Eat Not Thy Heart
 
 Eat Not Thy Heart 
 
 by 
 
 Julien Gordon 
 
 Eat Not Thy Heart 
 
 PYTHAGORAS 
 
 HERBERT S. STONE &f CO. 
 
 CHICAGO y NEW YORK 
 
 1898
 
 7^75 
 C 71 
 
 E, 7 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY 
 HERBERT S. STONE & CO.
 
 Eat Not Thy Heart 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 " I seen her in dreams." 
 
 "Well, if it don t beat all! " 
 
 " Only last week she was beckoning to 
 me across the saxifrax patch down by the 
 barn steps." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " My dreams, I tell you, ain t dreams. 
 They re visions that comes in the night to 
 betoken what will be." She had at mo 
 ments a touch of that fervor in speech which 
 had made of her father an orator. 
 
 " It does look quaint." 
 
 " If you take it, I 11 slave for you." She 
 got up and went over to the stove, where he 
 stood in shirt-sleeves not over-clean and 
 at whose dense, murky heat he wasiwarming 
 his rough fingers. 
 
 " The wages is high." 
 
 " Wages! " a flash seemed to spend itself 
 in the word.
 
 2 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " That s what they calls "em." 
 
 " A foreman s a foreman." 
 
 " He says gardener." 
 
 " What 11 be my work? " 
 
 " The hens and other fowls, and the but 
 ter n cream. There s dairy women." 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Write and say you 11 be farmer, and I 11 
 kind of have an eye to the poultry-yards 
 when I m not busy .... write." 
 
 It seemed strange to Joe she should 
 already make conditions; strange, but char 
 acteristic. 
 
 "If it s a gardener, I couldn t take the 
 place. I ain t what s called a complicated 
 gardener. I ain t used to greenhouses n 
 flowers." 
 
 " I guess folks can do anything they ve a 
 mind to." 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 "You laugh?" 
 
 "You re a queer one, Beth." 
 
 It was she who laughed now an odd 
 laugh, with an unpleasant note in it. 
 
 "You ve said that all along." 
 
 " I guess I ve felt it." 
 
 " It s your ma tells you I m queer, but I 
 ain t queer." 
 
 " I guess you re terrible ambitious." 
 
 " Well, your people won t die of their
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 3 
 
 ambitions they 11 be stuck where they re 
 put." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" 
 
 " O, you laugh!" 
 
 He returned to the question of payment. 
 
 " It means wealth for the likes of us." 
 
 " It ain t wages, it s salary." 
 
 " I guess we won t quarrel over the name 
 of it." 
 
 " What makes you afraid? " 
 
 He blew on one hand and scratched his 
 head with the thumb-nail of the other. He 
 cleared his throat and a quizzical glance shot 
 out from his melancholy, sunken brown eye. 
 
 " You, I guess, Beth." 
 
 " That s silly, if I ain t." 
 
 " Things is n t what they look." 
 
 " There 11 be the money and a home, a 
 new house, the letter says, too, and I m sick 
 of this leaky place anyhow." 
 
 " We 11 be their servants! " 
 
 " Joe, I believe you re trying to plague 
 me." 
 
 " No, I ain t. A spade s a spade! " 
 
 "We won t then. The madam 11 live 
 close by. I guess some day she 11 ask us in 
 to tea. I guess we 11 be real sociable with 
 them. I guess they won t be proud with 
 their own people. We will be all like one 
 big family."
 
 4 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " Whew! " Joe whistled. 
 
 " You re set on plaguing me." 
 
 "I ain t, but I know them better n you 
 do. They won t touch us." 
 
 " How do you know they re so proud? " 
 
 " Hain t you read about them? " 
 
 " I ve read about her on Sunday nights, 
 in the Sunday papers, till my eyeballs 
 ached." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " I guess she is lovely to look at, and 
 .... good." 
 
 " It does beat me." Joe settled himself 
 comfortably on a wooden-backed seat with 
 his feet at the stove-lid. " You was always 
 talking of her and the nice things those 
 folks get, and now they ve sent for us." 
 
 "Oh, my God! " she cried suddenly, with 
 clasped hands, "Joe, Joe, take it!" 
 
 "All right." He puckered his mouth 
 again, but this time emitted no sound. 
 
 She flew to him in ecstasy. " Husband," 
 she excitedly cried, " kiss me." 
 
