A WOMAN'S TALENT 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA MORRELL HUNT 
 
 BOSTON 
 DE WOLFE, FISKE & CO, 
 
 361 AND 365 WASHINGTON STREET
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY 
 DK WOLFE, FISKE & Co. 
 
 TYPOGRAPHY AND ELECTROTYPING BY 
 C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT 7 
 
 PAUL 59 
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS 89 
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE 147 
 
 FRIENDSHIP? A SKETCH 181 
 
 THE LOST JEWEL 217 
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE 241 
 
 2O61S24
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 " So you knew Elofsa de Sevrenac Eliza Mari- 
 ner was her maiden name ? " 
 
 " Yes, I knew her well," replied Mr. Sebastian 
 Jones, as he sat lazily before the open window, 
 stroking the ends of his fair mustache. His pale 
 face was in the full glare of the morning light ; 
 his gray eyes were half closed, as though to shield 
 their color from the sun. 
 
 " Where did you first meet her, Jones ? and was 
 it at the time of her literary fame ? " 
 
 " I met her in Paris. I first knew of her writ- 
 ings through her husband, who spoke of them in 
 reference to himself." 
 
 " She had great talent. The publishers waited 
 in vain for a second book, but they said she 
 stopped writing after that first production." 
 
 " Madame de Sevrenac never finished but one 
 book, and it was a great success." 
 
 7
 
 8 A WOMAN^S TALENT. 
 
 " How like a foolish woman to throw her talent 
 aside at the very moment when it might come to 
 good." 
 
 " Madame de Sevrdnac was not a foolish woman, 
 but a wise one ; she gave up her work to please 
 her husband." The color came into Mr. Sebas- 
 tian Jones's pale face as he turned away to light 
 his cigar. 
 
 " You were a friend of Monsieur de Sevrdnac 
 during your sojourn in Paris, were you not ? " 
 
 " It was through the husband I came to know 
 the wife." 
 
 "A very beautiful girl, I always thought." 
 
 "And a very gifted one," said Mr. Sebastian 
 Jones quietly. 
 
 " How came she to change her Christian 
 name ? " 
 
 " Monsieur de Sevrenac could not pronounce 
 Eliza : his foreign tongue refused to form the syl- 
 lable." 
 
 " Eloisa suits the girl well." 
 
 " Yes ; for in her ways she is almost a French 
 woman now," said Mr. Sebastian Jones.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 9 
 
 In Paris the whirl was increasing, the business 
 growing, the crowd multiplying, the gayety pro- 
 gressing. 
 
 Maurice de Sevrenac was out. 
 
 His wife, Eloi'sa de Sevrenac, was at home. 
 
 Impatiently in her salon she awaited his return ; 
 anxiously she looked for his presence. At every 
 sound she started ; at every carriage wheel she 
 listened. She sat alone ; her white hands clasped 
 around her knees, her head forward to catch the 
 familiar tread of his footsteps on the stair. 
 Stretching out her hand she lightly touched the 
 bell for her servant to appear. A knock followed 
 at the curtained door ; the butler stood before 
 her. 
 
 " Bring me some tea, Francois. You need not 
 wait for Monsieur de Sevrenac." 
 
 Just then a carriage stopped in the street below ; 
 Madame de Sevrenac pressed her lace handker- 
 chief to her brow. " It is he," she murmured. 
 Then as Monsieur de Sevrenac came in she rose 
 to meet him. He was large and conspicuous look- 
 ing, his face stern, his forehead wrinkled like 
 that of a man who had lived many years, planned 
 many projects, thought many thoughts, accom-
 
 10 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 plished many things. His dress was fashionable ; 
 his appearance striking. 
 
 " You are late, Maurice," said the young girl. 
 
 " Not very late," replied her husband, putting 
 down his gloves before taking his wife's hand. " I 
 beg your pardon if I have kept you waiting." 
 
 " No, you have not kept me waiting, but it 
 seemed long until you came." 
 
 He laughed briefly, and walking to the tea-table 
 begged that he might have a strong cup of tea. 
 Madame de Sevrenac poured out the steaming 
 beverage, her hand trembled as she dropped the 
 lumps of sugar into the dainty Dresden cup. Her 
 cheeks burned as she saw her husband watching 
 her. 
 
 " Enough sugar, EloYsa, I always take but two 
 lumps ; to-day you honor me with four." The girl 
 laughed nervously and said she must be growing 
 older, absent-minded, perhaps. 
 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac raised his cup to his lips ; 
 as he put it back upon the tray, he glanced admir- 
 ingly at his well-polished fingers. 
 
 " Maurice," said his wife, then stopped, embar- 
 rassed. 
 
 " Yes ? " replied her husband.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. II 
 
 " You have brought my book to me ? Remem- 
 ber you promised to bring it to-day." 
 
 "I always keep my promise," he said. 
 
 " Is the binding a success ? " cried the girl, 
 flushing. 
 
 " Ask rather if the composition is a success," 
 said Monsieur de Sevrenac wisely. 
 
 " But, Maurice, I am so delighted to think that 
 my stories are complete." She clasped her hands 
 about her husband's arm and looked up into his 
 face with her bright smile. Monsieur de Sevrenac 
 drew his brows together in his troubled fashion. 
 
 " I have been excited all day at the prospect of 
 seeing the book at last. Quickly, give it to me, 
 Maurice." Monsieur de Sevrenac withdrew from 
 his wife's embrace. He walked promptly to the 
 table, and picking up a neatly wrapped parcel gave 
 it to the girl. Hastily she untied the string, ner- 
 vously she undid the paper covering. 
 
 " My book ! " she cried, holding it up in her 
 slender fingers. Her lips quivered and her hands 
 grew cold as she turned the leaves of her own 
 book. In print she read the names of her own 
 stories ; in print she gazed at the words of her 
 own manuscripts ; in print she saw her own writ-
 
 12 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 ings ; her ambitions gratified ; her hopes fulfilled ! 
 As Monsieur de Sevrenac watched her his face 
 grew stern and his expression did not reflect her 
 happiness, her joy. He was a proud, a difficult 
 man. To him his wife's talent was an annoyance, 
 a bore. Her work was a mistake, a mortification 
 to his stern character, to his peculiar mind. He 
 disliked to think that his wife gave her opinions, 
 her thoughts, her ideas, her very self to the 
 curious, eager world. His wife should belong to 
 him and to him alone. But EloYsa did not seem 
 to understand. To have an occupation, an inter- 
 est, a dream, was all she wanted, all she craved. 
 To the young woman her stories were but the 
 expression of her thought, the reflection of her 
 soul. Eliza Mariner had settled down in the 
 French capital as the wife of an older man. In 
 America she had been satisfied with her own 
 independence, her own surroundings. But the 
 momentary glitter of the Parisian city, the fash- 
 ion of the Parisian life had dazzled her. Monsieur 
 Maurice de Sevrenac was well-born, well-bred, 
 well-mannered. The girl felt proud of his friend- 
 ship, proud of his attentions. In him she had 
 hoped to find Her life. She bade good-by to her
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 13 
 
 own people with a stout heart and with a brave 
 spirit. 
 
 " I am quite content ; you must not think of 
 me," she said, as her father passed his handker- 
 chief across his eyes in parting from her. 
 
 In her new life, as the wife of the Frenchman, 
 for a time her thoughts were diverted, her days 
 occupied. But at length the minutes seemed to 
 slacken, the hours to lengthen in her married life. 
 She wondered how other women did when the first 
 flutter of their wedding had subsided ; when peo- 
 ple no longer asked about them ; talked about 
 them ; planned the present and future of their 
 lives. 
 
 Elofsa de Sevrenac had no desire to sit idly in 
 the world with her hands folded. She wanted 
 occupation. Often she would watch her husband 
 in his business interests, in his social pleasures, 
 with a certain kind of envy in her young heart. 
 She felt she stood aside, like a stranger looking 
 on. Her queer nature needed sympathy, needed 
 understanding of a different kind. She spoke 
 French easily ; she understood it perfectly. As a 
 proof of her kindness, the first winter of her 
 marriage she had persuaded her young sister
 
 14 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 to remain in France. Few women would do 
 that. 
 
 " Make your home with me ! " she generously 
 cried, and the girl did so. 
 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac had married late in life. 
 He was a much respected, a widely courted man. 
 He was correct in his manners, correct in his 
 dress. He was formal in his speech, formal in his 
 ideas. He was particular in his tastes, partic- 
 ular in his home. To his wife he was polite, 
 respectful always. 
 
 But it happened that Elo'fsa de Sevrenac saw 
 she needed occupation, her days were not full 
 enough, she felt. So on she lived and hoped and 
 waited for a sign of some talent, for an interest in 
 her days. Gradually the truth seemed to dawn 
 upon her, the light began to stream through her 
 mind. She had not looked in vain, for lo ! she 
 found her talent. With her pen in hand she lived 
 in another world, she dreamed in a new land. 
 Faster and faster came her ideas ; wider and 
 wider spread her understanding. The atmosphere 
 seemed to change ; the birds, the trees, the 
 flowers, came to know her mind, her thought, her 
 soul. In her work she found a higher life, a life
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 15 
 
 sne loved too well. Then her husband began to 
 realize the change. Little by little he saw that in 
 her occupation she was drifting from him. They 
 had been married not a year when Eloi'sa seemed 
 content to have him absent ; content to be alone. 
 The proud man held his peace, but he felt his 
 disappointment keenly. He suffered the day he 
 learned the truth. He realized that this ambition 
 would be the most precious interest of her life. 
 How differently he had planned her future a few 
 short months ago ! One time he tried to show his 
 disapproval by a word, a look ; but with no avail 
 whatever. Eloi'sa seemed blinded to his disap- 
 pointment, to his judgment of her work. The 
 girl's mind ran on ; her brain evolved its plans, its 
 plots. 
 
 When Monsieur de Sevre"nac examined the 
 manuscripts he was surprised at her ingenuity, 
 her talent. EloTsa was radiant at his praise. 
 
 In her enthusiasm she often wrote in the late 
 evenings when her husband was away, and far into 
 the lonely nights she would form the characters of 
 her days, her life. Thus twelve busy months flew 
 by. Her manuscripts were complete for publica- 
 tion ; her stories showed the strength, the pathos,
 
 1 6 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 of her mind. Monsieur de Sevrenac did not speak 
 out when she begged him to have them published 
 for her. But he felt sorry all the same. He 
 feared the fame which would bring her into public 
 notice, and he hated to have her writings adver- 
 tised for sale. 
 
 Now when he saw her excitement at the first 
 step to her coming honors, to her promising glory, 
 he was annoyed, but was it -not too late ? 
 
 "Are you not satisfied with my work?" she 
 cried, noting the look of disappointment in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I am satisfied with the talent ; but as I have 
 often tried to show you, it is distasteful to me to 
 have my wife pose as a writer of fiction." 
 
 " Even when it is of so pure, so pleasing a 
 character ? " 
 
 " Yes ; for there are plenty of women more 
 qualified to fill the role of authorship than your- 
 self." 
 
 "But if I am successful, why am I not qualified 
 for it too ? " 
 
 "Because it is out of keeping with your position, 
 your prominence your beauty, Elolsa." 
 
 Madame de Sevrenac flushed crimson : perhaps
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. I/ 
 
 she felt the depth of her husband's admiration for 
 her. 
 
 " I would not willingly displease you, Maurice," 
 she said. 
 
 "Then give up your writings for me." The 
 girl turned very pale. 
 
 " Give up my writings ! " she cried. " Without 
 them I would be miserable ! " 
 
 "You pay me a poor compliment," said 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac shortly. 
 
 "Would you give up your business for me?" 
 cried the girl. 
 
 " No ; for you would have to make sacrifices in 
 consequence. There is no comparison in the two 
 cases." 
 
 " My work has been a great happiness to me." 
 
 " If your own good judgment does not prove to 
 you the mistake of continuing in it, my dear, I 
 shall say no more." Monsieur de Sevrenac moved 
 to the door as he spoke. 
 
 "My talent is my judge," said the girl. Mon- 
 sieur de Sevrenac inclined his head in his courtly 
 fashion. " Let it be as you desire," he said. 
 
 " I would not have put my name to the book 
 had I realized your opinion in the matter."
 
 1 8 A WOMAN^S TALENT. 
 
 " Ah ! that is where the danger comes in. As 
 an authoress you are subject to criticism, to praise, 
 to blame. I dislike that my name should be made 
 public without any good excuse, without any real 
 cause." 
 
 "The next book I write shall be anonymous," 
 said Madame de Sevrenac proudly. 
 
 Then Monsieur de Sevrenac went away and left 
 her. She stood motionless, looking after him with 
 her book open in her hand. 
 
 Soon she read the criticisms of her work. 
 Some praised the strength, the greatness, of her 
 mind. Others the completeness, the charm, of her 
 characters ; the freshness, the newness, of her 
 plots. But Monsieur de Sevrenac read one criticism 
 which he did not show his wife. It was against 
 the morbid pathos of her ideas, against the un- 
 natural struggles of her thought. "The authoress 
 "has suffered ; she is unhappy in her life " this 
 critic said. 
 
 How bitterly the husband scanned the cruel 
 words, how- bitterly he scorned the insult to his 
 name ! His wife unhappy ! Ridiculous ! Impos-
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 19 
 
 sible ! His wife thus spoken of ; thus written of 
 in public print ! 
 
 One day as the young authoress sat alone in 
 her library, her paper before her, her pen in hand, 
 the husband came home unexpectedly to luncheon. 
 He hurried up the stairs and through the hall. 
 His wife did not rise to greet him as he entered 
 the room. She was occupied with her writing. 
 His brows contracted slightly as he saw her 
 flushed and eager bending over her new work. 
 For the authoress had won praise. She was 
 intent on another book to be finished within the 
 year. Her face glowed with enthusiasm, with 
 talent as she stopped a moment to take rest. She 
 turned and saw her husband standing at her 
 side. 
 
 "Maurice!" she cried; "I did not know that 
 you were here." 
 
 "I have come to luncheon with you," he said.. 
 Slowly she pushed aside her papers, reluctantly 
 she laid down her pen. He stooped, and with 
 his fingers lightly touched her brow. 
 
 " Your head is hot," he said. She laughed 
 without replying. 
 
 "You must not write too much."
 
 20 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 " But I never weary of my work, Maurice," she 
 cried. 
 
 " Your first success has made you wish for 
 greater laurels ; soon you should be satisfied." 
 
 " Not while my talent lasts. I long to write 
 of greater subjects, newer themes." 
 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac looked kindly at her ; 
 for an instant their eyes met, then the girl turned 
 away. 
 
 " Elo'fsa," he said, " I have invited a friend of 
 mine to dinner this evening." 
 
 " This evening, Maurice ? " 
 
 " This evening," repeated the Frenchman ; " and 
 of course you will be at home with^your most 
 gracious smiles to greet him, if you please." * 
 
 "Who is he ? " asked the girl. 
 
 " He is an American." 
 
 "His name?" 
 
 " Mr. Sebastian Jones." 
 
 " Quel nom ! " murmured Madame de Sevrenac. 
 
 " You need make no exclamation ; Sebastian 
 is well suited to our hospitality to our 
 home." 
 
 "Then you expect me to receive your guest 
 this evening ? "
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 21 
 
 " If you please, my dear." 
 
 "And the engagement I have made to take 
 my sister to the opera ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but this is my first knowl- 
 edge of it ; and under the circumstances, I fear 
 you will have to find another chaperon." 
 
 " It is late to do so now, and I hate to disap- 
 point the girl." 
 
 " But she will readily accept your explanation," 
 said Monsieur de Sevrenac. 
 
 Madame de Sevrenac dressed herself in white 
 that evening. When Mr. Sebastian Jones was 
 announced her face wore its usual happy smile. 
 To herself she murmured, " A commonplace 
 American whom I know I shall dislike." 
 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac stepped forward with out- 
 stretched hand to greet his guest ; then, turning 
 to his wife, he said, " Madame de Sevrenac." 
 There was something very courteous in the 
 Frenchman's manner to his wife. Mr. Sebastian 
 Jones bowed to his hostess ; he made no attempt 
 to offer her his hand. 
 
 " Madame de Sevrenac sees few Americans 
 nowadays," said her husband. His effort to 
 begin the conversation was graceful and well
 
 22 A WOMAN'S TALENT, 
 
 put. The American was not embarrassed ; he 
 seemed at his ease in the Parisian home. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I hope Madame de Sevrenac 
 keeps up her interest in the people of her own 
 country," he replied. 
 
 "I am always glad to be interested in one so 
 welcome as yourself," said the girl promptly. The 
 man's pale face flushed ; for an instant his eyes 
 met those of the young hostess. 
 
 Soon after the little party went in to dinner : 
 an excellent meal it was. Madame de Sevrenac 
 knew how to cater to her husband and his 
 guests. 
 
 During dinner she found herself watching the 
 American. She began to wonder if he would 
 admire and like her. In his bearing he was 
 deferential, but he had an air of bored indiffer- 
 ence about him which perplexed her greatly. She 
 had never seen any one in the least like him, she 
 thought. Monsieur de Sevrenac talked easily to 
 the stranger: Eloi'sa could see at a glance that 
 they had been intimate for some time. She won- 
 dered how it happened that two men so different 
 could be such good company to each other. It 
 was evident that Maurice de Sevrenac was
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 23 
 
 strangely fascinated by Sebastian Jones ; it was 
 something of a triumph for Sebastian Jones. 
 
 Maurice de Sevrenac had many friends, but he 
 loved few of them. These very men looked up 
 to the stern man with a feeling of perplexing 
 awe. The American did not seem to have the 
 least fear of his host ; he seemed to understand 
 him perfectly. Their conversation was fluent 
 and sprightly throughout. Monsieur de Sevrenac 
 turned frequently to his wife : he never allowed 
 her to feel slighted or out of place while at the 
 head of his table, or as the hostess of his home. 
 Sometimes the girl was absent-minded : she had 
 an unconscious habit of wandering away in the 
 company of her own thoughts ; but then her 
 thoughts were filled with plans. After dinner 
 the two friends smoked together, but soon they 
 joined Madame de Sevrenac in the library. 
 Elofsa stood at the window ; she had opened the 
 shutter to let the soft summer wind blow in. 
 She leaned her slight form against the half-drawn 
 curtain ; she moved the blind so that she could 
 look down into the crowded streets below. 
 
 Some one called to see Monsieur de Sevrenac 
 on business. For a brief time the two Americans
 
 24 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 were left alone. Sebastian crossed the room, and, 
 standing near the young girl, looked at her with 
 kindly interest in his eyes. 
 
 " You are happy here in Paris ? " he asked. 
 
 " I have never been unhappy anywhere. I 
 don't quite know what the expression means." 
 
 " You are fortunate," said Sebastian. 
 
 " In Paris every one is gay," continued the girl : 
 "one sees no distress, no sorrow, here." 
 
 " But it exists all the same," replied the young 
 man. 
 
 " I suppose it does," said Madame de Sevrenac 
 absently. " Would you like to live here ? " she 
 asked, turning her face so that he saw the fine 
 lines of her profile. 
 
 " Not as a stranger. Without occupation, with- 
 out interests, I believe I should .go mad." 
 
 " All men have occupations," cried the girl ; 
 "women have but few." 
 
 " Women should be occupied quite as much as 
 men, in a different way of course." Sebastian 
 watched the young wife as he spoke. 
 
 " Do you mean that my household duties should 
 suffice me?" she asked. Sebastian laughed. 
 
 " They might suffice other women, but you are
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 25 
 
 not like other women. Are you ? " Madame de 
 Sevrenac grew pale ; her lips moved, but she did 
 not speak. 
 
 "I knew you were different," he said, speaking 
 as though she had agreed with him in his question. 
 Eloi'sa laughed nervously, and stretching out her 
 hand drew in the shutter. 
 
 " Let me help you," said Sebastian. He fas- 
 tened the shutter to its catch. When he looked 
 around he saw that Madame de Sevrenac had 
 moved away. 
 
 " Have you ever read this book ? " she asked, 
 holding up her own volume. 
 
 " I have heard of it," said the young man, his 
 pale face relaxing into its strange smile. 
 
 " I will lend it to you. But you must promise 
 to give me a truthful criticism when you have 
 read it through." 
 
 " I promise," said Mr. Sebastian Jones. 
 
 Just then Monsieur de Sevrenac came back and 
 joined them. It was late when the little party 
 broke up and the stranger took his leave. Mon- 
 sieur de Sevrenac remarked afterward to his wife 
 that the evening was thoroughly successful, which 
 it certainly would not have been without her
 
 26 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 presence. Madame de Sevrenac smiled her thanks. 
 The Frenchman had a very pleasing habit of com- 
 plimenting his young wife. Elolsa understood it 
 well. She had grown to expect his polished 
 speeches, his gracious words. 
 
 A few days later the stranger came to call. He 
 found Madame de Sevrenac in her library. There 
 were writing materials on the table, blank-books, 
 sheets of paper everywhere. He smiled as he 
 glanced at the authoress at her work. She lifted 
 her head as she heard his step on the threshold. 
 The American noticed the deep flush in her face, 
 the excitement in her eyes. 
 
 " I shall interrupt you," he said. 
 
 "An interruption which is pleasant," replied the 
 girl, rising. 
 
 "You must not stop your writing on my 
 account. See ! I have brought your book. Let 
 me finish the last story while you write." There 
 was something very fascinating about his man- 
 ner, a charm which Eloi'sa had begun to rec- 
 ognize. 
 
 " I shall write one more page, then have done 
 for this afternoon, Mr. Jones," she said. "It is 
 better for me not to write too long;. When I am
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 2J 
 
 weary the signs of fatigue seem to creep into my 
 work." 
 
 " I shall take this comfortable chair and make 
 myself quite happy while you write." 
 
 He seated himself near the table, and opening 
 her book was soon absorbed in its pages. Madame 
 de Sevrenac wrote on. Twice she glanced at the 
 young man. She noticed his refinement, his 
 beauty. It seemed strange for her to have this 
 friend beside her while she worked. Unconsciously 
 she found herself describing his appearance, his 
 charms. Her pen ran on with the history of a 
 new story, the description of a new character. 
 The girl sighed with enthusiasm, with energy, to 
 write the ideas in her mind. 
 
 A full hour passed. Mr. Sebastian Jones came 
 to the last page of her book and finished it. For 
 a moment he sat still, his head bent down, his 
 eyes riveted to some object on the flowered carpet 
 at his feet. 
 
 "Mr. Jones," said Madame de Sevrenac, "you 
 promised me your criticism. I would like to hear 
 it now." The American roused himself, and then 
 said, " Your book is interesting, pathetic, and 
 refined. I like it. I like it very much indeed."
 
 28 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 The authoress trembled with excitement ; she had 
 won his praise. 
 
 " I am so glad," she cried. 
 
 " Had I not liked your work I should have said 
 so, regardless of your feelings, however." 
 
 " You must always be quite honest, when asked 
 to criticise another's writing. It would be dread- 
 ful to praise a work you did not really value." 
 
 " Let me see what you are doing now," said 
 Sebastian, holding out his hand for her manuscript. 
 
 " No, no," cried Madame de Sevrenac, " what I 
 have been writing just now you cannot see." 
 
 " Have you nothing else you can show me ? " 
 
 " Here is a story I have finished lately. You 
 might read it aloud, so that I can hear it too." 
 She gave him a neat roll of papers which he 
 opened and began to read. It was a short piece. 
 He soon finished it. 
 
 " Excellent ! " he said, folding the manuscript 
 up again. 
 
 " You praise me too much," exclaimed Madame 
 de Sevrenac, blushing with excitement and 
 pleasure. 
 
 " When do you mean to bring out your next 
 book ? " asked the American.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 29 
 
 "Some time this year." 
 
 " Does your husband feel satisfied with it ? " he 
 asked. The young wife grew pale. 
 
 " Monsieur de Sevrenac has not read these 
 stories," she said. 
 
 " Your husband is a good judge of literature. 
 He has made quite a study of it, he tells me." 
 
 " I shall show them to him before they are pub- 
 lished," said the girl. 
 
 " Of course," replied Sebastian. 
 
 Soon after Monsieur de Sevrenac came home. 
 He was cordial to his wife, cordial to his guest in 
 his well-bred and formal fashion. But EloTsa 
 seemed nervous in her manner. Perhaps Mr. 
 Sebastian Jones noticed it, for he went away 
 directly after Monsieur de Sevrenac joined them. 
 Perhaps he found it difficult to converse with 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac that afternoon. 
 
 One morning Madame de Sevrenac, who was 
 still hard at work, promised to take a walk with 
 her husband later in the day. She had planned 
 to finish a story that afternoon, but Monsieur de
 
 30 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 Sevrenac seemed urgent that she should accom- 
 pany him to the Bois. 
 
 On their return to dinner they met Mr. Sebas- 
 tian Jones. Maurice begged him to remain with 
 them that evening. He did so. As Madame de 
 Sevrenac entered the library she saw letters on 
 the table. 
 
 " The mail ! " she exclaimed eagerly. Monsieur 
 de Sevre'nac stepped forward to get it for her. 
 
 " One from papa," said the girl. " Two from 
 mamma, one from some one else, some one un- 
 known." She turned the last envelope over in 
 her fingers. " No," she murmured, shaking her 
 head, " I don't know the writer of this one." 
 Then she looked doubtfully at all three letters to 
 see which she should open first. 
 
 " I shall open you," she said playfully. Slowly 
 she tore apart the envelope. Slowly she read her 
 letter. Her face flushed at first, then grew pale 
 as she finished the contents of the pages. 
 
 " Good news, I hope," said Monsieur de Sevre- 
 nac, watching her face. The girl laughed and put 
 the letter in her pocket. She did not say who 
 it was from, and her husband seemed to have no 
 curiosity in the matter.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 31 
 
 Later at dinner Mr. Sebastian Jones noticed 
 how pale she was. Monsieur de Sevrenac noticed 
 the change in her too. 
 
 " You look tired," he slid. " Do not work too 
 hard." 
 
 " I have not written a line all day," said the 
 girl. 
 
 " You are not as bright this evening as usual. 
 Nothing has worried you, I hope ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Madame de Sevrenac. 
 
 Maurice de Sevrenac pressed her hands ; per- 
 haps he detained her a moment longer than usual 
 as he bade her good-night. The girl was nervous 
 and tired, he thought. Willingly she hurried 
 away to her own room to her own thoughts. 
 
 The next morning she rose late. Her head was 
 aching, she said. Later, when she picked up her 
 pen to write, her ideas were too confused, too dis- 
 turbed, to make clear sense. 
 
 "To-day I shall take a rest," she thought. So 
 she put away her pen and ink, she folded up her 
 papers. It was the first time her mind had showed 
 fatigue, the first time her talent had failed her. I 
 shall be better to-morrow, she thought. 
 
 To-morrow came, but Madame de Sevrenac was
 
 32 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 no better. She tried to read over one of her ear- 
 lier stories, but her head grew weary very soon. 
 She ordered her coupe and went out for a drive. 
 In passing down the Champs-lys6es she saw Mr. 
 Sebastian Jones walking on in front. She leaned 
 back in her carriage so that he could not see her 
 face. The girl's heart beat fast as she watched 
 his fine figure, his graceful walk. 
 
 " How handsome he looks ! " she murmured. 
 " How different from other men ! " 
 
 When Madame de Sevrenac returned to her 
 own home she felt strangely alone. She took 
 from her pocket the letter which she had been so 
 careful to conceal. Now with burning cheeks she 
 re-read the contents. The writing was unfamiliar 
 to her, the composition strange. 
 
 " How dare he send me this ! " she cried. The 
 words were in praise of her book, encouragement 
 of her talent. It was evident that the writer was 
 greatly interested in the gifted young authoress. 
 No signature, no name, disclosed who he might be. 
 The letter was certainly an unusual one. Madame-i 
 de Sevr6nac felt justly indignant that it should 
 have been addressed to her. Perhaps her husband 
 could arrange to make some answer to it ? But"
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 33 
 
 how show it to him, how tell him of the audacity 
 of the writer ? Had he not already warned her 
 of the danger to her position and her pride ? the 
 mistake in making a public character of his 
 name and hers ? Well could she picture his 
 wrath, his anger, at this unfortunate circum- 
 stance. 
 
 Then, too, Elofsa had become attached to the 
 young American. Had he not been sympathetic, 
 had he not been kind to her? She put the let- 
 ter back in her pocket. No, this time she would 
 forgive the insult, but the next time the girl 
 grew red, then white there could be no next 
 time ! Surely this would end her annoyance, her 
 fears ! Mr. Sebastian Jones must know too well 
 to repeat his foolish venture ! 
 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac invited his friend to 
 dinner the next evening. But the young wife 
 pleaded a headache. 
 
 " You do not look ill to-day," said Maurice. 
 
 " But I am too weary. I cannot entertain your 
 .juest, Maurice. My sister will stay at home and 
 take my place." 
 
 " No one can take your place, Elo'fsa," said her 
 husband. He took her hands and pressed them
 
 34 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 tenderly in his ; his affection touched her. She 
 leaned her head against his arm. 
 
 " Maurice," she began. 
 
 " Elolsa ? " he replied. 
 
 " I do not feel well nowadays." He raised her 
 face and looked into her eyes. 
 
 " I fear your work has been too constant," he 
 said. 
 
 She flushed. 
 
 " No, no, Maurice ; I have not written lately." 
 
 " Too tired to think out your plots ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes, too tired too tired to accomplish any- 
 thing." 
 
 She hid her eyes and quickly brushed away a 
 tear. 
 
 "You must cheer up, my dear," Monsieur de 
 Sevrenac spoke formally ; his wife felt strangely 
 disappointed at the stiffness of his manner. It 
 seemed impossible for the Frenchman to sym- 
 pathize with any one, she thought. She withdrew 
 her hands from his and moved away ; how could 
 this cold, proud man understand her trouble ? 
 She became afraid of the strong temptation within 
 her to tell him everything. Was he not too stern, 
 too difficult, to forgive the writer of that letter?
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 35 
 
 She shuddered when she thought of Sebastian 
 facing him in his wrath ; what could he say, 
 how excuse himself before the indignation of his 
 friend ? 
 
 Madame de Sevre"nac passed a quiet evening 
 in her room. Monsieur de Sevrenac brought 
 her messages of interest, expressions of sym- 
 pathy from his young friend. 
 
 " Sebastian asked if you would soon be well ; 
 he hopes to call upon you to-morrow afternoon. 
 I promised you would see him ; of course you 
 will remain at home ? " 
 
 " I don't know," she murmured ; " wait until 
 to-morrow comes." 
 
 "We missed you greatly," said Monsieur de 
 Sevrenac. Madame de Sevrenac was silent ; she 
 was thinking of the letter. If another came how 
 hide it from her husband ? 
 
 The next morning another anonymous letter 
 did come to Madame de Sevrenac ; it criticised 
 her forthcoming book. "She worked too fast, 
 her talent could not stand the mental strain."
 
 36 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 She was much excited by the warning, fearful 
 of what the writer might say next. 
 
 " You will receive the American when he comes 
 this afternoon, Eloi'sa," said her husband in parting 
 from her, after their caftin the breakfast room. 
 
 " Since you wish it, I shall remain at home," 
 replied the young wife ; she felt sorry for her 
 husband as she watched him from the window. 
 He was always very kind ; how could she have 
 the heart to deceive him ? The girl was so miser- 
 able all the morning that when afternoon came 
 her nerves were quite unstrung. 
 
 Later, when the mail was brought to her, a pre- 
 sentiment came over her. Sebastian had written 
 to her again ! Quickly she turned over her en- 
 velopes : yes, here before her eyes lay the dreaded 
 writing ! She sat down at her desk and con- 
 trolled her emotion well. With angry gaze she 
 read this third message ; it was but a renewal of 
 the first letter, written in much the same strain, 
 complimenting her genius, advising the publica- 
 tion of another book. What could it mean ? The 
 girl felt sick and weary ; the contradictions were 
 most annoying to the authoress. 
 
 " Why must he torment me thus ! " she cried.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 37 
 
 When Mr. Jones was announced he found 
 Madame de Sevrenac seated before the window, 
 a piece of fancy-work in her lap. His face bright- 
 ened as she spoke to him. 
 
 " Not writing to-day ? " he asked pleasantly. 
 
 " I have not written for some time." 
 
 " Surely you do not dream of renouncing your 
 talent ? " 
 
 " My talent has renounced me ; I can write no 
 more." 
 
 " Write no more ! " cried the American. 
 
 " My brain refuses to work for me." 
 
 " Such talent as yours could not disappear so sud- 
 denly. Give yourself time, Madame de Sevrenac, 
 and all may go well." 
 
 He spoke with so much kindness, so much 
 concern, that she was touched, astonished. 
 
 " I have grown discouraged." 
 
 " Why discouraged ? " asked Sebastian. 
 
 " Because I am so disappointed so weary 
 sometimes." 
 
 "When I first met you a few months ago, 
 you were filled with enthusiasm, radiant with joy. 
 What has changed you so ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me." Sebastian picked up the
 
 38 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 corner of her work ; quite accidentally he 
 touched her hand in doing so. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said ; but the girl had 
 been frightened by it. She saw the words of the 
 letters before her. Cold grew her fingers : fast 
 beat her heart. 
 
 " Mr. Jones ! " she cried. 
 
 " You are trembling, you are ill," said the 
 American; "let me get you something." 
 
 "Yes I am ill wretched unhappy." 
 
 " Tell me what has changed you so ? " Sebas- 
 tian's voice was very gentle, very low. " Tell me 
 what it is ? " 
 
 " How can I tellyott f " she cried. " You of all 
 people ! " 
 
 " Why should you not tell me ? I am well able 
 to understand. Are we not both young ? both 
 Americans ? Come, for the moment, let us cast 
 aside our formality, our fear of one another. Tell 
 me what has changed you ? " 
 
 " One day," began Elo'isa, " you were here at 
 the time, I received a letter a very impudent 
 letter. I did not know who wrote it, who sent it. 
 At first I wanted to tell Monsieur de Sevre"nac 
 then I was afraid. The more I thought of it the
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 39 
 
 more frightened I became. I worried by day, I 
 worried by night. I longed to free myself of the 
 burden of such a thing. Then just when I hoped 
 I was beginning to forget, beginning to grow 
 stronger, I received two more letters. It is 
 dreadful, it is hateful to me." 
 
 Sebastian grew very pale ; he half closed his 
 drooping lids ; he scarce knew what to say. She 
 noticed it. 
 
 " I am very glad you told me," he said. 
 
 " If it ever happens again, I shall tell my hus- 
 band. He will settle the affair for me." 
 
 " I would tell him now," said Sebastian. 
 Madame de Sevrenac opened her eyes in surprise. 
 This man had no fear then. Did he think the 
 husband would forgive him because he was his 
 friend ? 
 
 " You astonish me ! " she said. 
 
 " Why ? " he asked. 
 
 " Because of the advice you give me." 
 
 " It is the best I know of," he answered. " Tell 
 your husband this very day. It will relieve your 
 mind to give your trouble up to him." 
 
 " And what if he accuses some one wrongly ? " 
 
 " Monsieur de Sevrenac is too wise for that."
 
 40 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 Then Sebastian rose and took his leave. Madame 
 de Sevre"nac sat still. After he had gone she 
 thought of many things. She was more confident 
 of herself now, more content in her mind. 
 
 She felt that she had made a bold stroke in 
 telling Sebastian about the letters. But little by 
 little she began to feel sure that Sebastian had 
 written them. As she had threatened to speak to 
 Monsieur de Sevrenac, he would not dare to send 
 her any more. 
 
 Madame de Sevrenac soon grew stronger ; the 
 desire to write gradually came back to the young 
 authoress. If she were more easily tired, more 
 easily discouraged, she did not show it. She 
 persevered nobly with her work. 
 
 One day Sebastian Jones offered to read her 
 manuscript to her. She hesitated before giving it 
 to him. But at length his request was so urgent, 
 and her desire so strong for his criticism, that she 
 handed him her work. " What do you think of 
 it, please ? " said the girl, flushing with anticipa- 
 tion. 
 
 " I don't like the story," said the American. 
 
 " You don't like the story ! " Madame de 
 Sevrenac could not hide her disappointment.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 4* 
 
 " No," repeated Sebastian. " I don't like the 
 story. It is not written in your usual brisk style." 
 
 " But I have taken great pains over it," cried 
 the authoress. 
 
 " What do you mean to do with it ? " 
 
 "To send it to a magazine." 
 
 " Don't send it," said Sebastian earnestly. 
 " Don't send it, Madame de Sevrenac." Eloi'sa 
 showed her astonishment. The old, nervous 
 expression came back into her eyes. Her hands 
 trembled, her knees shook. Perhaps Sebastian 
 Jones noticed her emotion, for he smiled kindly at 
 her. 
 
 " Put away your writings for a time," he said. 
 " I think you will feel stronger if you do." 
 
 " Then you think that my talent has fled from 
 me ? " she cried. " You think that I can no longer 
 live in the joy of my writings ? I could have 
 borne anything but this ! " She pressed her hands 
 together in her misery, her disappointment. 
 
 " It seems very hard for you," said Sebastian. 
 " But this time perhaps you will be guided by my 
 advice." 
 
 " You allude to the letters ! " exclaimed the 
 authoress. " For I did not do as you said."
 
 42 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 " Yes," said Sebastian ; " I allude to the letters." 
 
 " I could not tell my husband, I thought it 
 wiser to bear my troubles alone." 
 
 " You did wrong." 
 
 " I did wrong ! Mr. Jones, I beseech you tell 
 me what you know of those letters." 
 
 " I know this it would be wiser for you to 
 tell your husband that you have received them, 
 and that you resent the insult to your name." 
 
 " B.ut Monsieur de Sevrenac will be angry, 
 mortified. I would not like him to realize the 
 danger of my position as an authoress. It would 
 be no easy matter now for me to convince my 
 husband that this is a fitting role for his wife. 
 If I told him this circumstance, he would deny me 
 the dearest interest of my life ! " 
 
 " I can see how truly you love your work ; it is 
 all in all to you. But in time your husband might 
 allow you to resume your writing. In any event, 
 let Monsieur de Sevrenac decide the matter for 
 you ; he knows best about such things." 
 
 Madame de Sevrenac sat silent; she saw the 
 American looking at her in his earnest fashion. 
 Presently she said, " I will take your advice." 
 
 " Thank you," said the American, holding out
 
 A WOMAN'S TALE XT. 43 
 
 his hand for good-by. Mr. Sebastian Jones did 
 not stay to dinner that evening. 
 
 When the Frenchman came home that night he 
 saw his wife was much excited. The old, nervous 
 manner had returned, her eyes glittered, her 
 hands shook. Monsieur de Sevrenac seemed 
 much concerned about his young wife. He 
 begged her to rest quietly and not go out that 
 evening. She did so. Eloi'sa had no heart for 
 gayety just then. 
 
 In vain she waited to begin her conversation 
 with the proud, stern man. How plead for the 
 forgiveness which she wanted for his friend ? 
 
 Twice the girl attempted to speak, twice her 
 lips parted, but no sound came forth. 
 
 " Maurice," she began. 
 
 " I am here," replied her husband, taking his 
 cigar from his mouth. 
 
 " Maurice." 
 
 " What is it, Elo'fsa ? " Her heart was beating 
 fast. 
 
 " Maurice, do you think we shall go away from 
 Paris this summer ? " 
 
 " Go away from Paris ! What has made you 
 think about summer now ? It is only early spring."
 
