all womanhood been 
 pure; of what life might have been with 
 one who could know no sin. 
 
 " It was only her face that I saw, as I 
 stood waiting the end of the applause. I 
 seemed to be gazing between her glorious 
 eyes, as to tell the truth, I had more than 
 once gazed in my dreams in the past month. 
 I had already written the song that seeing 
 
 [ 2 .5 J 
 
,THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 her face had sung in my heart. It was 
 with an irresistible longing, an impulse 
 stronger than my will, to say to her just 
 what her face had said to me, though 
 she might never know it was said to her 
 that I went back to the stage. Almost 
 before I realized it, I was there. I felt 
 the vibrant soul of my violin as I laid my 
 cheek against it, and I saw the same spirit 
 tremble behind the eyes of the fair face 
 above me, as one sees a reflection tremble 
 under the wind rippled water. The first 
 chord throbbed on the air in response to 
 it. Then I played what she had uncon 
 sciously inspired in me. It was in her 
 eyes, where never swerving, immortal 
 loyalty shone, that I read the deathless 
 theme. Out of her nature came the inspi 
 ration. To her belongs the honor. I 
 know no one better, that as I played 
 last night, I shall never play again; just 
 as I realize that what I played last night 
 my own nature could never of itself have 
 created. It was she who spoke, it was not 
 I. Let him who dares, try to explain that 
 miracle." 
 
 She rose from her chair and moved 
 toward him, and as she moved, she swayed 
 pitifully. 
 
 [ 251 i 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 He did not stir. 
 
 It was I who caught her as she stumbled, 
 and I held her close in my arms. After 
 a moment, she relaxed a little, and her 
 head drooped wearily on my shoulder. 
 He lowered his lids, and I felt that every 
 nerve in his well controlled body quivered 
 with resentment. 
 
 He motioned to entreat her to sit down 
 again. She shook her head, and, when he 
 went on, again, he for the first time ad 
 dressed himself directly to her. " It was 
 chance that set you across my path last 
 night you and your father. I recog 
 nized him at once. I knew your mother 
 well. I can remember the day on which 
 you were born, I was a lad then. Your 
 mother was one of my idols. Why, child, 
 I fiddled for you in your cradle. At the 
 moment I realized who you were, you were 
 so much a part of my music that you only 
 appealed to me through that. But when 
 I left you, I carried a consciousness of you 
 with me that was more tangible. I had 
 held your hand in mine. I feel it there 
 still. 
 
 " I went directly to my room, alone. I 
 sat down immediately to transcribe as 
 much of what I had played as possible 
 [ 252 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 while it was fresh in my mind. As I wrote 
 I was alone with you. But as the spirit 
 of the music was imprisoned, I knew that 
 you were becoming more and more a ma 
 terial presence to me. When I slept, it 
 was to dream of you again but, oh, the 
 difference ! 
 
 " I should have been grateful to you for 
 the inspiration that you had been to me 
 and I was ! But it had served its purpose. 
 They tell me I never played like that 
 before. I feel I never shall again. But 
 the end of an emotion is never in the spirit 
 with me. 
 
 " I started out this afternoon to find you, 
 oblivious of the fact that I should have left 
 town. I had the audacity to tell myself 
 that I should be a cad if I departed with 
 out thanking the sweet daughter of your 
 mother for her share in making me great. 
 I had the presumption to believe in myself. 
 It seemed natural enough to your good 
 father that a whimsical genius/ as he 
 called me, should be allowed the caprice 
 of even tardily looking up his boyhood s 
 acquaintance. He received me nobly, 
 was proud that you should see I remem 
 bered him and simply made no secret 
 of it. 
 
 [ 253 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 u Though I knew what you had seemed 
 to me, I little realized that the child of true, 
 fine musical spirits had a nature strung like 
 my Strad fine, clear, true, matchless, as 
 well as inspiring. I spent a beautiful 
 afternoon with you. I cannot better ex 
 plain than by saying that to me it was like 
 such a day as I have sometimes had with 
 my violin. I call them my holy-days, and 
 God knows I try to keep them holy, 
 though after too many of them follow a 
 St. Michael and the Dragon tussle and 
 I mean no discredit to the Archangel, 
 either. 
 