 He obeyed, kissing her cheek fraternally, 
 but without ardor. 
 
 There was something in her that had 
 always frightened him. Something that he 
 could not understand, but which he vaguely 
 felt should be kept in check. Joe was not 
 analytical. This impression of danger was
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 5 
 
 an instinct no more unreasoning as is 
 that of self-preservation, the blind reaching 
 of wild creatures toward high branches when 
 an enemy is nigh. It has survived, the 
 scientists tell us, in the upward struggle of 
 the drowning. A mere memory of the 
 monkey clutching at tree-tops. 
 
 Sometimes, in the close quarters of their 
 poverty, when she forgot her modesty a 
 little, and displayed her charms to him with 
 more abandonment than he thought fit, at 
 the hour of her morning toilet, or when dis 
 robing, he would feel that in her lay some 
 thing ill adapted to his poor cabin. It made 
 him uncomfortable. His thin-chested, round- 
 shouldered sister, his angular, battered, 
 wrinkled mother seemed to suit more nearly 
 the limitations of their sphere. Yet he was 
 very proud of his wife proud and fond of 
 her with, as I have said, an undercurrent 
 of uneasiness. 
 
 Now, after this conjugal embrace, she 
 went up to her bed-chamber, springing up 
 the rickety steps as if borne on wings. On 
 her way she looked in at a small bed which 
 stood in her mother-in-law s sleeping-room. 
 She neared it, stooped, and brushed a fly 
 from her child s face. It was a fat, rosy 
 face; the long lashes flecked with shadow 
 lay along the cheeks which were puffed
 
 6 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 out like a cherub s blowing on a wind-instru 
 ment. 
 
 "She sleeps hard," she said, giving the 
 sheet a pat and the blanket a pull, "she 
 sleeps hard after her play." 
 
 In the morning when Mrs. Bush first 
 awoke, got up, stretched herself, donned her 
 simple gown, went with reluctant, lagging 
 steps about her household work, her face 
 was usually white. Her thick, black hair 
 straggled in elfish wisps about her forehead. 
 Her dark eyes were small and half shut, 
 blind if the sun s rays fell athwart them. 
 Her nose was uplifted and defiant, her lips 
 pale and harsh. Her hands, in winter, were 
 red with cold, dark at the knuckles; in the 
 summer they were moister and more delicate. 
 Her figure was always the same, impressive, 
 almost stately, even when compressed into 
 the ill-fitting cotton frock of the early hour. 
 
 After she had drank her coffee, however, 
 eaten her breakfast of eggs and bacon, as 
 the warmth of the day environed her, when 
 digestion acted upon her nervous system, all 
 this was changed. Her eyes widened and 
 gained curious lights, unguessed before. 
 Her nose seemed to grow chiseled and 
 quivering, her lips red, while on her cheeks 
 a damask rose hung out its brilliant hues. 
 It was then that people said she was beauti-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 7 
 
 ful. Her mouth and chin remained her least 
 alluring features. There was something 
 unfinished about them. It was as if the hand 
 of the cunning artist which had fashioned 
 her had grown a trifle weary with his work 
 just here, and had, with a few careless 
 strokes, sketched rather than elaborated. 
 The mouth was small but curveless, its line 
 cold. The downward slope of the thin lips 
 gave to the expression a certain severity. 
 The chin ran with a somewhat angular sharp 
 ness to lose itself under the ear-lobes. It 
 held a suggestion of defiance, of obstinacy, 
 yet lacked firmness. But when her rich 
 color came and went, when she was animated 
 or pleased, she might still, in the imperfect- 
 ness of language, have been called very 
 handsome. There have been world-renowned 
 beauties who have had far less positive claim. 
 
 "She is the homeliest and the handsomest 
 girl ever I set my eyes on," said Madam 
 Boyer laughingly to Joe Bush, when he an 
 nounced to her his engagement. " I guess 
 she ain t ord nary, anyway." 
 
 "That she ain t," said Joe, grinning. 
 
 In birth, in education, Elizabeth was above 
 him; that species of American education 
 which troubles itself more with algebra than 
 with grammar; and that birth which means 
 some tradition of ancestry, a parentage not
 
 8 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 entirely illiterate. But in situation, if we 
 can employ the word, she was not his equal. 
 She was absolutely poor, and, beyond this, 
 dependent; the orphan niece of people who 
 had taken her in through charity, and who 
 meant that their charity should bring its 
 guerdon. 
 