 44 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 " I don't know," said the girl, her cheeks flush- 
 ing. Monsieur de Sevrenac noticed his wife's 
 manner. He saw her color come and go. Walk- 
 ing to the book-case he selected a volume from his 
 costly collection, and, drawing a chair near the lamp, 
 sat down to read. Madame de Sevrenac watched 
 the expression of his face. His face was always 
 stern, intelligent, and grave. It was very difficult, 
 but Eloi'sa thought she would try again. 
 
 " Maurice." 
 
 " My dear," said the Frenchman, putting down 
 his book. His manners were always good. 
 
 " I have something to say to you something 
 to say to you just now ! " 
 
 " Something to say to me ? " There was a 
 shade of astonishment in his voice. 
 
 "Yes but I don't quite know how to begin." 
 She put her hand in her pocket and drew her 
 letters out. 
 
 " I received these by the mail take them, 
 Maurice keep them. Don't ever let me see 
 them again." She pressed the unknown letters 
 into his hands. 
 
 " What are these letters, Eloi'sa?" 
 
 "I don't know," faltered the girl. "I don't
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 45 
 
 want to know put them out of sight, Maurice. 
 I believe they will drive me mad ! " Monsieur de 
 Sevre"nac turned the envelopes over in his hand, 
 slowly opened and read their contents. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that these these letters 
 are addressed to you ? to you ! my wife ! " 
 
 "Maurice, do not look so astonished, I pray 
 you ! It is not my fault. I never dreamed of 
 getting such things." She saw the dark look in 
 the Frenchman's eyes. 
 
 " You received these impudent letters, and 
 never told me ? " 
 
 " It was to spare you to save him that I 
 did not tell you, Maurice." 
 
 " To spare me ! How do you spare me by this 
 deceit ? To save him ! Who is he that you wish 
 to save ? Who has dared so to presume upon 
 your talent and your work ? " 
 
 " Maurice ! " 
 
 " To whom have you been talking about your 
 writings ? To whom have you confided the work- 
 ings of your mind ? Speak, EloTsa ! I am your 
 husband ; I must know the truth." 
 
 " I pray you pardon my enthusiasm. I never 
 realized the harm I did "
 
 46 A WOMAN^S TALENT. 
 
 " At this moment I ask the name of the man 
 with whom you have become so intimate, so con- 
 fiding on the subject of your work?" A ring of 
 sarcasm sounded in his voice. Monsieur de 
 Sevrenac trembled with anger. His eyes flashed 
 with scorn. 
 
 " I have no intimate friends but those you have 
 chosen for me," said Madame de Sevrenac.. 
 
 " Ah now I see it all ! It is my friend who 
 has so dared to insult my wife ! It is my friend, 
 the handsome, the charming American, who has 
 inflicted his opinions and attentions upon you ! " 
 
 " Maurice, I pray you forgive him. His letters 
 have done no harm to me ; now I have given 
 them to you with his thoughtlessness I pray 
 you have patience with me I pray you have con- 
 sideration. Remember how I love my work." 
 
 " Have patience ! " laughed the Frenchman. 
 " Patience with this American in his insolence, in 
 his audacity ? How can the people of your nation 
 be called civilized, be called Christians, be called 
 gentlemen when they lack all knowledge of 
 what the words mean ? " 
 
 "Because of all this because we are Ameri- 
 cans so must we be pardoned for our wrongs."
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 47 
 
 Madame de Sevrenac stood erect before her hus- 
 band. He watched her eagerly while she spoke. 
 He saw her bright eyes, her nervous lips. He 
 saw that she was beautiful. 
 
 " Eloi'sa," he said, " come to me." She went 
 nearer to him. Gently he took her in his arms, 
 gently he kissed her, gently he drove away her 
 fears. 
 
 " If this happens again, I cannot forgive it ; 
 but now I love you too much to cause you any 
 sufferings, I shall forgive everything I shall 
 forget all." 
 
 For a time the days went quickly for Madame 
 de Sevrenac. The weight of her secret had been 
 taken from her mind. The brightness came back 
 to her eyes, the happiness to her smile. She was 
 herself again. 
 
 Enthusiastic over her writing, contented in her 
 work. Monsieur de Sevrenac was kind and gra- 
 cious in his manner. Truly he loved his wife. 
 
 Mr. Sebastian Jones had not called at the house 
 since his last interview with the young authoress. 
 Elo'fsa missed him sometimes, but she felt they 
 could never be on the same pleasant terms with 
 each other again. It was better he should stay
 
 48 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 away. Monsieur de Sevrenac was most dignified 
 in the whole matter. The American's name 
 never passed his lips. Madame de Sevrenac felt 
 this and was glad of it. Fully she realized her 
 husband's magnanimity. 
 
 But the authoress was not allowed a long sea- 
 son of peace. She received another of those 
 much dreaded letters. As it lay in her hand she 
 knew why Mr. Sebastian Jones had absented him- 
 self from the Frenchman's house. 
 
 " I despise you ! " she murmured. " My hus- 
 band has been too generous, too lenient in his 
 forgiveness of your acts." Madame de Sevrenac 
 put away the letter. She would speak to Mr. 
 Jones herself. Perhaps she could end the matter. 
 But Mr. Jones wisely gave her no opportunity. 
 He did not call upon her again. 
 
 One day Madame de Sevrenac went to the 
 Salon. She wanted to see the pictures. She 
 asked her husband to accompany her ; he promised 
 to join her later. 
 
 The exhibition was not crowded that afternoon, 
 and the girl had an excellent opportunity to see 
 the paintings. 
 
 She was standing before a well-colored portrait ;
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 49 
 
 she advanced a step to see the features more 
 closely. The sh*adow of a man was cast before 
 her. He raised his hat, he bowed. She started, 
 and looking up saw Mr. Sebastian Jones at her side. 
 In a moment she resolved how she would meet him. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," he said. He held out his 
 hand to her. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," replied Madame de Sevrenac, 
 keeping her hands upon her catalogue. 
 
 " You are interested in the pictures ? " asked 
 Mr. Jones, flushing, as he saw her distinct refusal 
 of his greeting. 
 
 " I am always interested in art," said Madame 
 de Sevrenac. 
 
 " You are alone ? " asked the American. 
 
 "I am waiting for my husband." She looked 
 straight at the young man. 
 
 " I hope he joins you soon, for I have but a few 
 moments longer here this afternoon, and I would 
 like to see Monsieur de Sevrenac." 
 
 " He will come shortly," said the authoress. 
 
 " You have both been quite well during my 
 absence ? " 
 
 " Quite well." 
 
 " I am glad to be in my old haunts again. I am 
 glad to return to Paris."
 
 50 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 " You have been away ! " exclaimed Madame de 
 Sevre"nac. 
 
 " I have been to Switzerland." The American 
 must have noticed the surprise in her face. But 
 she controlled her expression in a moment. 
 
 " You enjoyed the mountains ? " 
 
 "Greatly, thank you." Then Madam de 
 Sevre"nac moved on. 
 
 " May I accompany you ? " asked Sebastian. 
 
 " As you choose." 
 
 " I have but one choice," said Sebastian. " I 
 shall go with you. I want to hear your opinions 
 of these paintings." He smiled at her as he spoke. 
 
 " I am a poor judge of this work," said Madame 
 de Sevrenac. 
 
 " Because it is not your mttier" said Sebastian, 
 laughing. 
 
 " I would rather not discuss my work with yoii, 
 Mr. Jones." 
 
 "You must not think that my absence has 
 made me forgetful of your talent." 
 
 " I only wish it had made you forgetful of my 
 talent forgetful of me." 
 
 The color fled from Madame de Sevre"nac's face. 
 Her heart beat fast. Her breath came short.
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 51 
 
 " Why should you wish such a thing ? " 
 
 "Because because, Mr. Jones, I can bear it 
 no longer " 
 
 " Bear it no longer ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean I mean your letters. I cannot bear 
 your impertinence your insolence any longer," 
 exclaimed the girl. " I spoke to my husband I 
 begged your forgiveness of him. He is good, 
 noble, and true. He forgave you, spared you ! " 
 
 " He forgave me, Madame de Sevr6nac, you 
 know not what you say ! He spared me ! " 
 
 " Yes," gasped the girl. 
 
 " You believe that I wrote those letters ? You 
 believed that / sent them to tease, to torment 
 you ? " 
 
 " Mr. Jones, it is useless to deny them now." 
 
 " I do deny them. He must be mad. If he 
 were before me now, loudly would I tell him 
 this " - 
 
 "Hush!" cried the girl, "for he is coming." 
 Monsieur de Sevre"nac was looking for his wife. 
 He paled a little when he saw her standing near 
 the American. Perhaps he did not notice their 
 expressions, for he came quickly forward, his 
 hand outstretched in token of greeting.
 
 52 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 " This is an unlooked-for pleasure." 
 
 " Sir ! " cried Sebastian, white with anger. 
 
 "An unlooked-for pleasure," repeated the 
 Frenchman, moving near his wife. 
 
 " An unlooked-for opportunity, you mean," said 
 Sebastian. " I would like to speak a few words 
 with you now in the presence of your wife." 
 
 "It is unsuited to Madame de Sevrenac to 
 listen to anything you may have to say to me." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," replied the American. 
 " What I have to say to you concerns Madame de 
 Sevrenac." 
 
 " So be it," said the Frenchman. 
 
 " Make your apology to her to me, sir, for 
 what you have done ! " 
 
 " For what I have done ? I do not know what 
 I have done." 
 
 " Monsieur de Sevrenac, you have written 
 letters to your wife. You have allowed her to 
 accuse me of them to believe me worthy of so 
 cowardly a trick. Well have you planned your 
 scheme, well have you executed your actions. 
 But your wrongs have found you out." 
 
 " Maurice," cried Madame de Sevrenac, " you 
 wrote those letters you deceived me?"
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 53 
 
 "Mr. Sebastian Jones says that I did." The 
 Frenchman shrugged his shoulders with an air of 
 unconcern ; but Elo'fsa saw how pale he was, and 
 that his hands were trembling. 
 
 " Confess the truth," cried the American. 
 
 " How can I confess that of which I am inno- 
 cent ? ' ' 
 
 " You can unless you are a maniac, unless you 
 are a madman," cried Sebastian. 
 
 " I see that you are my judge," said Monsieur 
 de Sevre"nac with scorn. 
 
 " Confess that you confided in me your scheme. 
 You exacted a promise from me to keep your 
 secret." 
 
 " And you have proved yourself a friend in- 
 deed," said the Frenchman ; " a friend who keeps 
 his word." 
 
 " I broke my word in self-defence." 
 
 " How brave you were ! " said Monsieur de 
 Sevrenac. "And you, EloTsa, with your foolish 
 fancies, your morbid brain, have you been con- 
 vinced of my wrongs ? " 
 
 " Maurice," cried his wife, " I thought you 
 loved me ! " 
 
 " So I do so I do," muttered the Frenchman,
 
 54 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 
 
 as he raised his hat and left the two Americans 
 standing side by side. 
 
 The girl stood motionless, looking after her 
 husband's retreating figure. 
 
 " Madame de Sevr^nac, it is all out now," said 
 Sebastian, " and I am thankful for it. Day by 
 day I watched your sufferings. Hour by hour I 
 longed for your release. Now now can you not 
 begin from this moment a new, a happier life? 
 Away from Paris, away from these memories, you 
 will find your talent, your great ambitions, return- 
 ing to you. In America we can work together 
 you will have a wider field, a nobler end before 
 you in your writings." 
 
 " Don't, don't tell me these things," cried the 
 girl. My work is done forever. My talent has 
 been crushed." 
 
 " It must revive again. Your work is life to 
 you. You will be quite happy in it, I am sure. 
 Without it your spirit will die." 
 
 "No, no, I should have no heart for anything. 
 My duty is with him. My life is with him. My 
 future is his. My name is his. I have promised 
 all to him; I must live on. I must forgive all 
 things just as I would hope for others to forgive
 
 A WOMAN'S TALENT. 55 
 
 me, were I weak enough to yield to wrong this 
 day." 
 
 " Can a woman love such a man ? I should 
 suppose it impossible." 
 
 " A woman must bear from her husband what 
 she would resent from her friend. I have prom- 
 ised. I must accept this disappointment ; it has 
 fallen to my share." 
 
 Through the open window the sun came stream- 
 ing; it fell upon the wife's pale face, upon her 
 dark hair. She was beautiful in her nobleness, in 
 her strength. 
 
 The American was astonished, disheartened ; 
 but the young wife had won his admiration, his 
 respect in this her first struggle, her first real 
 sacrifice. 
 
 What does it matter now who wrote the letters, 
 who inflicted the sufferings on the young wife ? 
 The object of the husband was accomplished, his 
 end reached. The authoress lost her enthusiasm, 
 resigned her talent, laid down her pen forever.
 
 PAUL.
 
 PAUL. 
 
 I KNOW not why I start to write a sketch of my 
 own experience, a sketch of a certain period of my 
 own life But I do so ; I do so this very hour ! 
 Perhaps I am prompted to warn other young men, 
 to give them an insight into character, into life. 
 Be lenient with my expressions. Be lenient with 
 my description, I pray you. I have never 
 attempted to write for publication, for print until 
 this day. Do I then, with this confession, with 
 this recommendation of my weak powers, excite 
 you to anticipate my story, to persevere with it to 
 the end ? I doubt it very much indeed. 
 
 Beginning these pages you will read carefully ; 
 you will criticise fully. I am glad of it. It is 
 well for me so to realize the feebleness of my 
 efforts, so to end the disappointment of my results. 
 
 But my story is short ; my pages are few. 
 
 I married early in life ; my wife died three 
 59
 
 60 PA UL. 
 
 years after our union. Then my happiness ended, 
 my loneliness began. 
 
 The child was a boy. What should I have 
 done with a girl ? After my wife died my maiden 
 sister came to live with me. I don't quite know 
 how she managed to do this ; I am confident I 
 never invited her. She understood as much 
 about children as I did, which practically means 
 having no knowledge of them whatever. 
 
 But somehow that boy grew. Somehow that 
 boy grew to be a very fine boy. My sister 
 declared it was her bringing up, while I inwardly 
 decided it was mine. 
 
 We three lived together, a strange household, a 
 strange existence. My sister was content. Paul 
 was content. Why should I not be content also ? 
 
 I went out very little. I occupied myself con- 
 stantly. A physician is always busy, always 
 active. My profession was my life. 
 
 At times my evenings dragged when my sister 
 stitched and sewed, and sewed and stitched, and 
 Paul was dreaming in his bed. But I knew not 
 how to shorten, how to change them. I had plans 
 for my boy. For myself I had none. When Paul 
 was old enough I would exert myself for him, I
 
 PAUL. 6 1 
 
 would cast myself aside in his cause, in his success. 
 I would remember only him ; I would live only 
 for him ; I would love only him. His failures 
 would be my failures, his disappointments my 
 disappointments, his pleasures my interests, his 
 joys my delights. Thus I watched the boy from 
 hour to hour ; from day to day. He was affec- 
 tionate in his disposition, manly in his ways. He 
 was bright, he was happy. Sometimes he was 
 boisterous, sometimes he was bad. I was glad of 
 this : I do not like good children. Seldom do 
 they turn out well. Generosity and honesty are 
 the result of a strong mind, a healthy body. A 
 good boy is too morose, too serious, I think. I 
 was satisfied with Paul. I thought him handsome. 
 I thought him clever. 
 
 Then, as the years went by, I saw he needed 
 tuition. I saw he needed care. My sister did all 
 she could ; she lavished her money in toys, her 
 affection in kisses for the young boy. But soon I 
 realized her system was a failure, her idolatry a 
 mistake. I was so much away from home in the 
 daytime that I had scarcely the opportunity to 
 oversee the routine, the daily life of my little boy. 
 Celia and I talked it over one evening. The good
 
 62 PA UL. 
 
 woman protested against strangers, teachers, and 
 schools. " Paul is so young," she cried. " Pray, 
 Philip, do not send him far from home." In her 
 argument she was right. Paul should remain 
 with us for a short time still. Then I decided 
 the matter. Paul should have a companion, a 
 governess. My sister, kind soul, was horrified. 
 " You will marry her, Philip," she cried. " You 
 will marry her before the year is out." 
 
 " I have not yet even seen her," I replied ; 
 " and since you warn me, I shall guard against 
 your fears." Little did Celia know me. Little 
 did she read my thoughts. 
 
 I advertised. I waited daily for the governess. 
 "The most foolish plan I could devise. I should 
 have private recommendations. It would never 
 do to advertise ! " But I knew best. I wanted 
 no reduced lady, no touchy person to destroy my 
 home. I wanted a good teacher, a good com- 
 panion for my child. 
 
 At length the answer came. I made the 
 appointment by letter with the governess. Her 
 style, her writing, her expressions had pleased me. 
 It was quite unnecessary that I should see if she 
 were tall or short, plain or beautiful.
 
 PA UL. 63 
 
 On Monday she arrived. I waited in my office 
 for her name to be announced. 
 
 Paul came and begged that he might sit quite 
 still and see his governess. The boy was seated 
 near me in the large leather-cushioned chair. His 
 bright curls shone like golden threads in the 
 morning light, his eyes beamed like precious 
 stones of deep blue color. I had given him a 
 book and bade him read in silence. It was against 
 my rule that he should come into my office at 
 those hours. 
 
 A ring of the front bell, a question, a name, and 
 Mademoiselle Baron stood before me. 
 
 I spoke but little French. I was glad to hear 
 the girl speak English. Was she beautiful ? No. 
 Was she plain ? No. She was interesting. I 
 found myself watching her face, her features, her 
 gestures, her movements. She smiled pleasantly 
 at the boy. He rose, at my prompting, and stood 
 with his small hand stretched out to greet her. 
 She spoke to him in her own tongue, but Paul 
 remained silent. "My son speaks only English," 
 I said, "but I wish him to learn French. I wish 
 him to speak it well." The girl raised her eyes 
 and looked at me.
 
 64 PAUL. 
 
 " He is so young, he will soon learn," she said. 
 
 " Children are easier to teach than grown peo- 
 ple,"! replied, smiling. Then I rang for my ser- 
 vant. He led the way up-stairs for the governess. 
 As I resumed my work, I wrote with difficulty. I 
 was inwardly going over in my mind my sister's first 
 interview with the young stranger. Celia won't 
 like her ; Celia won't approve of her, I thought. 
 She is too young, too attractive for this house- 
 hold. I can swear to that. I laughed to myself. 
 I enjoyed the joke ; I enjoyed the whole incident 
 greatly. The next governess Celia will insist on 
 engaging. But there won't be a next one. I 
 shall keep this one. I shall keep this one if I 
 can. 
 
 I went out soon after to my duties, and in the 
 rush of business, in the excitement of cases, I 
 forgot the governess. 
 
 It was not until my return that evening I 
 realized she was in my house, she was the com- 
 panion to my boy. 
 
 Already they seemed friendly, already they 
 seemed on good terms. 
 
 My sister was very silent through dinner^ very 
 busy after it. We sat around the large, old-
 
 PA UL. 65 
 
 fashioned fireplace in the hall. Paul was flushed, 
 excited ; he brought all his books and toys to 
 show them to his governess. She laughed at his 
 enthusiasm, she laughed at his childish joy. "He 
 will be awake all night," said his aunt crossly. 
 His aunt was right, no doubt. The stranger did 
 not look annoyed. She bore the criticism well. 
 The girl was young, but she had refinement, she 
 had tact. After a while, as Paul went off to bed, 
 he kissed his aunt, he raised his head to kiss the 
 governess ; her face flushed, as she bent down 
 over his fair locks and gently stroked them with 
 her hands. 
 
 " Good-night," she murmured, " good-night." 
 I put my arms around my boy and pressed him to 
 my heart. 
 
 "Quickly to bed," I said; "you are up late; 
 hurry all you can." The boy laughed and said he 
 had had a splendid time all day. Then I watched 
 him going slowly up the stairs to his own room. 
 I watched his little figure until it disappeared from 
 sight. 
 
 Celia stayed up later than usual that night. 
 She wanted to chaperon the governess, I saw. 
 Mademoiselle Baron worked at a piece of em-
 
 66 PA UL. 
 
 broidery. I noticed the dexterous movement of 
 her ringers, the quick succession of her stitches. 
 
 " You sew very neatly," said my sister. " Will 
 you let me see your work ? " She rose and stood 
 before Celia. " Do you find it difficult ? " she 
 questioned. 
 
 " I learned to embroider long ago, so it is easy 
 to me." 
 
 " You are fond of sewing ? " 
 
 " Not plain sewing," said the girl. 
 
 The next day my sister rose early. She asked 
 me if I knew the governess was called Kathleen. 
 I replied that I had not questioned her upon her 
 Christian name. 
 
 " I shall call her Kate," declared my sister. " I 
 never could tolerate those fancy names." So 
 Kate she was called, and Kate she remained. 
 
 The weeks wore on. I was very busy, very 
 active in my work. 
 
 It was pleasant to come home to a good dinner, 
 a bright fire, a young companion. I began to 
 realize the change. 
 
 One day my sister tried to question me about 
 my plans, my future and the governess. 
 
 "Do you intend to marry her?" she asked.
 
 PA UL. 67 
 
 I flushed ; my face was red with anger. 
 
 "Marry her?" I cried. "Why should I marry 
 her ? " 
 
 " Because you are in love with her," said my 
 sister promptly. I bit my lips. 
 
 " In love with her ?" I murmured. "It cannot 
 be." 
 
 It had been my custom to go often to the opera, 
 often to a concert when the music was good. I 
 went much more frequently before the governess 
 came. 
 
 Now I found my fireside pleasant, my home 
 sufficient. Kate would sit near me, her eyes 
 watching my child, her arms caressing my boy. 
 She was very tender, very kind. Sometimes I 
 would wonder if she were quite happy, if she 
 always meant to stay. The question was annoy- 
 ing. I put it quickly from me. The girl seemed 
 at ease, content in the strange, old-fashioned 
 home. Then Paul was studying well, learning 
 quickly, she said. When I looked at my sister I 
 was thankful. I was relieved. In spite of all her 
 fears she liked the governess. I complimented 
 myself on our good-fortune, on my good judgment 
 in the matter. If the governess were young, she 
 proved well fitted to her place.
 
 68 PA UL. 
 
 In my profession I had often many articles to 
 write. It occurred to me to ask the governess to 
 copy some of them. She seemed delighted at the 
 plan. So, after Paul had gone to bed and left our 
 family party, Kate would sit at the table near my 
 sister and copy out my work. She wrote neatly 
 in English. With few mistakes could produce her 
 papers for my inspection. She was almost too 
 diligent, I thought. 
 
 One night I offered her tickets for a concert, 
 begging her to take some friends and go. She 
 laughed and said she did not want to neglect her 
 duty and my work. In vain I pleaded with her. 
 At length I thought I had almost persuaded her, 
 when my sister joined in her voice and said, " If 
 Miss Kate prefers her duty, Philip, of course she 
 knows best. You should not urge her so to go." 
 But Kate did not intend to yield ; I saw it by her 
 manner. I liked her determination, I liked her 
 character. 
 
 I was confident of her strength, sure of her 
 judgment. She was the proper companion for my 
 boy. 
 
 One evening, as we worked over my articles, I 
 raised my head suddenly from my writing to find
 
 PA UL, 69 
 
 Mademoiselle Baron watching me. She colored 
 as her eyes met mine. Again she bent her gaze 
 upon her papers. I thought her very charming, 
 very taking in her shyness, in her maiden ways. 
 Later, when my sister left the room, she pushed 
 her writings over to me. 
 
 " Are they quite correct ? " she asked. 
 
 " You have made some mistake just here," I 
 replied, reading the sentence in fault over to her. 
 I wondered at her embarrassment, at her ner- 
 vousness. I looked into her face ; at a glance, I 
 saw her heart was beating fast. I felt she had 
 something to say to me ; something I dreaded 
 much to hear. She was dissatisfied ! But she 
 only spoke about my work. I saw she changed 
 her mind. I looked at her young face, her bright 
 eyes, her soft hair. I admired her truly. It was 
 then like a sudden inspiration, a sudden longing, 
 I chanced to speak to her, to confide in her. 
 
 " Mademoiselle " I began. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, throwing back her head and 
 brushing the stray locks from her forehead. 
 
 " I wonder if you will allow me to tell you 
 something ? " She laughed and moved her pen to 
 her other hand. I saw she was embarrassed. At
 
 70 A UL. 
 
 first I had not thought her shy. But of late it 
 had increased upon her. " Do you give me per- 
 mission?" I continued, as I found she remained 
 silent. She nodded and turned her chair near the 
 fire. I handed her a screen to shield her eyes 
 from the blaze. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said I, " what I have to say 
 will be a matter of a few words. As you already 
 know, it is some years since my wife died. She 
 left a son, a son for me to love, to cherish. I 
 have done my duty towards my charge as best 
 I can, and you have helped me, helped me very 
 well. About twelve months ago, before I ever 
 heard of you, before you ever heard of me, I was 
 called in consultation to see a gifted singer, a 
 beautiful woman, a widow. I thought all dreams 
 of love had passed forever from me, but this 
 gifted woman, this successful singer, filled my 
 heart. I saw her again and again in a professional 
 way. I saw her many times. After my inter- 
 course with this woman I would return to my 
 lonely fireside, to my empty home, oppressed and 
 desolate. Our conversations, our meetings, be- 
 came the greatest interests of the days. She is 
 beautiful, she is clever.
 
 PAUL. 71 
 
 " I asked her to marry me. I gave her a ring. 
 We are engaged. The months go on, the time is 
 passing fast. Our wedding has never yet been 
 fixed. When I go to see her now, I feel worried, 
 I feel ashamed. How can we arrange our mar- 
 riage ? How can I bring a singer home to live 
 with my sister, to live with my boy ? " In my 
 enthusiasm, in my earnestness, I drew nearer to 
 the governess. She spoke brokenly; she spoke 
 slowly in answer to the question. 
 
 " In what way have your surroundings changed 
 in the twelve months ? " she asked. " Your sister 
 is the same, your boy is the same." 
 
 " It must be I ; it. must be I who have changed. 
 I who see things differently," I cried. "What 
 shall I do ? What can a man do when his word is 
 in question ? " 
 
 "He can abide by it, abide by it to the end." 
 
 " Paul is growing older," I exclaimed. " Paul 
 needs careful watching, careful teaching." 
 
 " Is this woman then so ordinary ? " asked the 
 governess. 
 
 " She is a public character. She is a singer," 
 I said. 
 
 " When you engaged yourself to her was she 
 not a singer just the same ? "
 
 72 PA UL. 
 
 11 Yes." I turned bitterly away. I looked with 
 disappointment, with almost anger, at the fair 
 young face beside the fire. " You are too precise, 
 too particular in your reasoning," I said. " You 
 cannot, you do not, understand." 
 
 " You asked my opinion ; I give it to you," 
 replied the girl. I watched her : how pale her 
 face looked in spite of the brightness of the 
 fire! 
 
 " Mademoiselle," I went up to her, I took her 
 hands in mine, "do tell me honestly what you 
 would wish to have me do?" She lowered her 
 eyes, she trembled. 
 
 " As a gentleman, you should marry the woman 
 to whom you are engaged." 
 
 " Even if I do not love her ? " 
 
 "You loved her once; that should suffice." 
 
 " It does not," I said ; " far from it." 
 
 " You should have confessed to her before now, 
 if you did not mean to bring her here if you 
 were ashamed to have her meet your sister, 
 ashamed to have her love your boy." 
 
 " My sister never dreams of such a thing. A 
 singer as my wife ! The mere idea would frighten 
 her ! I was infatuated ! I was mad ! "
 
 PA UL. 73 
 
 " Paul is a noble child, a child with kindly ways. 
 If you try while he is still young, he may learn to 
 love your second wife." Kate rose from her chair. 
 Bitterly the words sounded, deeply the wound was 
 touched. 
 
 " My wife ! " I cried ; " there is but one woman 
 who can be my wife ; you are that woman." Then 
 I stopped ; I did not mean to say it. Mademoi- 
 selle Baron was very pale ; she moved away. As 
 she stood by the table arranging her papers her 
 hands shook. She was cold ; she was proud. 
 How well I knew it ! 
 
 " I shall finish these pages to-morrow," she said. 
 I held out my hand. I wanted her forgiveness. 
 
 " Do not think hardly of me," I said ; " a man 
 cannot always remain silent. Do not look back 
 upon this conversation. Forget it, forget it if 
 you can." For a moment she glanced at me. 
 
 "I am sure, when you come to think it all over, 
 you will be guided by what is honorable, by what 
 is right," she said. 
 
 Then with a sudden movement she turned from 
 me and went quickly from the room. 
 
 After she had gone I stood before the dying 
 fire. In those flames I saw my cherished dreams
 
 74 PA UL. 
 
 burn out ; I saw my brightest hopes turn to life- 
 less ashes in the grate. This girl, this governess, 
 if things had happened otherwise, might have 
 been my promised wife, might have been forever 
 the teacher of my child. 
 
 Just then my sister joined me and broke in upon 
 my reflections, iwas glad to change the current 
 of my thought. 
 
 " Philip," she began, " you have been saying 
 something to that governess to-night. You may 
 as well confess it ; you need not try to hide any- 
 thing from me." 
 
 "My dear sister," said I, "it would be as wise 
 in you, and much better for me, if you would dis- 
 miss this governess from your mind." 
 
 " Philip, I am astonished. It is impossible to 
 deny my words. You have made that governess un- 
 happy. I have noticed her of late. She has lost 
 her spirit and her cheerfulness. Just now, in 
 passing by her door, I heard her sobbing piteously 
 in the refuge of the dark. That governess has 
 something on her mind." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " I replied, angry at my sister's 
 interference, angry at the justice of her words. 
 " Mademoiselle Baron is not unhappy. She has
 
 PAUL. 7$ 
 
 never seemed more bright. But while we are dis- 
 cussing the subject, Celia, I would like you to 
 understand once and forever that I shall never 
 marry Kate." There was decision in my manner, 
 determination in my face. 
 
 The next morning I saw no traces of Kate's 
 tears. She looked happy and content. I was 
 much relieved. I always feared she might decide 
 to leave her place. 
 
 But well founded were my fears. After break- 
 fast she begged to speak with me a moment and 
 alone. 
 
 I took her into my office. She stood before me 
 just as she had done the first day I heard her 
 voice, the first hour I saw her face. Well I 
 remembered the interest which had awakened 
 in me for the young governess. Our interview 
 was soon ended. In vain I pleaded with her to 
 reconsider her decision, to remain in my house. 
 But her mind was quite decided. I argued I 
 would be much away from home. My presence 
 would trouble her but little in the months to come. 
 She would not change her mind. I suppose my 
 confidences had alarmed her, my words had 
 frightened her. It was with a weary spirit, a sad
 
 /6 PA UL. 
 
 heart, I went out to my calls that morning. Kate 
 going away ! Kate leaving us forever ! 
 
 The next two days went quickly. On the third 
 morning the governess had gone. 
 
 Again we began the slow routine of life, again 
 the mornings turned to afternoons, the evenings 
 into nights and Kate had really gone. Paul 
 seemed much changed by her absence. My sister 
 and I tried our best to cheer the little fellow. 
 He talked all day awake, he dreamed all night 
 asleep, of Mademoiselle Baron. 
 
 Celia proposed another governess. I scorned 
 the idea. How find a substitute for cold, proud 
 Kate ? But soon I saw that Paul needed the con- 
 stant companionship, the unceasing care. So we 
 sent him off to school. 
 
 It was about this time I received a short note 
 from my fiancee. She returned my letters, she 
 broke our engagement. I knew I had been lacking 
 in my visits, in my attentions to her. But were 
 there not great excuses for me ? Had I not many 
 things to occupy my thoughts just then? 
 
 I was relieved. My heart was full of thankful- 
 ness. The engagement at an end ! The ring 
 the stone was opal she had kept. I had
 
 PAUL. 77 
 
 no superstitions, but I wondered sometimes why 
 she kept my ring. It was of an unusual bril- 
 liancy, an unusual color. No doubt she prized 
 its value. 
 
 Thus my days sped on. I worked in the even- 
 ings constantly, while my sister sat before the fire. 
 Paul was far away ; the governess gone forever. 
 Sadly I thought of my separation from my boy ; 
 sadly I thought of my separation from my friend. 
 In vain I looked for traces of Mademoiselle Baron. 
 In vain I searched the papers for her name. The 
 name of the singer I would sometimes see in the 
 foreign notes, for she had long since left my 
 country. My thoughts dwelt not in the present, 
 not in the future, but in the past. The happy 
 past ! Once my sister spoke of Kate. She 
 praised her talents, she praised her ways. How 
 strange that every one loved Kate ! I blamed my- 
 self for allowing her to go. I blamed myself for 
 speaking as I did. The proud girl had never 
 thought of me : I was confident she had not. 
 
 The holidays came ; Paul was at home. The 
 holidays passed ; Paul had gone again. 
 
 The years went on. I thought with pride of 
 my handsome son ; he was no longer a child, but
 
 ?S PA 17L. 
 
 a man. He was all I could desire ; he was all I 
 could wish tall and handsome, manly and clever, 
 honest and true. But his interests were away 
 from his aunt, away from me. His college, his 
 chums, his sports, became his life. 
 
 I began to realize how changed I was, how old 
 I had grown. The enthusiasm seemed to be dy- 
 ing, the strength weakening in my ardent spirit. 
 I was too much alone, too much narrowed in my 
 private life. I blessed my education, I blessed 
 my profession. Without those tools to form my 
 interests, I would have been hopeless, I would 
 have been lost indeed. 
 
 Paul's letters were always bright, always enthu- 
 siastic. How it gladdened my heart to think my 
 son was happy ! 
 
 One evening in the spring my sister came home 
 tired. I asked her if she had been out too long, 
 if she had walked too far. She said her day had 
 been fatiguing with its interests, its cares. I 
 laughed. These charitable organizations are the 
 torment of men's lives. Their sisters, their 
 cousins, come home worn out with meetings, ex- 
 hausted with committee work. But my sister 
 closed her ears to these arguments of mine. She
 
 PA UL. 79 
 
 was the chairwoman, the secretary, the president, 
 of numerous auxiliaries, she said. So I looked on 
 in silence. 
 
 " Philip," began the good woman, " Philip, I 
 have seen Paul's governess to-day." 
 
 "You have seen Paul's governess ?" I cried. 
 
 "She passed me quickly in the street." 
 
 " And you did not stop her ? " 
 
 "How could I ? She did not give rne time." 
 
 " Celia, "how could you be so stupid ? " 
 
 "Stupid !" 
 
 " Yes ; you knew I wanted to see the girl. 
 These years I have searched for her in vain." 
 
 " You never told me you were looking for her. 
 I thought you never cared for the governess." 
 
 " Celia ! " I protested. " How can you torment 
 me so ? " 
 
 " If I had known your anxiety about her where- 
 abouts, I might have rushed after her through the 
 crowded streets." 
 
 " How was she dressed ? " I asked. 
 
 " In mourning." 
 
 " In mourning ? I suppose some one belonging 
 to her must have died." 
 
 " You need not look so concerned," said my
 
 80 PA UL. 
 
 sister : " as we never knew any of her relations, 
 their death need not worry us." 
 
 " I know ; but I should hate to think of her 
 in sorrow. Did you think her changed, Celia ? 
 Did she look much older ? " I asked. 
 
 " She looked older, of course ; we all look older. 
 Think how Paul has grown since she was here." 
 
 I thought of the white hairs which had come 
 to me, and I was silent. 
 
 " Philip," continued my sister, " as you have 
 manifested this interest in the governess, I will 
 tell you that she was walking with a friend of 
 mine. No doubt as companion to her." 
 
 " Celia ! You then can find her whereabouts for 
 me ? " 
 
 " You really want to see her ? " 
 
 " I really want to see her," I replied, flushing 
 deeply. 
 
 So it happened that my sister gave me the long- 
 hoped for opportunity. I saw Kate. I went to 
 call upon her with my sister. She was changed, 
 she was older. Her black dress made her face 
 look thin and pale. But to me she was Kate, 
 proud Kate. After I had left her, the brief few 
 minutes in her presence seemed like a dream. I
 
 PA UL. 8 1 
 
 wondered if she could have known I was unmar- 
 ried. If, as I talked to her, she could have thought 
 the singer was my wife. The conversation had 
 been principally about Paul. Her face flushed as 
 she spoke of him. Celia had been very kind in 
 her manner. But she had always a tender spot 
 in her heart for Kate. 
 
 On our return home Celia told me she had in- 
 vited the governess to dinner the next evening. 
 " I told her to bring her embroidery, and sit by 
 the lamp with me, in memory of the old times." 
 How kind my sister was ! 
 
 When the next day dawned, I could scarcely 
 wait for afternoon ; the hours had never seemed 
 so long. 
 
 At length dinner was ready, Kate was in the 
 house ; again at our table, again in our home. 
 How strange it was to think of the days and 
 weeks and months which had worn themselves 
 away since she had gone from us ! The con- 
 versation was difficult ; we all felt embarrassed. 
 Paul became again the subject of our remarks. 
 
 Later, as we sat around the lamp, my sister 
 sewing, Kate embroidering, and I hard at work, 
 with a rush it came over me, with a pain at my
 
 82 PAUL. 
 
 heart, I realized that Kate could not remain 
 always. I wondered what she thought of my 
 broken engagement. For I supposed she had 
 guessed the truth. But she had too much tact to 
 express one word, even by a glance. I listened 
 to her voice as I heard her speaking to my sister. 
 
 "I am grieved to see you in mourning," Celia 
 remarked. 
 
 " I have lost my mother," the governess 
 replied. She bent her eyes upon her work. 
 
 " I am very sorry," said my sister. " Was she 
 ill long?" 
 
 "Only a short time." 
 
 "To lose your mother is indeed a sorrow." 
 
 " She was not my own mother, who died when 
 I was born. This was my step-mother." 
 
 "Ah! Your step-mother; that is a different 
 matter," said my sister. Then they remained 
 silent. Swiftly the girl's needle flew, swiftly her 
 fingers moved over the embroidery. Celia went 
 up-stairs to get another piece of sewing ; we two 
 were left alone. As I watched Kate from my 
 writing, I saw the fingers on her right hand move. 
 My eyes fell upon her ring an opal ring. 
 Quickly I rose, eagerly I stood before her.
 
 PA UL. 83 
 
 "You are fond of jewelry?" I asked, pointing 
 to her hand. 
 
 She flushed crimson. " No ; I have only worn 
 this since my step mother died." 
 
 " Since your step-mother died ? " I repeated. 
 
 " She gave it into my care, into my keeping." 
 
 I bent my head. I looked into the blanched 
 face. 
 
 " Do you know whose ring that is ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes," said the governess. I bit my lips ; my 
 face reddened in the fear of what was coming. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Baron," I said, "is it possible? 
 Could such a dreadful thing be true ? Was the 
 woman I had promised to marry your your 
 step-mother ? " 
 
 The governess raised her eyes. 
 
 " She was my step-mother. You knew her 
 only by her public name," she replied. " And 
 now, though you should hate me, despise me, 
 when I tell you all, I am glad to speak the truth." 
 The governess stood up before me. I saw the 
 opal flickering its lights on her hand. 
 