 " The honest old father, proud to trust 
 his daughter to me, in his kind heart he 
 always considered me a most maligned 
 man, went off to the play and his Satur 
 day night club. He told me that. 
 
 * We were alone together. It was then 
 that I began to think that I could probably 
 play on her nature as I did on my violin, 
 and then, with a player s frenzy, to realize 
 that I had been doing it from the first; that 
 we had vibrated in harmony like two ends 
 of a chord. Then I saw no more the spirit 
 behind her eyes. I saw only the beautiful 
 face in which the color came and went, the 
 burnished hair so full of golden lights, on 
 
 C 254 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 which I longed to lay my hand the sen 
 sitive red lips and the angel and the 
 demon rose up within me, and looked one 
 another in the face, and I heard the one 
 fling the truth at the other, which even the 
 devil no longer cared to deny Ah, for 
 give me ! " 
 
 In his egoism of self-analysis and open 
 confession, I am sure he did not realize 
 how far he was going, until she buried her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 Then he stepped across the room and 
 stood before me as she rested her face in 
 her hands against my breast. 
 
 " It was not especially clever the last 
 struggle against myself. I had never 
 known such a woman before. I suppose 
 if I had, I should have tortured her to 
 death to strike new chords out of her 
 nature, and wept at my work ! I had 
 not the courage to tear myself abruptly 
 away. I suggested an hour of the opera 
 I gave her the public as a protector 
 and they sang * Faust. It was then that, 
 knowing myself so well, I looked out into 
 the auditorium and saw you! It was 
 Providence that put you in my way. I 
 thought it was accident. I am sure I need 
 say no more? " 
 
 [ 255 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 He leaned over her a moment. He 
 gently took her hands from her face. Her 
 eyelids trembled. For one brief moment 
 she opened her eyes to his. 
 
 " You have given me one sweet day," 
 he murmured. " Some part of your soul 
 has called its music out of mine. That off 
 spring of a miraculous sympathy will live 
 immortal when all else of our two lives is 
 forgotten. Remember to-day as a dream 
 and me as a shadow there " he 
 stopped abruptly. I felt her head fall for 
 ward. She had swooned. 
 
 Together we looked into the beautiful 
 colorless face. 
 
 I loved music as I loved light. I was 
 an artist myself. A great musician and 
 this man was one was to me the greatest 
 achievement of Art and Living. 
 
 I did not refuse the hand he held out. 
 I buried mine in it. 
 
 I did not smile nor mistrust, nor mis 
 understand the tears in his eyes, nor despise 
 him because I knew they would soon 
 enough be dry. I did not doubt his sin 
 cerity when he said, " I have never done 
 so bitter a thing as say good-bye to this 
 
 [ 256 ] 
 
THE VIOLINIST S STORY 
 
 though I know but too well such are not 
 for me." 
 
 He bent over her, as if he would take 
 her in his arms. 
 
 She was unconscious. I felt tempted to 
 put her there. I knew I loved her as he 
 could never love yet I pitied him the 
 more for that. 
 
 "Tell her," he whispered, "tell her, 
 when she shall have forgotten this as I 
 hope she will that for this hour at least 
 I loved her; that losing her I am liable to 
 love her long,- so we shall never meet 
 again. I shall never cease to be grateful 
 to the Providence that threw you in my 
 way after to-night. To-night I could 
 curse it and my conscience with a right 
 good will." With an effort he straight 
 ened himself. " You can afford to for 
 give me," he said, " for I I envy you 
 with all my heart." And he was gone. 
 
 I heard his voice as he spoke to the 
 waiter outside. I listened to his step as 
 he descended the stairs. He had passed 
 out of our life forever. 
 
 That was years ago. 
 
 She has long been dead. 
 
 He was not to blame if the sunshine that 
 
 [ 257 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 danced in music out of the eyes of the 
 woman I loved never quite came back 
 again. We were, all the same, happy 
 together in our way. 
 
 He was not to blame if it was written 
 in the big book of Fate that it should be 
 his heart, and not mine, that should read 
 the song she bore in her soul. 
 