 They were small farmers, eking out a liv 
 ing from the proceeds of a hundred acres 
 which their narrow means prevented them 
 from turning to its fullest account. Beth 
 was her aunt s maid-of-all-work, slave, scape 
 goat. Still she was treated like an equal. 
 She was their near relative. Equality was 
 the motto of Pontifex society. 
 
 At the church sociables every one met on 
 the same footing. The leading people of 
 the village, Boyer, the lawyer, the minister, 
 the Rev. Onesyphorous Legg; the postmas 
 ter, Mr. Hoge; the school-teacher, Mr. Frai- 
 ley; the rival doctors, Bradford and Small, 
 met the big and little farmers and their 
 " ladies " upon the same plane. 
 
 It was at these, and walking to and from 
 church of a Sunday, that Joe Bush s brief 
 wooing had been accomplished. His mother 
 was a widow. She lived with her son and 
 daughter on a farm. Joe worked it. He 
 also worked at carpentering, was something 
 of a builder, almost an architect in the vil-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 9 
 
 lage where a flat roof and four walls were 
 the sum of architectural development. When 
 the old homes were despised for more mod 
 ern tenements, Joe was generally in demand. 
 But the pay was small. Sometimes the 
 honor had to suffice. 
 
 Beth was not popular with the young men 
 of the neighborhood. A certain superiority 
 kept them aloof. There was a stiffness, a 
 haughtiness which men resent. They said 
 she was "offish" and "put on airs." They 
 thought it foolish in one who was known to 
 be miserable, overworked, and was generally 
 shabby. 
 
 Her father, himself a farmer and at one 
 time well-to-do, had dabbled in politics, 
 which, in Pontifex, meant bad whiskey. A 
 late repentance for this indulgence had 
 turned him into a religious fanatic. He had 
 preached in the market-place. His was a cer 
 tain rude erudition, a gift of eloquence. He 
 had died insane. Her mother was a Boyer. 
 The Boyers were descended from French 
 Huguenots, and had, as I have said, some 
 traditions. Lawyer Boyer was a third cou 
 sin of Beth s dead mother. He spoke to his 
 wife of the extreme suppleness, strength and 
 shapeliness of his young kinswoman s limbs 
 and bust; his wife, who was presumably not 
 of French extraction, had never remarked
 
 io EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 them. It is safe to say that no one in Pon- 
 tifex had done so. They would have told 
 you that Beth was "a finely complected gal," 
 and " had a sharp eye," which was intended 
 for compliment. Her eyes were in fact only 
 bright on occasions. They were often dor 
 mant and opaque, only discovering on rare 
 occasions their hidden flame. 
 
 She hated her dependence at her aunt s. 
 She still more heartily detested the aunt her 
 self. Joe s offer of marriage meant release 
 fromthralldom. She accepted it without much 
 coyness. His awkward homage had been 
 on the whole pleasant to her. She looked 
 upon him as upon an inferior creature, from 
 which attitude was born a kind of protec 
 tive affectionateness. Possibly she secretly 
 realized that his was one of those unselfish 
 souls, always at a disadvantage in the battle 
 for existence; a poor investment. She pitied 
 him. But pity, which is akin to love in 
 gentle natures, in more impatient ones has a 
 savor of contempt. Beth was impatient. 
 
 Now she went into her own room hers 
 and her husband s and closed the door 
 behind her. It was a forlorn enough place 
 from the standpoint of luxury, yet it could 
 not be said to be entirely tasteless. There 
 was an attempt at decoration. It was not 
 admirably ordered, but there were some
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART n 
 
 cheap pink cotton curtains at the windows, 
 some plants in a roughly-hewn box standing 
 on the floor in the sunlight, a few fast-fading 
 photographs, and brilliant, though frameless, 
 chromos pinned upon the wall. On the 
 double bed was a valence of coarse lace, a 
 quilt made from variegated scraps of silk 
 across its foot, the pillow-cases, or rather 
 covers, had narrow tatting upon their edges. 
 The valence and the quilt and the tatting 
 were all Beth s work. She had nearly put 
 her eyes out over them late at night when 
 the babe was asleep and Joe snoring, and 
 the housework done. She was not a nimble 
 needle-woman, but these things she would 
 have and . . . she made them. It was 
 a necessity of her being to have something 
 agreeable to look upon. According to her 
 lights these accessories to her surroundings 
 were agreeable. 
 