 " If I speak, you must hear me to the end." I 
 bowed my head. "When I came here to be the 
 governess to your boy, I came at her bidding, I
 
 84 PA UL. 
 
 came at her command. I knew your history, long 
 before you told me anything. I knew you had 
 promised to marry her. I saw the engagement 
 was a secret, I saw the mistake that you had 
 made. She cared for you. She wanted to leave 
 the stage ; she wished to be your wife. It was 
 my promise to her which brought me to your house ; 
 my duty to you which drove me from it. Your 
 engagement was broken because I used my influ- 
 ence, I used my power, to help you, to spare your 
 sister, to save your boy." 
 
 " You knew all this ! Thus you kept your 
 counsel, played your game, practised your deceit." 
 She looked at me scornfully. 
 
 "Take this," she said. She drew the ring off 
 her finger and put it in my hand. " It is yours," 
 she went on ; " the ring is yours, but the secret of 
 your engagement is mine forever." She laughed 
 at my embarrassment, she laughed at my fear. 
 
 "We share the secret," she said; "you must 
 never deny that." 
 
 I saw my sister coming down the stairs ; the 
 governess must have seen her too, for she resumed 
 her work, she regained her composure. 
 
 Kate went home early. She had to be in at a
 
 PAUL. 85 
 
 certain hour, she said. I did not regret her de- 
 parture. I was relieved when the door closed 
 behind her, and I remained on the inside. 
 
 My sister went soon to bed. I sat up far into 
 the night : I thought over many things. The 
 ring I took from my pocket. I opened wide my 
 window and thrust it into the dark streets. 
 " Good-by, good-by, ye memories, forever." 
 
 When Paul came home that summer I had 
 many happy days. I had recovered from my 
 shocks, and tried my best to entertain my son. I 
 told him I had seen his governess. He laughed and 
 said he did not think he would recognize her now. 
 " Of the two you have changed the most," I said. 
 
 Paul was anxious to take a trip abroad. It was 
 reluctantly I assented to accompany him. 
 
 We travelled through the principal French 
 towns and crossed into Switzerland. 
 
 One night Paul came home in high spirits. He 
 had been on an excursion with some Englishmen. 
 
 " Father, whom do you suppose I met ? " he 
 asked. I shook my head. I had grown too old 
 to care for these surprises.
 
 86 PA UL. 
 
 " I met my governess ! " My heart beat fast. 
 
 " How did you recognize her ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, I asked who she was. I thought her face 
 so interesting. At first I did not understand, but 
 there must have been something mutual about the 
 recognition, for she spoke to me." 
 
 " She knew you ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " She heard the men call me by name." 
 
 " Did she say she was coming in this direc- 
 tion ? " I asked. 
 
 " No ; she went the other route, the opposite 
 way." 
 
 How like her, I thought, how like Kate ! 
 
 " Father," continued Paul, " he is quite a nice- 
 looking chap." 
 
 " Who ?" I asked absently. 
 
 " Her husband. The governess is married, you 
 know." As he spoke Paul sauntered off. I heard 
 him talking with his friends. Their merry laugh- 
 ter reached my ears. I bowed my head : the joy- 
 ous sounds did but mock me. A lump rose to my 
 throat, a sob burst from me. 
 
 "My boy, my boy, you do not understand. You 
 will never know it was you who broke the news 
 to me, you who thrust the sting into my heart."
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 TRY to make a correct description of your 
 neighbor, your friend. How much more difficult 
 would you find it to describe yourself ! your ap- 
 pearance, your character, your disposition : they 
 are safe in your own hands, in your own keeping, 
 no doubt ; but turn these virtues, these faults, 
 over to another's care. What then ? The judg- 
 ment of your idols will be a surprise, a revelation 
 to you. 
 
 I, Edward Lynton, 2d, now find myself in this 
 predicament. To paint my own character, my 
 own appearance, is not an easy matter. I would, 
 at this moment, hand my task over to my neigh- 
 bor, friend or foe whoever he may be. 
 
 A society man. What do the words imply ? 
 A fool? Nay, but a wise man, a man who is 
 proud of his birth, his position, his name. 
 
 Born in lace, reared in luxury, surrounded 
 89
 
 90 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 always by New York's fashion, New York's cul- 
 ture with whom would I change? I trow with 
 no one dead, with no one living. Handsome ? 
 Yes. I have heard it said of me. 
 
 I began my social career at an early age. 
 Money in my pockets, money in my bank, money 
 everywhere. No want of mine could exhaust my 
 funds. Where shall I put it ? Upon whom shall 
 I spend it ? became my constant question, my 
 unceasing cry. 
 
 My horses were fast, my turnouts stylish the 
 most costly in that dashing New York set. 
 
 I was present at every private entertainment, 
 every public gathering. I became a well-known 
 figure, a conspicuous character, on the avenue and 
 in the park. 
 
 Thus my days went by quickly, my years began 
 to multiply swiftly. 
 
 At thirty I tired of horses and soon interested 
 myself in literature and art. I had been to many 
 theatres ; I had seen actresses in many parts. 
 
 The stage must be elevated, improved, I thought. 
 I longed for an opportunity to interest myself in 
 its plays, its players. But it was in vain I 
 waited for the subject the woman to imper-
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 9! 
 
 senate my idea, to carry out my scheme. At no 
 performance could I find her, in no house did she 
 appear. Was the world bereft of this particular 
 type of woman ? Was there no actress to paint 
 the writer's dream, to climb the heights of the 
 stage's possibilities ? 
 
 When pathos is shown by real tears, when joys 
 are depicted by real enthusiasm, when players 
 live their parts with firm beliefs, with great con- 
 ceptions, then, and only then, shall our actors 
 rise to fame, our stage to art. 
 
 Within myself I argued, I reasoned, of the 
 laurels awaiting a talented woman, a dramatic 
 genius. To act was a high ambition, a great 
 career. I could appreciate the fulness of it. I 
 could criticise others I could tell in what they 
 failed, in what they excelled ; I could speak of 
 them easily, write of them fluently but for my 
 own talents I could find no description, give no 
 name. To act was indeed beyond, above me. I 
 had once such a dream ; long since had I awak- 
 ened from it. My social standing alone became 
 my judge, my adviser. To carry out my desire 
 I must renounce New York society the society 
 in whose praises I had so often basked, in whose
 
 92 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 circles my money had so often jingled. My 
 father, a proud, stern man, declined to hear of 
 my project. " Go upon the stage, but it shall be 
 penniless ! " he cried. " In taking such a step, I 
 would consider you beneath my notice, my recog- 
 nition. No actor shall bear my father's honored 
 name." 
 
 Angry, disappointed, I saw the folly of pressing 
 my dear project, my beloved dream. 
 
 Still, I interested myself in plays and players. 
 I became intimate with the different managers ; 
 I frequented their houses. 
 
 I discussed the possibilities of a great actress, 
 the impossibilities of a poor one. Such talent as 
 I searched for was hidden behind the curtains of 
 pride, of aristocracy even. Real talent, real re- 
 finement, real beauty, real grace, where should we 
 find them ? On what stage would they allow 
 themselves to appear ? There is something lack- 
 ing in the greatest actresses ; how difficult to 
 point out what that something is ! You find it in 
 the women in your ballrooms, in the women in 
 your houses ; but it seems to vanish with those 
 behind the footlights on the stage. 
 
 One winter's night I trudged along the streets
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 93 
 
 of New York. The winds were high, the snow 
 deep. I closed tightly my warm scarf, my heavy 
 coat. I pressed my hands down into my protect- 
 ing pockets. I began to wish myself at home. 
 
 Soon I came in sight of a theatre. The lights 
 were flaring, the late-comers going in. I stopped. 
 I glanced a moment at the play-bills. I consulted 
 my watch : an hour of the play was already over. 
 I entered the crowded house. I procured a seat 
 within a few feet of the stage. I could see that 
 the piece ran smoothly, but I was not much inter- 
 ested in watching the actors in their parts. The 
 star appeared. Clapping of hands greeted her. 
 She was too large, I thought ; too heavy in her 
 movements ; they lacked ease and grace. Then 
 the second character entered the character of 
 a young and beautiful girl. Her strong face, her 
 peculiar eyes, seemed to haunt me in their earnest 
 gaze. It was a difficult part ; she had conceived it 
 well. "An actress!" I murmured ; "an actress, 
 indeed !" Her young face was pale and colorless, 
 quite unlike most women of the type. Her pose 
 was good, her figure fine. If you were the hero- 
 ine of this play, then people might well flock to 
 note your beauty and your grace.
 
 94 A MODERN ACTRESS, 
 
 Just then she turned her face. I saw the 
 strange light in her eyes; they were of a deep 
 color, more green than blue. I wondered if she 
 were ambitious. 
 
 Before leaving the theatre that night I learned 
 her name. Brown ! How dreadful ! how com- 
 monplace ! thought I. 
 
 But through the following hours, far into the 
 dawn, I pictured visions of the rise, the success, 
 of the young actress, Miss Ann Brown ! It was 
 I who would bring her into notice. I who would 
 cause her to be crowned with honors and with 
 fame. I would make her career my special 
 charge. I would begin at once to arrange for her 
 new studies, her new parts. She would work hard 
 and diligently through the spring and summer. It 
 was a great plan, a brilliant scheme ; my mind 
 was soon absorbed in it. 
 
 I made the necessary inquiries concerning Miss 
 Brown, and I obtained a letter of introduction 
 from her manager to her father. She lived in a 
 side street near Fourth Avenue. I called at the 
 house the next afternoon. The Browns were out. 
 I waited two days before repeating my visit. 
 
 This time fortune favored me, I met the
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 95 
 
 actress upon her own steps. I raised my hat ; I 
 begged pardon. She flushed deeply, murmured 
 a few words which I did not understand. " I 
 have come," said I, with an attempt at boldness 
 which was rendered difficult by an unexpected 
 glance from the actress, " with a letter of intro- 
 duction." 
 
 "To my father?" 
 
 " Yes," said I. " I hope he is at home." 
 
 " He went out an hour ago with me. He 
 returns early to dinner.'.' Just then the door was 
 opened and Miss Brown walked in. 
 
 " Will you wait for him ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes, if you please," I answered, at a loss for 
 words. We went quickly through a narrow entry, 
 and up a long flight of stairs. The actress turned 
 to a door on the right, opened it, and motioned 
 me to follow her. It was a cheerful parlor, well- 
 furnished and comfortable. I felt embarrassed. 
 I had hoped to find a poorer establishment and a 
 less well-to-do person in Miss Brown. 
 
 She pointed to a chair near the fire. 
 
 " You will find that comfortable," she said. 
 Moving to the chair, I stood before it while she 
 walked about the room. Her grace was fascinat-
 
 96 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 ing, her movements enchanting. She went to 
 the lamps and lighted them. A glow was cast 
 upon her pale face, her white brow. 
 
 " It is pleasant to find warmth and shelter," 
 said I, "on so cold a day as this." 
 
 " Yes, we have had many storms and winds 
 this winter. I often find New York too 
 cold." 
 
 " Why do you remain here then ? " 
 
 " My work keeps me." 
 
 " Do you find your occupation tedious ? " I 
 ventured. 
 
 " Oh, no. Sometimes I would like to remain 
 at home. But then, you see, I can't." 
 
 "Do you then enjoy your studies?" I con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " The repetition is tiresome." 
 
 " You should have change." 
 
 " How can I have it ? " laughed the girl. 
 
 " A plan might be devised." 
 
 " Father says I am too impatient with my 
 parts." 
 
 " Your father is quite right. He knows your 
 ability, your talent." She laughed again a little 
 bitterly, I thought.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 97 
 
 " And what if I have no talent ? " she said ; 
 then drew her chair nearer the fire, and rested 
 her chin upon her slender hands before the hot 
 blaze. She looked very beautiful in her plain 
 gown, her cheap hat. 
 
 " I can see it in your face," I replied. " What 
 you need is study ; experience to bring your 
 talents out." She shook her head ; her green 
 eyes widened, then shrank again behind the dark 
 lashes that fell upon her cheeks. 
 
 " What would experience do for me ? " 
 
 "A great deal, I think, in your theatrical 
 life."" 
 
 "Experience means wickedness and vice." 
 
 " No," I cried. " You are wrong, quite wrong. 
 Have no such thought. Experience would make 
 you wiser, happier. I am sure of that." She 
 looked straight at me. 
 
 " You are joking," she said. I bent nearer to 
 her. I know not why I did so, it was the impulse 
 of the moment. 
 
 " I have never been more earnest in my life. 
 But trust in me, Miss Brown. I do assure you, 
 the life you lead just now is narrowed. If 
 you rise in your profession, you will learn much
 
 98 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 that is good, much that is true." She took off 
 her hat. She ran her long fingers through her 
 short black hair. 
 
 " I cannot believe you," she said. Then hear- 
 ing a step outside, she rose and opened the door 
 for her father. 
 
 He was a tall, stately old man. I could at "a 
 glance see the remains of his beauty. He held 
 out his hand to me with a certain hesitation, cer- 
 tain simplicity. 
 
 ' You want to see me ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, rising and handing him the 
 letter. 
 
 " Sit right down again, sir, while I take off my 
 coat and gloves." His daughter came forward, 
 but did not put out her hand to help the old 
 man in his struggle to disengage his cuffs 
 and sleeves. I offered my assistance, but she 
 bounded forward, and throwing me a defiant 
 glance, seized her father's arm and nearly broke 
 it, in her quick determination to free the coat 
 from his trembling grasp. 
 
 Then she turned away quickly. 
 
 " I will leave you," she said. Her manner was 
 curt to rudeness. It was quite useless to extend
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 99 
 
 my hand for good-by ; she did not mean to notice 
 me again. 
 
 I was disappointed. I found it difficult to begin 
 my conversation with the old man. " Mr. Brown," 
 said I, " I have come here on what may seem an 
 extraordinary errand. I went to the theatre a few 
 nights ago ; I noticed your daughter on the stage." 
 I waited for Mr. Brown to answer, but he only 
 nodded his head. I thought his eyes brightened 
 as I continued. " Perhaps you can help me in my 
 scheme." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said. 
 
 " I want to make a proposition to you." He 
 leaned forward and his bright eyes met mine. " I 
 want your help, Mr. Brown." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he repeated. 
 
 " Your daughter, with whom I have just had a 
 few moments' conversation, has not her full rights 
 in her present position on the stage." 
 
 Mr. Brown leaned back in his chair, his face 
 looked worn and haggard. 
 
 " What is your proposition ? " he said. 
 
 " That your daughter shall study for a higher 
 part." He passed his hands over his knees and 
 then answered,
 
 100 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 " It is impossible." 
 
 " Why impossible ? " 
 
 " Money is needed." I coughed uneasily. 
 
 " Mr. Brown, I am a complete stranger to you. 
 My father is Mr. Edward Lynton. I am his only 
 son. I have taken the liberty of calling upon you 
 solely on account of the interest which I feel in 
 the success of your daughter." 
 
 " Such attentions are not unusual with gentle- 
 men where the career of an actress is concerned," 
 he replied ; " but my daughter is proud ; impossi- 
 ble. I would advise you to let the matter alone." 
 
 I coughed again. 
 
 " If I am really interested in her welfare, which 
 I am, I cannot so easily set aside my plan." 
 
 " You might, sir, be disappointed if you did 
 help her." I felt disappointed already. 
 
 " We might help her together," I replied, my 
 mind wandering far away from the small parlor 
 and the old man. I saw the actress upon the 
 stage ; I heard the noise of her success ; the peo- , 
 pie were applauding her talent, her acting. 
 
 " What, then, is your idea ? " I roused myself to 
 speak. 
 
 " To have her study regularly for a new play,
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. IOI 
 
 that she may take a first part." The father 
 laughed. 
 
 " She is a handsome lass, there's no doubt of 
 that, sir ; but you don't know her you don't 
 know her half." 
 
 " I could not expect to know her on so short an 
 acquaintance," I said. I was annoyed with the 
 old man. He was so confident in his opinion of 
 the handsome girl. But there was much to admire 
 in his simplicity, his truth. I could already judge 
 that Miss Brown's character was strong, her dis- 
 position difficult. Born in a higher station of life, 
 would she not have been a great lady ? A charm- 
 ing woman of society ? 
 
 " She will succeed, I am confident of it," I said. 
 Mr. Brown cleared his throat and then answered, 
 
 " I have had charge of the girl since her mother 
 died. She was a gentle, good child. I had no 
 fault to find. 
 
 " I was unfortunate in business. I lost the 
 greater part of my income. Too old was I, then, 
 to begin life over again. I found my child would 
 have to work for her support. She was strong 
 and able to undertake her task. When still very 
 young I put her upon the stage. She had a fair
 
 102 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 education. At first, I did not realize the hard- 
 ships of such a life. I see it all now to-day, 
 when it is too late. Hers has been a dark, a 
 tedious journey." 
 
 " Her beauty should have been remarked," 
 said I. 
 
 " It was, it was," replied the old man. 
 
 " Then why did she not succeed ? " 
 
 " Ann's interest in her studies seemed to flag. 
 Her ambition carried her to the second parts, in 
 which you now find her, no farther." 
 
 "Did she not have good stage training?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, yes. But it has not improved her. Her 
 life is a mistake, a failure." 
 
 "Her life has only just begun," I cried. 
 
 " Even so, I fear it will be hard to change my 
 girl now." 
 
 " She must succeed," I said. I rose to my feet, 
 I walked a few steps back and forth before the old 
 man. He seemed feebler to me than I had at first 
 supposed. 
 
 " Mr. Brown," I exclaimed, " let me pay the 
 needed money. The manager of New York's best 
 theatre is my friend. I shall bring your daughter
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 103 
 
 to his notice. In a year's time, sooner, Miss 
 Brown shall be New York's great star." I held 
 out my hand ; the old man grasped it. We were 
 friends, real friends. I felt confident of our 
 success. Before leaving I arranged to call again 
 the next day, Mr. Brown promising to inform his 
 daughter of our plans. 
 
 " It must be slowly, carefully done," he mur- 
 mured. I laughed and wished him good luck. 
 
 " Good-by ! Great success ! " said I with a wave 
 of my hand and a vain attempt at hilarity. 
 
 " Good-by ! good-by ! " repeated the old man. 
 He looked absently at me. 
 
 That night I went again to the theatre. My 
 seat was in a poorer position in the house, but I 
 managed to see Miss Brown as she came upon the 
 stage. She walked with a firm and almost too 
 decided tread in going through her parts. She 
 did not seem to pay sufficient heed to the move- 
 ments of her fellow-actors. Her face looked 
 flushed ; her green eyes wide and searching in 
 their nervous, restless gaze. Several times she 
 scanned the audience, a fault so common with 
 actresses. I have often deplored it. After a while 
 I concluded she was looking for her father. I
 
 104 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 learned later that he was not in the audience that 
 evening. He waited outside for his daughter. 
 
 I went home early. I made no attempt to speak 
 with Miss Brown. I was disappointed with her 
 acting that night. 
 
 The next afternoon I was at the house near 
 Fourth Avenue. The servant led me up the 
 stairs and to the room on the right. There was 
 no one present as I entered. Hat in hand, I 
 stood. I waited five minutes twenty minutes. 
 I grew impatient. Then the door beyond opened, 
 and Miss Brown walked in. She came quickly 
 across the room, and, standing in front of me, 
 gazed at me strangely. I held out my hand. She 
 grasped it with her long fingers, then rapidly with- 
 drew them, and stood still with her arms folded 
 behind her. 
 
 " Good-afternoon, Miss Brown," said I. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," she replied. 
 
 " I must beg a few moments of your time. I 
 have come to speak with you upon a purely busi- 
 ness matter." 
 
 " Purely business matter." 
 
 "Your father has told you of it," I continued. 
 
 " Father told me a great many things after you
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 105 
 
 went away yesterday. I did not believe a word 
 he said." She walked to the s6fa and sat down 
 upon the cushioned arm in a strictly Bohemian 
 fashion. 
 
 " Have you then so little faith in him ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 "Very, very little, while in you I have none." 
 This frank admission startled me. I wished my- 
 self gone. 
 
 " In time your faith may strengthen," I man- 
 aged to say. 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " Miss Brown," said I, " we must speak seri- 
 ously. Did your father make my proposition 
 clear to you ? " 
 
 " He said you wanted to give me money. I 
 think you have mistaken me for some of your 
 more fashionable friends." A look of disdain, 
 contempt, came into the gre6n eyes, and about 
 the corners of the beautiful mouth. Such anger 
 was becoming. 
 
 "I think it is you, Miss Brown, who have mis- 
 taken my fashionable friends." I went nearer to 
 her. "Miss Brown," I continued, I spoke more 
 kindly, " I have simply offered to lend the money
 
 '106 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 to your father, in order that you may perfect your 
 talents, and become a good actress." 
 
 " I prefer remaining a poor one, thank you." 
 
 "But can you not see the folly of wasting your 
 time upon these secondary parts ? " 
 
 "I like them." 
 
 " Have you no ambition ? " 
 
 " None." Astonished, vexed, I turned away. 
 Just then through the mirror I could see the great 
 eyes watching me ; they seemed to pierce my 
 very thoughts. I wheeled around suddenly, but 
 the actress had been too quick for me. Her face 
 was in a brilliant smile. 
 
 " If I should decide to accept this money, what 
 do you require of me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Nothing but perseverance and work." She 
 knit her brows. 
 
 " Then I need not fear the bargain ? " She 
 looked straight at me. 
 
 " Not in the least. Your studies alone shall 
 command you." 
 
 " Study is no pleasure." 
 
 " That is true in many cases. But once inter- 
 ested in your new pursuits, you will find pleasure 
 even in the tediousness of your labor."
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. IO/ 
 
 " I consent to your offer," she said. She was 
 twisting the sofa fringe into a tight knot as she 
 spoke. 
 
 "Very good," I answered ; "and I would ad- 
 vise you to resign your present role at once. 
 Next week you can go with your father to a quiet 
 place. Away from the city you can apply your- 
 self more thoroughly." 
 
 " I would prefer " Then she stopped, and 
 began to untwist the fringe. 
 
 " What would you prefer ? " I asked. 
 
 "A place near the sea." 
 
 " I am glad to know your wish. To-morrow I 
 shall consult with my friend ; he can give us his 
 advice. If you will kindly consent to accept what- 
 ever play and part he chooses for you, it will 
 simplify matters." 
 
 "I have preferences." 
 
 " What young woman has not ? " I replied. 
 
 Then we shook hands for good-by. 
 
 I went out, leaving my respects for Mr. 
 Brown. 
 
 The next morning I had a long, satisfactory 
 talk with the manager. He advised hard study. 
 He said he would see Miss Brown within the
 
 108 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 week ; he kept his word. At length everything 
 was arranged. 
 
 Old Mr. Brown and his beautiful daughter went 
 to the City-by-the-Sea. Thus my influence had 
 already told upon the career of the young actress. 
 
 The old man wrote to tell me of their arrival. 
 
 They had a small, comfortably furnished cottage 
 on an unfrequented road. The road stretched 
 along by the bay. The bay led out into the sea. 
 
 Here Miss Brown began her studies ; she was 
 in earnest now. 
 
 Nearly every week I heard of her improvement. 
 The good, pure air was very strengthening to 
 them both. 
 
 All went well. One day I thought of going to 
 the little cottage and taking them by surprise. I 
 travelled by boat from New York. 
 
 Mr. Brown was delighted at the unexpected 
 visit ; his daughter, too, was pleased.. The actress 
 and I spent those days together. We took long 
 walks across the country, returning by the walk 
 along the cliff. The girl was vigorous and strong.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 109 
 
 I asked her if she missed her city life with its 
 excitements and crowd. She glanced at me with 
 her queer eyes, then said, 
 
 "Now I am more satisfied." 
 
 " You think you will learn to love your art ? " 
 I questioned. 
 
 " Success might make it dear to me," she said ; 
 "but now I do not love to study even for my art." 
 
 I was annoyed ; I wanted my actress to succeed. 
 
 " You must not allow yourself to be disap- 
 pointed at first," I said. 
 
 "No, no," she laughed ; "I still have moments 
 when I like to work. But sometimes it is so 
 difficult to struggle on." 
 
 "I suppose it is," I replied vaguely. My wants 
 having ever been gratified, it was only through 
 her I learned the meaning of the word effort 
 effort for our own ambitions which we love, we 
 value. For the moment I thought I knew what 
 it was to despair ; then in an instant the old long- 
 ing came back to me. In becoming an actor, my 
 life would indeed be full complete. I envied the 
 girl as I watched her ; I yearned for the fulfilment 
 of my own cherished dreams. 
 
 " It is not as if I had never tried," she went
 
 1 10 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 on. " Father used to think me careless and idle, 
 but I was not. I settled down to my failures ; 
 but it took determination to do it. I went on as 
 if I were satisfied like the actresses were who 
 succeeded." 
 
 " There is such a thing as bearing failure 
 bravely," I said. " Perhaps you deserved more 
 credit than if you had gone on hoping just the 
 same ; the noblest characters arise from strug- 
 gling, not from success." 
 
 " But I think it was my envy of others which 
 made me hard and cold. The actresses I had 
 expected to surpass soon rose far above me in 
 their theatrical career. I did not know how to 
 push forward." 
 
 " How few in the world do ! " I answered. " But 
 are you hard and cold, child ? I should not have 
 thought it." She flushed and bit her lips ; I saw 
 I had displeased her. She moved a step away 
 from me, and, stooping, picked a daisy on the grass 
 near the road ; she began to pull off the white 
 petals as she walked. 
 
 "You are only human," I said; "you must 
 always remember this. To surpass our neigh- 
 bors is a common fault ; but to succeed, you must
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. m 
 
 believe more in yourself, in your talents, in your 
 rights." She gave a short laugh. 
 
 "I am not even sure if I believe in you," she 
 said. I stood quite still. 
 
 "Ann!" I said, "this is unkind when I have 
 put such trust in you." She began to repeat 
 aloud the verses, "He loves me, he loves me not." 
 Slowly, one by one, she pulled the remaining 
 petals off the stem. " I have always had a super- 
 stitious trust in flowers," she cried. She crushed 
 the little yellow centre of the daisy in her hands. 
 
 " And what did the daisy say ? " I asked. 
 
 " I won't tell you." 
 
 " Is it a secret ? " 
 
 " Yes ; a very great secret," she cried, shaking 
 her head with its dusky curls. 
 
 " But you can tell me what it says," I urged. 
 
 "No. Some day perhaps you will find out." 
 I laughed and turned the subject off. 
 
 " Now, Miss Brown, you will study in the future 
 all you can. You are beginning over again ; you 
 can, you must succeed." She laughed : her beau- 
 tiful face was smiling as she talked. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will try to study hard. Sometimes 
 I have moments when I like to work, as I told
 
 112 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 you ; then again I dream I dream of other 
 things." 
 
 " Do you ? " I asked. 
 
 "Yes." Then she was silent. 
 
 "You must put aside these dreams," I said. 
 She looked at me wondering. 
 
 " I have dreams too," I continued ; " but they 
 are best unrealized, unfinished." 
 
 " Why ? " she asked. 
 
 "Because some dreams are unsuited to us." 
 The girl seemed strangely gay, I thought. 
 
 " Won't you tell me what your dreams were ? " 
 she asked. " I want very much to know." 
 
 " When I tired of my city life, my horses, my 
 carriages, my friends, I began to long for some- 
 thing different, something greater," I replied. "I 
 wanted new occupations, new interests." 
 
 " Yes, yes," cried the girl. 
 
 "Then I became much absorbed in your art. 
 I hoped to become an actor. I read diligently, 
 I studied steadily. I saw myself before the 
 world in a new career, before the public in a 
 new role. My conceptions of the stage were 
 great ; my ambitions for it, high. By persever- 
 ance I knew I could succeed. Then my father
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 113 
 
 heard of my projects. He scorned the idea that 
 his son should go upon the -stage. In this unfa- 
 vorable light the old man took pleasure in regard- 
 ing me, while my sisters joined loudly in his cry 
 of horror and dismay. I saw it was impossible to 
 convince them, impossible to succeed. Then I 
 gave way to their opinions, and abandoned my 
 cherished schemes." 
 
 "It was very foolish of you," said Miss Brown. 
 " You should have asserted your independence. 
 You should not have cared for those narrow criti- 
 cisms." I smiled sadly at her words. 
 
 " It is a serious matter for a man to turn against 
 a rich parent ; it is wiser to sacrifice one's dreams 
 than take such a step as that." 
 
 " Oh, it was money which made you give way, 
 was it ? I did not think of that. See ! " cried 
 the girl, turning hastily away from me, " see those 
 stately ships far out at sea." She pointed to the 
 horizon. "Those smaller ones are yachts, I do 
 believe." 
 
 " Are you fond of sailing ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes. And I have never been on board one of 
 those fine boats in my life." 
 
 "Some day I will take you," I said.
 
 114 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 " It will be great fun to go with you," cried the 
 beautiful girl. Than she was silent again. The 
 wind blew the dark curls from her face. I could 
 see the rich color in her cheeks. We walked 
 quickly : the sun was sinking slowly ; we watched 
 the clouds moving in the west. The girl had lost 
 her gayety, her cheerfulness, I thought. Then we 
 came in sight of the cottage, and she went in to 
 join her father. 
 
 In a few days I returned to New York. Soon I 
 became absorbed in the pursuit of pleasure there, 
 but I never forgot the Browns. 
 
 One day, as I turned into Fifth Avenue, whom 
 should I meet hurrying along the crowded street 
 but Miss Brown ! She was alone. I raised my 
 hat as I approached. She held out her hand to 
 me ; her beautiful face was radiant with smiles. 
 
 " How glad I am to see you ! " she cried. 
 
 "What brings you to New York ? " said I. 
 
 " Business." 
 
 " Theatrical business ? " 
 
 "Yes. I came to consult the manager. I 
 return this afternoon to my father."
 
 A MODERN A CTRESS. 1 1 5 
 
 " You came to New York alone ? " 
 
 " Quite alone," said Miss Brown with arch 
 simplicity. As we talked we moved on down the 
 avenue. Men touched their hats to me ; women 
 bowed their heads. I felt my face flush as I 
 became conscious of their glances at my com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Let us turn now," said I to her. 
 
 She looked at me, a strange expression in her 
 face and in her glance. 
 
 " I prefer to walk on Fifth Avenue," she said. 
 " And I am hungry." 
 
 " Is there any place where I can take you to 
 relieve your pangs of hunger?" I inquired. 
 
 "To Delmonico's. Take me to Delmonico's ! " 
 exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands with pleas- 
 ure at the thought. 
 
 " To Delmonico's ! " I repeated, dazed at the 
 very idea. 
 
 "Yes," cried Miss Brown. I laughed outright. 
 
 " Miss Brown, I must refuse to take you there." 
 
 " Why ? " she asked. . 
 
 " For many reasons. But more particularly 
 because this is the fashionable hour. Every table 
 would be engaged."
 
 Il6 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 11 By fashionable people ? " she inquired. 
 
 Then she turned her eyes upon me with a look 
 of scorn. I had not meant to use that adjective; 
 it had slipped from me unawares. 
 
 "I seldom go to that restaurant with young 
 ladies," I said. 
 
 " Make no excuses," cried she. But I de- 
 tected a shade of disappointment in the fair 
 young face. 
 
 "You see, Miss Brown," I went on, "it is cus- 
 tomary for young ladies like yourself to be chap- 
 eroned." She gave a short laugh. 
 
 " If father were here, would you take us ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes." She threw at me a look which 
 might mean dislike, distrust ; but I gave no heed 
 to it. 
 
 "Which way were you going when I joined 
 you ? " I asked. 
 
 "To the boat." 
 
 "It does not start for two hours," I replied. 
 
 " Perhaps I can satisfy my appetite on board," 
 said the actress. Again she looked at me steadily. 
 I lowered my lashes. I did not wish to read her 
 thought.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 1 1/ 
 
 We walked on in silence. I drew a breath of 
 relief as we left the avenue. 
 
 Soon we reached the elevated road. A brief 
 ten minutes brought us to our station. We went 
 down the long flight of steps into the street. I 
 gave Miss Brown my arm to guide her through 
 the crowd. At length we reached the boat. I 
 offered to make inquiries about luncheon, but 
 Miss Brown said she did not wish to eat any- 
 thing. 
 
 " I thought you were so hungry ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 " I was joking all the time. But you were too 
 stupid to see my wit." 
 
 " I do not call that wit," said I, angry at the 
 girl's strange ways. 
 
 I waited an hour on the deck with my young 
 charge. I had an engagement at the Club. Each 
 minute added to my impatience, to my discomfort. 
 She talked on incessantly. I had no opportunity 
 for escape. It was not until the gong sounded for 
 " all on shore," that I raised my hat for good-by. 
 Miss Brown held out her hand to me ; her beauti- 
 ful face was strangely pale. 
 
 " Good-by," she said. 
 
 " Take care of yourself," I said.
 
 Il8 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 There was something pathetic in the beautiful 
 face just then. I felt myself something of a 
 coward as I turned away. 
 
 " I will come and see you soon," I called to her. 
 
 Five weeks passed before I could arrange for 
 my next trip to the City-by-the-Sea. 
 
 Three days before starting I wrote to Mr. 
 Brown that I would arrive the following Tuesday 
 by the afternoon boat. As he did not answer the 
 letter, I concluded he had not received it. 
 
 At length the day came. On the boat I met 
 the daughter of one of my father's richest friends. 
 She was travelling alone with her maid. We were 
 old acquaintances. I begged her to regard me as 
 a chaperon. She did so. As the steamer neared 
 her dock, it grew too dark to distinguish the 
 figures on the landing. I noticed a rough crowd. 
 I offered my protection to the rich girl. Together 
 we stepped on land. A high wind blew off the 
 sea. We felt the change from New York ; we 
 were jolted and pushed by the noisy crowd. I 
 kept my companion's arm safe within mine. I
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. I If) 
 
 guided her to her carriage. Just as I raised my 
 hat and made my parting bow, a figure darted 
 forward and two slender hands grasped my arm. 
 
 " I have been waiting so long for you ! " cried 
 the breathless voice. I turned sharply. I tried 
 to disengage my arm. 
 
 " I began to fear you would not come," the 
 voice continued, "and the dock was cold and 
 dreary." I bent my head in the deepening 
 shadows. I saw two greenish-blue eyes looking 
 at me. 
 
 "Miss Brown," I cried, "what brought you 
 here ? This is no fit place for you ! " 
 
 " I came to meet you." 
 
 " Is there anything the matter ? " I asked 
 sharply. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " No illness your father is well ? " 
 
 "Very well." We hurried on in silence. At 
 length the girl spoke again. 
 
 " I watched the boat coming in the distance," 
 she said. " It grew larger and larger each 
 moment. I tried to distinguish you among the 
 passengers on deck, but it got dark too quickly 
 and I could not see."
 
 120 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 " I was sitting in the stern," I said. 
 
 " Did you find the time very long ? " 
 
 " No. I met with friends." The fingers tight- 
 ened their hold on my sleeve. 
 
 " Fashionable friends ? " 
 
 " Fashionable friends," I repeated. 
 
 " Was the pretty lady you were with when you 
 came on shore one of them ? " 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 " I thought so," murmured Miss Brown. 
 
 After a while we came in sight of the little cot- 
 tage on the road, near the bay. 
 
 Mr. Brown greeted me \varmly as I entered, 
 asking me to stay all night. I refused. " The 
 hotel room was waiting for me," I said. 
 
 Later the actress stepped out on the low 
 piazza, and resting her slender figure against 
 the wooden railings, gazed far out to the sea. I 
 watched her eagerly. She was very beautiful 
 that night. 
 
 Old Mr. Brown smoked a cigar with me. We 
 looked at the stars fining one after another into 
 the vast heavens. The pale yellow moon rose 
 high above the calm waters. I felt strangely 
 quiet, strangely at peace.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 121 
 
 At eleven o'clock I went to my hotel. My 
 thoughts lingered behind with the sea. 
 
 The next day I walked about the town. I met 
 friends. One invited me to luncheon, others to 
 dinner, to tea. I accepted all the invitations I 
 could. Late in the evening I excused myself, 
 and started off by a lonely road to pay my visit 
 to the Browns. 
 
 Mr. Brown was out. As I approached I saw 
 the young actress seated in the parlor at a table 
 near the lamp. She was hard at work, I thought. 
 I must have frightened her, for she started up 
 nervously as I entered. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," I said ; " I came in with- 
 out ringing. I did not mean to surprise you." 
 She laughed and said, 
 
 " I thought you were not coming. It is very 
 late." I walked over to the table where she sat. 
 She looked up at me startled. Her face grew red, 
 then white. I picked up the book she was reading. 
 
 "Your lines are difficult," I said. 
 
 " Sometimes I learn them easily," she answered, 
 "sometimes not so well." 
 
 " Have you grown tired ? " I asked, bending 
 over her beautiful head.
 
 122 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 " Yes," she murmured. I watched her taper 
 fingers playing with the corners of her book. No 
 jewel adorned the white throat, the small ears. 
 Her dress was plain and badly cut. 
 
 "Miss Brown," I began, then turning shortly 
 I walked away. I moved a chair to the window, I 
 sat down. I buried my face for a moment in my 
 hands. I suffered. Could I love you, I won- 
 dered, love your beauty always ? Then with an 
 effort I raised my head. The light was falling on 
 Miss Brown's face, her eyes were strangely larger 
 owing to it. With a quick movement she rose 
 and threw her book aside. Then rushing to me 
 she knelt down at my side. 
 
 " You are unhappy," she cried. " I knew it 
 yesterday." The curly head came nearer to my 
 arm. " Can I help you ? Please let me try ? " 
 
 " No, no," I said. 
 
 " Is it the world ? " she cried. " I knew it was 
 filled with wickedness." 
 
 " May you learn no more of it," I solemnly 
 said. 
 
 " Let me help you," she cried again. " I 
 believe if you were to tell me I could really 
 understand ! "
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 123 
 
 " No, no ; you cannot," I said. Then the 
 green eyes filled with blinding, rushing tears. 
 She bowed her head, she wept. I tried my best 
 to comfort her. I scarcely knew what to say. 
 The sobs came quicker, louder. My efforts were 
 in vain. 
 
 " You must control yourself," I said. I dared 
 not ask her why she wept. I knew the reason 
 well. She loved me ! But what could her love 
 do for me ? Poor, honest, trusting girl, thought 
 I. I pushed her gently from me. With a cry 
 like one in pain she rose to her feet. Going to 
 the table she snatched the play-book lying there. 
 She tore it into twenty pieces, then stamped upon 
 them with her feet. 
 
 " I hate those lines," she cried. " I would 
 renounce them all if if" A noise outside 
 cut short her sentence. She stopped and trem- 
 bled. I got up quickly. I looked out. 
 
 "Your father is coming," I said. She threw 
 herself upon the sofa like a disappointed child. 
 
 As Mr. Brown entered the room the girl darted 
 by him and out the door ; on she ran far down the 
 dark road which overlooked the sea. 
 
 He asked me to come out and see the view : the
 
 124 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 sky was dark and lowering. I watched the tall, 
 slim figure until it disappeared from sight. 
 
 I went back to the hotel at midnight. Before 
 retiring I re-packed my trunk. I returned to 
 New York by the morning boat. 
 
 I felt relieved as I came in sight of the busy 
 city, far away from the young actress, her 
 struggles, her hopes, her life. It was well for me, 
 I thought. Such a woman could never satisfy the 
 society in which I lived. Unhappiness, disap- 
 pointment, would surely follow such a union even 
 to the end. 
 