 Something must be sacrificed for Art. 
 We sacrificed our first illusions and the 
 Song he read will sing on when even Rodri 
 guez is but a tradition. 
 
 [ 258 ] 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 ADIEU 
 How WE WENT OUT OF THE GARDEN 
 
 THE last word had hardly been uttered 
 when the Youngster, who had been fidget 
 ing, leaped to his feet. 
 
 " Hark !" he cried. 
 
 We all listened. 
 
 " Cannon," he yelled, and rushed out to 
 the big gate, which he tore open, and 
 dashed into the road. 
 
 There was no doubt of it. Off to the 
 north we could all hear the dull far-off 
 booming of artillery. 
 
 We followed into the garden. 
 
 The Youngster was in the middle of the 
 road. As we joined him he bent toward 
 the ground, as if, Indian-like, he could 
 hear better. " Hush," he said in a 
 whisper, as we all began to talk. " Hush ! 
 I hear horses." 
 
 There was a dead silence, and in it, we 
 
 C 259 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 could hear the pounding of horses hoofs 
 in the valley. 
 
 " Better come in out of the rain," said 
 the Doctor, and we obeyed. Once inside 
 the gate the Doctor said, " Well, I reckon 
 it is to-morrow at the latest for us. The 
 truth of the matter is: I kept something 
 from you this evening. The village was 
 drummed out last night. As this road is 
 being kept clear, no one passed here, and 
 as we were ready to start at a moment s 
 notice, I made up my mind to have one 
 more evening. However, we ve time 
 enough. They can t advance to-night. 
 Too wet. No moon. Come on into the 
 house." 
 
 He closed and locked the big gate, but 
 before we reached the house, there was a 
 rush of horsemen in the road then a 
 halt the Youngster opened the gate 
 before it was called for. Two mounted 
 men in Khaki rode in, stopped short at the 
 sight of the group, saluted. 
 
 "Your house?" asked one, as he slid 
 from his saddle and leaned against his 
 horse. 
 
 " Mine," said the Doctor, stepping 
 forward. 
 
 " You are not proposing to stay here? " 
 [ 260 ] 
 
How WE WENT OUT OF THE GARDEN 
 
 " No, we are leaving in the morning." 
 
 u Got any conveyances? " 
 
 " Two touring cars." 
 
 " Good. You don t mind my proposing 
 that you go before daylight, do you? " 
 
 " Not a bit," replied the Doctor, " if it 
 is necessary." 
 
 " That s for you to decide," said the 
 other officer. " We are going to set up 
 a battery in this garden. Awfully sorry, 
 you know, but it can t be helped." 
 
 The Youngster, who had remained at 
 the gate, came back, and whispered in my 
 ear, " They are coming. It s the English 
 still retreating. By Jove, it looks as if 
 they would get to Paris ! " 
 
 " How many are there of you? " asked 
 the senior officer. 
 
 " Ten," replied the Doctor. 
 
 " Eleven," corrected the Divorcee. " I 
 shall take Angele and the baby." And 
 she started on a run for the garage. 
 
 " Perhaps," said the Doctor, looking 
 through the open gate, where the weary 
 soldiers were beginning to straggle by, 
 " perhaps it will not be necessary for all 
 of us to go." And he went close to the 
 officers, and drew his papers from his 
 pocket. There was a hurried whispered 
 
 [ 261 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 conversation, in which the Critic and the 
 Journalist joined. When it was over, the 
 Doctor said, " I understand," and returned 
 to our group. 
 
 "Well, good friends," he said, "it 
 really is farewell to the garden! The 
 Critic and I are going to stay a bit. We 
 are needed. The Youngster will drive 
 one car, and the Lawyer the other. Get 
 ready to start by three, that will be 
 just before daylight and get into the 
 house, all of you. You are in the way 
 here!" 
 
 Everybody obeyed. 
 
 We had less than three hours to get 
 together necessary articles and all the time 
 there was the steady marching of feet in 
 the road, where what servants we had were 
 standing with water and such small help as 
 could be offered a tired army, and bringing 
 in for first aid such of the exhausted men 
 as could be braced up. 
 