 I felt sorry for her too as the weeks crept by, 
 and I thought of her with her wild nature, her 
 great heart. Were many women to be found like 
 her ? I wrote to the old man several times. 
 Only once did I receive an answer. He said his 
 daughter had gone to New York to see the man- 
 ager. He said many encouraging things of her 
 improvement in her work. 
 
 Three months had elapsed since my visit to 
 the Browns. I would have yielded to my desire
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 12$ 
 
 and gone back that spring, I believe, had not my 
 physician suggested a flying trip abroad. Wise 
 man, thought I, change will restore my health, 
 will also benefit my future. The swift tide of 
 temptation was rushing out to sea. The strong 
 current of love was carrying me to the spot from 
 which I would fly, from which I would escape. 
 Too well I realized my own weakness, too well 
 I realized my heart's strength. 
 
 I would do well to leave the actress, to leave 
 the land in which she dwelt. 
 
 I wrote her a short note ; I said but little I 
 merely stated my plan to go abroad. I begged 
 her to study during my absence to succeed on my 
 return. She sent me a curt answer, wishing me a 
 pleasant journey. I believe I was disappointed 
 when I had finished it. 
 
 I found the sea very strengthening, the variety 
 very pleasing. The voyage came to an end much 
 sooner than I would wish. 
 
 In Havre I became greatly interested in the 
 old town, with its queer buildings, its quaint 
 streets. I hurried on to Paris Paris with its 
 passing glory, its dazzling glitter. Who could 
 fail to enjoy its amusements, its pleasures ?
 
 126 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 I fell in with some American friends. They 
 soon made me one of them, at home in the 
 foreign city. 
 
 We went from cafe to cafe, from boulevard to 
 boulevard, from garden to garden, drinking in the 
 delights of that fair city. 
 
 Nine months later I left Paris. I travelled fast. 
 I saw many things, things which distracted my 
 thoughts, my brain. But one day I read in the 
 American news of the debut of a young actress. 
 My mind flew back to the beautiful girl whose 
 career had been so much to me. Success ! 
 Success ! My hopes had been realized, my ideas 
 fulfilled. I longed to return to New York, but I 
 felt myself quite unequal to the task which 
 awaited me. To see Miss Brown, to hear her 
 voice, was denied my life just then. " Travel in 
 the opposite direction ! Travel fast," whispered 
 a voice in my ears. 
 
 I did travel fast. I saw much. Going to 
 Dresden I settled down there for an indefinite 
 time. The life was not Parisian. I missed the 
 bright French city, with its gayly dressed people, 
 its crowds, its lights. 
 
 At length I returned to France. A few days
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. I2/ 
 
 of journeying through the old towns and again 
 I was in Paris. Paris ! There is but one Paris ! I 
 hurried about the galleries, the theatres ; my days 
 were fully occupied. I saw no actress to compare 
 with Miss Brown. 
 
 Thus the time passed until my father wrote for 
 my return. " I wish you to come immediately," 
 his letter read. 
 
 I knew not if it were with sad heart or 
 gay that I made my preparations to return to 
 America. 
 
 But at last I was ploughing the waves in the 
 great ocean steamer. Home ! I only half-real- 
 ized that Europe was behind me in those fast- 
 receding shores. 
 
 As the noble ship sped on I began to feel like 
 an American again. She rocked, she struggled 
 through the dark blue seas. Each moment her 
 passengers came nearer to the other shores. 
 
 I began to grow more accustomed to the 
 thought of America as Europe faded in my 
 thoughts. 
 
 Then the week ended. My journey came to its 
 close. 
 
 I had been in Europe two years, months
 
 128 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 longer than I had intended. Was I glad to reach 
 New York ? 
 
 As I went about the city, my friends stopped 
 me at every corner, every turn. I was welcome 
 home. I had much to do those first days of my 
 arrival, notes to answer, letters to read. 
 
 Among my correspondence I found a line from 
 the manager, begging me to stop in at his theatre 
 any evening that week. 
 
 " Miss Brown is a great success," he wrote. 
 
 Friday came before I had a chance to see the 
 young actress in her new role. 
 
 Again I was seated before the stage on which 
 she would appear. I remembered well the first 
 night I noticed her. Her queer eyes haunt me 
 me now. As the curtain rose, my heart beat fast. 
 I leaned forward. I scanned the actresses going 
 through their parts. Miss Brown did not appear. 
 Eager, breathless, I waited. At every sound my 
 pulse beat faster, my heart thumped harder. I 
 heard a murmur, an applaus~e. Miss Brown was be- 
 fore me. I sought her face ; her glance met mine. 
 Once, only once, she looked straight at me. I 
 noted the richness of her gown. She had diamonds 
 at her throat, jewels flashing in her dark hair.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 129 
 
 Later I hurried behind the scenes to speak to 
 her. She came into the little room where I sat 
 waiting. As I rose she held out her slender 
 hand. I grasped it. I looked at her an instant. 
 I bowed before her as a man would bow to a 
 queen. I had barely touched her long fingers, for 
 she moved away instantly, and stood erect against 
 the curtain at the door. 
 
 " Miss Brown," said I, " my prophecy has come 
 true." She inclined her head like a graceful 
 swan. 
 
 " I have conquered, you mean." Her voice 
 sounded like music in my ears. 
 
 " You deserve much credit," I answered. My 
 heart was fluttering. I felt strangely awkward in 
 the presence of the young actress. Our old 
 friendship seemed broken and away. I watched 
 her as she drew on her long gloves in readiness 
 for the next act. 
 
 " I have not seen your father," I said, anxious 
 to break the silence. She drew aside the curtain. 
 Touching the bell a servant appeared. 
 
 " Find Mr. Brown," she said. At that moment 
 her call came. She bowed to me, then hurried 
 to the stage.
 
 130 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 I felt that I had lost her, lost her indeed. 
 
 She had not even mentioned my absence, my 
 return. 
 
 I had a brief conversation with her father. He 
 was greatly interested now in his daughter's 
 career. 
 
 " She studied hard," he said. " She has pluck ; 
 there's no doubt of that." 
 
 " Was it not I who saw all this long ago ? " I 
 exclaimed, nettled by the old man's indifference 
 toward me in the matter. 
 
 " Yes, yes the money. I remember you lent 
 the money." 
 
 "The loan is a small part of the affair," I 
 replied. 
 
 " But the actress has not forgotten it. Not she, 
 sir. Only last week she asked me to pay you 
 back." 
 
 "The payment can come later," I said. 
 
 " So I told my lass. But she is firm. You 
 must pay him, father, says she ; you must pay him 
 now." 
 
 " I am in no hurry, I assure you, Mr. Brown," I 
 declared. I was disappointed, hurt, at the purely 
 business way the old man had regarded me.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 131 
 
 Surely I had done for them what money could not 
 do. I had spoken in the girl's favor to one of the 
 most influential men in theatrical circles. I had 
 been the direct cause of Miss Brown's success. 
 
 " I told you long ago I would make your daugh- 
 ter a great actress," I said. 
 
 " You were right, quite right, sir," replied Mr. 
 Brown. He looked at me with that absent ex- 
 pression in his eyes. Then he shook hands for 
 good-by. " My daughter has talent, real talent," 
 he repeated, as he held the door open for me to 
 pass out. 
 
 I went back to my seat in the theatre, disgusted 
 with myself and the world. 
 
 Yet I was present at every performance after 
 that. I never missed a night. 
 
 One Sunday I met the Browns driving in the 
 Park. As I bowed a man on the front seat of 
 their carriage raised his hat to me. I recognized 
 the manager. 
 
 Soon New York took up the praise of the 
 young actress. She was courted and sought by 
 critics, and even literary men. The more con- 
 servative sets gathered up their skirts as she came 
 near, least they might be seen on friendly terms
 
 132 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 with the actress. But Miss Brown had plenty of 
 invitations for all that. 
 
 One evening I saw her at a Musicale. I stood 
 aside to watch her manners, her ways. The 
 costly gown proved suitable for the stately pose, 
 the slender figure. She stood in the midst of 
 these, my fashionable friends, her dark head 
 thrown back, her throat white like marble. I 
 looked, but in vain, for the wayward girl I had 
 once known. She had vanished. I knew not 
 where. "The accursed world," I muttered, "has 
 clasped its golden fetters around you too, destroy- 
 ing your fair beauty, your sweet youth ! Yes, the 
 same world which kept me from you that night 
 when joy and love and happiness beckoned me to 
 its peace. Those same golden fetters fetters of 
 criticism, fetters of fashion, divide my love from 
 me." 
 
 I strode away, sick at heart and weary. 
 
 Zhe next morning the mail brought me a check 
 from Mr. Brown. " I return you my share of our 
 debt," he wrote. I took the small slip of pink 
 paper; it flickered and trembled as I held it up 
 between my fingers. 
 
 " Yes, your debt is paid," I muttered as I tore
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 133 
 
 the check in two and threw my credit into the 
 waste-basket. 
 
 It was shortly after this I learned the actress' 
 plans. She was to make a tour of the States 
 before sailing for Europe for her debut there. 
 
 The news was very unexpected, very sudden, to 
 me. I suppose I ought to have expected it, but 
 I was completely taken by surprise. For several 
 days I was quite unlike myself " Cross and out 
 of sorts," my sisters said. 
 
 One night, as I sat in my accustomed place 
 before the stage, I noticed Miss Brown turned 
 her wondering eyes upon me. She looked once, 
 twice, three times. But I read, like a flash from 
 the past, an expression of sadness, of longing in 
 her face. Even in the most tragic parts of her 
 acting I had often missed it. My mind became 
 disturbed, my thoughts distracted. I saw the 
 young woman a genius before me, possessing 
 those very talents I had so long, so diligently 
 sought. Her beauty was superb, her grace exqui- 
 site. In her acting she was no longer a player 
 going through her part, but a woman struggling 
 with her fate, her life. I saw the deep color in 
 her cheeks, the- wild throbbing in her heart. As
 
 134 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 the actress she would save her lover ; for him she 
 would renounce all things. She was the one 
 being who could restore his happiness, his peace. 
 She bent down over the young actor. How near 
 her pure face was to his brow ! 
 
 "This is true love," she breathed, "to be with 
 you forever." He raised his eyes and looked into 
 her beautiful face. 
 
 " For me you would do all this ? " he cried. 
 
 " For you I do renounce my hopes, my ambi- 
 tions. You are my life ! " 
 
 " Is your world so little to you in comparison ? " 
 he asked. For answer she twined her arms about 
 his neck. 
 
 " Do you realize the sacrifice ? " 
 
 " In love there is no sacrifice," she whispered. 
 
 " How noble, how good ! " he cried. 
 
 " Hush, hush," breathed the beautiful woman. 
 Then on his breast she bowed her head. The 
 tears rolled down her cheeks, they rested on her 
 dark lashes which swept against his arm. Upon 
 her sacrifice, upon his joy, the curtain fell. 
 
 I sighed. In such acting there is great art. 
 The actress had indeed lived through her part in 
 the reality of what she played. I longed to speak
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 135 
 
 to the beautiful woman, to praise her conceptions, 
 her talents. 
 
 I made my way through the audience ; amongst 
 those people there was no sound. In silence they 
 left the theatre, in wonderment they went home. 
 
 I hurried behind the scenes ; I sent in my card. 
 
 Miss Brown came very soon. I looked in her 
 face for the traces of her sorrow, of her tears. 
 They had vanished ! It was really acting, then ? 
 I had thought to find it easy to speak with her, 
 she had seemed so near me when on the stage. 
 Now, standing in her presence, I was confused, 
 dumb. 
 
 " You want to see me ? " she asked. 
 
 She took up her old position against the dark 
 curtain near the door. 
 
 "Yes." I paused. I hoped she would help me 
 by a sign, a word ; but she only turned her gaze 
 upon me in silence and disdain. 
 
 "Miss Brown," I went on, "you will turn your 
 thoughts for a moment from the past to the pres- 
 ent, and I do not think there will be any surprise 
 to you in what I wish to say." 
 
 " You wish to speak about the check," she in- 
 terrupted. " I thought my father had already
 
 136 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 sent it to you. By making an arrangement with 
 my manager I was enabled to receive part of my 
 salary in advance." The color rose to my fore- 
 head, the flush of anger rushed to my face. 
 
 " No ; the check you speak of is of little value. 
 The loan I made your father was for friendship, 
 not for gain." 
 
 " For fashionable friendship ? " asked the ac- 
 tress, raising her brows as she spoke. 
 
 " No," I cried. " My list of fashionable friends 
 is closed just now." She bit her lips and frowned. 
 
 " So is mine," she said. The ghost of a smile 
 came into her beautiful face. 
 
 " I am glad that New York figures on yours," 
 said I. 
 
 She looked straight at me ; my eyes fell before 
 her searching glance. 
 
 " I find these people like me better, respect me 
 more, than you thought they would in the past 
 gone by." 
 
 I turned indignant to the young actress. Her 
 words cut me deep. Too true had been my mis- 
 givings, my fears of New York's criticisms upon 
 her long ago. 
 
 " Miss Brown," said I, " forget the past ; it is
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. Itf 
 
 nothing to us now. I have come to beg this of 
 you." 
 
 "I have forgotten what is finished of it," she 
 said, "but the memory comes back sometimes, 
 even when I would forget it all." 
 
 " I suppose it does," I answered, holding out 
 my hand. She touched me with her slender fin- 
 gers as she bade me good-by. 
 
 She did not ask me to remain. 
 
 "Good-by," I replied shortly, bitterly. Then I 
 turned and went away. It was useless to argue 
 with so proud, so strong, so talented a woman. 
 
 Not long after this unsatisfactory interview 
 with Miss Brown, my elder sister went to a lun- 
 cheon to meet the young actress. She was not 
 interested in her beauty, and expressed her opin- 
 ion against receiving actresses in society. 
 
 " Some young society man will marry her, I * 
 suppose," she said, "horrify his good people by 
 conferring their honored name on such an ordi- 
 nary woman." 
 
 " Miss Brown is not ordinary," said I sharply. 
 " If more women in society were like her, it would 
 be a better world to mix in." 
 
 "Oh, so you are fascinated by this new
 
 138 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 beauty ! " she cried. " You are the first Lynton 
 to acknowledge such a fact. Your taste is bad, 
 dear fellow." 
 
 " I am a better judge of Miss Brown's beauty 
 than you are, mademoiselle," I replied hotly. 
 
 " No doubt," answered Miss Lynton. " I do 
 not belong to the theatrical world. But, my dear 
 brother, if you could hear some of our leaders of 
 New York society on the subject of entertaining 
 actresses, you might think it foolish to be fasci- 
 nated by a pair of green eyes." 
 
 But I was fascinated by those eyes, more fasci- 
 nated than I cared to admit. I made no attempt 
 to speak with Miss Brown again before her de- 
 parture from New York. I felt the sting of that 
 last meeting too keenly to wish for a renewal of 
 it. 
 
 Mr. and Miss Brown went first to Philadelphia. 
 Two weeks later I read of their presence in 
 Washington, from which place they would journey 
 for two private performances to the City-by-the- 
 Sea. I must see her the night she played there. 
 It would be at a fashionable house. I could not 
 stay away. 
 
 I took the boat from New York, arriving in
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 139 
 
 good time on the day of the Browns' expected 
 arrival. 
 
 I wandered round alone during the morning. 
 In the afternoon I called on the actress at her 
 hotel. Mr. Brown received me. He said his 
 daughter had gone out for a walk. 
 
 " Which way ? " I asked. 
 
 " I guess you will find her down by the sea," 
 said the old man. 
 
 I hurried out. I followed the road by the bay 
 until I reached the walk leading to the cliff. I 
 strained my eyes, I watched every figure in the 
 far distance. 
 
 I was in luck. As I neared the sea I caught 
 sight of a tall figure standing on the rocks. Has- 
 tening my steps I soon joined her. She laughed 
 joyously as I came to her side. 
 
 I made no excuse for my presence ; she needed 
 none. It seemed so natural that we should be 
 together when in the City-by-the-Sea. 
 
 " Miss Brown," said I, " this is much better 
 than New York." 
 
 " Yes, yes, we both love the sea," she cried. 
 
 " I thought you loved it long ago," I said. 
 
 " Ah, yes. The sea, the beautiful, cruel sea.
 
 140 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 I like to watch the waves roll on. I wonder do 
 they reach eternity ? Look ! They are rolling 
 quickly now." 
 
 " I should like to make my home beside these 
 moving waters." 
 
 " So would I." She moved nearer to me. I 
 held out my hand to prevent her feet from slip- 
 ping on the dampness of the rocks. The winds 
 blew round us, whispering their dull music in 
 our ears. 
 
 " Miss Brown," said I, " have you really decided 
 to go abroad ? " 
 
 " Yes," she replied. I wanted her to look at 
 me, but her glance was far away, watching the 
 horizon of the moving waters. 
 
 " I wish you would not go," said I. 
 
 " Why ? " she asked, her eyes meeting mine. 
 
 " Because I love you." The words were very 
 few, very simple, as I uttered them, but I think 
 she understood. 
 
 " Do you ? " she murmured. 
 
 " I think it is no new story in our lives," I 
 repeated. 
 
 Her slight frame swayed a moment as the wind 
 sighed round us.
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 141 
 
 " I loved you once," she said ; " I believe you 
 knew it then, but I was so impetuous, so young, I 
 scarce knew how to hide my thoughts from you. 
 The first time I saw you I felt your influence, 
 your presence. Why did I leave New York ? 
 because you told me to go ! Why did I study ? 
 because you bade me study ! Why did I strug- 
 gle ? because you gave me hope ! It was for 
 your praise I longed ; for your satisfaction I 
 worked ! But just when I needed advice needed 
 it to give me courage, to give me strength 
 you went away, with just a line, just a word, 
 You crossed the wide ocean ; you travelled fast. 
 You forgot America. You forgot the actress ; 
 you forgot her career. A little while I brooded 
 over your absence, your silence. What had I 
 done ? In what had I been in fault towards you ? 
 Then with a struggle I put the question unan- 
 swered from me. I turned over a new leaf in my 
 thoughtless life. I studied, I worked, I hoped 
 alone. On our return to New York I did not lose 
 a moment. I never missed my rehearsal, my part. 
 I became interested, enthusiastic, in my success, 
 in my career. I dreamed of my ambitions, my 
 triumphs. I learned to forget many things, my
 
 142 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 failures, my disappointments, my past. But great- 
 est of all I learned to forget you." 
 
 " Ann," I cried, " let us understand each other. 
 I have come back now. I want you. I need you. 
 Promise to be my wife." The sea moaned and 
 roared as I waited for her to speak. 
 
 " No," she cried. 
 
 " No ! " Why do you say this ? Surely, if you 
 cared for my praise, for my satisfaction once, you 
 cannot so easily do without me, you cannot for- 
 get me now." 
 
 " It is not that I forget you now to-day, when 
 you are with me again, I feel your presence, but I 
 am no longer a heedless child. I have my career 
 before me now. I do not need you as I once 
 needed you." She stopped a moment. "You 
 would not be satisfied sharing my life with 
 me." 
 
 " Why not give up that life, Ann ? As my wife 
 you can take up your position in society. You 
 will have no longer any need to work." 
 
 " Is this the advice you give me ? " she cried. 
 " After these weeks and months of study, of hope, 
 would you ask me to cast aside my success for the 
 sake of your ambitions ? No, no, it would be ill-
 
 A MODERN ACTRESS. 143 
 
 suited to my roving ways to sit and play the idle 
 woman of society." 
 
 " You would have your occupations," I said. 
 
 " The occupations of answering invitations, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Our women of society do more useful things 
 than those," I answered. " You would have your 
 horses, your servants, your carriages " 
 
 " And what would those luxuries be to me ? 
 Foolish pastimes, empty pleasures, in comparison 
 with my work, my plays." 
 
 I bit my lips. " I know not how else to please 
 you, Ann. As my wife, you would be expected by 
 the world to renounce your acting and your stage." 
 
 " You still love your social world better than 
 you love the actress ! " she exclaimed bitterly. 
 " I see it all too well." 
 
 " No," I cried ; " but in society my father " 
 
 " Society ! always society ! No, no ; as you love 
 your fashionable world, so the actress loves her 
 art." She flashed a look of hatred, of scorn, at 
 me from her green eyes. They seemed to reach 
 my very soul. I turned away, I shuddered. What 
 was there in that glance which made me raise my 
 hat and stride away ?
 
 144 A MODERN ACTRESS. 
 
 On and on I walked. Mile upon mile slipped 
 behind me in the sinking shadows of that after- 
 noon light. 
 
 Then I stood still beside the restless, moaning 
 sea. I listened to its dreary song. 
 
 Even now, years after, the sound thereof comes 
 back to me, making me tremble in its weird mem- 
 ories, strange realities.
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE.
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 I REMEMBER one year, during the time of the 
 Salon in Paris, I was strangely attracted by a 
 painting in one of the room's on the right, in 
 the Palais de 1'Industrie. It was a large can- 
 vas, including in all about thirty figures. The 
 coloring was vivid and of much variety. The 
 subject represented a marriage service in the 
 higher circles of life. The bride, a young girl, 
 stood before the priest ; at her right was the 
 groom, and behind her were the parents. The 
 girl's face was beautiful in its pure whiteness and 
 mobile lines. She was partly turned towards her 
 fianc/, for not yet had they been pronounced 
 man and wife. The words were being said, 
 "With this ring I thee wed," when the bride's 
 finger had trembled, and, in an unlucky moment, 
 the ring of gold had fallen to the ground. The 
 groom, with much embarrassment, was stooping 
 147
 
 148 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 to restore it to the priest, when a stir in the con- 
 gregation was caused by the exit of a young man 
 from the church. His pale face was pained and 
 angry. His dark eyes were hard and staring as 
 they met those of the intended husband of the 
 fair young bride. 
 
 I went time after time to view the picture. 
 There was a fascination in the unfinished story, 
 a pathos in the strange union of the young woman 
 and the old man. The two figures stood out upon 
 their canvas, making them live and breathe to me, 
 even in their silent unreality. 
 
 One day, as I stood before the beloved painting, 
 a stranger tapped me on the shoulder. I looked 
 around. I started like a man awaking from a 
 dream. 
 
 " Pardon, Monsieur, but I have often seen 
 you watch this picture. Can I make so bold 
 as to tell you the true story ? " asked the 
 stranger. 
 
 " The story of the young and beautiful woman ? " 
 I exclaimed. " So, then, there is a story, and I 
 am not wrong in believing in the reality of such 
 a face ? " 
 
 " No," he replied ; " the figure is drawn from
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 149 
 
 life, and the painful episode here painted has a 
 living example for its model." 
 
 I was enchanted, and, taking a good position 
 before the canvas, I bade my strange friend pro- 
 ceed with its true history. 
 
 " The bride," said he, pointing to the young 
 girl, " is the daughter of a French banker. 
 Early in life her father had been successful, but 
 later, fortune turned against him ; his financial 
 enterprises came to no good end. At the very 
 time of his worst failure, his young daughter, 
 Mademoiselle Henriette, was about to make her 
 debut in society. Money was necessary, both for 
 her personal wants and her social successes. 
 
 " The poor banker was almost distracted ; he 
 knew not where to turn. At the right hand or 
 the left, the creditors were ever casting their 
 shadows before him. 
 
 " One day, at an unlooked-for moment, an old 
 and much respected friend of the banker's, Mon- 
 sieur Armand Galtier, offered to help him out of 
 his embarrassments. The man was rich, and 
 could afford to make great promises. At length 
 Monsieur Michel Bussey's difficulties were satis- 
 factorily arranged ; he felt he could again hold up
 
 ISO THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 his head in business as well as social circles. But 
 just at the ending of their interview, so satis- 
 factory in its character, Monsieur Galtier said 
 shortly, 
 
 " ' Michel, old friend, I now have a favor to ask 
 of you.' 
 
 " ' Granted/ cried the grateful banker. 
 
 " ' Your daughter Mademoiselle Henriette in 
 marriage.' The poor father was astonished. 
 
 " ' My daughter Henriette in marriage ! Impos- 
 sible, my good fellow ; she is but a child and you 
 are nearly sixty.' 
 
 " 'Such difference in age is not unusual in these 
 days,' pursued the rich man, ' and I will take 
 upon my own shoulders the responsibility of her 
 happiness.' Monsieur Bussey was annoyed ; he 
 well knew the power of his daughter's beauty, 
 for her he had great ambitions. He never meant 
 to strike a bargain with his friend. 
 
 " ' You will give your consent, Michel,' urged 
 Monsieur Galtier. The banker hesitated a mo- 
 ment, and then said, 
 
 " ' My consent I give ; but for Henriette's feel- 
 ings I cannot answer.' 
 
 " ' Leave those to me,' said the rich man, con- 
 tent with his share in the arrangement.
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 151 
 
 "So it happened that Henriette Bussey was 
 given in marriage to Armand Galtier. She did not 
 love him. No. Her affections had already been 
 promised to the dark-haired boy, in the background 
 of the picture. But Monsieur Gaston Bernard, for 
 he it was, had never spoken to her father upon 
 the subject. He was poor, and afraid of what the 
 banker would say to his proposed alliance with his 
 beautiful daughter. 
 
 "The curious incident at the church was the 
 cause of much anxiety to Monsieur Bussey ; but 
 Monsieur Galtier never alluded to it once, and 
 seemed entirely satisfied with their marriage 
 service. 
 
 " The beautiful Henriette soon became the pet 
 of society. Night after night she would sit at 
 the opera, and from her box her diamonds would 
 flicker and flash their costly rays around her. 
 Her husband was her constant attendant. De- 
 voted, kind, the people said. 
 
 " Their appearance was looked for at every soiree, 
 every dinner and musicale. Paris rang with their 
 praise. Old Monsieur Bussey was delighted. 
 Henriette loved Armand. 
 
 " But it chanced one day that in going to their
 
 152 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 apartments he found Gaston Bernard seated 
 there. It happened so quite often. The young 
 man's eyes were defiant and daring as they met 
 the old man's gaze. Monsieur Bussey was 
 annoyed ; he determined to speak to Henriette 
 about it. Later her husband came in, and the 
 banker thought it unbecoming on his part to 
 interfere. ' Armand will arrange his own mat- 
 ters,' he thought, 'and not thank me for ad- 
 vice.' 
 
 " So the time wore on. The Galtiers still went 
 everywhere. Henriette walked in her costly 
 gowns, drove in her luxurious carriages in the 
 avenues, and sometimes with her husband in the 
 Bois. He was devoted in his attentions, in his 
 manner kind. If at times he watched his wife's 
 movements or gestures, it was to think how fair 
 she was more fair and beautiful every day, 
 every hour. 
 
 " But by and by Monsieur Bussey began to have 
 his fears, and daily they increased. 
 
 " Henriette's indifference worried him. She 
 would seem so listless, absent-minded, when in 
 the quiet of her life. 
 
 " ' Excitement all the time ! ' he would exclaim ;
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 153 
 
 ' why, too much pleasure is a dreadful thing ! ' 
 Then Henriette would laugh and clasp her jewelled 
 hands, and say, 
 
 " ' Oh, no, papa, indeed you are mistaken. I am 
 so happy, so content when in the glitter of the 
 world. I even love its changing moods, its 
 fickleness ! ' 
 
 "'Hush, hush, my child. I hate to hear you 
 say such things.' Then her husband would put 
 his hand upon his old friend's arm, and laughing 
 answer, ' Henriette is but a child. She does not 
 understand the weight of all her words. Yet, let 
 her be young and happy while she can. I love to 
 see her eyes light up at the sound of music, or 
 her face brighten at the cadence of the dance.' 
 
 " Would it then be any wonder if the young wife 
 were spoiled ? Carriages, horses, servants, con- 
 stantly at her command. For who was there to 
 chide or check her fanciful career ? The husband 
 was too blind, or maybe too indulgent, to speak 
 the needed words to his young and beautiful wife. 
 
 " She waltzed, she danced, at every soiree until 
 one night on her return she could not content 
 herself nor get one hour of sleep. Her husband, 
 hearing of this, was alarmed, and going to
 
 154 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 Monsieur Bussey spoke to him of it. The old 
 man shook his head. 
 
 " ' Henriette is sadly changed,' he said. 
 
 " ' Perhaps all this excitement is too much for 
 her to stand,' replied her husband. He spoke 
 with much concern. 
 
 " ' I wish you and Henriette would go away.' 
 
 " ' Why ? ' asked the rich man. 
 
 " ' Paris is no place for your wife. She is far too 
 heedless, much too young.' 
 
 " ' A quiet city would not satisfy her taste.' 
 
 " ' That is very true. But I wish you could do 
 something to get her out of this.' Monsieur 
 Galtier only raised his hands and laughed. 
 
 "' It would be impossible, I suppose,' continued 
 the old man. 
 
 " ' Yes, quite impossible. Henriette loves Paris. 
 And I assure you, I feel no concern about her 
 gayeties. Young people are different from older 
 ones.' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes. But do you not see the folly, the 
 ruin, of all this admiration, this praise ? ' 
 
 " ' No. For your daughter is a woman who 
 merits admiration and praise.' The old man 
 turned away dissatisfied.
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 155 
 
 " ' Michel/ said Armand kindly, ' there is some- 
 thing on your mind. What is it ? Can't you tell 
 me now ? ' 
 
 "'No, no/ cried the banker; 'I am quite 
 satisfied, you are her husband. You know best.' 
 
 " ' And you her father, sir/ Armand Galtier 
 cried. ' Pray let me know your thought.' The 
 request was earnest, an answer had to come. The 
 father drew his friend aside, although this precau- 
 tion was unnecessary as there was no one by to 
 hear, and whispered, 
 
 " ' I hate to tell you this/ The rich man turned 
 indignant. 
 
 " ' What you have to tell me, tell me now. Speak 
 out ; I cannot bear suspense/ he cried. 
 
 " ' Hush, only this my friend : I wish you would 
 not have Gaston Bernard so often at your house/ 
 The father meant it well, he thought to save his 
 child. The husband clinched his fists and 
 frowned. 
 
 " ' You are right, perhaps/ he said. ' But then 
 true love is blind/ He gave a short laugh, and 
 very soon he went away. When he was gone 
 Monsieur Bussey felt relieved. It was his duty 
 to mention this. Now the husband would put an
 
 156 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 end to Gaston's visits, and Henriette well 
 Henriette would soon forgive, forget. 
 
 " But Armand Galtier was never kinder, 
 never more gentle to his wife than on that 
 day and those following his interview with the 
 banker. 
 
 "A week passed, ten days. There was no sign 
 of Gaston Bernard at Madame Galtier's apartments. 
 The husband congratulated himself on his wise 
 prudence, his silence to his wife. 
 
 "The opera was at its height. Henriette was 
 going to her box. She dressed herself in a rich 
 gown of satin, her diamonds round her throat 
 and in her hair. 
 
 "The clock upon the mantel chimed out the 
 hour in its sweet, silvery tones. ' Eight o'clock ! ' 
 mused Madame Galtier. ' My husband will be late.' 
 She moved to the window. She pushed back the 
 curtain and looked out. The streets were alive 
 with people and with lights. The carriages were 
 rolling by in great numbers Henriette was 
 anxious to be off. She heard her husband on the 
 stair. She replaced the curtain. She waited. 
 Monsieur Galtier entered. His face was red 
 from walking, and he was out of breath. He
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 157 
 
 advanced toward his wife, and stooping, kissed her 
 lips. ' Already going out ? ' he asked. 
 
 " ' Yes, Armand, and do hurry. I am so afraid 
 you will be late.' 
 
 " ' Be late for what ? ' 
 
 " ' The opera.' 
 
 " ' I thought you went last night ! ' Madame 
 Galtier laughed. 
 
 " ' I was there last night, but now I want to go 
 again ! ' The rich man glanced about his costly 
 home. To him there were great attractions in its 
 taste and quietness. Then turning to his hand- 
 some wife, he said, 
 
 " ' This evening, Henriette, I would prefer to 
 stay at home.' The young wife flushed crimson. 
 
 " 'This lovely night remain in doors ? Oh, no ! 
 Surely you are joking, Armand ! ' He moved 
 toward his wife, he took both her hands in his. 
 
 " ' No, I am in earnest now.' The blue eyes 
 opened wide, the red lips said, 
 
 " ' You have never wanted me to remain away 
 from my amusements before.' 
 
 " ' All the more reason in the asking now, my 
 little girl,' he said. His gray eyes were very 
 kind.
 
 158 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 '' ' Not when I am quite dressed and ready, 
 Armand ! ' 
 
 " ' You have not dressed yourself so tastefully in 
 vain. None could admire your costume more than 
 I, Henriette ; spend this one evening alone with 
 me, your husband.' He was looking at her as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " ' I want so much to go,' she pleaded. 
 
 " ' And I want you so much to remain ! ' Mad- 
 ame Galtier was taken by surprise. She had never 
 longed more for the delicious music of the opera 
 than at the instant when her husband's voice was 
 begging her to stay at home. She wavered a 
 moment just a moment, and then said, 
 
 " ' I must go, Armand, but you can stay at 
 home!' If Monsieur Galtier was displeased, he did 
 not show it. He moved away and answered, 
 
 " ' We will both go, Henriette. But as I am not 
 dressed and ready, you can send the carriage back 
 for me ; I will follow later.' Then going to his 
 own room, he shut and locked the door. Henri- 
 ette put on her wraps and quickly left the house. 
 She was not troubled by her husband's mood. 
 He had said he would come later, and he always 
 kept his word.
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 159 
 
 " After a while when Monsieur Galtier entered 
 his box, he found his wife seated in front and by 
 her side was Gaston Bernard. He only glanced 
 at them once. So on they talked and laughed and 
 whispered. 
 
 " Soon Monsieur Galtier left the box, and going 
 outside, smoked a cigarette. He finished two 
 before returning to his wife ; as he came in, the 
 last words of the opera were being sung. Mon- 
 sieur Galtier found his wife's cloak and put it 
 around her. He offered her his arm, and as he 
 turned, saw Gaston Bernard at his side. He 
 raised his hat, and said with dignity, 
 
 " ' Monsieur Bernard, I wish you good-night.' 
 
 " Henriette walked on with her husband ; as 
 they passed through the crowd, she felt his arm 
 pressing close to hers. He did not speak, but 
 hurried to his carriage. He helped Madame Gal- 
 tier in, then followed her. As they drove home, 
 he asked her how she liked the music and the 
 plot. But Henriette only answered yes or no 
 at random. She was shy, afraid ; she knew not 
 why. She kept her face turned from her hus- 
 band. At length they reached their own door. 
 Monsieur Galtier followed her into the house and
 
 160 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 up the stairs. Entering the parlor Henriette 
 stopped. 
 
 " ' I think I will go straight to my room,' she 
 said, ' I am tired.' Armand pushed to the door. 
 
 " ' No, not yet,' he said. ' I want you for one 
 moment.' 
 
 " ' But, Armand, I want to go to bed now.' 
 
 "'One moment, please,' he said. 
 
 " ' Can't you see how tired and pale I am ? ' 
 murmured the young wife. ' I would much 
 rather go.' 
 
 " ' No,' repeated the rich man. She moved 
 toward the door, but Monsieur Galtier stretched 
 out one hand, and with the other grasped the key 
 and turned it. 
 
 " ' You cannot go, at least not yet, until I have 
 finished what I have to say.' 
 
 " ' How can you be so obstinate, so rude ? ' said 
 his wife. 
 
 " ' Henriette, I beg you listen to me ; ' and the 
 rich man's voice was determined. 
 
 " ' But you are unkind, unreasonable, Armand.' 
 
 " ' I have never been unkind, unreasonable, to 
 you in my life. If you think one moment you 
 will realize the folly of what you say.'
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 161 
 
 " ' Do you intend to keep me long ? ' cried 
 Madame Galtier. 
 
 " ' No.' 
 
 " ' It is late, and cold for me to wait in this 
 room now. Please, Armand, please let me go.' 
 
 " 'The room is not cold, Henriette,' he said. 
 
 " ' I feel it so,' she urged. ' You do not believe 
 me, Armand. Indeed, I want to go.' 
 
 " ' I do believe you,' he answered. ' You are, 
 no doubt, most anxious to leave me just now!' 
 He laughed. 
 
 " ' But you are so queer, so difficile to-night. 
 You do not understand me ; you are angry. I 
 can see it ; I know not what has provoked you 
 so.' 
 
 " ' It is you, Henriette, who until to-night have 
 never known me.' 
 
 " ' I fail to know you now, it is quite true. 
 You are like a stranger with me.' 
 
 " ' In a moment I shall make myself more clear. 
 I do not like your acquaintance, your friendship, 
 with that young Gaston Bernard.' 
 
 " ' You have no reason for objecting to him,' 
 said Henriette, her eyes flashing, her head proudly 
 back. ' He is a good and honored friend.'
 
 1 62 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 " ' That may be so, but you are too young to 
 judge of him, Henriette, and of his ways. I do 
 not wish to see him in your box again.' 
 
 " ' I have asked him to come.' 
 
 " ' Then you cannot go yourself.' 
 
 " ' Why ? ' 
 
 " ' Do not ask me questions to which I would 
 not wish to give an answer.' 
 
 " ' I have a right to know.' 
 
 " ' It is simply that I do not like to see you, my 
 wife, talking, laughing, whispering in my opera 
 box with him ! ' 
 
 " ' There is no harm in that ! ' 
 
 " ' You made yourself conspicuous this evening, 
 and that is something which my wife should 
 never do.' 
 
 " ' What nonsense ! ' 
 
 " ' I mean just what I have said.' 
 
 " ' I see that you are jealous.' 
 
 " ' Only of your rights. I tell you now, Hen- 
 riette, I do not wish to see you speaking to Gaston 
 Bernard again.' Madame Galtier showed her tem- 
 per in her face. 
 
 " ' You shall not command me,' she cried. 
 
 " ' I must,' he answered, ' since you choose to
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 163 
 
 disregard my wish.' There was silence. Painful 
 moments to them both. Then Henriette pulled 
 her costly cloak around her and picked up her 
 gloves and fan. 
 
 " ' I would like to pass. Please open the door/ 
 she said. 
 
 '"Certainly/ replied her husband, unlocking the 
 door and throwing open wide the portiere. She 
 walked by him without another word or glance. 
 But when she had gone Armand Galtier buried 
 his face in his hands. How long he sat alone he 
 did not know, but when he raised his eyes again, 
 his wife was standing at the door. He started at 
 her wonderous fairness, her great beauty. 
 
 " ' Armand/ she said, ' you have made a sug- 
 gestion to me, your wife, to-night, which I can not 
 and do not wish to understand. You have given 
 me great fears. I am afraid. I am afraid of you 
 and of your words. No, do not come near me/ 
 for she saw him step toward her. ' I am very 
 angry.' Armand Galtier could see that she was 
 trembling. ' What I wanted to say to you was 
 this. I cannot obey your wishes. It would be 
 a poor compliment to Henriette Bussey should 
 she refuse to meet her old friends. Monsieur
 
 1 64 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 Gaston Bernard would scarcely realize that it was 
 your command. I am too proud to take this 
 step.' 
 
 " ' Henriette, you reason well. But can you not 
 see that, as your husband, I have my ideas and 
 even my commands ? This man, with whom you 
 are intimate, is no good friend for you. When 
 you are older, dear, you will know that in my judg- 
 ments I am right/ Madame Galtier smoothed 
 back her brown hair, and clasping her hands, said 
 earnestly, 
 
 " ' In telling me this of my friend, you only make 
 our friendship stronger. It is so cruel to speak 
 against another man.' 
 
 " ' And is it necessary for you to defend another 
 man against your husband ? ' Madame Galtier 
 gave no answer to the question. 
 
 " ' Now, Henriette, go to your room and think 
 well over what we both have said.' 
 
 " ' You must allow me to speak to Monsieur Gas- 
 ton.' 
 
 " ' No ; and you must promise that my word shall 
 be obeyed.' She shook her head. 
 
 " ' I cannot.' 
 
 " ' This is absurd ! ' exclaimed the man. ' You
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 165 
 
 are foolish, deaf to all reason as well as to 
 commands.' But the wife did not speak. The 
 light of the candles was reflected in her pale face. 
 Armand Galtier went to her side. ' Henriette,' 
 he said, ' let us not speak any more to-night of 
 this this stupid subject.' She drew back. Her 
 eyes were frightened in their timid gaze. Armand 
 took her hand. 
 
 " ' No, no,' she cried ; ' I am afraid afraid of 
 you.' 
 
 " ' Afraid of me ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' she murmured. He let go her 
 hand and moved away. 
 
 " ' Armand,' she said, a sob in her throat and in 
 her voice, ' I wish you would leave me leave 
 me to myself a little while.' He turned to the 
 open door. 
 
 " ' Of course,' he said. 
 
 " ' Armand, you do not understand. I mean for 
 you to travel somewhere for a trip, a journey 
 and leave me here alone.' 
 
 " ' But why should I do that ? ' 
 
 " ' Because I wish it.' 
 
 " ' It would be against my wish.' 
 
 " ' My father will be with me.'
 
 1 66 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 11 ' True, I had not thought of that. But this 
 idea seems so peculiar, Henriette. I have had no 
 time to think of anything in connection with it.' 
 In glancing at Monsieur Galtier just then his face 
 looked worn and older. 
 
 " ' If I would be better in the quiet of my own 
 home, quite alone, you would not then hesitate to 
 go?' 
 
 " ' I will grant you this quiet if you desire it, 
 Henriette.' 
 
 " The light came back into her eyes. ' How 
 good you are ! ' she cried. 
 
 " The strong man bowed his head. Tears came 
 in his eyes. He brushed them hastily aside. 
 
 " ' Armand, don't you think that I am right ? ' 
 
 " ' No,' he answered. 
 
 " ' Then, you do not wish me to remain alone in 
 Paris ? ' 
 
 " ' No.' 
 
 " ' You do not think I can be happy by myself ? ' 
 
 "'No.' 
 
 " ' You can come back before the season ends.' 
 
 " ' I would have no heart for gayeties.' 
 
 " ' Would you rather have me remain away from 
 soirtes when you are gone ? '
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 167 
 
 "'No.' 
 
 " ' Then I do not know of any way to please 
 you.' 
 
 " ' No.' 
 
 " ' But you will like to travel, won't you ? ' 
 
 " ' I shall travel all the same. It is you who 
 have arranged this trip, not I. Remember in the 
 future, Henriette, you sent me frpm you. I did 
 not ask to go.' 
 
 " ' But you think it will be for the best ? ' 
 
 " ' How can I ? ' 
 
 " ' But we will be happier separated for a time.' 
 
 " ' Have we, then, been unhappy ? I never knew 
 it, dear.' 
 
 " ' This evening we have been unhappy very 
 unhappy.' 
 
 " ' I did not think so. I was blind ; I suppose 
 love makes people blind. I thought your day and 
 evening full of pleasures and gayeties.' 
 
 '"I have not enjoyed my coming home to- 
 night.' 
 
 " ' And since you think it will be pleasanter to 
 return alone ' he spoke with difficulty ' then 
 of course I must arrange that it shall be as you 
 desire. To-morrow is sufficient time. We can
 
 1 68 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 arrange it all. So now I will ask you to excuse 
 me, Henriette, and bid you good-night, good- 
 night.' He quickly crossed the room and left his 
 wife. 
 
 " A few weeks later, when the people heard of 
 the separation, for such it seemed, they shook their 
 heads in doubt. Some said it was as well, she 
 was too beautiful to be happy with such a plain, 
 uninteresting man. But there was one disap- 
 pointed person, one broken-hearted old man. He 
 went to his daughter. In vain he pleaded with 
 her for her husband's cause. 
 
 " But Henriette Galtier seemed well to know, 
 what she had done. Her husband had grown 
 jealous of her friends. 
 
 " A year passed ; another came. The young wife 
 lived on in luxury, in ease. She knew not what it 
 meant to want for anything. 
 
 " She went to every soiree just the same. Now 
 she was more courted by a different set. Her 
 husband was too old, these younger people said. 
 
 " Paris promised a full season. Balls and soirees 
 every night.
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 169 
 
 " Thursday came, on which night would be a 
 much-talked-of party. Everybody longed to be 
 invited ; those who were all went. 
 
 " Henriette had never looked more beautiful, 
 more fair. She was remarked by all ; men and 
 women turned to gaze at her rich costume, her 
 dazzling jewels on her hands and neck and in her 
 hair. Some were envious of the young woman's 
 admirers, of her clever ways, which added greatly 
 to her charms, to her praise. 
 
 " When she entered the ballroom with Monsieur 
 Gaston Bernard, people shook their heads and 
 whispered, ' She will marry him, no doubt.' It 
 was on that very night he sought his chance, he 
 asked her hand. But when the moment came, 
 Henriette was frightened at his ardent manner, 
 loving words. She looked around, but no one 
 came to interrupt the man who argued for his 
 very life and happiness. His eyes grew darker, 
 larger, in his tenderness. 
 
 " ' I remember too well,' he cried, '"the day you 
 married Monsieur Galtier, and when his ring fell
 
 I/O THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 to the ground I thought it was an omen of sorrow 
 in the unknown future of your lives.' Madame 
 Galtier drew back ; her face was ashen pale. 
 
 " ' I am not superstitious,' she said. 
 
 " 'But you have had troubles, I well know.' 
 
 " ' Just now, I am quite happy, forgetful of 
 the past.' The young man seized her hand. 
 
 " ' I love you, Henriette,' he cried. She shook 
 her head, and tears came in her big blue eyes. 
 
 " ' I may tell you now,' he urged. ' There is no 
 one to fear. Monsieur Galtier is not with us to- 
 night.' 
 
 " 'You must not speak his name. No, no,' she 
 cried. 
 
 " ' I beg your pardon, it was unwise,' he an- 
 swered. 
 
 " ' Monsieur Galtier is not here, I know it well 
 would to Heaven he were, and I might see him 
 now ! ' She moved her head ; her diamonds 
 flashed, but her eyes were brightest in her eager- 
 ness. 
 
 " ' I do not understand these sentiments.' 
 
 " ' Who can understand my feelings now ? ' she 
 cried. ' They will all laugh and jeer and say it is 
 not true. These people will say that I am mad ! '
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. I /I 
 
 " ' You must not excite your mind so, Henriette. 
 Why will people say that you are mad ? ' 
 
 " ' When they learn the truth.' 
 
 " ' What is the truth ? ' 
 
 " ' That I love him my husband Armand 
 Galtier! ' The young man rose, astonished. 
 
 " ' Yes, I love him deeply, truly,' said the wife, 
 her beautiful head thrown back, his jewels on her 
 wrists and hands. 
 
 "'You love your husband! Then pardon me, 
 Madame,' said Gaston Bernard ; his voice was 
 choked with bitterness. ' I made my bold request 
 in faith and ignorance.' He looked at the beauti- 
 ful woman whom he had loved so truly and so 
 long. The music started up, the waltzing had 
 begun. Madame Galtier rose ; she walked to the 
 door and looked out at the frantic dancers in the 
 hall beyond. 
 
 " ' Come,' she said to Gaston, ' I, too, would like 
 a turn.' Quickly he drew her arm through his, 
 then she turned back, her proud lips curled in their 
 disdain. 
 
 " ' No, no,' she cried, ' it cannot be. I could not, 
 would not dance with you ! ' He let go her arm, 
 and angry, said,
 
 1/2 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 " ' Have no fear. To-night I would have danced 
 with you, just once, to show our friends that we 
 defy their criticisms, their jests. But now I will 
 not be seen with you. You are too insincere, too 
 selfish I do not want you, not even for a friend. 
 Then he quickly walked away and left her without 
 another word. 
 
 " Astonished, relieved, content, Henriette went 
 out and up the stairs. In a moment she returned, 
 her wraps around her, a covering on her head. She 
 left the ball. Her carriage took her swiftly from 
 the crowded house. As it glided through the 
 streets her brain was in a whirl. Confused sounds 
 of music, low voices, jingled in her ears. She 
 leaned against the cushions of her carriage, pro- 
 tected from the cold. But Madame Galtier was 
 longing to get home. Her pale face wore a fever- 
 ish blush, her lips were dry and burning. 
 
 " ' Home, home,' she murmured ; 'what a lonely 
 resting-place it has become to me ! ' 
 
 " In every passing thought she saw but one 
 object, recognized but one hope, for Henriette 
 Galtier at last had ceased to love the glitter and 
 the glory of the fashionable world. 
 
 " Reaching the Rue Monceau she hurried up the
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 173 
 
 wide steps to her own apartments. The lamps 
 were burning brightly as she entered ; the fire in 
 the hearth leaped into a red and flickering flame, as 
 the door opened and the wind swept in. These 
 were the only signs of life, of welcome, which 
 Henriette now knew ; but in her fast-beating heart 
 there was an ardent longing, a precious image. 
 
 " ' He must come soon,' she argued ; ' Henri- 
 ette has no patience left.' She passed the mir- 
 ror : she saw her tall form, her mobile face, 
 reflected in it. ' He told me I was fair once ; 
 I wonder have I changed since then ? ' Lighting 
 a candle she held it high above her head. 
 
 " No, Henriette looks the same. There are a 
 few hidden lines about the forehead, a slight 
 contraction in the brows ; she passes her finger 
 over them as though to smooth the creases out, 
 but nothing more to mark the changes of the past 
 two years. ' He will find me the same woman of 
 long ago.' She smiles to herself as she unclasps 
 the dazzling necklace, her wedding -gift ; the 
 stones twinkle and sparkle in her grasp. Then 
 going to her desk she sat down and wrote quickly. 
 She had no difficulty in composing the sentences. 
 ' I want you, Armand,' she wrote ; ' I love you,
 
 1/4 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 and so I know that you will come.' It was a 
 beautiful story, simply told. She pressed the 
 seal to her lips and kissed it. Putting the letter 
 upon the table, she turned away. 
 
 " ' Yes,' she said, ' he will come ; I know that 
 he will come.' 
 
 " The night passed restlessly .for Henriette. She 
 dreamed and thought, and thought and dreamed, 
 of Armand Galtier. She arose the next morning 
 tired, but happy in her decision, in her new- 
 found love. 
 
 " She was waiting in her salon, breakfast over, 
 for her carriage to arrive. She would carry the 
 letter herself to the post ; no other hands should 
 touch that sacred message. 
 
 " Just then her father was announced. His visit 
 was unexpected to his daughter ; she rose to 
 greet him. 
 
 " ' Dear papa,' she said, folding her arms about 
 his neck, and gently kissing his soft, white hair, 
 ' I am so glad you should have come ! ' 
 
 " ' Not already in from walking, my child ? ' he 
 asked, stroking her small hands. 
 
 " ' No, papa,' she said ; ' but I am going out 
 now, in a moment, when my carriage comes.'
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 1/5 
 
 She led him to the sofa and put her cheek against 
 his arm. 
 
 " ' Where to, my pet ? ' he asked. 
 
 " 'A secret, dear papa.' 
 
 '" But I can share it, child,' the old man said. 
 
 "'No, no,' began Henriette. 
 
 " ' Your old father does not ask from any curi- 
 osity ; have no fear, my pet.' 
 
 " ' Papa,' exclaimed the beautiful woman, then 
 stopped. 
 
 " ' Yes.' 
 
 " ' Papa, I have awakened to a great reality.' 
 The old man did not speak, but pressed her hand. 
 
 " ' My heart has told me whom I really love.' 
 
 " ' Henriette, think no more of love. Can you 
 not be happy as you are ? Have done with 
 these deceptions, these phantoms now,' he 
 said. 
 
 "'But this is no phantom, father,' urged the 
 girl. 
 
 " ' I know too well,' the father said. 
 
 " ' You remember the separation my sepa- 
 ration with Armand ? The papers are not 
 already signed ; I was to put my name upon 
 them some day, I cared not when : this week
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 
 
 I think the lawyers said.' There was a pause : 
 the flushed cheeks pressed closer to the strong 
 arm. ' Papa, I have decided not to write my 
 name.' The father bent his head and kissed his 
 child. 
 
 " ' I cannot sign away my rights I love I 
 love my husband, Armand Galtier.' She raised 
 her head and pointed with her hand to the letter. 
 ' I wrote it ; I asked my husband to come back,' 
 she said. 
 
 " ' Get it, child,' replied the old man. Henriette 
 rose and put the letter in his hand. The old 
 man did not speak. 
 
 " ' You believe me ? you believe I love him, 
 dear ? ' she said. 
 
 " ' I believe you, yes, yes,' he cried : then 
 stopped and drew her nearer to him. ' I am 
 going, Henriette,' he said. Without another 
 word, he hurried from the room. Tears were 
 in the kind eyes, sorrow in the parent's heart, as 
 he hurried down the steps and from his daughter's 
 house. 
 
 " ' She loves him,' he murmured, ' loves her 
 husband, Armand Galtier.' He could not tell 
 her then to-morrow it would do. ' Let her
 
 THE HEROINE OF A PICTURE. 177 
 
 rejoice unheeded in the first moments of her 
 new-found joy.' 
 
 "It was quite true though ; her father had come 
 to tell her of it. Armand Galtier dropped dead 
 that morning in the Rue Marboeuf. He died 
 without a word, the people said." 
 
 The voice of the stranger ceased. 
 
 I took out my handkerchief. I wept. " She 
 was indeed a noble woman, greatly to be blamed, 
 greatly to be pitied," I said; "it seems a sad 
 story." 
 
 "Yes," replied the stranger; "but not without 
 pathos. She was, after all, but a fanciful woman 
 who knew not her heart, her weakness, her 
 strength." 
 
 We looked again at the picture ; but the light 
 had faded from the room and left those silent 
 figures in partial darkness. 
 
 "I will come again to-morrow," I said, "and 
 look at the faces more thoroughly." 
 
 So I did. 
 
 And the day after.
 
 FRIENDSHIP? 
 
 A SKETCH.
 
 FRIENDSHIP? 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 EARLY in the winter of 1885 my father died. 
 
 I could not but miss so devoted a parent, and it 
 was with a morbid dread of the future that I 
 looked forward to the continuance of my life 
 without his kind guidance and unceasing care. 
 We had been much together during those later 
 years, and I had learned to lean greatly upon his 
 wise opinions, while he, in his turn, had depended 
 solely upon my companionship. 
 
 I was not the only son, nor in my earlier days 
 had I been the favorite. My brother Henry, 
 better looking, brighter, gayer, more fascinating, 
 had won the admiration of the old man's heart. 
 
 " He is my idol," he would say, " my good, my 
 brave, my noble son." 
 
 I, too, had gradually learned to praise his talents 
 and wonder what would be his success in the 
 
 181
 
 1 82 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 busy, driving, pleasure-seeking world. The suc- 
 cess which I had dreamed of for him never came 
 to pass. 
 
 In 1883 he went abroad. For several months 
 we heard nothing. Finally my father wrote to 
 his lawyers to investigate his son's peculiar 
 silence. After waiting some weeks we learned 
 the truth. 
 
 Henry had married in France. His wife was 
 beneath him in education, position, and birth ; a 
 beauty, so we heard. 
 
 My father's anger burst forth and justly. He 
 swore, he cabled, he wrote ; but all to no purpose ; 
 the torrent of his wrath was of no avail. 
 
 My brother sent word that in truth his mar- 
 riage had been hasty, but in no way degrading to 
 his family name or his pride. 
 
 " My wife is a lady," he wrote, " and until you 
 decide to receive her becomingly she declines to 
 communicate with either of you." 
 
 The year following this event brought many 
 changes. 
 
 Henry wrote of his separation from his wife. 
 Gossips accused her of having left him secretly 
 after meeting with some former lover.
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 183 
 
 My anger at these reports was only equalled by 
 my father's mortification. He cabled his son to 
 return at once to America, but to this no answer 
 came. The old man never saw his son again. 
 
 My father was taken ill ; over-anxiety and ner- 
 vous strain the doctors said. He rallied but little, 
 and when the winter winds were blowing they 
 swept across his new-made grave. 
 
 "I missed him. I mourned him. Like all man- 
 kind I knew I had to live. Dulness overpowered 
 me. Loneliness depressed me. An ocean voy- 
 age was recommended. The idea seized me. 
 Going to New York, I took the first steamer to 
 Havre. 
 
 I sailed away at an early hour one bright morn- 
 ing. The winds were high, the seas rough, but 
 our ship went nobly on. The change, the excite- 
 ment, the fresh air, all combined to exhilarate my 
 spirits. I was stronger than I had been for a 
 long, long time. 
 
 Once landed I went straight to Paris. But the 
 atmosphere of the place annoyed me. The con- 
 stant tide of pleasure seekers mocked my sorrow, 
 the din and noise of the crowded streets failed to 
 rouse my brain.
 
 1 84 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 I repacked my portmanteau, and was soon en 
 route for Switzerland. 
 
 I went through to Geneva, where, rinding lux- 
 ury and quiet, I remained until June. 
 
 It was too early for the usual crowd, and I 
 found myself well installed, without that dreaded 
 swarm of bustling men, fussing women, crying 
 children, constantly met with in the heated 
 months of travel. 
 
 One beautiful bright morning I took the 
 steamer for Vevay. How glorious the view 
 struck me that first night as I stood upon the 
 terrace in the gardens of the Hotel Monnet ! 
 Peace at last seemed near me. The still waters 
 of the lake cast their reflection of rest into my 
 soul. 
 
 Reluctantly I turned my steps from such a 
 scene. Crossing the gardens I passed into the 
 hotel. A friend joined me. The man was an 
 American who had spent the greater part of his 
 life in Vevay, having been educated there under a 
 certain churchman of England. 
 
 Leaning a moment against one of the tall mar- 
 ble columns of the hallway, I took my cigarette 
 from my mouth and placed it on a small iron
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 185 
 
 table, of which one sees many in the Swiss inns 
 of to-day. 
 
 The soft night air had made me sleepy, and it 
 was not without difficulty I suppressed a yawn. 
 
 "Come into the billiard-room and I will play 
 you a game of pool," said the American. 
 
 I made a step forward to comply with his wish 
 when my attention was arrested by a noise of 
 voices on the first floor above. I raised my head 
 with languid curiosity, when my eyes fell upon 
 the most beautiful woman I had ever beheld. 
 
 She was coming down the broad staircase with 
 a grace of movement most charming ; her erect 
 form well crowned by the shapely head ; her 
 movements proud, her step firm. Such bearing 
 told of blood and birth. 
 
 "Who is that beautiful woman?" I quickly 
 asked of my companion. 
 
 " Madame de Grandcourt." 
 
 " Madame de Grandcourt." It conveyed noth- 
 ing. French names are but a mystery to English- 
 speaking men. 
 
 "A widow?" 
 
 The American nodded. 
 
 "She is singularly beautiful," said I.
 
 1 86 FRIENDSHIP? 
 
 "Yes, but without friends in these parts." 
 
 " Why so ? " 
 
 " Oh, she is too proud to want them, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 I turned to get a better look at the woman's 
 face as she swept quickly past us. She raised her 
 lids slightly : I could see the deep violet eyes, 
 shaded by their dark lashes. 
 
 There was a faint odor of roses, flowers so 
 strangely sweet. A glimpse of lace and ribbons, 
 silk stockings, pointed shoes. Just .then a gust 
 of wind came in from the gardens. The gas jets 
 flickered. The lamps grew brighter. Putting 
 my hands to my eyes I would clear my clouding 
 vision. I looked again, but the graceful woman 
 had gone. 
 
 Before the week was over I had met and talked 
 with Jeanne de Grandcourt and her niece Marie, a 
 child just in her teens. This introduction only 
 served to show me more clearly the grace of her 
 beauty, the charm of her presence. 
 
 I would sit in the gardens after dinner watch- 
 ing for the moment when she would cross the
 
 FRIENDSHIP? 187 
 
 threshold and come out into the darkness where 
 I sat. I remember one evening, after I had been 
 away for a week, my delight on seeing her coming 
 toward me from under the shadow of the trees. 
 I stepped eagerly forward, and, taking her hand, 
 led her to a seat on the upper part of the terrace. 
 
 What made her fingers tremble, the rich color 
 rush from her lips ? 
 
 " You are ill, Madame," said I, turning my face 
 to her. She stood quite still, and with a quick 
 movement of her head feigned to hide the dark 
 blush in her cheeks. 
 
 " No, no, Monsieur Herbert, I am not ill, only 
 frightened. You came too suddenly toward me 
 when I did not know you were in Vevay." 
 
 "Why should my unexpected presence frighten 
 you ? " I boldly asked. 
 
 " You come so quickly, so unexpectedly. Ah ! 
 you Americans make movements so different from 
 the French. It is always impatiently, nervously, 
 quickly. Why are you like that ? There is plenty 
 of time for all things. See, I do not rush, I do 
 not hurry. What use is it ? My life will be quite 
 long enough in which to fulfil my desires." 
 
 "That depends. Have you many desires?"
 
 1 8 8 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 "Yes, and many have been gratified." 
 
 "With me it is different," I replied. "I have 
 had disappointments and have watched others 
 bear them." 
 
 " Have you, Monsieur Herbert ? I am sorry. 
 You look to me like a man who has been blessed 
 with good-fortune." 
 
 " True, I have never been poor in worldly pos- 
 sessions ; but through the lives of others, I have 
 suffered." 
 
 " Tell me how ? " 
 
 " It is hardly for you to listen to these troubles ; 
 you are young, beautiful, and good." She turned 
 her great eyes upon me, then quickly lowered the 
 drooping lids. 
 
 " You think me unsympathetic," she said. 
 
 " No," I cried, " not that ; you could never be 
 unsympathetic, only you have not had, perhaps, 
 great experiences with the world. I sometimes 
 think most people are too cruel, too cold to under- 
 stand." She put out her slender white hands, 
 and for a moment the long fingers touched my 
 arm. 
 
 " You must not say these things ; they are 
 false."
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 1 89 
 
 " You do not know to what I am particularly 
 alluding when you deny their truth," I answered. 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur Herbert, you make it difficult 
 for me to answer. I know nothing of your life, so 
 little have you told me. Truly I should make no 
 criticism." 
 
 " Would you listen if I were to tell you more ? " 
 She was looking at me with those wondrous eyes. 
 Her head slightly forward, her body bent, not 
 to disturb the graceful lines in her figure. Her 
 white hands lay idly in her lap, the jewels on her 
 fingers flashed in the darkness. I felt the charm 
 of her presence, the strange power of her beauty. 
 Oh, for the right to touch those hands those 
 lips ! It was a mad dream. What was I to this 
 woman ? If for a moment I even allowed her to 
 read my thoughts, what then ? Would she not 
 rebuke me, scorn me, deride me? I felt the 
 absurdity of it all. I drew back. 
 
 " Come," I cried, " let us move from here. It is 
 best for us to go." 
 
 " I am very comfortable, very contented, Mon- 
 sieur Herbert ; why do you wish to go from here?" 
 I rose to my feet. I pointed to the quay. 
 
 "We can go out there on the lake and join
 
 1 90 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 those pleasure seekers gliding over the water." I 
 picked up the small, fluffy wrap from behind 
 Madame de Grandcourt's chair, and giving her 
 my arm led her out on the quay. The little boats 
 were skimming along the placid, clear waters 
 beneath the soft light of the moon, the great 
 mountains opposite seeming to grow higher as 
 they stood in silent judgment of the night. 
 
 We were soon in our small boat moving over 
 the lake in the direction of Chillon. 
 
 " I should have brought the child Marie, 
 Monsieur Herbert ; I did not mean to come 
 alone." 
 
 " What of it ? " I asked, a pang of jealousy seiz- 
 ing me. " Marie would only grow frightened, and, 
 childlike, might upset the boat. No, no, to-night 
 we shall row alone. It is possible, even probable, 
 that I shall leave Switzerland soon. I should like 
 your companionship during this one evening with- 
 out the addition of Mademoiselle Marie." 
 
 I do not know how long we had been in the 
 little boat, watching the moon with her kingdom 
 of stars overhead, when I noticed Jeanne had 
 grown tired ; an intense pallor had spread over 
 her face. I had been telling her about my father,
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 191 
 
 his home, his life, his death, his son. At first 
 she had listened ; but gradually the wondrous 
 eyes grew weary, her interest flagged. 
 
 " You have been so good to let me speak of all 
 this to you," I said. " These topics have grown 
 sacred to me, for pride has sealed my lips." 
 
 She bowed her head, but made no sound. 
 
 " My brother's marriage was the hardest blow 
 we ever had," I continued. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Why ? Because he has disgraced us. Ruined 
 his future, his pride, his name." 
 
 " And you blame him for all these things ? " 
 
 " I blame a man for falling in love with the sort 
 of woman his wife has proved to be." 
 
 " And you say his wife is very beautiful and 
 fair ? " 
 
 " I have heard it ; but beauty is not everything. 
 Character stands firmer in life's great battle. I 
 believe I should hate such a woman for her very 
 fairness." 
 
 " It may be that your brother is in the wrong." 
 
 "My brother in the wrong!" I cried. The sug- 
 gestion was horrible. " But his wife if such she 
 can be called "
 
 1 92 FRIENDSHIP f 
 
 " Hush. Say no more. You are speaking of 
 one whom you will never really know. Do not 
 cry out against her wrongs. Monsieur Herbert, 
 forgive this woman, forgive her for my sake." 
 Jeanne leaned forward. I could plainly see the 
 outline of her head. Her eyes were partly closed, 
 her face blanched. 
 
 " For your sake I would do much," I exclaimed. 
 She put out her jewelled hands. I could see 
 them stretched toward me. 
 
 " Yes," she repeated, " for my sake." 
 
 I grasped my oars, my head burned. Pulling 
 vigorously my even strokes soon brought us to the 
 shore. I saw the face of the woman grow paler in 
 the still, wan light of the moon. 
 
 " I could never forgive her, not even for your 
 sake." 
 
 " But what if this very woman were unhappy 
 now, this moment, would you have no pity ? " 
 
 " None," I answered, while I heard the splish 
 splash of the oars alone breaking the stillness of 
 the night. 
 
 During the next week of my stay in the quaint 
 Swiss town, I had many moments of anxiety, many 
 of pleasure. I often met Jeanne on her walks.
 
 FRIEiVDSHIP? 193 
 
 But she pleaded the dampness of the night air 
 affecting her chest, and compelling her to remain 
 in-doors during the evening's cool. Sometimes I 
 would see the child Marie sitting in the gardens ; 
 but when I approached her, she invariably gath- 
 ered up her books and ran away. At first this 
 struck me as amusing, but later I grew to hate her 
 for it. Her eyes were so black, her teeth so white 
 in smiling. Her strange appearance had a most 
 maddening effect upon me. One day, when my 
 patience was exhausted, I shook my finger at her, 
 saying loudly, " Naughty little girl." She only 
 tossed her dark curls, and answered, "Je ne com- 
 prends pas, Monsieur. 
 
 How quickly the week went by ! I managed to 
 meet and talk with Madame de Grandcourt one 
 morning. I was with her a long time. When we 
 parted it was with the understanding that I should 
 follow them to Paris within a month. I put the 
 address she gave me safely away in my pocket, 
 making many assurances of my arrival ere long. 
 
 She was very kind. But I was perplexed to 
 exactly comprehend her. A warm hand-shake, a 
 few gracious words ! Was this, then, the ending 
 of my dream in which she was my heroine ?
 
 1 94 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 Marie bade me good-by with more enthusiasm 
 than I had anticipated ; but when I said in my 
 best French, " Mademoiselle, it is but au revoir" 
 she had gazed at me in astonishment, and an- 
 swered, "Adieu, Monsieur! Adieu! Adieu!" 
 
 It is useless, painful, to dwell even now upon 
 those first moments which followed the ending of 
 my happiest days. I have put their memory away, 
 buried from my life. I thought I had found a new 
 anticipation in the minutes, a new joy in the hours. 
 I was changed into a stronger, better man. 
 
 I had not expected letters from France, yet was 
 I not disappointed when day after day went by 
 bringing me no news ? The month had not quite 
 expired when my impatience caused me to leave 
 Switzerland. How could I remain away until the 
 appointed hour ? The train sped quickly. Faster 
 and faster it flew through the mountainous country 
 of the Swiss. The engine trembled and shook, 
 hurrying on and on, but I felt the moments 
 hours, the hours eternity. Nearer and nearer I 
 approached the gay city. More and more anxious
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 195 
 
 I grew a thousand fears crowded my brain to 
 bring forth a hundred imaginary questions, a 
 hundred unreal answers. What if Jeanne should 
 not be there ? 
 
 Once at Paris, I felt more secure of my plans, 
 more certain of my projects. Directly I drove to 
 the Hotel Meurice, ordered my breakfast, yet 
 scarcely noting what I ate, so impatient was I to 
 reach the address in the Rue B . 
 
 An hour later I found myself in the busy 
 streets. Hailing a cab, I told the cocker to drive 
 towards the Arc de Triomphe by the Avenue des 
 Champs-Elysees. We went but slowly. Reach- 
 ing at length the Rue B , we turned to the 
 
 right. 
 
 " Numero 75 ! " I called to the cocker. Why 
 had I chosen such a slow horse ? 
 
 "Je rial pas de temps a perdre ! " I yelled. In 
 vain I peered from the windows at the numbers 
 on the gates. I drew my precious slip from my 
 pocket. Yes, there were the figures 7 and 5. 
 
 " Numero 75, cocker ! " 
 
 " // riexiste pas dans cette rue ci, Monsieur, ce 
 numero la!" I could not believe my ears. There 
 was no such number in the Rue B ? Again,
 
 1 96 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 frantic, I consulted my slip of paper. Possibly I 
 had made some mistake. No, the names were 
 alike. I had been fooled. A great fear took 
 possession of me. What if Madame de Grand- 
 court did not live in Paris ? Had she deceived 
 me ? A woman with so fair a face and such 
 wondrous eyes ! No, no, it was incredible 
 impossible. 
 
 " Que voulez-vous, Monsieur?" The voice of 
 the cocker roused me. Was I dreaming, and had 
 I really ever met a person by the name of de 
 Grandcourt ? 
 
 " A r hotel" I replied vaguely. 
 
 I reached my room I knew not how. I sat 
 down on the first chair within reach, I gazed 
 wearily at the dull white walls of the rooms 
 opposite. I saw figures passing two and fro 
 behind the curtains. 
 
 Could it be that I had come to Paris expecting 
 to meet with friends friends that had never 
 existed ? 
 
 My brain ran on at random. I had surely turned 
 into a fool. I laughed out loud. The strange, 
 harsh sounds pleased me. The walls echoed them. 
 I pressed my hands to my eyes. My head whirled.
 
 FRIENDSHIP? 197 
 
 I was in a fever. A chill seized me, grasping 
 tightly my arms, my limbs, in its cold clasp. I 
 shivered, I closed the window. Seeing a sofa in 
 the corner of the room, I crept towards it. A 
 sudden sharpness entered my left side. My eyes 
 closed, my ears sang. The room was turning, the 
 walls closing. The light grew dimmer, the sun- 
 shine darker. My senses fled. I made a struggle, 
 an effort it was no use, for I had fainted. 
 
 It must have been the loud ringing of the court- 
 yard bell which brought me to again. For the 
 moment I could not remember where I was 
 then slowly, surely, reality dawned upon me. In 
 Paris ! But why ? what had brought me to Paris ? 
 The city which I had always hated. I had come 
 for some purpose. What was that purpose ? The 
 truth rushed to me. Again I went through the 
 agony of my disappointment, the mortification to 
 my pride. But at this moment an end came 
 to my reflections by a loud knocking at my door. 
 I rose and opened it. The concierge handed me 
 a note. It was, however, only an invitation to the 
 ball of the Legation enclosed with a letter from 
 a friend, an American who was desirous of making 
 up a party to go to the Hotel of the Foreign
 
 1 98 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 Minister. Hearing, quite by accident from a man 
 who saw me entering the Meurice, that I was in 
 Paris, he had sent the note in hopes of finding 
 my whereabouts and gaining my consent to join 
 them. 
 
 I was in no mood for festivities. I never 
 dreamed of going to a ball. But at that moment 
 my mourning, which I had hitherto held so sacred, 
 appeared to me a farce. Why should I mourn ? 
 If I died on the morrow, who would weep for me ? 
 I sat down at my desk. I wrote an acceptance. 
 Sealing the envelope, I handed it to the concierge. 
 " Send it at once," said I, closing the door with a 
 sharp sound. Then I opened my trunk. I began 
 to unpack my things. I took out my dress-clothes 
 with a sort of fierce pleasure. How neatly they 
 were put away beneath the well-packed trays ! 
 Many little familiar articles tumbled at my feet, 
 trophies and souvenirs which I had bought in 
 Switzerland. I cast them aside. Their beauty 
 vanished. I began to arrange my garments on 
 the bed, making every preparation for the ball 
 before going down-stairs. I dined in a private 
 salon that night. 
 
 It was ten o'clock when I reached the Avenue
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 1 99 
 
 Hoche. I found my friends with little difficulty, 
 and together we entered the lighted parlors. 
 
 It was an interesting entertainment to those 
 who were willing to regard themselves favorably 
 every kind of personage present, almost every 
 nationality represented French, English, Ameri- 
 cans, Germans, Spaniards. 
 
 I wandered from room to room in an aimless 
 fashion. Truly, I was but a fish out of water. I 
 found scarcely any one I knew, even in so goodly 
 a crowd. My evening dragged wearily. I talked 
 for a time with a Frenchman whom I had met 
 years before in Washington. The man was clever, 
 and his remarks amused me. 
 
 It grew late, the guests were leaving. I could 
 hear the carriages rolling from the door. I was 
 standing near the entrance, preparatory to my 
 departure, when a woman, tall and graceful, passed 
 quickly out the door. There was something in 
 her movements which attracted me. I bent 
 eagerly forward with the hope of seeing her face, 
 but I was too late. She walked quickly, and in 
 another moment she was gone. My head whirled. 
 My heart beat. Turning to the Frenchman, I 
 inquired the name of the fair stranger.
 
 200 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 " That is Madame de Grandcourt," he answered, 
 " she is " The din of the music, the clatter of 
 voices, drowned the last words of his sentence. 
 But I had heard enough : it was Jeanne whom I had 
 known, of whom I had dreamed, despaired, and 
 lost. My heart was in a tumult. I turned to 
 question the man beside me, but he had been 
 carried from me in the laughing, moving throng. 
 
 The next day I concluded to send for my French 
 friend, but he answered that a pressing engage- 
 ment prevented his accepting the invitation to 
 luncheon which I had offered him. On second 
 thought I was glad of his declination. It struck 
 me then as unmanly that I should wish to question 
 any one concerning a woman so beautiful, so 
 fair. 
 
 It was in the Bois that I first came face to face 
 with Madame de Grandcourt. She was walking 
 in company with Marie. I saw her come toward 
 me. I nerved myself to pass her. She turned her 
 head as my steps came close to hers. I touched 
 my hat, her beautiful eyes met mine. I stopped. 
 I heard the sound of my own voice, saying 
 hoarsely, " You have forgotten me, Madame ? " 
 
 " No, no, I have not forgotten you, Monsieur
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 20 1 
 
 Herbert. But in Paris one meets so many faces. 
 You have been here long ? " 
 
 " I arrived last week. I went to see you on 
 the day of my arrival." 
 
 " Yes ! You are very kind." 
 
 "At Number 75, Rue B . But there must 
 
 have been some mistake in the address you gave 
 me, for there is no house corresponding to it." 
 
 " Number 75 ? " She looked astonished. " Ah ! 
 yes, of course, we have moved since then." She 
 gave a little laugh. " You made a mistake, Mon- 
 sieur, a mistake in the numbers. But I now live 
 at 105 Champs-Elysees. You must come there 
 the next time." I bowed my thanks. I would 
 have joined her in her walk, but she stretched 
 out her hand, giving me the soft gloved fingers. 
 Her smile was radiant. 
 
 " Au revoir, Monsieur Herbert," she said. I 
 turned and quickly left her. I looked neither 
 to the right nor left, but walked straight on 
 through the shaded avenue of trees near the 
 entrance of the Bois. 
 
 The low, incessant rumble of the passing car- 
 riages, the brisk movement of the pedestrians, 
 seemed to me but the cadence of a rhyme. My
 
 202 FRIENDSHIP? 
 
 steps were light, my bearing easy, as on I strode 
 through the wide boulevards and streets. 
 
 I waited several days before calling upon 
 Jeanne. I had almost made up my mind not to 
 call upon her at all. Our brief meeting had 
 seemed so unsatisfactory so different from 
 what I had planned or expected. Temptation is 
 sometimes too strong. I yielded. Just once I 
 repeated to myself as I approached the Champs- 
 Elysees. 
 
 An old concierge answered my ring as I pre- 
 sented myself to ask if Madame de Grandcourt 
 was at home. " Madame de Grandcourt," said the 
 man "yes, yes, she is at home, an troisttme." 
 I mounted the winding stairs, followed by the old 
 fellow. He pointed to the folding-doors, say- 
 ing, " Madame lives there." 
 
 Timidly I rang the bell. The doors flew softly 
 open, a smart man-servant stood before me. He 
 ushered me through a square hall, hung in dark 
 colors with here and there a spot of white and 
 gold. My name was announced. A tall, slender 
 figure rose, and I recognized the foreign accent 
 and musical tones of Jeanne's voice. 
 
 " Your memory is very good, Monsieur Her- 
 bert ! "
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 203 
 
 " I could but avail myself of your invitation," 
 I replied, my dignity rising. "When you gave me 
 your new number, it was the permission from you 
 to make use of it." She smiled. Her eyes 
 seemed very bright. Pointing to an easy-chair 
 she bade me be seated. 
 
 So this was Madame de Grandcourt's home. 
 
 Culture and refinement were plainly visible. 
 The walls were hung with specimens of the best 
 artists, Gerome, Breton, Troyon, Vibert. Two 
 Meissoniers, marvellously colored, rested on a 
 table whose cloth of blue velvet formed a goodly 
 relief for the figures by the great painter. There 
 were in all directions pieces of antique furniture, 
 French clocks, old bronzes, and Dresden orna- 
 ments ; while from where I sat, I could see the 
 white statuary in the alcoves of the hall. There 
 were rugs and cushions, lamps and tables, every- .. 
 where. A charming apartment, a beautiful home. 
 
 I was so fortunate as to miss Marie, whose 
 presence had been such a constant annoyance in 
 Switzerland. 
 
 My hostess was even more fair than during 
 those first days of our intimacy. Her manner 
 was quite cordial, perhaps at times it lacked
 
 204 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 enthusiasm. But then I knew myself to be over- 
 sensitive, and my judgments often wrong. 
 
 When I rose to take my leave, which I did after 
 a brief half hour, she flushed greatly. I stood for 
 a moment irresolute waiting for the invitation 
 to call again. She laughed softly ; her eyes were 
 brighter then. 
 
 " When you are passing, remember you are 
 always welcome here." How I had misjudged 
 her sincerity ! 
 