 Long before we were ready, we heard 
 the rumble of the artillery and the low 
 commands of the officers. In spite of our 
 selves, we looked out to see the gray things 
 being driven into the gate, and down 
 toward the hillside. 
 
 c 262 ] 
 
How WE WENT OUT OF THE GARDEN 
 
 " Oh," groaned the Divorcee, " right 
 over the flower beds ! " 
 
 " Bother it all, don t look out," shouted 
 the Youngster from his room. " That s 
 just like a woman ! Be a sport ! " And 
 he dashed down the hall. We had just 
 time to see that he had " put that uniform 
 on." He was going into the big game, 
 and he was dressed for the part. In a 
 certain sense, all the men were, when we 
 at last, bags in hand, gathered in the din 
 ing room, so we were not surprised to find 
 the Nurse in her hospital rig, with a white 
 cap covering her hair, and the red cross 
 on her arm. We knew at once that she 
 was remaining behind with the Doctor and 
 the Critic. 
 
 The cars were at the door. Angele? 
 with her baby in her arms, was sitting in 
 one. 
 
 " Come on," said the Doctor, " the 
 quicker you are out of this the better." 
 
 And, almost without a word, like sol 
 diers under orders, we were packed into 
 the two cars. The Youngster, the Law 
 yer, and the two officers stood together 
 with their heads bent over a map. 
 
 " Better take a side road," said the 
 
 [ 263 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 officer, " until you get near to Meaux, then 
 take the route de Senlis. It will lead you 
 right over the hill into the Meaux, then 
 you will find the route nationale free. 
 Cross the Marne there, and on into Paris 
 by the forest of Vincennes." 
 
 " Let the Lawyer lead," said the Doctor, 
 " and be prudent, Youngster. You know 
 where a letter will reach me. See that the 
 girls get off safely!" He shook hands 
 all round. The cars shot out of the gate, 
 tooted for a passage through the strag 
 gling line of tired men in Khaki, took the 
 first turn to get out of the way, and shot 
 down the hill to the river. 
 
 " Well," said the Youngster, who was 
 driving our car, with the Voilinist beside 
 him, " I think we behaved fine, and, by 
 Jove, how I hate to go just now! But I 
 have to join day after to-morrow, and I 
 suppose it will be a long time before I see 
 anything as exciting as this. Bother it. 
 Well, you were amazed at the calmness 
 only yesterday ! " 
 
 No one replied. We were all busy 
 with our own thoughts, and with " playing 
 the game." In silence we crossed the first 
 bridge. Day was just breaking as we 
 mounted the hill on the other side. Sud- 
 [ 264 ] 
 
How WE WENT OUT OF THE GARDEN 
 
 denly the Youngster put on the brake. 
 
 " Here," he said to the Violinist, " take 
 the wheel a moment. I must look back." 
 
 Just as he spoke there was a tremendous 
 explosion. 
 
 " Bomb," he cried, as he got out his 
 glass, and, standing on the running board, 
 looked back. " They ve got it," he yelled. 
 "Look!" 
 
 We all piled out of the car, and ran to 
 the edge of the hill. From there we could 
 look back and just see the dear old house 
 standing on the opposite height in its 
 walled garden. 
 
 There was another explosion, and a puff 
 of smoke seemed to rise right out of the 
 middle of the garden, where the old tree 
 stood, under which we had dined so many 
 evenings. 
 
 For a few minutes we stood in silence. 
 
 It was the gentle voice of the Violinist 
 that called us back. " Better get on," he 
 said. " We can do nothing now but obey 
 orders," and quietly we crawled back and 
 the car started on. 
 
 We did not speak again until we ran up 
 to the gates of Paris, and stopped to have 
 our papers examined for the last time. 
 Then I said, with a laugh: "And only 
 
 [ 265 ] 
 
TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN 
 
 think! I did not tell my story at all! " 
 " That s so," said the Youngster. 
 " What a shame. Never mind, dear, you 
 can tell the whole story!": And I 
 have. 
 
 THE END 
 
 [ 266 ] 
 
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