 "Yes," I cried, pressing her hand and bowing 
 low; "and may I come very soon?" Her fingers 
 had grown cold in my touch, her lips trembled. 
 
 " You may be sure of finding me in the even- 
 ings," she said. 
 
 I went away satisfied more satisfied than I 
 had been for weeks. 
 
 When I returned to the hotel a surprise was in 
 store for me of which I had never dreamed. 
 On entering the courtyard, a man rushed toward 
 me, his cheeks flushed, his eyes flashing with 
 anticipation and joy. He seized my hands, and, 
 turning me round to the light, exclaimed,
 
 FRIENDSHIP? 205 
 
 "Charles!" 
 
 "Henry!" I cried, as I recognized the hand- 
 some face of my beloved brother. 
 
 " It was quite by accident I heard you were in 
 Paris." 
 
 " I have known nothing of your whereabouts," 
 I answered sadly, "for many weeks and many 
 months." 
 
 He drew me towards the salon, and pushing 
 open the glass doors, begged that we might be 
 alone. How much we had to talk about ! We 
 even went back to our childhood, discussing the 
 old associations, the old ties. Yes, we had always 
 loved each other my handsome brother and I. 
 We discussed our past, our future, our plans, our 
 hopes. 
 
 It was late before we parted, and as I grasped 
 his hand, I begged him to come soon again. 
 
 "To-morrow," I cried, as I saw his tall form 
 disappearing through the doorway. 
 
 I saw a great deal of Henry during the days 
 which followed our happy meeting. I found him 
 changed perhaps, but then he had suffered much. 
 He alluded but once to his misfortunes, to his 
 wife.
 
 206 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 " She was the love of my youth," he said, " so 
 will she be the love of my old age." 
 
 My brows contracted. Should I have to listen 
 to this detested subject, to hear of the woman 
 whose conduct I condemned ? No, no, it would be 
 expecting too much. I could now overlook the 
 sorrow which my brother had caused my father 
 and myself, but I could go no farther. He 
 eagerly explained that she was beautiful, good, and 
 true. That their separation had come through 
 hasty words and from no wrong purpose. I leaned 
 forward, and touching his arm, spoke in a whisper, 
 
 "Let this subject die between us, my boy. I 
 cannot forget what our kind parent suffered 
 through this woman whom you call your wife." 
 The blood rushed to his cheeks, his lips ; the 
 veins stood out like cords in his white temples. 
 
 "Charles," he cried, "are you mad ?" 
 
 " No, I am not mad : far from it. But do not 
 let us quarrel. Come, be friends." 
 
 He seized my outstretched hands, his blue eyes 
 grew darker, and his lips parted in a haughty 
 smile. 
 
 " The name of my wife to me is sacred," he said. 
 
 He never alluded to her again.
 
 FRIENDSHIP? 207 
 
 During the days which followed in quick succes- 
 sion, as happy days always do, I had seen my 
 friends in the Champs-Elysees quite often. But 
 my time was more likely to be claimed by 
 Henry. Often would I have escaped even from 
 my brother to the rest and quiet of that beautiful 
 home. 
 
 I had become a regular visitor, as sure now 
 of my welcome as I had at first been doubtful 
 of it. 
 
 I could keep nothing from Jeanne, whose plead- 
 ing eyes invited confidences. I gave her mine. 
 
 When I told her about the sudden appearance 
 of my brother her face lighted up with its radiant 
 smile. 
 
 ''Why, you look almost as happy as I do," said 
 I, watching her rich color come and go like the 
 shadow and sunshine of an autumn day. 
 
 " I rejoice in your happiness," she said. In 
 this way it had become very easy for me to talk 
 of Henry. Had I not confided his troubles to 
 her ? Where could I find a more interested 
 listener, a more sympathetic adviser ? 
 
 "So your brother Henri Monsieur Henri 
 wants to see his wife ! Be quite frank with me
 
 208 FRIENDSHIP? 
 
 does he forgive her, pity her, and love her 
 still ? " Her voice sank to a whisper. I saw 
 again the high Swiss mountains and the placid 
 waters of the lake. 
 
 "As he loved her once, Jeanne, so he loves her 
 still " She closed her wondrous eyes, her 
 quivering lips. " You are, indeed, a good listener," 
 I cried, a blush of shame spreading over me. 
 " But I am tiring you. Your face has grown 
 quite pale. What is it, Jeanne ? Where is it you 
 feel ill ? " I took the slender hands in both of 
 mine. How cold they were! "What is it?" I 
 murmured passionately, as she remained quite 
 still and pale. 
 
 " Ah, it is here ! " She withdrew her hands, and 
 putting them to her throat, murmured, "Such a 
 lump just here ! I have it sometimes. It is 
 nothing, Monsieur Herbert nothing." 
 
 I cut my visit short that night. Madame de 
 Grandcourt had seemed so far from well. The 
 selfishness of man ! Why did I always talk on 
 unmindful of the sufferings I caused to her, my 
 best, my dearest friend ? 
 
 I felt myself strongly tempted to tell Henry of 
 that charming apartment in the Champs-Elysees.
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 209 
 
 But I never did tell him. To speak of Jeanne to 
 any one, even to my brother whom I loved and 
 trusted, was impossible. 
 
 The days flew by into weeks, the weeks intc 
 months, and still I lingered on in Paris. 
 
 One night I persuaded my brother to accom- 
 pany me to the Grand Opera. We had good 
 seats. The music was excellent. The people, the 
 dresses, the lights, the glitter all was Fairyland 
 to me. Henry seemed abstracted, and left during 
 the second act. 
 
 When I was describing it all to Jeanne, a few 
 days later, she laughed merrily. 
 
 " I was there in one of the boxes. Did you 
 not see me, Monsieur Herbert ? " 
 
 " You were at the opera that night ? Did you 
 see the man who was with me ? " I asked, aston- 
 ished in my turn. "It was Henry ! " 
 
 " Yes, I saw him. But he is not like you," she 
 added. 
 
 " No, not like in disposition nor appearance. I 
 could have brought him to your box if I had only 
 known." 
 
 " Yes ; but it was not my box ; I was with 
 friends."
 
 2 1 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 I stooped to pick up a book which had fallen to 
 the floor. On the first page was written " Marie 
 de Grandcourt." 
 
 " It belongs to your niece," I said. 
 
 " No, no ! it was my mother's book. But you 
 should read it, so interesting, so clever ! " 
 
 " Your mother's book ? " said I. " How is it 
 that her name is de Grandcourt too ? " 
 
 The color rose to her face and flushed it crimson. 
 
 "When I lost my husband, I took back my 
 maiden name." 
 
 " Is that a French custom ? " I asked. 
 
 " No, it is a fancy, a fancy of mine." 
 
 "And may I ask how long you have been 
 Madame de Grandcourt?" 
 
 " It is some time now since I have had cause to 
 miss my husband." 
 
 " You will never, as some women are persuaded, 
 forget his memory." 
 
 " Never ! My sorrow will remain forever with 
 me." How I longed just then to bear her sorrow, 
 cheer her loneliness ! 
 
 " If I can ever do you any service, you must 
 not hesitate to ask it of me." A radiant smile 
 lit up her face.
 
 FRIENDSHIP ? 211 
 
 " I might take you at your word," she said. 
 
 " Do so," I cried, " and you will find that my 
 word is good. Look upon me as your sincere 
 friend now and always, Jeanne." 
 
 " But you could not grant the one thing for 
 which my heart is longing, my soul is yearning." 
 
 "I do not know what that is." 
 
 " To see my husband." A great agony passed 
 through me. I scarcely knew what answer to 
 make her. 
 
 " You ask impossibilities," I said vaguely. 
 " But were it in my power, I would grant you 
 even that." 
 
 " I knew you were good, kind, unselfish," she 
 said. 
 
 Soon after that I went on a short trip, with my 
 brother and some friends, outside Paris. We 
 remained away about a week. My impatience was 
 genuine. I longed to get back to the crowded 
 city streets. 
 
 The first day of my return I hastened to 105. 
 I found Jeanne looking thinner and paler than 
 when I left. She said the child Marie had been 
 ill, and she had felt the care of nursing her. 
 
 " Why do you trouble yourself so much over 
 that child ? " I asked.
 
 2 1 2 FRIENDSHIP ? 
 
 " She is lonely, pauvre petite, without mother, 
 without father. I cannot be otherwise than 
 patient with her." 
 
 " That is all very well, but you carry your kind- 
 ness too far. You give yourself unnecessary 
 burdens for others," I exclaimed. 
 
 Madame de Grandcourt made no answer ; rising 
 suddenly she crossed the room. I watched her 
 graceful movements. The sun came in the win- 
 dow and fell upon her hair, her throat, her neck. 
 She was opening a small desk. She moved the 
 key with difficulty. How fair she looked ! In a 
 moment she came toward me with a package care- 
 fully folded, closely sealed. Returning to my 
 side, she held it out to me between her white 
 fingers. 
 
 " See," she said, " this bears your name. It is 
 the service I am going to ask of you." She was 
 very near me. I saw her rings flashing. Their 
 light dazzled me. "Ever since you went away I 
 have been thinking about it, and I have concluded 
 that you are my sincere friend, and that your word 
 is good!" She placed the package in my hands. 
 
 " I confide it to you, and when you go home 
 you can open it." She was smiling all the time.
 
 FRIENDSHIP f 213 
 
 But this proof of her faith in me whatever 
 it might be dulled my brain. Conversation 
 seemed difficult. For I was holding I knew not 
 what key to my fate, what clew to my destiny. 
 
 Later, as I hurried through the streets, the 
 package grew heavier. I felt its weight. Will- 
 ingly would I cast it from me. But, no it was 
 Jeanne's pledge of our friendship ; I would guard 
 it jealously, and with great care. 
 
 Once in my own room, I closed and locked the 
 door. I could still plainly see the laughing eyes, 
 the smiling face, of Madame de Grandcourt as she 
 handed me my prize. 
 
 I broke the seal. I tore off the paper covering. 
 Before my eyes lay the contents a letter bear- 
 ing the inscription " Monsieur Henri Herbert." 
 The name burned like heated fire. My hands 
 trembled. My blood froze. In the moments that 
 followed I realized everything. I knew all. I 
 felt for the bell. My eyes were dim, I could 
 not see. The valet knocked. I opened the door. 
 
 " Go out into the street. The first commis- 
 sionnaire you meet stop him. Hand him this 
 letter, together with the address I give you. Tell 
 the man to deliver the note at once. If any
 
 214 FRIENDSHIP? 
 
 questions are asked concerning who may have 
 sent it, no answer must be given." 
 
 I closed the door; again I was alone. But I 
 had fulfilled my trust. / had proved that I was 
 her sincere friend, and that my word was good !
 
 THE LOST JEWEL.
 
 THE LOST JEWEL 
 
 MY story ends with a word of advice. Let me 
 begin it by affirming that the young American of 
 to-day is better off in his own country, happier 
 among the men of his own land, more content 
 surrounded by the speakers of his own tongue, 
 the followers of his own faith. 
 
 How truly I realized all this, how thoroughly I 
 underwent the pangs of sickness, a stranger in a 
 strange land ! 
 
 I spent many years abroad, studying architec- 
 ture, frequenting studios, discussing art. 
 
 It was a great ambition to become a man of 
 mark, to be renowned, to live in Paris. I had 
 long thought of it, ever dreamed of it in my youth- 
 ful days. 
 
 But the charms of a foreign education, the glit- 
 ter of a strange city, lessened in the clouds and 
 storms of a new and broader life. 
 217
 
 2l8 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 Alone I went to France, alone I stayed in Paris, 
 alone I strove in my work, alone I sought for 
 knowledge in a far distant land. 
 
 My days were busy, my evenings occupied. In 
 the first glow of enthusiasm, in the first fervor of 
 hope, I failed to realize my discomforts, to read 
 the loneliness of my heart. But gradually my 
 position dawned upon me, gradually I longed to 
 make a friend. 
 
 It was quite by chance I met a young French- 
 man, quite by chance I learned to know him well. 
 At first I thought him self-reliant ; but soon his 
 real nature spread throughout his words, his work. 
 He had ambitions. He longed to be an artist. 
 He had talent, but of a spontaneous, impracticable 
 character, which held him back in his fight for 
 fame. 
 
 He would come to me with his pale face flush- 
 ing, his eyes dazzling, to tell me of some bold 
 sketch that he had done. He worked quickly, he 
 used his pencil freely ; but soon I saw he never 
 came out first. Some other student always stood 
 before him in the end. How clearly we began to 
 see the truth ! We had both failed Pierre Baton 
 and I.
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 219 
 
 We had ample means, so one fine day we cast 
 aside our hopes, buried our ambitions, and jour- 
 neyed far from France. 
 
 Once away, we breathed more freely ; we knew 
 ourselves content. 
 
 But soon we missed the constant striving, the 
 daily occupation of our work. 
 
 Pierre returned to France. When I parted 
 from the young Frenchman I did not expect to 
 meet with him again. 
 
 Five years elapsed. Again I was in France, 
 again in Paris. The old student life had vanished, 
 the youthful days had gone. 
 
 One evening at a cafe a young man sat near 
 me. His pale face was toward me, his eyes were 
 looking into mine. In a moment I recognized 
 him, in a moment I was by his side. 
 
 " Pierre ! " I cried, as he stood erect and smil- 
 ing. We sat down together. We talked of the 
 old familiar scenes. I watched the foreigner 
 closely. I saw that he was older ; he was 
 changed. His face was stronger in its expres- 
 sion and outline, his character had developed, I 
 could see. Later, when I talked of taking a 
 journey through Switzerland over the old roads
 
 220 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 and haunts, a constraint fell upon him, and a look 
 of bitterness crept into his eyes. 
 
 " But you must come too," I cried. He shrugged 
 his shoulders. " Take to-morrow to think it over," 
 I concluded with a laugh. Pierre grew very pale, 
 his lips moved nervously. 
 
 "My position has changed, dear fellow," he 
 said, " sadly changed since we parted." Again 
 that weary look, again that bitter smile. 
 
 " In what way ? " I asked. 
 
 " Every way," he answered. Little by little I 
 drew his story from him. Word by word he told 
 me everything. His parents had died and left 
 him struggling, disappointed, penniless. He was 
 alone in the world. Still working with his brush, 
 but hoping little now. I looked at him with pity 
 in my gaze, with love in my heart. 
 
 That night I said nothing, but the following day 
 I proposed to Pierre that we should spend the 
 summer together. I feared for his pride ; but 
 he accepted my offer, and soon our plans were 
 made. 
 
 We arranged to go to Germany. Pierre pro- 
 posed Homburg, as a healthful climate and a 
 pleasant resort. He seemed anxious I should see
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 221 
 
 the place. To Homburg we went ; at Homburg 
 we remained. 
 
 We met many people. The Frenchman was 
 indifferent in his manner to every one ; but all 
 liked him, all praised him. 
 
 One evening as we sat together on the terrace 
 of the Kurhaus, watching the steady stream of 
 pedestrians promenading in the gardens, Pierre 
 drew my attention to a young woman in company 
 with an officer. I had never seen his face so 
 eager, his expression so interested. 
 
 " She is beautiful," he murmured. 
 
 " The face is bright," I said. 
 
 The next day Pierre asked me if I had met the 
 fair stranger. I laughed and shook my head. 
 
 " Would you like to know her ? " I asked. The 
 foreigner shrugged his shoulders, put his hands 
 gracefully behind him, and walked off. But I 
 concluded that he wanted to meet the beautiful 
 woman, to talk to her, to have her for his friend. 
 
 I learned she was an American, a widow. At 
 an early age she married a foreigner, for money 
 no doubt. 
 
 Madame Dupont was entertaining, interesting, 
 they said.
 
 222 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 Being an American, I soon obtained an intro- 
 duction to her. She was clever and bright ; but 
 in her eyes I saw an expression of coldness, which 
 I did not like nor understand. 
 
 It pleased me to tell Pierre of my introduction 
 to his strange beauty. He laughed while his face 
 flushed proudly, as I said I had promised Madame 
 Dupont to introduce him at the first opportunity. 
 
 At Homburg one meets all the visitors each 
 morning, afternoon, and evening. A strict code 
 of etiquette exists there among the English and 
 Germans ; but with the Americans and French it 
 is different. They make friends quickly, easily, 
 they are strangers in a strange land. 
 
 The next day I presented Pierre to Madame 
 Dupont. I thought she liked him. Her manner 
 was cordial, her greeting interested, as she spoke 
 to the Frenchman. 
 
 They were much together during the weeks 
 which followed. I felt that I had been robbed of 
 my friend. It was with a touch of jealousy I lis- 
 tened to their animated conversation, in which 
 were many clever speeches, many bright retorts. 
 I saw that Pierre lost something of his indifferent 
 manner; of his bored, imbittered ways when in
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 223 
 
 Madame Dupont's presence, when under the influ- 
 ence of Madame Dupont's smiles. 
 
 One afternoon she asked me a question. Who 
 was Pierre Baton ? 
 
 How could I give her a direct answer? how 
 explain our friendship ? What I knew of him 
 came only from his lips, from his assertions. Not 
 until this moment had I realized the greatness of 
 my faith, the depth of my belief in the foreigner. 
 
 I was most confident in my manner, most 
 earnest in my voice, as I praised his appearance, 
 commended his character. 
 
 In answer Madame Dupont shrugged her 
 shoulders the movement meant a great deal, or. 
 meant nothing. I could not interpret it. I 
 glanced at her face but saw nothing. It was 
 impossible to read the expression of a woman 
 whom I had known but a few short weeks. 
 
 I was glad to notice that her manner remained 
 unchanged towards Pierre. I had an affection 
 for the Frenchman which might be likened unto 
 love. I could in a moment, and at a glance, 
 detect the old bored expression when it crept 
 again into his eyes, the sad, beseeching look 
 which had won my confidence at Paris.
 
 224 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 I began to make plans for his present, his 
 future. I began to map out his life. Then I 
 must chide my enthusiasm, check my ardor, by 
 the questions, is he grateful, is he happy ? But 
 the queries float away almost as soon as my brain 
 forms them. I despise myself for even a shadow 
 of doubt. 
 
 Madame Dupont was rich, extravagant, luxu- 
 rious, indulgent. I saw the gulf ever widening, 
 ever deepening, between the Frenchman and my- 
 self. But what reason had I for the surmise, the 
 conclusion, that Pierre admired the widow ? None. 
 No word, no proof, of his feelings. But imagina- 
 tion, is a fast traveller, a ready planner. Once 
 started, where does she turn back ? when does she 
 stop ? 
 
 One morning as we three strolled by the 
 Springs, we stopped at Marx's, the jeweller. We 
 looked through the glass covering at the jewelry 
 in his stand. The stones were brilliant. Pierre 
 leaned near the glass. He pointed to a small 
 ring beside which lay a dazzling emerald. 
 
 "The emerald you mean?" I asked, following 
 the direction of his eyes. 
 
 " No, no," he replied ; " I want to call your
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 22$ 
 
 attention to that curious setting in the small 
 diamond ring." I soon turned away, surprised at 
 the man's modest taste. I much preferred the 
 green stone, its value was greater. Then I 
 remembered Pierre's poverty. How easy to 
 misjudge, to misunderstand others, I thought ! 
 Each day, each hour, brings its lessons, its knowl- 
 edge, its experience, to us. I became more chari- 
 table as I compared my easy life with the 
 struggles and disappointments of my compan- 
 ion's. 
 
 Madame Dupont had many friends. She had 
 passed previous summers at Homburg, a well- 
 known visitor at the Springs. 
 
 Once I proposed to the Frenchman that we 
 should journey on to other places. I began to 
 weary of the monotony, and long for change. 
 But Pierre was so urgent in his protestations that 
 I abandoned the idea. How reticent, how proud, 
 that Frenchman was ! 
 
 One day Madame Dupont expressed a desire to 
 purchase the emerald. I offered to accompany 
 her to Marx's stand. As Pierre drew back she 
 begged him to join us : it was so embarrassing to 
 buy jewels alone, she said.
 
 226 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 Again we gazed at the precious stones, again 
 Pierre's eyes wandered to the small diamond. 
 Marx handed Madame Dupont the emerald. In 
 examining it more closely I saw that it was a 
 wonderfully clear and well-cut stone. I urged the 
 widow in her choice of it. 
 
 "By all means take that one," I said. Before 
 answering she handed it to the Frenchman. He 
 took it lightly between his fingers, expressing his 
 preference for the diamond. Madame Dupont 
 hesitated just an instant, then took back the green 
 jewel, saying, 
 
 "This must be mine." At the moment her 
 gloved fingers slipped and the ring fell from her 
 hands. I thought I saw the stone glisten in the 
 brown dust at her feet. I stooped to restore it to 
 her; at the same instant Pierre bent down, then 
 looking up hurriedly, he said, 
 
 " The stone has disappeared ! " 
 
 For a moment the color left the widow's face. 
 With an effort she controlled herself. 
 
 " It is impossible," she said. " It must be on 
 the ground, for it glided from my fingers." In 
 vain we looked, in vain we talked, in vain we 
 wondered the emerald ring was gone.
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 227 
 
 Madame Dupont spoke a minute with Marx. 
 I drew aside and waited for her. The man 
 shrugged, gesticulated, said something in an 
 undertone about Monsieur, locked up his case 
 again, then quickly summoned his colleagues to 
 assist him in his frantic search for the lost jewel. 
 
 Pierre was paler than usual, I thought. He 
 stood beside me, the bored expression in his eyes, 
 the bitterness about his smile. 
 
 We were all embarrassed. The strain of effort 
 fell upon us and mingled in our conversation. 
 We walked in almost solemn silence to the hotel. 
 
 That evening at dinner I ate but little. I was 
 thinking, puzzling, wondering, about the emerald 
 ring. Several times my glance rested upon the 
 pale face at the opposite end of the table. Pierre 
 seemed nervous. He talked eagerly of an expedi- 
 tion he had promised to join the following day. 
 I never saw him so excited. 
 
 Madame Dupont was not on the terrace that 
 evening. We looked for her, but were destined to 
 a fruitless search. I thought I understood her 
 absence. 
 
 Night came. I went to sleep, a frown on my 
 brow, a sigh on my lips. The next morning when
 
 228 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 the bright sun shone in my window, its splen- 
 dor dispelled my gloom and doubts. My fears 
 sank into an imaginary nightmare and were 
 gone. 
 
 Pierre had left the hotel early to join his party 
 on their expedition. 
 
 I walked down to the Springs alone. As I 
 came in sight of the jeweller's stand, I saw 
 Madame Dupont in conversation with Marx. 
 The man seemed excited in his manner; on seeing 
 me the conversation ceased, and Madame Dupont 
 walked on. I quickly joined her. She instantly 
 inquired for my companion. I said that he had 
 gone. 
 
 "Gone away ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 " Pray do not look so alarmed, Madame," said I. 
 "Pierre returns this evening." 
 
 She drew a breath of relief, but exclaimed with 
 earnest feeling, 
 
 " How I wish I had never met him ! " 
 
 " How much more sincerely," I replied, " I 
 wish I had never presented him to you ! " 
 
 Later as we came in view of the town I inquired 
 what the owner of the jewel had said. 
 
 " He says much," replied the widow.
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 229 
 
 "Has he discovered no trace of his stone?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " None." 
 
 "What are his conclusions ? " I persisted. 
 
 Madame Dupont placed her finger on her lips, 
 motioning me to silence. 
 
 "Hush ! I pray you do not speak so loud." 
 
 "But we must speak openly of the matter," I 
 answered, laughing at her serious face. 
 
 " Hush ! " she repeated. 
 
 " He accuses one of us," I said ; "which is it ? " 
 Madame Dupont bit her lips. 
 
 " How can we blame these foreigners ? " she 
 said. " They are all suspicious, all distrustful ; it 
 is part of their trade to which they owe their 
 existence." I was silent. I was looking intently 
 at the fair young face trying in vain to read the 
 woman's thoughts. She turned from me with a 
 bright laugh. 
 
 " Come," she said. 
 
 "Where are you going?" I asked, seeing she 
 took the street leading to the shops. 
 
 "I am going to make a purchase." 
 
 " In spite of the misfortune of yesterday ? " 
 
 " I am not superstitious. To-day I want to buy
 
 230 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 a parasol ; it cannot disappear so easily." She 
 looked up at me, laughing. 
 
 "You carried a very pretty one with you yes- 
 terday. I noticed it as you stood at the stand." 
 
 " But my maid took it from me, and this morn- 
 ing, when I looked for it, she said it was packed 
 away in the trunk, being too shabby for Madame 
 to use." 
 
 We soon selected a good shop, and going in I 
 assisted Madame Dupont in her choice. This 
 business over we strolled toward the gardens. 
 We were both unusually quiet, unusually silent, 
 that morning. Was it to be wondered at ? 
 
 In the afternoon I went again to the jeweller's. 
 I wanted to hear the owner's opinion about the 
 disappearance of the ring. I wondered what steps 
 he had taken in the matter. 
 
 He received me politely, but made no offer to 
 open the case in my presence. I hardly blamed 
 him for his caution. 
 
 Then I spoke about the lost jewel. 
 
 " I am convinced who has the stone," said the 
 man. 
 
 "Why?" Tasked. 
 
 " Why ! You ask me why ! Because I am
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 231 
 
 quite sure that he picked it up from the ground." 
 My heart jumped, my throat parched. 
 
 " It is false," I cried. The man shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "She paid the money," he continued; "it is 
 her loss, not mine. Monsieur would not have 
 escaped so easily had the affair remained in my 
 hands." 
 
 I walked on, mortified and crushed at the man's 
 words. Pierre suspected ! Pierre a thief ! The 
 accusation cut me deep, it rang in my ears, it 
 echoed in my heart. I began to blame myself for 
 many things. Why had I trusted him ? Why 
 had I befriended him ? Why had I introduced 
 him to Madame Dupont ? His handsome face 
 appeared to me in hideous shapes, repellent forms. 
 This man, the sharer of my wealth, the recipient 
 of my kindness ? Impossible ! What knew I of 
 his people, what of his character ? Nothing. My 
 face burned and blushed as I thought of the sum 
 Madame Dupont had paid to spare my feelings 
 and shield my friend. How noble she was ! 
 
 When Pierre returned that evening he com- 
 plained of being tired and hurried to bed and to 
 sleep.
 
 232 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 While in the darkness of night I lay awake 
 "and wondering, question after question presented 
 their problems to me. Doubt after doubt 
 pierced my heart. I could not forget the phan- 
 tom. I could not dispel the ghost. Pierre an 
 impostor ! Pierre in the wrong ! I fell into a 
 troubled, restless sleep. I dreamed of misery 
 and woe. 
 
 The next day my manner must have impressed 
 the foreigner, as indeed I intended it should, for 
 he inquired if I were ill or troubled. I gave him 
 no definite answer. 
 
 I wondered how Madame Dupont would treat 
 him. But her manner did not change. 
 
 I was much surprised when she told me of her 
 intended departure the next day. 
 
 She kept to her plan. I went and saw the last 
 glimpse of her as she boarded the Frankfort train. 
 She told me to say good-by to the Frenchman for 
 her. 
 
 When I delivered the message to Pierre his 
 face darkened, his lips trembled. The strange 
 sadness was again in his eyes. 
 
 "Madame Dupont might have given the mes- 
 sage in person to me,-' he said hotly.
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 233 
 
 " She haa no time to look for you," I replied, 
 remembering with pain her generosity. 
 
 " If I had been rich, if I had been famous, then 
 she would have made time, plenty of time." He 
 compressed his lips, and his face was angry. 
 
 " It is quite useless to excite yourself. You are 
 not in a position to find fault with any one," I said. 
 He turned quickly round. 
 
 " I fail to understand you." He rose and stood 
 before me. His face was ashen pale in its haughty 
 pride. 
 
 " I mean what I say," I replied. 
 
 " Madame Dupont should have off ere^ me some 
 words of good-by," repeated the foreigner, his 
 voice shaking with emotion. 
 
 "I do not consider that she was under any 
 obligation to do so. Quite the contrary." 
 
 " Sir," said Pierre, " I must have an explana- 
 tion, an understanding." I shrugged my shoul- 
 ders. " Give it me ! " he cried. 
 
 i 
 
 " I can give you none," I said. 
 " You allude to my position ; what is the mean- 
 ing in your words ? " 
 I remained silent. 
 " Speak," cried Pierre.
 
 234 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 " I allude to the ring." 
 
 " The ring ! " exclaimed the foreigner ; " the 
 ring ! " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You cannot mean you are not so cruel so 
 false to mean I took it ? " His voice was hoarse, 
 his face white with anger. 
 
 "I have not said you took it," I replied. 
 
 " You have thought, you have implied it. Bet- 
 ter accuse me openly, honestly. It is over 
 between us now : the interest, the affection, the 
 love, forever vanished, forever gone. Your trust 
 once shaken, my happiness at an end ! " He 
 covered his face with his hands ; a sob broke from 
 him. "Good-by, good-by to it forever." 
 
 "Pierre," I said, "calm yourself. Talk this 
 matter over with me. I am ready to help you ; 
 anxious to be your friend. I can forgive you." 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he cried. " You can forgive 
 me ! What have you to forgive ? nothing ! " He 
 laughed as he spoke. 
 
 " It is best to believe in me, Pierre. I alone 
 can help you, spare you." 
 
 He clinched his fists as they hung at his sides. 
 
 "I want no help from you," he cried. "I am
 
 THE LOST JE IV EL. 235 
 
 innocent ; I am proud ; I am wronged. I go 
 away this hour far away where you shall never 
 see me, never hear my voice again. Pierre Baton 
 is desolate." 
 
 I gazed at him. I pitied him. The old love 
 welled up in my heart, then was gone again. 
 
 " If you leave Homburg to-night, you do a fool- 
 ish thing ! " I thought I could influence him, but 
 he seemed removed from my words. 
 
 " I go now now," he cried. "I go away this 
 very hour." 
 
 I rose and went near him. I put my hand upon 
 his arm, but he shrank from my touch as though 
 he scorned it. 
 
 " I want nothing from you," he exclaimed. 
 Then he turned hastily ; with one look of reproach 
 and anger in his eyes he left me. 
 
 The hour had not expired when he had gone, 
 gone from me, from his friends, from Homburg 
 forever. 
 
 I was sad and weary that night as I sat alone on 
 the terrace and saw the moving throng pass by. 
 There was nothing left for me to do in Homburg, 
 nothing. 
 
 So I, too, packed my things and went away.
 
 236 THE LOST JEWEL. 
 
 Many times I thought of Madame Dupont. I 
 thought of the handsome foreigner, and what he 
 had done. 
 
 But from this unfortunate circumstance, together 
 with its unfortunate ending, I learned two lessons. 
 May all who read this mark them : Do not make 
 friends hastily ; do not make friends carelessly ; 
 better to make no friends at all. But, once own- 
 ing a friend, trust him always ; believe him to the 
 end. This is my advice to you. 
 
 A question has since arisen in my mind ; it 
 disturbs my peace, it annoys my rest. Which of 
 those four persons present at the loss knew what 
 became of the emerald ring? the jeweller, 
 Madame Dupont, Pierre Baton, myself even, 
 might have it, you know. A reputation depends 
 upon the answer. Pray tell me how the answer 
 can be found ? 
 
 Years after I discovered it. Let me now add it 
 to these pages. 
 
 One day I met Madame Dupont in Paris. Our 
 conversation fell into rehearsing the past, as con- 
 versations often do. I spoke of the ring. She
 
 THE LOST JEWEL. 237 
 
 spoke of the foreigner. Then the widow turned 
 and looked at me. 
 
 " You did not get my note in which I explained 
 the incident ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 I shook my head. " But pray tell me, Madame, 
 which of us may the guilty one be ? " 
 
 "We are all innocent," laughed the widow. 
 "The ring fell into my parasol as I held it closed 
 before me. The maid unpacked it when we 
 reached home, and in its silken folds lay the 
 emerald ring." 
 
 " If only I had known this in time," I cried, 
 " then Pierre might have been spared everything ! " 
 
 " Pierre was accused ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " Pierre suffered the pain of 
 accusation." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! and would it be too late to tell 
 him now ? " 
 
 "Too late. Through ten long years have I 
 watched for his tidings, but he has successfully 
 hidden himself from the world and from me." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " murmured Madame Dupont, 
 thinking of his admiration for her. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " I repeated, thinking of how I 
 had wronged him.
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE.
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 RICHARD LOWEL first met Ruth Ward in Paris. 
 He was many years her senior. She was young, 
 gay, enthusiastic, and clever. The older man was 
 attracted by her beauty, her fascinations, her wit. 
 She amused him with her bright speeches, pleased 
 him with her quick retorts. The wedding took 
 place in the Avenue de 1'Alma. 
 
 The years went by swiftly for the newly married 
 pair. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lowel made their home in Amer- 
 ica. Mabel Ward, Ruth's sister, lived with them. 
 
 The ninth year of their marriage finds them at 
 their summer home by the sea, where Ruth loved 
 the warm days, the never-ending blueness of the 
 skies. 
 
 Mrs. Lowel had in no wise renounced her social 
 life. She went to luncheons, dinners, theatres, 
 241
 
 242 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 and balls, sometimes accompanied by her husband, 
 sometimes alone. 
 
 Ruth had always managed all things well. She 
 kept her house delightfully, chose her friends 
 wisely, entertained her husband with great skill. 
 Richard's eyes were very keen, they seemed to 
 penetrate through every motive, every action. 
 He judged fairly, he formed his opinions slowly. 
 His wife was less accurate and always quick ; it is 
 woman's nature to be so. With her husband she 
 had much influence. She fascinated him just as 
 she did her sister, her friends, her child, her 
 dependants. The boy was beautiful. Every one 
 spoke of his curling hair, his dark eyes, his rich 
 coloring. At seven years of age he was already 
 growing tall. His father marked the change 
 from hour to hour. Philip was his idol. Ruth 
 often said she could not understand jealousy in 
 any form, but if her husband caused her unhappi- 
 ness, she declared it would be through his love for 
 her child. The boy cared for his father. He 
 would go to him with every thought. Richard 
 always seemed to understand. Ruth would often 
 wonder at the shyness of her boy. In the last 
 year he had changed greatly. Mr. Lowel had
 
 A STRAA'GE CHOICE. 243 
 
 maintained that school training was the proper 
 thing for boys. In vain Ruth argued, in vain 
 Ruth pleaded that she might keep the child, but 
 her boy was sent to school to lose all baby traits, 
 to learn all boyish ways. It was during his first 
 vacation the mother saw the change. 
 
 Meanwhile Mabel received letters from her 
 aunt in Paris begging her to go abroad. She 
 could not refuse the invitation. The sisters 
 parted with deep regrets and few words. Richard 
 never alluded to the subject ; his wife could not 
 beg for sympathy ; she was too proud for that. 
 
 Now, without her sister, without her child, the 
 wife's thoughts dwelt constantly with her husband, 
 too constantly perhaps. She thought him cold, 
 indifferent. She detected a bored expression in 
 his eyes, a disinterestedness in his actions. These 
 things troubled her. 
 
 There were people who envied the young wife. 
 Her life was so full, her days so occupied. What 
 need had she for hospitals, meetings, interests, 
 charities ? Her home was charming, her position 
 good, her husband kind, her child beautiful ; 
 every wish gratified, every hope granted, every 
 idea fulfilled nothing left for her to need.
 
 244 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 She went to balls to be surrounded ; to parties to 
 dance every waltz ; to drive to be admired. In 
 attending church she was commended ; in giv- 
 ing to the needy, praised. There were other 
 women who longed to be surrounded, to dance 
 every waltz, to be admired ; women, who went 
 to church, who gave to the poor, but the world did 
 not rock them in its cradle, did not sing psalms in 
 their praise. For of these the world had not 
 chosen; for their disappointment the world did 
 not care. 
 
 But there are two sides to every argument, 
 there are two lawyers to every case. There 
 are two meanings to every story, there are two 
 parts to every life. There are contrasting evi- 
 dences in every discussion, there are conflicting 
 thoughts in every mind. There are different 
 characteristics in every nature, there are many 
 longings in every heart. There are heights un- 
 sealed in every ambition, there are positions 
 unattained in every life. Who can deny it ? So 
 it was with the young wife, the beautiful woman 
 whom all envied, all praised. She had her argu- 
 ment. She had the meaning to her story. She 
 had the conflicting thoughts in her mind. She
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 245 
 
 had different characteristics in her nature. 
 She had the longings in her heart. Crush them, 
 trample them, hush them as she would, they still 
 lived, existed. The ambition to accomplish some- 
 thing, the height to surmount, the position to 
 occupy in the success of possession were glory, 
 light, happiness, satisfaction, life to the young 
 woman. The sameness of society bored her, the 
 monotony of praise maddened her. She wanted 
 something greater. Again and again she took up 
 her pen to portray these hopes, but in her words 
 there was no expression, in her lines no poetry. 
 She could not write, she could not sing, she could 
 not paint, but why not act ? Like a whisper of 
 temptation the thought came to her, like a breath 
 of a secret the idea crept into her mind and sank 
 into the deep recesses of her heart to urge her 
 on to movement, to decision, to action. In her 
 younger days she had managed plays, she had 
 been enthusiastic, she had studied, she had acted. 
 Why not take up this line of interest, this occupa- 
 tion now ? There were plays given every year for 
 charities in the theatres ; actresses were needed, 
 talent sought. Like an inspiration of strong 
 ideas, hopes, ambitions, the desire to develop her
 
 246 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 genius, to be admired in this role, seized the 
 woman. To her husband must she speak not a 
 word, suggest not a thought. He must be aston- 
 ished, amused, surprised. Before the footlights 
 he must watch his wife, he must worship her 
 beauty, her power, her actions. Impressed with 
 this one idea, engrossed with this plan, Ruth 
 wrote a letter to the president of the Dramatic 
 Club. Would they allow her to appear at their 
 next performance ? might she have a leading part ? 
 Among the older members were those who knew 
 of her ability, those who remembered her good 
 acting. Mrs. Lowel's services were accepted by 
 the Club. 
 
 Yet so strange is human nature, so conflicting 
 its desires, so changing its decisions, so fearful its 
 hopes, no sooner had the wife demanded the re- 
 quest, begun the arrangements, accepted the part, 
 than her enthusiasm vanished, her anticipation 
 cooled, her courage flickered. 
 
 Then again came the desire rushing over her 
 soul to surprise Richard, to conquer his spirit, to 
 overcome his indifference. She had believed him 
 changed of late his enthusiasm, his affection, his 
 admiration. Now she would awaken his percep-
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 247 
 
 tion, his praise, his pleasure in her unlooked-for suc- 
 cess, in her hidden talent. She would teach him 
 the lesson of her genius, she would show him the 
 strength of her power. Thus the wife planned 
 her triumph, thus the woman weaved her scheme. 
 Richard Lowel suspected nothing. He lived 
 calmly, quietly, seriously through his days. He 
 asked no questions, he imagined no secrets, he saw 
 no plots. Ruth was happy. Philip was well. He 
 wished for nothing. He longed for naught. His 
 home was pleasant, his life peaceful. But with 
 the ambitious nature of the woman how different ! 
 Her mind had been ever eager, her spirit restive, 
 her brain active. An occupation, an aim, an 
 interest, she had ever craved. Now she dreamed 
 sweet dreams of reward. Life was beginning 
 anew ; possibilities hovered near her to sweeten 
 the dryness of her study, to cheer the monotony 
 of her work. Study became a pleasure, applica- 
 tion a delight. For hours she could bend over her 
 book with no fatigue whatever, but refreshment to 
 her mind. Her spirit grew more content, as it 
 absorbed the knowledge so soothing to the brain 
 which strengthened in its capacity, its understand- 
 ing, its depth. Her heart began to grow and live 
 anew.'
 
 248 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 The actress developed as the woman realized 
 the fulness of the art. In every movement she 
 put grace, in every sentence melody, in every 
 glance meaning. Ruth Lowel forgot herself in 
 the fascination of her art. In the character so 
 difficult to comprehend she imagined nobleness, 
 goodness, greatness. It seemed she had experi- 
 enced those very actions, witnessed those very 
 scenes, loved those very memories. In the play 
 she saw great things, she portrayed great circum- 
 stances, she imagined great actions. In its execu- 
 tion she must please, fascinate, satisfy. But even 
 now, in the midst of her acting, she saw Richard's 
 face, in the height of her ambition she watched 
 Richard's figure, in the noise of her praise she 
 heard Richard's voice, irrthe repose of her fatigue 
 she felt Richard's comfort, in the satisfaction of 
 her success she dreamed of Richard's happiness ; 
 for his praise only did she work, strive ; for his 
 glory would she win. His pleasure was the 
 greatest desire in her acting, his acknowledgment 
 the greatest aim of her genius. Yet in her eyes 
 did he not seem cold, indifferent, difficult ? But 
 she knew how to change him, how to turn the 
 current of his mind, his heart. Loudly would he
 
 A STRAA'GE CHOICE. 249 
 
 praise the woman he had chosen ; dearly would 
 he prize her talent and her art. So in the summer 
 days Ruth became absorbed. Diligently she 
 worked, conscientiously she studied every line, 
 every word. 
 
 Tickets had been sold for the play at a high 
 figure. There would be eager eyes to see her act. 
 
 Since her marriage she had not appeared upon 
 the stage. Richard had never known how she 
 could act. Now the days passed quickly in the 
 occupation, the study of the play. 
 
 It was earlier than usual one evening when 
 Richard started for his club. It was his custom 
 to leave his wife a habit natural to many men. 
 Mrs. Lowel never seemed indignant, surprised, nor 
 disappointed when he rose, and lighting his cigar, 
 gave the signal it was time to leave. But now 
 her face flushed, her eyes gleamed when the door 
 closed behind the husband to leave the wife alone. 
 She rushed to get her book, and soon the actress 
 was so absorbed as not to hear the key plainly 
 turning in the lock. Silent she sat, her head 
 buried in her hands, her cheeks flushed, her eyes 
 brilliant, repeating over the lines of the play. 
 The task was so interesting, so absorbing, that
 
 250 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 Ruth did not see her husband at her side. He 
 was looking intently at her, a curious expression 
 in his eyes. Impatiently he watched her as she 
 thrust her ringers through her curling, dark hair. 
 How her hands sparkled with the diamonds he 
 had given her ! How the bands of gold gleamed 
 yellow in her hair ! 
 
 "What occupies you so pleasantly, Ruth?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She started at his presence; an expression of 
 fear shot from her eyes, her face paled. 
 
 " Studying," she said, controlling her emotion 
 and keeping her head bent low 
 
 " Studying ! For what ? " 
 
 " Amusement. But pray what brings you 
 back?" 
 
 " I came to find my purse. I believe I left it 
 up-stairs." 
 
 " Shall I get it for you ? " asked she, anxious 
 to escape his questions. 
 
 " No, no ; the purse can wait. Rather would I 
 have you tell me what this studying means." 
 
 " I can't," said Ruth. 
 
 " You must," said Richard, laughing. 
 
 "No."
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 251 
 
 " Don't be absurd, but let me see your book." 
 
 " No," cried Ruth, raising her dark eyes, in 
 which Richard saw defiance. 
 
 " Let me see it," he repeated, putting out his 
 hand to take the play-book from his wife. 
 
 " No, no." She covered the pages with her 
 elbow. "You cannot see what I am doing." 
 
 " Yes, I shall," said Richard, growing serious. 
 
 "What right have you?" exclaimed the wife. 
 
 " Every right," said Lowel, pushing away her 
 arm and releasing the book. 
 
 "You have torn the leaves." 
 
 "Son Marriage!" exclaimed Lowel. "What 
 are you doing with this play ? " 
 
 "Studying my lines," said Ruth. 
 
 " Your lines ! " 
 
 " Yes. I have promised to take the heroine's 
 part at the theatre next week." 
 
 " You shall do nothing of the sort," said Lowel, 
 his brows contracting. " The part is not a pleas- 
 ant one, and my wife shall not appear upon the 
 stage in this character." 
 
 " Richard," cried Ruth, her dark eyes growing 
 dim, " I have promised. I cannot break my 
 word."
 
 252 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 
 
 " You should not have given your word without 
 my consent." 
 
 "There is no time to discuss that." 
 
 " You know how I hate deceit." 
 
 " I have not deceived you," said the wife, her 
 voice trembling. " I did not suppose that you would 
 care. In my younger days I have acted this play 
 and succeeded in the part. I have been so inter- 
 ested in my lines, and I love so to study ! Please, 
 please do not forbid me." Richard Lowel made a 
 step nearer his wife, and laying his hand on hers, 
 said gravely, 
 
 " What you have done in the past you shall not 
 do in the present." 
 
 "Why?" asked Ruth. 
 
 " Because, as my wife, you shall do only those 
 things of which I approve. Acting is a foolish 
 pastime, which leads to ideas in our society women 
 of to-day." 
 
 " But this is in a good cause and can do no 
 harm to me ; the occupation is a gain." 
 
 " You should not crave for work of this kind. 
 You have many interests to fill and claim your 
 time." 
 
 " Not so many as you think, now that Philip is 
 away."
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 253 
 
 " True, your life has changed ; but you must 
 learn to lead it, Ruth, as best you can." With 
 these words Lowel put his hand upon her arm. 
 
 " It helps my life to occupy my time." 
 
 " You can make a better use of your hours. 
 I should hate to see my wife appear upon the 
 stage." 
 
 " For one night ? " 
 
 "For one moment." 
 
 "But please allow me just this once to fill the 
 part. My friends will laugh and jeer when I 
 refuse to act." 
 
 "Then they are not your friends," said Richard. 
 
 " But, as your wife, do you wish to make me 
 ridiculous ? " 
 
 " Failure would be far more ridiculous to your 
 pride." 
 
 " Failure ! I shall not fail ! I never thought of 
 such a thing." 
 
 " It is possible," said Lowel sharply. 
 
 " You mistake my abilities ; I can act. In the 
 days gone by I never failed." 
 
 " Ruth." And Richard's fingers tightened their 
 hold upon her arm. " Ruth, I ask you to give up 
 your part."
 
 254 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 "I shall not," replied Ruth, a sudden defiance 
 taking possession of her. "This time I cannot 
 obey." There were angry tears in her eyes. 
 Deeply had Lowel wounded her vanity, her pride. 
 But he did not notice it ; his own thoughts filled 
 his mind. Richard Lowel remained at home that 
 evening. For hours he sat reading ; he always 
 chose the most instructive books. Ruth was too 
 much disturbed by the words which had been said 
 to study now ; she could not concentrate her 
 thoughts. Her husband's warning rang loudly 
 in her ears. Why had he told her she would 
 fail ? Why had he interfered with her work ? 
 Why had he shaken her confidence ? But she 
 must, she would succeed at any cost. She must 
 study, prove to him her talent and her art. 
 
 The next day the child was coming home from 
 school. It was a beautiful afternoon on which the 
 boy returned to his mother. He had grown. He 
 had lost his baby face, his flowing curls. Richard 
 went to meet him at the train. Ruth waited in the 
 house, with longing heart, to welcome her dear 
 son. As she heard the carriage wheels, she flew 
 down the steps to clasp the little fellow in her 
 outstretched arms. Was there a shade of dis-
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 255 
 
 appointment in the mother's voice as she asked 
 him how he was, kissed him fondly, told him he 
 had grown ? Perhaps she had not realized the 
 change. The boy receives affection coldly ; the 
 child returns it. Philip was a lad who never 
 expressed his sorrow nor his joy shy, reserved 
 in his manners, in his heart. Ruth had never 
 thought of this, and she did not understand. 
 Richard was much pleased with his son. His 
 handsome face, his straight limbs, his short hair, 
 were just the characteristics he admired. Philip 
 talked easily to his father, but seemed confused 
 when his mother pressed his hands and kissed him. 
 It was some time before Mrs. Lowel learned to 
 comprehend her son. His absence had made 
 them strangers. But Ruth was patient, Ruth 
 ,was kind. In the hot mornings she would take 
 Philip down to the shore, and never tire watch- 
 ing him. He did not care for the sand ; he 
 liked the water, and for hours would sail his boat 
 from the rocks. His father took him out and 
 tried to teach him how to row. The boy was 
 almost too young to learn, his hands could hardly 
 grasp the oars. But he loved to sit in the boat 
 and talk about the tossing, deep-blue sea. Ques-
 
 256 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 tion after question would come from his lips, 
 answer after answer the father always seemed to 
 find. Sometimes Ruth joined them in the late 
 afternoons. She loved to wander on the cliffs 
 with her husband and her child. But each day 
 increased her occupation, her study, and brought 
 nearer the theatricals ; while the hour for Philip's 
 departure was also close at hand. She never 
 allowed herself to speak of when the boy would 
 leave them. But the thought dwelt in her mind 
 and troubled her. 
 
 Ruth had put her heart in her work. She 
 never lost a moment, never spared an idle hour to 
 rest. Success ! Success ! She prayed that she 
 might win. To surprise Richard ; this was all 
 she seemed to crave. She saw herself before the 
 footlights, brilliant, radiant, dazzling. He would 
 admire her acting ; he would admit her talent ; 
 he would See that she was wonderful ; he would 
 confess that she was great. For such a triumph 
 she strained every effort, every nerve. 
 
 Richard thought that she grew pale, and even 
 little Philip asked her why she did not talk. 
 
 " Mamma is very silent," he would say. But 
 she was planning all the time.
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 257 
 
 Ruth knew that her triumph could only last a 
 few hours ; but in those brief moments of her 
 acting, of her power, she longed to bring her hus- 
 band to her feet. He was cold, indifferent, proud. 
 She would make him bow his head and acknowl- 
 edge her great charms. Then silent and haughty 
 would she be, for bitterness was creeping into her 
 deep soul. No one noticed her strange manner, 
 and who could read the workings of her mind ? 
 Far down, out of sight, the beautiful woman 
 struggled daily with her life. In these later years 
 of her marriage her list of friends had shortened 
 in spite of what the people said. Richard did not 
 care for the world. Praise, blame, flattery, gossip, 
 were all one and the same to him. The idle words 
 of others fell but lightly on his ears ; these people 
 he had never tried to understand. Gradually his 
 wife gave up her admirers, entertainments, 
 friends. Now she saw the mistake ; it mocked 
 and haunted her. She repented of these sacri- 
 fices made for Richard, these pleasures denied in 
 his cause, abandoned for his sake. But why look 
 back ? Why regret ? These very people who 
 had drifted from the wife still received her with 
 open arms, still praised her with gentle speeches.
 
 258 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 In requesting to act in the theatricals she had 
 been obliging, convenient, rich, and kind. Ear- 
 nest, energetic, persevering, each one thought her. 
 Without prejudice, without favor, these people 
 maintained they saw her charms. For in these 
 passing summer days was not Ruth the brightest, 
 merriest, happiest woman in their whirling, tear- 
 ing, dancing set ? Now they saw that she had 
 talent. Her acting far surpassed their own. 
 With eager eyes they watched her a touch of 
 envy in their souls. An actress had risen among 
 them to shine above their heads, to grasp the 
 praise which they maintain was all their own. 
 
 How quickly the ocean changes ! How swiftly 
 the tide turns ! As Ruth developed her genius 
 before these amateurs, they grew to hate her art, 
 to question her ability. Her husband should for- 
 bid these liberties of art. The stage, so danger- 
 ous, so fascinating, might step in and claim his 
 happiness, destroy his home. Why did Lowel 
 close his eyes ? Why did Lowel fail to see ? 
 Monstrous ! Preposterous ! Shocking ! Yet the 
 remarks proclaimed so loudly brought no answers 
 to these kind advisers, anxious friends. 
 
 At length the night came. The seats were all
 
 A S7~RAA'GE CHOICE. 259 
 
 taken, the house was crowded. Already people 
 proclaimed that this would be Ruth Lowel's last 
 appearance among them. She was going on the 
 stage. Breathless they watched the minutes, lis- 
 tened to the sounds which told that all was ready. 
 The bell rang, the curtain rose. Ruth is before 
 the footlights, looking like a royal queen. Her 
 dress is beautiful, her jewels magnificent, her pose 
 good, her expression excellent. Now she is going 
 to speak. The melodious voice will sound like 
 music in repeating the words she understands so 
 clearly, the sentences she knows so well. 
 
 There is a stir, a movement. The acting has be- 
 gun. Ruth is going slowly through her part. How 
 her diamonds flicker ! How her eyes gleam and 
 shine! She stops just an instant hush - 
 what happens ? She is going to faint. Every 
 spectator gazes, every listener waits. Joy for 
 those who envy, success for those who watched 
 her in the glories of their art. The time has 
 come. Mourn in your glances, rejoice in your 
 hearts. The sensitive lips are trembling, the 
 beautiful face is paling. See the nervous move- 
 ment of her head, the twitching of her hands. 
 Another effort, a struggle, but, alas, the words,
 
 260 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 the actions do not come. Pity for the actress, 
 sympathy for the woman when she fails. Where 
 are the hard studied lines ? Where the practised 
 arts? Gone. Like the smoke of burning timber, 
 all has vanished into space. Mrs. Lowel stands 
 motionless, speechless. Her eyes are wandering 
 by the people through the open doors. She does 
 not hear the comments, she -does not read the 
 wonder of the audience, she does not see the 
 triumph in their eyes. 
 
 Hark to the low notes of music the orchestra 
 is playing. The sweet strains are spreading ; they 
 seem to touch her woman's heart. Yes, at last 
 strength is coming, her voice has been restored. 
 Is there time ? Is the curtain falling ? Does she 
 hear the bell ? With a mighty rush her energy 
 returns, then quickly she commands her actions, 
 her words. The music has awakened her under- 
 standing, touched the inmost recesses of her 
 soul. Bravely she speaks her lines, proudly 
 she goes through her gestures. The. play is 
 in motion, the actors are at her side. Ruth 
 is gaining courage, Ruth is confident now. Her 
 breath comes short, her heart beats fast ; but 
 not for an instant does she falter through
 
 A STRAXGE CHOICE. 261 
 
 the play. She has conquered in the fight, and 
 won great praise. 
 
 In two hours the performance ends. A few 
 speak of Mrs. Lowel's stage fright when she 
 first stood before the footlights ; but only these 
 voices join in the comments of blame. Her 
 acting is real, her talent is great. 
 
 Mrs. Lowel drove home alone. She had con- 
 trolled her fears, overcome her fright. But the 
 dread, the suffering, of those first moments 
 when failure overshadowed her, when disappoint- 
 ment seemed so near ! But success is hers. 
 Praise rings in her ears, congratulations on all 
 sides. 
 
 And what did Richard think ? Had he been 
 fearful for her pride in those few moments when 
 she lost her control, her speech, her lines ? But 
 later he must have seen her triumph and gloried 
 in her talent, her beauty, and her praise. 
 
 She was tired and anxious to reach home. 
 Nervous, excited, she rushed up the steps into 
 the hall. Through the open door she saw Rich- 
 ard. Why did he riot come to meet her? 
 Throwing off her cloak she rushed to him. 
 
 " Richard," she cried, " was I not brave, glori-
 
 262 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 ous, successful ? You must have been so anxious 
 then so proud." Lowel took her hands in 
 his. 
 
 " Ruth," he said. 
 
 " Richard," she went on, "now you must admit 
 my talent, confess that I am great." 
 
 He stroked her hands, but made no answer. 
 
 " At first it was dreadful : my brain reeled, my 
 feet faltered, my nerves trembled, my head shook. 
 In those moments of fear I remembered you, I 
 heard your words. They rang in my ears. Then 
 with those notes of music came strength, came 
 victory. I felt I must not, I could not, fail. You 
 saw my expression, Richard, you suffered with 
 me, you prayed for my success." She pressed 
 her head against his arm. Richard had never 
 seen her more excited. 
 
 "Calm yourself, Ruth," he said. 
 
 " But you do realize the tortures I endured, you 
 did see the fear in my eyes." 
 
 " But you did not fail," said Lowel hoarsely. 
 
 " No, no ; I did not fail." 
 
 " I am glad," he murmured, as he heard her 
 nervous laugh. 
 
 " It was for your praise I worked, for your
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 263 
 
 admiration I conquered. Was not that last scene 
 glorious ? " 
 
 " Glorious. But the strain has been too much 
 for you." As he spoke Lowel rose and moved 
 from his wife. 
 
 " It is over now, the anxiety at an end. Re- 
 member, Richard, I acted for you. Each word 
 uttered for your comment, each gesture made for 
 your criticism. You did not blame me when I 
 nearly failed ? You were pleased ? Say that you 
 were pleased delighted satisfied." How her 
 lips trembled with nervousness ! how her eyes 
 sparkled with eagerness ! 
 
 "I am pleased, delighted, satisfied," repeated 
 Lowel; "quite satisfied." 
 
 The next morning Ruth rose early. She was 
 still weary from the excitement of the play. 
 Philip was going by the afternoon train. Ruth 
 noticed Richard's silence ; she tried in vain to 
 make him talk. The boy wanted to go down and 
 say good-by to the sea. Ruth accompanied him. 
 She watched the child as he stood on the rocks,
 
 264 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 the swift wind blowing in his bright face, his 
 clear eyes. They stood together hand in hand by 
 the deep, rolling sea. 
 
 " Mamma," said the boy, " I heard your car- 
 riage driving in the gate last night. I had been 
 awake some time." 
 
 " Could you not sleep, dear ? " asked Ruth. 
 
 " No ; and the hours seemed very long. Papa 
 came and sat with me." 
 
 " Papa sat with you ! " exclaimed Mrs. Lowel, 
 her face flushing crimson. 
 
 " Yes ; he said it was ten o'clock when he left 
 me. He sang to me, read to me, and tried to 
 make me go to sleep." 
 
 " I thought papa was out," said Ruth. 
 
 " No, mamma ; papa was at home all the 
 evening." 
 
 " I did not know it, dear," replied the mother, 
 putting her hand upon the boy's shoulder. The 
 bitterness, the disappointment, caused by those 
 few childish words, how express ? Richard was 
 not at the theatre ; Richard did not see her act. 
 It was his presence which gave her nerve ; his 
 presence which enabled her to overcome her 
 faintness ; his presence which helped her to sue-
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 265 
 
 ceed. Now she knew that Richard had not 
 witnessed her beauty, her talent, her power. 
 Bitterly she thought of his indifference, bitterly 
 she mourned it. 
 
 Not many days had passed when she received 
 an offer from a foreign manager. Her success 
 had been heralded ; she was going on the stage. 
 Richard was indignant, angry, mortified. Ruth 
 going on the public stage ! He was silent, 
 dazed, crushed. He had no words for argument. 
 But the lines in his face deepened, the gray hairs 
 multiplied. 
 
 Ruth was obstinate, determined. Richard 
 thought it wise to let her go. 
 
 He put her in the carriage at her own door, he 
 pressed her hands at parting. When he heard 
 her say something about writing regularly, misery 
 rose in his throat and choked him. The car- 
 riage rolled away, the sound of the wheels grew 
 faint, very faint, then ceased. In the shades of 
 deepening twilight Richard knew that Ruth had 
 gone. 
 
 At the boy's next vacation Richard Lowel went 
 abroad.
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 PART II.
 
 PART II. 
 
 MABEL WARD had taken up her life in Paris. Her 
 aunt had died some years prior to this time, and, 
 not caring to return to America, Mabel lived in a 
 quiet street near the Bois. With an old compan- 
 ion and a young friend she found her home pleas- 
 ant, her days occupied. The latter, Anna Lee, 
 was French, on her mother's side only, but a 
 foreigner in education and feeling. Her father 
 was an American who had spent the greater part 
 of his life abroad. Anna Lee was many years 
 younger than Mabel Ward, a few years older than 
 Philip Lowel. The young fellow went regularly 
 to visit his aunt. It was during these visits that 
 his intimacy with the French girl began. 
 
 Philip Lowel knew nothing of his mother, he 
 supposed she had died during his absence at 
 school. He had a vague, very vague, recollection 
 of having been with her in their summer home in 
 America, as a boy ; but even this memory was 
 269
 
 2/0 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 fast fading from his mind. " You lost your 
 mother when a lad," his father had said, and his 
 aunt had used the same expression in regard to 
 his parent. With this explanation young Philip 
 was satisfied. Mabel Ward was much attached to 
 her nephew. She admired his handsome face, his 
 manly nature. The young man found his aunt a 
 good listener, a kind relative, a sincere friend. 
 His visits to her house were frequent. 
 
 Anna Lee was beautiful, cold, clever, proud. 
 She was much interested in literature, society, 
 religion, and the poor. A strange creature with 
 a strong nature, a peculiar will. She felt her 
 beauty, her talent, her charms. Philip Lowel felt 
 them too. She mystified him with her strange 
 moods, her wit, her tempers. Yet Anna was 
 afraid of Philip's judgments. She liked his 
 praise, his commendations ; she hated blame from 
 him : he must approve of all she said and did. 
 
 Philip Lowel had graduated with honors at col- 
 lege. He studied for the ministry, taking orders in 
 the Protestant Episcopal Church. Later, through 
 influence, he received a call to Paris to the 
 rectorate of an American chapel. His church 
 was of the high order and recently established in
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 271 
 
 France. Philip looked forward to struggles, trials, 
 successes, triumphs, with the new forms, with the 
 people ; but he took up his work among these 
 strangers with a fearless determination, a strong 
 will. Those who rebelled must yield ; he could not. 
 
 Among his congregation were those who wor- 
 shipped the church, the creed, the rector; those 
 who thought the forms too complicated, the music 
 too operatic, the rector too ritualistic. But, 
 despite these complaints, these cries, the congre- 
 gation proved regular, the pews filled, the aisles 
 crowded. The young man felt how serious was 
 his task, how difficult his work. He must exert 
 his influence among these people. They must 
 feel his power. He must preach, they must lis- 
 ten. He must ask, they must give. Earnest, 
 hopeful, enthusiastic, persevering, Philip Lowel 
 worked in the foreign city among the Americans 
 in their acknowledged church. 
 
 The rector lived in a pleasant quarter of Paris 
 with his father, now an old man, silent and sad. 
 The two were good companions, firm friends. 
 But the younger often failed to understand the 
 parent, to read his strange, deep thought. With 
 all his piety, his humility, the rector was not sub-
 
 2/2 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 missive to sorrow, sympathetic to grief. He be- 
 lieved in strength and cheer, joy and sunshine. 
 His mind was clear, his spirit bright. Sowing 
 in hope, reaping in joy, his life knew no sorrow, 
 his heart no bitterness. He acknowledged the 
 good of the world, he denied the evil. He 
 preached against trials which strengthened, dis- 
 appointments which improved the being. 
 
 " More often disappointment creates wicked- 
 ness," he cried, " than evil follows success. The 
 weak man does not always strengthen under trials ; 
 the strong man always remains steadfast under ad- 
 versity, always weakens in success. Might not the 
 sinner be saved through prosperity, through re- 
 verses be lost ? Our natures luxuriate, spread, 
 improve in the warmth and heat of sympathy and 
 love, in the chill and darkness of misunder- 
 standing and cruelty do they not shrink, mourn, 
 and die ? " From the pulpit, the chancel, loudly 
 did Lowel declare these words, pronounce these 
 doctrines. 
 
 " Pray, work, strive towards peace and right- 
 eousness, love, and joy ! Heaven is beautiful ; 
 let earth seem beautiful too. The life to come, for 
 which we tolerate the present, is peaceful, glorious !
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 2/3 
 
 To-day, if we cramp our natures, narrow our under- 
 standings, crush our hearts, how shall we prepare 
 for the world which is to come ? Shall we carry 
 our cold hearts, our selfish natures, our bitter 
 thoughts, into paradise? Shall we allow the saints, 
 the Christian soldiers, the martyrs, to know the 
 shallowness, the misery, the bitterness, of our 
 souls ? Nay ! Yet how prevent it ? Shall death 
 so change our spirits ? We must change them this 
 day, this hour. My brethren, take Christ into 
 your lives, Jesus into your homes. Cast sun- 
 shine, give love about you. Your hearts cannot 
 regret the sympathy, the radiance, with which they 
 overcast the shadows of the world. Surely, with 
 such an aim, each life among us has its mission to 
 fulfil, its struggle to complete, its battle to fight, 
 its race to run, its crown to win." 
 
 Lowel's faith was great, his eloquence wonderful. 
 From the pulpit his eyes shone with a real bril- 
 liancy, his face radiated with a true light. He had 
 talent ; he had knowledge. The women thought 
 he preached a new religion ; the men commended 
 his influence, his power. Sunday after Sunday 
 they flocked to hear him. Silently they listened 
 with reverence and awe. Those in trouble
 
 2/4 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 strengthened, those in prosperity softened. In 
 solemn prayer they bent their heads with one 
 accord. These people found it easy to hearken to 
 their preacher, to understand his earnest words. 
 " Repentance, forgiveness, must come now!" he 
 cried. " You cannot postpone your redemption ; 
 you cannot put your souls aside. Prepare ye then 
 for the day when ye shall enter paradise. Pre- 
 pare to meet the Christ, prepare to dwell with 
 God." The congregation received the benedic- 
 tion, earnest in purpose, hopeful in heart. 
 
 The young man's words were not uttered in 
 vain. They had their reward. Far back in the 
 church sat one listener, one woman, whose heart 
 and soul were touched. From her position she 
 could plainly see the rector, his pale face, his clear 
 eyes, his broad brow. Many times had she gone 
 to hear him, to bless him, to receive his comfort, 
 his faith, to watch his earnest manner, to hearken 
 to his eloquent words. She longed to speak to 
 him, to stop him as he passed so near her in 
 going out the church. But each time her heart 
 had failed her, her strong determination given 
 out. 
 
 At length, one day, she asked the verger to say
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 27$ 
 
 to Mr. Lowel she would like to see him at the 
 entrance of the church. 
 
 " He will see you in the vestry," the man came 
 back and said. 
 
 " I would rather see him here," murmured the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Mr. Lowel does not speak with his parishion- 
 ers here," persisted the man. " You must go into 
 his vestry ; no conversation is allowed within the 
 church." It was with trembling steps, reluctant 
 heart, that Ruth Lowel made her way toward the 
 vestry. The verger ushered the strange, stately 
 lady to the rector's room. With downcast eyes and 
 flushed cheeks the mother stood in the presence of 
 her son. How beautiful she thought him with 
 his honest eyes, his sensitive mouth, his pale face ! 
 He rose at her entrance and stretched out one 
 hand, with the other tossed back" his hair from his 
 brow, a habit of childhood. Ruth put her slender 
 fingers in his hand. His touch frightened her. 
 
 " Mr. Lowel," she began, " I am a stranger to 
 you. I wish to have a few short words with you ; 
 but my name I must decline to give." 
 
 Philip drew a chair towards her. As she seated 
 herself, he said,
 
 2/6 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 " Conversation under these circumstances loses 
 much ; but since you desire that we shall converse 
 as strangers, I have no objection, except, Madam, 
 to tell you that in matters spiritual I must have 
 your confidence. It is a difficult matter to give 
 consolation to one whose name and history remain 
 obscure ; but you can judge the truth of this fact 
 as easily as I can." There was a touch of formal- 
 ity about the young man's words which fell like 
 ice upon the woman's heart. 
 
 " You may know, Mr. Lowel," said the stranger, 
 " that for some weeks past I have been a regular 
 attendant at your church, an earnest worshipper, 
 believe me." 
 
 Philip inclined his head. 
 
 " A regular attendance at prayer is always a 
 gain to every soul," he said. 
 
 " I heard your sermon to-day, your beautiful 
 words, your words of comfort, your words of warn- 
 ing. My heart yearned towards you." Ruth 
 drew back ; she had not meant to say so much. 
 
 " It is well," said Philip, turning his clear eyes 
 away from the stranger's gaze, "to have one's 
 heart touched, but it is your soul more particularly 
 which I would strive to reach."
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 277 
 
 "You have reached my soul," exclaimed the 
 woman. " You have given it consolation, hope." 
 
 "Are you in any trouble?" asked Lowel. 
 
 " No, no ! " exclaimed the stranger. " I am in 
 prosperity ; at least," she added, " in what the 
 world calls prosperity. I am not poor, nor ill, nor 
 in sorrow." 
 
 " What the world calls prosperity is not always 
 true happiness," said Philip gravely. " But, since 
 you are not in sorrow, not in need, how is it that I 
 can help you ? " 
 
 " In many ways," cried Ruth. 
 
 " Tell me one that I may begin at once," said 
 the rector kindly. 
 
 "You can advise me," said the stranger. 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " You can point out to me the manner in which 
 I can atone for the past, improve the present, 
 endure the future." 
 
 "With all my heart I am willing to help you," 
 said the rector. 
 
 " Shall I tell you my story now ? " 
 
 " Not to-day ; but come to-morrow at this hour, 
 and I shall be glad to talk to you here after the 
 service, to help you all I can."
 
 278 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 Ruth held out her hands. " Take my hands," 
 she cried, "and bless me." 
 
 " Philip raised his eyes. " God bless you," he 
 said. " God Almighty bless you." 
 
 In joy, fear, dread, Ruth made her way out of 
 the vestry and through the church. Here and 
 there she saw an altar-boy at work. She hastened 
 her steps, she trembled. What right had she 
 within those walls ? Had she . not deceived the 
 rector ? Had she not been afraid to tell him who 
 she was ? But had she not heard his words, 
 touched his hand, received his benediction ? " O 
 God, Thou art merciful " she murmured, as she 
 walked with bowed head through the streets to 
 her own home. 
 
 Once behind the closed doors of her own chamber 
 Ruth Lowel threw herself upon her knees. A 
 short, earnest prayer went up from the woman's 
 heart and gave her peace. " Philip," she mur- 
 mured, " little Philip, my own beloved child, must 
 the separation continue through the years to 
 come, the sorrow remain forever with me ? " 
 Then, rising from her knees, Ruth walked up and 
 down the room. Her beauty was still apparent, 
 her grace charming. The face had changed : the
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 279 
 
 lines were stronger, the features older. But what 
 of that? 
 
 Later, a knock at the door caused her to force 
 back the tears rising so quickly in her eyes. 
 The maid entered with a tray. Ruth ate but 
 sparingly. 
 
 " Madame has no appetite," said the maid. 
 
 " Very little," replied her mistress absently. 
 
 " Madame must eat something before going to 
 the theatre," urged the woman. 
 
 " Nothing. Have my supper ordered on my 
 return, Marie." 
 
 The maid began to arrange the dress which 
 Ruth was to wear that evening. For the society 
 belle had reached her ambitions, had seen them 
 gratified. It had been no easy task to mount the 
 ladder to fame. At the first step it had seemed 
 tempting; at the second, tiresome; at the third 
 impossible to the actress. But Ruth had per- 
 severed, succeeded. Now she stood at the very 
 height of public favor, an American acting in 
 Paris, French plays. Her knowledge of the lan- 
 guage had served her well. She spoke the lines 
 perfectly. She studied hard, she rehearsed con- 
 stantly, she acted well; her beauty was remarked,
 
 280 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 her talent praised ; her gestures graceful, her 
 voice good, her movements pleasing. 
 
 The constant occupation of her life had kept 
 Ruth from wondering, sorrowing. But now this 
 very day the sound of her son's voice had roused 
 her, the sight of his face revived old memories, 
 forgotten days. How well she remembered the 
 child in that summer of long ago ! His words, 
 his actions, were all fresh in her mind, in her 
 heart. If she could only clasp the strong man 
 to her, confess to him her name, her troubles, 
 her failures, her mistakes ! Would he plead for 
 her ? would he uphold her cause ? Because she 
 had been before the footlights, trod the boards 
 of publicity, received applause, admiration, praise, 
 would he blame her ? If so, for what good was his 
 religion, his sermons, his prayers ? Must he not, 
 of all people, consider her actions, be charitable, 
 be forgiving if he had aught to forgive? His 
 life must make him good and true. 
 
 Yet Ruth dared not put him to the test. He 
 had never known her, loved her, as she had known 
 and loved him. Now, in the beginning of his 
 life, in the start of his work, could she prove 
 a stumblins-block ? Could she ruin his career?
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 281 
 
 Could she horrify the good people of his congre- 
 gation ? Could she declare herself his mother, 
 while before the footlights a brilliant, radiant 
 actress ? These very people for whom he was 
 striving, preaching, with whom he was praying, 
 working, would flee from his pews aghast his 
 church forsaken, his life desolate. "Your own 
 choice to be upon the stage," Ruth murmured to 
 herself. "You went away, you left him; he did 
 not forsake, but needed you." These thoughts, 
 so cruel, so true, cut the mother deep. 
 
 The actress played less well that night. She 
 failed to rouse enthusiasm, to merit loud applause. 
 She was tired and out of sorts, the audience re- 
 marked, in going from the play. The actress had 
 fulfilled an engagement of weeks in Paris ; now 
 the critics said she needed rest. The public 
 wanted something new. But Ruth strove to over- 
 come this weariness which she had felt for many 
 days. She must show her strength, her will, 
 prove to these people that she could command 
 her talent to even now succeed. 
 
 A different scene was passing from that in the 
 heated theatre at the quiet home of Mabel Ward. 
 Philip Lowel had dined with them, and Richard
 
 282 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 was expected later. Mabel was at work writing 
 letters. Her seat was apart from Anna Lee, but 
 the elder woman heard odd scraps and sentences 
 of the conversation going on between her nephew 
 and her friend. Philip related in part the events 
 of his day. Anna smiled at his descriptions, his 
 earnestness in speaking of the members of his 
 congregation. 
 
 " Why do you laugh ? " asked Philip. 
 
 " Because I am amused. You are so droll. 
 You believe in all things. Your faith is very 
 great." 
 
 " So is yours," cried Lowel, " only you like to 
 have a discussion for the sake of argument." 
 
 " Of course," replied Anna Lee with a provok- 
 ing smile. " But you, of all men, must convince 
 me in argument." 
 
 " So I do," cried Lowel. 
 
 " You do not convince me in this case," said 
 Anna Lee. 
 
 " If not to-day, to-morrow I shall prove the fact 
 to you." 
 
 " In twenty-four hours a lawyer may greatly 
 strengthen his case," said the girl, " but to prove 
 your words you must convince me now."
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 283 
 
 " Have ye then so little faith ? " quoted the 
 rector. 
 
 " Yes ; and you must give me more." 
 
 " If a woman beautiful, sorrowful, earnest, be- 
 lieving, came to you for advice, would you laugh 
 at her, would you turn from her ? " asked Philip 
 gravely. 
 
 " I should not accept every word she uttered," 
 said Anna Lee. 
 
 " What is this discussion ? " inquired Mabel 
 Ward, rising to greet her brother-in-law. 
 
 " We are quarrelling as usual," laughed Anna. 
 
 " Not about me, I trust ? " said Richard with a 
 touch of gayety as he took the young girl's hand. 
 
 "This does not concern you in any way, Mr. 
 Lowel," said Anna Lee. 
 
 "No, father; not in any way," laughed Philip. 
 
 Richard Lowel seated himself near Mabel 
 Ward, and with his presence the conversation 
 became general. The old man referred con- 
 stantly to his son, looking at the young fellow 
 with fond eyes. It was his habit to ask Philip's 
 advice on all matters ; to regard his judgment. 
 The son did not wholly understand his parent. 
 In the years when Richard's sorrow came to him,
 
 284 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 he kept Ruth's existence a secret from the boy. 
 Later the old man felt the great barrier between 
 them, for his wife's name would never cross his 
 lips in the presence of his son. Richard thought 
 to save the lad ; he never dreamed of what might 
 come. 
 
 To Mabel Ward he sometimes spoke of Ruth, 
 but from the day she went away he had never 
 seen her face. At first she had written, then 
 gradually the letters came at longer intervals 
 at length they ceased to come at all. Richard 
 heard her name through the papers. He never 
 made the effort to speak with her, to see her act. 
 Mabel Ward had seen her sister during her fre- 
 quent visits to Paris. Ruth was always affec- 
 tionate, kind, earnest, but the younger girl saw 
 the difference which had crept into her heart, 
 the gulf which divided the actress from herself. 
 Time after time Mabel hoped for some sign of 
 contrition, some word of regret from the actress ; 
 but the beautiful woman seemed quite satisfied 
 with her interests, her occupations, her stage. 
 To Mabel Ward her enthusiasm remained a mys- 
 tery. It would take a clearer head than hers to 
 comprehend her sister's mind, she thought. To
 
 A STRAA'GE CHOICE. 285 
 
 Anna Lee she never mentioned the matter. The 
 girl might tell Philip, and the rector was to be 
 spared this knowledge, this blow. His life could 
 only widen the gulf, and put the actress farther 
 from them. 
 
 Philip Lowel had never been to the theatre. 
 His strict principles, his rigid doctrines against 
 the stage, the world, and the devil denied him the 
 privilege, the pleasure, of seeing the poorest or 
 the best production upon the public stage. His 
 father set him this example when a young lad at 
 college. " Keep away from the footlights, my 
 boy," he would say. 
 
 Anna Lee could not resign the happiness of 
 witnessing a good stage performance. She loved 
 the players, the lights, the music, the plays. It 
 was fairyland to the girl. Yet of actresses Anna 
 had a refined horror. On the stage she gazed at 
 them with admiration, awe. In private life she 
 scorned their glance, their touch. She would 
 close her own doors against them, she declared. 
 
 Anna Lee had seen Ruth Lowel act. She 
 admired her charms, her grace. She saw her 
 talent, her power. She regarded the woman as 
 a finished actress, a genius. Did she dream in
 
 286 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 her to behold a social lion, a favorite of fashion, 
 an equal, a superior ? No, no ; Anna Lee was 
 ignorant, quite ignorant of this. 
 
 Again Philip Lowel stood in the pulpit ; again 
 he spoke of goodness, charity, religion. The 
 earnest man urged his people on to prayer, to 
 action. The rector dwelt upon the beauty of the 
 soul. " Keep your spirits free from guile, keep 
 them pure, keep them holy. Ye who to-day stand 
 before the altar vigorous in body, strong in health, 
 carry that same vigor into your hearts, that same 
 strength into the purpose of your souls Fight 
 for Jesus in the daily trials, strive for Jesus in 
 the struggles of this life. Shall we all stand idle ? 
 Shall we wait and see the shadows deepen and the 
 light fade from the sky ? No ! Delay not one 
 moment. To-day ! This hour begin the prepara- 
 tion of our souls. With the evening of life come 
 weakness, feebleness, coldness ! While there yet 
 is time, while the strength, the power, the youth 
 are in you, save your bodies and your souls. If 
 ye tremble, if ye fear, pray to Jesus. He can 
 plead, he can intercede to the Father, who for his 
 sake will sanctify your spirits, will help and 
 cleanse your hearts."
 
 A STKANGE CHOICE. 287 
 
 Again Ruth Lovvel listened to the rector's 
 words, again not the actress, but the mother, bent 
 her head to receive the benediction. 
 
 A few moments later the tall lady walked to 
 the vestry. As a stranger she entered the young 
 man's presence, as a stranger she raised her eyes 
 before his direct, clear gaze. He was the first to 
 speak. 
 
 " An unexpected call from a sick parishioner 
 must shorten our interview to-day ; but a few 
 minutes may suffice to explain your story," he 
 said. 
 
 Mrs. Lowel bowed her head. 
 
 " It is difficult for you to begin, I see," he con- 
 tinued kindly. 
 
 " Very difficult," murmured the stranger. 
 " First, I must explain to you that I have been 
 married." She glanced at Philip, but saw no sur- 
 prise in his eyes ; his expression remained un- 
 changed. " My husband, for it is of him I wish 
 to speak, I met years ago in Paris. Filled with 
 memories are these streets, this city. It was not 
 far from here we were married. The years went 
 by quickly ; my life was happy, content. I had 
 the joy of a son, a beautiful child. I loved him.
 
 288 A STRAA'GE CHOICE. 
 
 " Later came misunderstandings, disagree- 
 ments, arguments, words, between my husband 
 and myself. I thought him changed, indifferent, 
 cold. My nature was dissatisfied, my mind un- 
 easy. Energetic, ambitious by disposition, I 
 began to long for something new new interests, 
 new scenes, new thoughts, new occupations. I 
 felt my brain working with naught to work upon, 
 my heart yearning with naught to jest upon. I 
 must have occupation, I must have breath for my 
 lungs, life for my body, hope for my future. I 
 could not write, I would not sing, I could not 
 paint, but why not act ? In a moment the idea 
 grasped my yearning spirit, the thought seized my 
 ardent mind. I was requested to appear at a per- 
 formance for charity at the theatre. I planned to- 
 surprise, to please, my husband. With this foun- 
 dation my studies began." 
 
 She paused, and then asked, "What need to 
 trouble you with further details?" But she 
 continued, " I appeared upon the stage after 
 weeks of study. In my excitement, my enthu- 
 siasm, I nearly failed, but my husband's praise 
 was before me, the hope of his words led me 
 on. With victory I was crowned that night. It
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 289 
 
 was the next day I learned the truth he had 
 not been at the theatre, he had not seen me act. 
 
 " In this disappointment I heard no words of 
 comfort, no words of pity. Who could under- 
 stand ? But an offer from a manager soon fol- 
 lowed to turn my thoughts to great objects, to 
 real things. Longing for occupation, study, 
 work, success, I accepted the offer, I left my 
 home. To-day I am an actress who appears each 
 night upon the stage." 
 
 Philip Lowel had listened carefully to every 
 word of the stranger's story. As she concluded 
 he drew back and straightened himself in his 
 chair. An expression almost scornful passed over 
 his handsome face. As the woman touched his 
 arm he turned away. 
 
 " You scorn me," cried Ruth, " because I am 
 an actress, because I live upon the stage." 
 
 The color came into the young man's face as he 
 watched the disappointed woman. 
 
 "Not scorn you. No," he said, "only blame 
 you." 
 
 " You blame me," she cried, " you from whom 
 I had expected consolation, hope, forgiveness ? " 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive," said the rector.
 
 290 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 " It is hardly my part to comment so freely. It 
 was on the impulse of the moment I did so. 
 Pardon me." 
 
 How grave and formal Lowel looked ! How 
 stern and distant seemed his words ! It was of 
 no use to hope that he would understand, of no 
 avail to plead with him. 
 
 " It is of my son I wished to speak to you," 
 said Mrs. Lowel. 
 
 " Your son does not forgive you, then ? " asked 
 the rector. 
 
 " He does not know me. We are strangers." 
 
 " Strangers ! " 
 
 " Yes. We parted long ago." 
 
 " How terrible ! how wrong ! " exclaimed Lowel. 
 
 " What can I do ? " asked Ruth. " I am afraid 
 to plead with him." 
 
 " Afraid of your son ? Impossible ! " 
 
 " My presence would in no way benefit him," 
 said the stranger. 
 
 "It must benefit a man to know his mother," 
 murmured Lowel, passing his hand across his 
 brow. 
 
 " You speak as if you could understand, for- 
 give," said Ruth boldly.
 
 A STRAA'GE CHOICE. 291 
 
 "What judge am I?" replied the rector. "I 
 have never known the name of mother. But they 
 tell me she was beautiful and good." 
 
 The stranger's face turned pale. 
 
 " Your father is still living?" she inquired. 
 
 " Dear old father, he is spared to me," cried 
 Philip. 
 
 " Then you are not alone. But imagine your 
 life without him, without love, without joy." 
 
 " I could not," said Lowel. " Again and again 
 have I preached that pleasure is right, that joy is 
 good. Life would be almost impossible without 
 love, without happiness." 
 
 " I have heard you say so from the pulpit," 
 cried Ruth. "I remember. I believe you." 
 
 " It is well," said Philip. " For the true joy is 
 peace, the peace which we pray for hereafter. 
 But shall we not be allowed to taste of it now ? 
 Is it not evil which brings sorrow, wrong which 
 creates disappointment, regret ? Of these shall 
 we not willingly taste in earth, nor in heaven." 
 
 " How easy your religion makes your life ! " 
 said Ruth. 
 
 "Not easy, but more beautiful, more possible, 
 perhaps. Can you not in the same way improve 
 your life ? " he asked.
 
 2Q2 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 " It is what I long to do." 
 
 " Begin at once," said Lowel. 
 
 " Shall I go to my son ? Shall I plead with 
 him?" 
 
 " By all means ; and let not time weaken your 
 purpose, your good resolves." 
 
 " Will he receive me ? Will he listen to me ? " 
 
 " It is his duty as your son," Philip said gravely. 
 Then the rector rose to his feet, and, looking at 
 his watch, said the moments had passed too 
 rapidly, his appointment was at hand. The pale, 
 beautiful woman stood erect before him. For an 
 instant their eyes met, then Philip pushed aside 
 the curtain at the door. 
 
 " You must come again ; my time was short to- 
 day," he said. The stranger bowed her head, but 
 no sound came from her proud lips. In another 
 instant the rector heard her steps as she walked 
 quickly through the church and out the open 
 door. 
 
 After she had gone he stood irresolute, a 
 strange expression in his face, a look of perplexity 
 in his dark eyes. 
 
 That evening Philip spent with Anna Lee. 
 Again he spoke to her of the beautiful stranger,
 
 A STRAA'GE CHOICE. 293 
 
 the tall, graceful lady, who was but an actress, a 
 stage favorite, after all. 
 
 "An actress!" she exclaimed, "how provok- 
 ing!" 
 
 " Why provoking ?" asked Philip. 
 
 " Because I scorn actresses. I had persuaded 
 myself that this woman was unusual, interesting, 
 refined." 
 
 " So she is," laughed Lowel. 
 
 " It is impossible. The very life she leads, the 
 publicity, would make her bold, common, ordi- 
 nary," declared Anna Lee. 
 
 " You are quite mistaken. I confess at the 
 first, when I learned her profession, I too was 
 prejudiced, horrified ; but this woman is far from 
 ordinary. There is nothing of the actress about 
 her, I assure you." 
 
 " How old is she ? " 
 
 " No longer young ; she is past middle age. 
 But she has a peculiar charm, a peculiar beauty, 
 which can never fade." 
 
 "You are very partial," murmured Miss Lee. 
 
 "I wish to be just," replied the rector. 
 
 "Does beauty demand justice?" asked Anna. 
 
 " Character does," said Philip, laughing.
 
 294 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 " Then, do not be too just, I beg you." 
 
 " Would you shake my faith ? " inquired Lowel. 
 . " I would make you less charitable, less kind," 
 laughed Anna. 
 
 " You hide your goodness, your tenderness. 
 You think it weak to be lenient, foolish to be 
 charitable, don't you ? " 
 
 " I think it uncomfortable," said handsome 
 Anna Lee. " I keep my heart out of sight lest it 
 may trouble me." 
 
 " Foolish woman," rejoined the rector, looking 
 gravely at the girl so cold, so proud, so fascinating 
 to him. " Why hide your heart from me ? " 
 
 " Why should I disclose that which is so 
 precious ? " 
 
 " That I may see it," replied Philip quickly. 
 But Anna Lee did not listen to the young man's 
 words ; she turned away to speak to Mabel Ward, 
 and in another moment she had gone swiftly from 
 the room. 
 
 " Well, Philip," said Mabel, turning kindly to 
 the young fellow as he stood looking after the 
 girl's retreating figure, " what have you had on 
 hand to-day anything unusual ?" 
 
 " Nothing exceptional," said her nephew. " Our
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 295 
 
 life as clergy is a continuance of unusual things : 
 experiences of one kind and another all the 
 time." 
 
 " But to you the occupations, the changes, the 
 chances, are interesting." 
 
 " So is the work, aunt dear," added the young 
 man. 
 
 " Of course, I had not forgotten that, although 
 I neglected to enumerate it as one of the items." 
 
 "The greatest of the items, ma tante." 
 
 " Your father so considers it : indeed, he often 
 wonders if you do not work too constantly." 
 
 " Poor father thinks my sermons laborious to 
 me because he thinks them good. I can hardly 
 convince him that the ideas, the words, come too 
 quickly, too easily, to my pen." 
 
 "And where is your parent this evening?" 
 inquired Mabel. 
 
 " You are not to expect him : he has friends 
 on business to-night." 
 
 " I am sorry ; for I think, Philip, it always 
 cheers him to come here, to be with us." 
 
 " It does. But tell me, Aunt Mabel, the rea- 
 son father is so often sad, abstracted, lonely, 
 silent?"
 
 296 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 "He had troubles long ago. You were too 
 young to understand." 
 
 " May I not hear them now ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Now well now you are too old." 
 
 "That is nonsense," cried the young man. "If 
 my father has had trials, troubles, should I not 
 know them so that I can better sympathize, better 
 understand ? " 
 
 "The pain of them is over, the humiliation of 
 them past," said Mabel ; " to revive these memo- 
 ries can do no good. Even I hesitate to recall 
 them to the old man's mind." 
 
 "But does he not suffer, remember in silence, 
 and alone ? " asked Philip. 
 
 "Of course he does. The sting is smarting 
 still, and the comfort of hope is dead forever." 
 
 " My mother's death is a lasting sorrow, I can 
 see," said the young man sadly. "Father must 
 have loved her very dearly. But what wonder, for 
 he tells me she was good, beautiful, and true ? " 
 
 "Dear Philip," murmured Mabel, "my sister 
 gave many of her most lovable traits to you. I 
 love you for her sake, and for your own nobleness,
 
 A STRAA'CE CHOICE. 297 
 
 greatness." The rector put out his hand, and 
 took his aunt's in silent token of his affection, 
 his admiration for her. 
 
 They talked on for some time, and then their 
 conversation turned to other things. 
 
 The next morning Richard Lovvel received a 
 note from his sister-in-law, begging him to call 
 upon her. She had a question to put to him, she 
 wrote. 
 
 On going out an hour later, Richard lost no 
 time in directing his steps to Mabel's house. He 
 found her alone. The old man noticed how pale 
 she looked as he greeted her. A sudden fear took 
 possession of him ; she had news to communicate. 
 Instantly his thoughts flew to Ruth Lowel. Could 
 anything have happened to her ? The old man's 
 mind often dwelt upon the actress, his wife. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter," exclaimed Miss 
 Ward, seeing Richard's anxiety, and guessing the 
 nature of his thought. " I have a favor to ask of 
 you. It has been suggesting itself to me for 
 some time, and I concluded to mention it this 
 morning." She seated herself on the sofa, and 
 Lowel took a chair directly opposite to her. 
 
 "Richard," she continued, "I had a talk with
 
 298 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 Philip yesterday. I do not know how the conver- 
 sation led to it, but we spoke of Ruth." The old 
 man started. " Philip asked me some questions 
 concerning your life," the woman went on, " ques- 
 tions most natural on the part of a son, but I 
 could not answer them. I think, Richard, we 
 have made a grave mistake ; he should know 
 something of his mother." Mr. Lowel frowned 
 uneasily. " Philip is too old to be kept in igno- 
 rance ; he must know that his mother is living," 
 persisted Miss Ward. 
 
 " In this knowledge we would only cause him 
 pain," said Lowel. 
 
 " But have we the right to keep the facts from 
 him ? " 
 
 " We must think of his position, his church," 
 exclaimed the old man. 
 
 " Should this knowledge ever come to him, he 
 would blame us, and justly, for the secret ; I am 
 confident of it. With his strict ideas of right and 
 wrong, he would never forgive even our best in- 
 tentions." 
 
 " Here in Paris, where Ruth acts under an 
 assumed name, what risk can there be ? No one 
 ever mentions her to us," persisted Lowel.
 
 A STRAXGE CHOICE. 299 
 
 "Nevertheless, I am convinced he ought to 
 know of her existence." 
 
 " I cannot tell him, Mabel ; I cannot with my 
 own hand inflict the blow." 
 
 " Then I shall tell him. Please give me your 
 consent. I understand his feelings. I can break 
 the news to him, gently, kindly." 
 
 " Let it be as you say," sighed Lowel ; " I have 
 not the nerve for this. I love my son too much." 
 
 Miss Ward was silent. Already she was going 
 over in her own mind how she should break the 
 news to Philip. 
 
 The opportunity was soon given her, for he 
 stopped to leave a book for Miss Lee, and, as 
 Lowel took his leave, Mabel detained her nephew. 
 
 " A few moments, Philip," she said, laying her 
 hand upon his arm. The young clergyman did 
 not stop ; he was in haste, he said, as he started 
 toward the door. 
 
 " But you must have time for this. I have 
 something very important to say to you," pleaded 
 Miss Ward. 
 
 Lowel's eyes opened wide. 
 
 "This morning ? " he asked. 
 
 " This moment," said his aunt, taking a step
 
 300 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 towards him ; then, as the young man turned 
 round and met her glance, Mabel's courage 
 wavered. 
 
 " It is of your father's life of the past of what 
 we spoke yesterday, I have to say." The young 
 man advanced nearer. " Don't come to my side ; 
 don't stand looking at me, Philip, while I tell you 
 this; it seems to make it harder the words do 
 not come when I feel your eyes upon me," cried 
 Miss Ward, a sudden dryness in her throat. " I 
 must tell you something of my sister, your mother." 
 
 Young Lowel flushed crimson. How often had 
 he longed to ask of her, to hear the details of her 
 life, her death ! " Then you will tell me how she 
 lived, how she died ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " I will tell you what I can, but one promise you 
 must give me that you will ask no questions of 
 your father nor of me." The rector seemed 
 startled at this. For a moment he remained 
 silent, then he asked, 
 
 " Is it right to exact a promise from me in such 
 a matter ? Is it just ? " 
 
 " It is best," said Mabel Ward. In looking at 
 her face the young man saw her distress, and to 
 spare her, said he was satisfied.
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 301 
 
 "Do you remember," Mabel went on, "you 
 asked me last night why your father was often 
 abstracted, silent, and sad ? I told you he had 
 troubles long ago ; but for reasons for your good, I 
 did not say just what his troubles were. Philip, 
 your mother is alive." 
 
 " Alive ! " gasped the rector, turning red, then 
 white. 
 
 " Yes. As a child you believed her dead. Now 
 the truth must be revealed to you ; she is living." 
 
 " My beautiful mother living," repeated the 
 young man. He seemed dazed, confused. "When 
 shall I see her, know her ? " he stammered. 
 
 " Never, Philip." 
 
 " Never ! Horrible thought ! she is alive, and 
 yet I may not meet her love her ! What does 
 it all mean ? Where is she ? Who is she ? " 
 he demanded. 
 
 "These very questions you ask of me I cannot 
 answer. Let it satisfy you to know that she is 
 well and happy." 
 
 " Far from it. Eagerly do I long to know her, 
 to care for her. Pray what wrong has she done ? " 
 A look of anger shot from the rector's dark eyes, 
 a look of scorn overspread his features.
 
 302 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 " No wrong ; but remember you have promised 
 to ask no questions of your father nor of me." 
 The rector pressed his hands together. Mabel 
 had never seen him more agitated, more nervous. 
 
 " Has she done any wrong to either of you ? " 
 he demanded. " This you shall tell me." 
 
 " Long ago she went away from your father's 
 house, she left him. Had he not loved her, pitied 
 her, a separation might have followed. It was a 
 case of desertion with no cause of complaint 
 against her husband. Your father's affection for 
 you has made him generous, patient, kind." 
 
 " Poor old father ! " murmured the rector, " and 
 she was so beautiful, so good, he tells me ! " 
 
 " She has many charms." 
 
 Just at this instant, when Philip had much to 
 say, much to consider, an interruption being most 
 unwelcome, the door opened and Anna Lee 
 came in. 
 
 " The last sound in the evening, the first sound 
 in the morning ! What is it ? Answer the riddle ! 
 Guess quickly ! Why ! What is the matter ? " 
 exclaimed the girl, standing motionless in her 
 gayety to watch her friends' pale faces. 
 
 " I was talking on a serious matter to my nephew
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 303 
 
 this morning," said Miss Ward, "but we have 
 finished now. You need not go away," she added 
 as Anna walked to the door. 
 
 "No, for I am going," murmured Philip, in a 
 strange, dry voice. "This book," he continued 
 gravely, "I brought for you." He held out his 
 hand to his aunt. She saw how the joy had faded 
 from his eyes. 
 
 " Good-by, dear Philip " she cried, a sudden 
 pity overwhelming her. " Good-by." 
 
 Then she sank into a chair exhausted. 
 
 "Mabel," cried Miss Lee, going quickly to 
 her friend and bending over her, "what has 
 happened ? " 
 
 " It is nothing nothing. I am quite well now. 
 Just a slight faintness. I had something awkward, 
 something unpleasant, to tell my nephew." 
 
 " Why did not some one else tell him ? " cried 
 Anna Lee indignantly, as she watched her 
 friend's pale face. " Why must you be the one 
 to do the disagreeable, you be the one to suffer ? " 
 
 "Don't say that. It was my own fault. I 
 asked to be allowed to speak to him. His father 
 is old, tired, and sad." 
 
 " If you elect yourself to do all the disagreeable
 
 304 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 things, you will soon be old, tired, and sad too," 
 persisted the girl, justly angry at Mabel's 
 discomfort. 
 
 " It is over now. I had a difficult thing to do, 
 and I have done it," said Miss Ward. But in 
 spite of these assertions the younger woman soon 
 after noticed the change in Mabel's moods and 
 ways. She had something on her mind. Anna 
 Lee was confident of it, and she determined 
 to investigate the cause, to remove it if she 
 could. 
 
 But with all these good intentions the girl could 
 not unravel the difficulty, nor fathom the mystery 
 which surrounded the Lowels and Mabel Ward. 
 It seemed to Anna that Philip had changed. At 
 first she wondered if she had offended the rector, 
 displeased him with her brusque questions, her 
 outspoken remarks. But surely Lowel was 
 accustomed to her moods, her peculiarities. 
 
 One day she spoke to Miss Ward. In vain she 
 questioned her friend, in vain she pleaded for the 
 explanation of the change. 
 
 " Philip never discusses with me now," said the 
 girl, her handsome face denoting anger, "never." 
 
 " He has but little time at this season," replied
 
 A STRAXGE CHOICE. 305 
 
 his aunt : " he is so constantly occupied with 
 his church duties." 
 
 " Nonsense ! If he wanted time, he could make 
 it," declared Anna Lee. 
 
 " Has he been neglectful of you lately, dear ? " 
 inquired Mabel, her face breaking into a question- 
 ing smile. 
 
 " I have no right to say that. What claim have 
 I to his attentions ? " There was scorn in the 
 words of Anna Lee. 
 
 " The same claim that we all have. Are you 
 not in the same position as we are ? " 
 
 " No. I am not his relation. I have only the 
 right to expect friendship." 
 
 " Is not friendship even more precious often 
 than relationship ? " asked Mabel. 
 
 " Not in this case. I can see how little worth 
 my sincerity proves to the rector." 
 
 " Forgive his lack of courtesy," said his aunt. 
 
 " His lack of interest, you mean," cried the girl. 
 
 "His lack of interest then, for just now he is 
 so busy." 
 
 " How ridiculous you are ! " exclaimed the 
 younger woman, now really angry. " I well know 
 his duties. Have I not listened to his descriptions
 
 306 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 of them ? Have I not discussed them with him ? 
 Do I not know just what his occupations are ? 
 You cannot satisfy me with these excuses ; I am 
 too well acquainted with his interests for that." 
 She tossed her head as she spoke. 
 
 " Will it satisfy you to know that Philip is in 
 trouble ? " said his aunt. 
 
 " In trouble," exclaimed the girl, " and he never 
 told me ? " 
 
 " He heard something which worries him." 
 
 " From whom ? " demanded Anna. 
 
 " From me." 
 
 " What news could you tell him ? " 
 
 " I cannot say, but perhaps he will tell you ; 
 indeed, I sincerely wish he would," said Miss 
 Ward. " Ask him, Anna," she urged. 
 
 " I ask Philip to tell me his secrets ? Never ! 
 Little does he know me. Only those things 
 which he willingly tells me do I care to know." 
 
 " But in this case your sympathy would be most 
 desirable," continued Miss Ward. 
 
 "My sympathy is not waiting for applicants," 
 cried the girl hotly. Mabel saw it was quite 
 useless to say more. The subject ended, nor was 
 it ever renewed between them.
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 307 
 
 Richard Lowcl had gone to England. He 
 crossed the channel for business reasons only. 
 
 When he left Paris he intrusted his son to his 
 aunt's care. Mabel invited Philip to stay at her 
 house during his father's absence. The rector 
 accepted the invitation, cheerfully and quickly. 
 The plan displeased Miss Lee, who, in her present 
 state of indignation against the rector, hated the 
 idea of his presence in the house. But the duties 
 of his church kept the young man constantly 
 occupied, and the girl need not have cared. 
 
 The fashion of Paris had sped away to gayer 
 places, cooler climes ; the strangers, too, had long 
 since gone. But, of his congregation, the rector 
 saw new, old, and familiar faces ; his work was in 
 no way lessened by the absent ones. 
 
 Some weeks passed. Changes came to Miss 
 Ward's home. She never quite knew how it 
 happened, why it occurred, but the truth was 
 evident. Anna Lee was engaged to Philip Lowel. 
 The young man was puzzled by his aunt's pale 
 face when he told her the news. How strange 
 she looked ! how cold she was ! how silent ! He 
 had pictured her pleasure, her delight, in his new 
 happiness. He wrote the news to his father.
 
 308 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 The old man sent him a short note in answer. A 
 long letter of many pages came to Mabel Ward. 
 The contents were read by one pair of eyes only, 
 then destroyed. 
 
 But the young people were happy, light-heaited. 
 They cared sincerely for each other. What more 
 could they need to complete their lives, to fulfil 
 their dreams ? 
 
 When the engagement was announced, the 
 rector received congratulations from many of his 
 flock. There were some who began to think him 
 frivolous, worldly. Why must he marry ? Why 
 did he not devote his whole life to Christ ? Those 
 who blamed him, now interpreted his sermons in a 
 different light, in a new language. He preached 
 against sacrifice. Did he? He argued against 
 sorrow. Did he ? He believed only in joy, only 
 in sunshine. Did he ? There were others who 
 denied these charges, these facts. Lowel had 
 only pictured the beauty of love, peace, righteous- 
 ness. He had thought the soul stronger ofttimes 
 in prosperity than in trouble. 
 
 Of these things the young man was not ignorant. 
 Little by little the complaints reached him ; the 
 whisperings sank into his ears, and were present
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE 309 
 
 in his heart. He dared not tell them to Anna ; 
 these things belonged to him alone. If he had 
 violated his principles, his teachings, she was not 
 the one to suffer for it. But for all this Philip 
 Lowel was happy, though hardly satisfied with the 
 strange attitude of his congregation and his friends. 
 Anna Lee saw the frowning faces, the eager, 
 curious glances of the people. She watched 
 them shake their heads, talk and laugh as Philip 
 moved in their midst, with his affianced bride 
 upon his arm. Like a flame of fire the girl's 
 anger rose ; higher and higher the red sparks flew; 
 deeper and deeper sank the sting into her soul. 
 Was this, then, the reward of the faithful preacher, 
 the conscientious rector ? Was this to be his 
 crown ? Was this to be his triumph ? The proud 
 girl bent her head like a white lily before the 
 heat of sun. How cruel it was ! How wicked ! 
 Yet, of what avail to cry aloud her anguish, to 
 proclaim the aching of her heart ? Who would 
 listen ? Who would believe ? Who believing, 
 understand ? Would her sorrow change the cur- 
 rent, stave the tide of public prejudice, public 
 blame ? Could she change these people ? Could 
 she make them feel their cruelty, their ingrati-
 
 310 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 tude ? Could she turn their disfavor into praise, 
 their anger into love ? With her young nature, 
 her ardent spirit, she longed to cry aloud these 
 questions ; to find answers written in the faces of 
 her friends. 
 
 During these many changes Philip Lowel had 
 almost forgotten the stranger, the beautiful 
 woman who had sought him in the church. Not 
 so with the stranger ; the young rector was never 
 absent from her thoughts. She had given up her 
 present engagement at the theatre ; just now she 
 found it very difficult to act. Again and again 
 had the longing come to Ruth to speak to her 
 son. Since that last interview, when she had 
 been so strangely moved by his presence, his 
 words, the actress dared not see him. But now 
 the news had reached her of his engagement ; and 
 the desire to be with him, to love him, had over- 
 whelmed the woman's heart. She had thought of 
 writing to him, and begging him to come to her ; 
 but then Ruth thought she ought not to do it. 
 What right had she to steal a visit from her son ? 
 
 It was Philip who noticed her one day as she 
 sat in the corner of a pew in the side aisle of the 
 church. The service had not begun. Remem-
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 311 
 
 bering the woman, and seeing her eyes following 
 him as he moved from pew to pew, he stopped at 
 her side. 
 
 "You are well?" he asked, a kind expression 
 in his face. 
 
 "Thank you, yes," exclaimed Ruth, a happy 
 light in her eyes. 
 
 " It is some time since I have seen you at 
 church." 
 
 " For a time I did not come," said Ruth. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Shall I tell you ? " the woman murmured. 
 
 " Yes." The rector bent his head towards the 
 stranger. 
 
 " I thought the actress was not welcome here." 
 
 " The woman is. Within these walls the actress 
 does not live," said the rector. 
 
 " And if she did live, could she come here ? " 
 
 " Repenting of her profession, her life." 
 
 " I have done no wrong," cried Ruth. 
 
 " Let it not be for me to so accuse you," said 
 Philip sadly. 
 
 " Have you time to speak with me in private 
 before the service ? " asked the stranger. 
 
 "Fifteen minutes," replied the rector.
 
 312 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 " May I come into the vestry now ? " 
 
 " If you like ; " and with quick steps the rector 
 walked through the church. 
 
 When the stranger stood alone before him, the 
 old yearning came back to reveal herself to him, 
 to acknowledge who she was. She did not take 
 the chair he offered her. 
 
 " Mr. Lowel," she began, speaking quickly, " I 
 hear you are going to be married. I would greatly 
 like to see the woman." The rector's face flushed ; 
 it struck him as unbecoming in the actress to 
 mention Anna Lee. " I have never seen her," 
 she went on, "but I am sure she is good and 
 beautiful." The young man glanced at the stran- 
 ger. She saw the anger in his dark eyes, the 
 scorn in his handsome features. " I speak of her 
 because I have the right. I do not know her ; 
 but to-morrow, did I wish, I could stand in her 
 presence as to-day I stand in yours, demanding 
 her attention, her respect." 
 
 "Madame," interrupted the rector. 
 
 " Don't interrupt me," cried the woman ; " I 
 must speak ; you must listen. This deception, 
 this ignorance, is killing me." The man's lips 
 moved, but he uttered no sound, as he stood
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 313 
 
 gazing at the strange woman before him. " You 
 cannot blame me ; you cannot deny me, before it 
 is too late. While your father lives, while the 
 actress breathes Philip acknowledge me, com- 
 fort me, bless me ! " She bent upon her knees, 
 her beautiful head bowed low before the rector. 
 Reverently she took his hand, reverently she 
 kissed it. "Philip." The words reached the 
 rector's ears. " Years ago, a little child, you 
 loved me, you lived for me, you belonged to me. 
 My darling, my child, my son, do not cast me 
 away ; do not scorn me ! " 
 
 The agony of that beautiful face, the anguish of 
 those cries, Philip Lowel ever remembered, never 
 forgot. Pale, stunned, fearing, he raised the 
 woman from the floor. He could not utter one 
 word, one sentence. It seemed to him that life 
 was filled with evil lies. His religion was a 
 mockery, his prayers a farce. 
 
 He turned away from the actress, he pressed 
 his hands to his hot brow. 
 
 " Philip," said Ruth, " the temptation was so 
 terrible, I could not resist the one great longing 
 of my life." His dark eyes rested upon her face, 
 then he closed his lids as though to shield her
 
 314 A STXANGE CHOICE. 
 
 from his gaze. " Can you not love me ? Can you 
 not forgive me ? " she asked. " Can you not 
 uphold me?" 
 
 "Ask nothing of me," he said ; "you have done 
 enough. My cross is almost more than I can 
 bear." The woman went to him, she touched his 
 arm. 
 
 " I am going now. Good-by," she said. 
 
 An hour later, as the rector mounted the steps 
 to the pulpit, the congregation saw the whiteness 
 of his face, the strange expression in his eyes. 
 Did any one guess his sorrow, read the suffering 
 in his heart ? 
 
 He preached- earnestly, loudly. What words 
 were these he uttered ? What doctrines ? What 
 blasphemy ? " Sin, the blackness, the cruelty, the 
 power, of sin ! " he cried. " It drags us down, it 
 defiles us ! Who is great enough to resist ? 
 Who is Christian enough to escape ? No man. 
 The lies, the deceit, the cruelty, of the world. 
 Who has not felt it, suffered it? Every soul 
 among us ! Who here to-day has risen above that 
 which is earthly to prefer that which is holy ? 
 No one. The blackest clouds overhang our lives, 
 the darkest shadows threaten us. Where is our
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 315 
 
 refuge ? Where our power ? Is it in the scandal 
 of our homes, in the dark places of our souls ? 
 Shall our tongues save us ? No ! But our 
 tongues shall destroy others, our slander shall 
 form the barriers of our neighbor's salvation. 
 Denounce the innocent, ye hypocrites ! Cast 
 blame at the hearts of other men. What is the 
 world but hideous, the earth but wicked ? " 
 
 Out of breath, excited, the rector stopped to 
 glance about the people. With open eyes they 
 listened ; they accused, they hated, the preacher 
 who declared such theories in the pulpit of their 
 church. Away with him ! they cried. Away 
 with him ! 
 
 Philip Lowel saw the growing discontent, the 
 declining of his influence. He cared not. Heart- 
 sore, weary, disappointed, he decided soon to 
 leave the church. These people could find a new 
 rector, he could not satisfy them now. 
 
 How he hated to tell the news to Anna Lee ! 
 For Paris he cared nothing. For his father, his 
 aunt, he cared much. Go he must. There were 
 many things to confess to Anna. How would 
 she receive them ? Could she bear all ? Could 
 she love him still ?
 
 3l6 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 That very evening he went to her. She rose at 
 his entrance and met him at the door. 
 
 "Philip," she cried, "tell me quickly what was 
 ill with you this day ? The sermon you preached 
 was horrible ; the people will not forget those 
 words." 
 
 " Anna," he replied, " I spoke, though harshly, 
 from my aching heart Know you, dearest, what 
 it is to suffer, to be weary ? " 
 
 " No, Philip," said the girl, looking up into his 
 handsome face. 
 
 " I do. This day I have learned the sting of 
 disappointment, the smart of pain." 
 
 " Philip." 
 
 " Do not look so startled, dearest. I shall tell 
 you all." She seated herself near him while he 
 told his story. The story of the actress, the 
 secret of his mother. Anna Lee was patient. 
 Anna Lee was kind. But the agony of her 
 lover's feelings the anguish of his mind ! 
 
 "You will receive her?" he asked, "or must I 
 renounce you, my love, my future, my life ? " 
 
 " What you do, Philip, in this matter, I shall do 
 also. If she is your mother, she must be my 
 mother too."
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 317 
 
 "Dearest Anna," he whispered, "will you stand 
 by in my resignation from the church ? " 
 
 " Your resignation from the church ! What do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 "These people are dissatisfied with me. My 
 mother they would hate." 
 
 " Philip, I have seen this growing discontent. 
 But can we not ignore it, scorn it, live it down ? " 
 
 " No, Anna. Strange as it may seem, reports 
 once started, unpopularity once murmured, the 
 strongest cannot live it down. These people 
 would never feel towards me again as once they 
 did in the days past and gone." 
 
 "You who were so faithful, Philip?" 
 
 " The past cannot change the present ; they 
 dislike me now that is sufficient," the rector 
 said. But his troubles seemed to lessen, his heart 
 to rejoice again, as he looked at the noble woman 
 by his side. She trusted him. She understood, 
 she sympathized. 
 
 " You must receive your mother, Philip," she 
 exclaimed. " It is our duty to make her happy, 
 to change her from the actress to the wife." 
 
 " How can we reconcile my father ? I dare not 
 mention her name in his presence."
 
 3l8 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 " But he must know of her existence. He 
 cannot blame you, Philip." 
 
 " If you will speak with her it is all I ask. 
 You can see her in the church at the morn- 
 ing services." The rector looked anxiously at 
 Anna. 
 
 "This very day shall I 'watch for her," the girl 
 replied ; " have no fear." 
 
 It was quite late on the evening of Richard's 
 return from England, when a strange lady pre- 
 sented herself at his front door. 
 
 "Monsieur has only just returned to Paris," the 
 butler declared to the questions. " He sees no 
 guests this evening." 
 
 " But this is urgent business. Take my card," 
 the woman replied. 
 
 Then into Mr. Lowel's parlor the wife was 
 ushered. She looked with timid gaze at the orna- 
 ments, the pictures. Richard's house. Richard's 
 belongings. Richard's home. How short the 
 time seemed now since she had known him. She 
 heard his voice answering the butler. At the 
 familiar sound her heart beat fast, her color fled. 
 How greet him ? How address him ? How plead 
 with him ? She knew not. Impatient, fearful,
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 319 
 
 she waited. A figure stood at the door. A foot 
 crossed the threshold. A voice said, 
 
 " Ruth ! " 
 
 "Do not blame me! I came to beg forgive- 
 ness, mercy." 
 
 "Ruth," repeated the voice. 
 
 " If you have any pity, any affection, for me, 
 let me speak in hope, in ignorance." 
 
 " What brings you here ? " 
 
 " My love for Philip." 
 
 " Speak not of him." 
 
 The stranger glanced at the man standing 
 motionless before her. How old, how changed, 
 he looked ! Had time, the destroyer, rested its 
 harsh hand so heavily upon him ? Had the sor- 
 rows of the past been so furrowed on his brow ? 
 The woman uttered no word ; speech forsook her 
 in the pity of her heart for the old, white-haired 
 man. 
 
 " It is to spare my son I beg you leave me," 
 the voice went on ; " his life must be considered, 
 now that mine is done." 
 
 " No, no, say it not,"cried the woman. 
 
 " His future is before him ; let us not over- 
 shadow its joys by our foolish memories. The
 
 320 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 past is dead. Why revive its pains ? why disturb 
 its disappointments ? " 
 
 " To me the present is but the past ; the echoes 
 even now resound from hour to hour. I hear the 
 voices of days gone by repeated in my life. I 
 care not for the present. I will sacrifice the 
 future for one sweet moment of the past." The 
 old man passed his hand across his brow. 
 
 " But of him must we think ; for Philip's sake 
 shall we not renew the past." The figure moved 
 to the door ; but the woman darted forward. 
 
 " You shall not leave me thus," she cried ; " I 
 have suffered, for this hour longed ; now must 
 you hear me out. For my son I shall renounce 
 my present life, give up my profession, my 
 stage." 
 
 "These years have I spared him the knowl- 
 edge of your public life ; it is only lately he has 
 learned that you, his mother, lives." At this 
 word the color mounted to the woman's face. 
 
 " No longer can I bear the separation ; no 
 longer can I stand the loneliness, the sorrow, of 
 my days. Let Philip come to me. Have I not 
 the right to him ? " she asked. A look of anger 
 crept into the old man's eyes at this question.
 
 A STAANGE CHOICE. 321 
 
 " While I live you shall not take him from me," 
 the father cried. 
 
 " Think you not that I have done without him 
 patiently, nobly, these long years ? Now my turn 
 has come." 
 
 " You left him," said Richard. 
 
 " I left him : now I return to him," said Ruth, 
 her beautiful eyes bent upon the ground. 
 
 " He knows no mother ; his wife will love him 
 soon." The stranger made a movement of dis- 
 dain. She turned her eyes to the door a figure 
 stood erect upon the threshold. 
 
 " Philip ! " she cried, " Philip ! " The old man 
 turned. His face paled, his body trembled. 
 
 " My son," he murmured hoarsely, then tottered 
 to his side. 
 
 Motionless the two stood looking at the stranger 
 in their home. 
 
 " Father," said Philip, in his strong, young 
 voice. 
 
 "A stranger to you," muttered the old man, 
 pointing to the woman. 
 
 " Nay, father, say it not. She is no stranger ; 
 she belongs to us." The color left the woman's 
 face. Oh, the rush of gratitude, the wave of
 
 322 A STRANGE CHOICE. 
 
 joy, which overspread her soul ! The rector ad- 
 vanced ; in his strong hand he took her trembling 
 fingers. In a moment they rested in the old 
 man's withered grasp. 
 
 "Take her," said the rector; "take her, father, 
 to your heart." With a sob of joy, love, peace, 
 Richard drew the woman toward him. 
 
 "Ruth," he murmured, "Ruth." Her head 
 sank, her lips moved in a mute prayer. The 
 rector had restored her blessings ; she owed this 
 happiness, this joy, to him. His prayers, his 
 sermons, had so changed the man to the priest, 
 the rector to the servant of the Lord. 
 
 The time drew near. It was Philip Lowel's last 
 day in the church where he had lived and worked. 
 The pews were filled as he stood before the 
 congregation. 
 
 His last sermon was great, wonderful. With 
 his words of wisdom, words of comfort, the people 
 sat impressed. It seemed that a divine power 
 had been given him, a mighty strength been 
 granted him, that day. Even now among that
 
 A STRANGE CHOICE. 323 
 
 congregation are some who can recall his beauty, 
 his eloquence, his goodness, his grace. An all- 
 seeing One had blessed the rector, an Almighty 
 hand had guided him in that last trial. His face 
 was pure, his spirit holy, these people said. Why 
 must he leave them ? Who could fill his place ? 
 But the sorrow came too late ; the congregation 
 had blamed him. He was not worthy to admin- 
 ister, to feed their souls, they said. 
 
 A quiet wedding took place soon after, in the 
 early morning of a new day. The bride was pale, 
 haughty, beautiful, as she promised at the altar 
 the vows of wedded life. In the front pew was 
 Richard Lowel, beside him stood his wife. Mabel 
 Ward was close at hand. The words were quickly 
 spoken, the benediction said. 
 
 Then beautiful sounded the organ, triumphantly 
 sang the choir. 
 
 THE END.
 
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