 This room was the only spot in the world 
 where she could find solitude. Lonely walks 
 are not the fashion among farmers wives and 
 daughters, and within their conventional rut 
 of life would savor of eccentricity then 
 there was never the time but here at 
 snatched intervals Beth could be alone. 
 Joe had early discovered that he was almost 
 always in the way when he entered these 
 sacred precints, and rarely ventured to do so
 
 12 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 before the hour of his evening toilet. That 
 he should make some kind of a change for 
 supper his wife exacted. During the noon 
 hour if he needed to wash his hands, he did 
 so at the yard pump. He could also throw 
 off his boots and dry them in the warm 
 kitchen. Here was Beth s only safe refuge 
 from intrusion, and here she sometimes came 
 to sit down and " think." There was at 
 times a tumult in the young woman that 
 needed stilling. 
 
 Privacy is the franchise of wealth. To 
 the poor its liberties are unattainable. Let 
 us hope that the generous laws of compen 
 sation which govern life give its equivalent! 
 The rich so frequently cast off seclusion 
 that it is possible its advantages are over 
 valued.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Now she moved quickly to a shelf which 
 swung on two nails at the side of the bed, 
 and took a book from among the others. 
 There were five or six at the most, bound, 
 but tattered and white at the edges. She 
 sat down with this volume upon her knees. 
 It was the Bible. She closed her eyes and 
 opened it at random, putting her finger upon 
 a text, unmindful of the page. She then 
 raised her lids and read these words : 
 
 " And I looked and there was none to 
 help me, and I wondered that there was 
 none to uphold, therefore mine own arm 
 brought salvation unto me." 
 
 Once more she closed the book, and 
 opened it, her index upon the text ; Prov 
 erbs, this time : 
 
 "Thanks to the Lord ; for He hath shown 
 me marvelous great kindness in a strong 
 city, and when I made haste I said I am cast 
 out of the sight of thine eyes. Neverthe 
 less thou heardest the voice of my prayer, 
 when I cried unto thee." 
 
 13
 
 i 4 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "Ah!" she said, and a smile played on 
 her mouth. Mechanically she flecked the 
 pages, turning now to the first blank leaf. 
 It was covered with a small, irregular writ 
 ing. The room was growing dark, the twi 
 light was nigh. She rose and took the Bible 
 to the window-pane. She remembered well 
 the days in which she had written these 
 words ; how long ago they seemed ! It was 
 before her marriage, when she was still in 
 vassalage: 
 
 "O God, help me!" they read, "I try 
 to love and pray to Thee; some days I am 
 all Thine, and I love Thee, then I get rebel 
 lious. Help me, O Lord, not to love beau 
 tiful things too much, not to crave them, 
 not to envy others their fine houses and 
 lands, and horses and dresses, not to long 
 and long to have such for myself, not to 
 want to be magnificent and grand. Make 
 me humble. Kill my pride, or conquer 
 it. . . ." 
 
 There was more in the same strain, some 
 what hyperbolous, but well spelled, and ex 
 pressed in far better English than she spoke. 
 This anomaly is not uncommon among the 
 graduates of our public schools. 
 
 Yes, how long ago! Already things were 
 better, yes, better, shaping themselves. And 
 to-day, to-day, hope had come.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 15 
 
 Yes, she had raised herself by her mar 
 riage. She had a place now was recog 
 nized. Her mother-in-law, who suffered 
 the alliance rather than desired it, was just 
 toward her, and, particularly since the baby s 
 birth, treated her with more deference. For 
 the elder Mrs. Bush was a just woman. 
 Joe s wife was a daughter, as such, a Bush, 
 and, as a Bush, not to be gratuitously ig 
 nored or flouted. The Bushes were very 
 plain folk but proud. 
 
 Mary, too, Joe s sister, liked Beth well 
 enough, and now that she was going to be 
 married, looked to her sister-in-law for sug 
 gestions as to her outfit. It was conceded 
 that Beth was good at " fixin up things," 
 and could " dress up pretty." A distinct 
 tendency toward personal adornment lurked 
 in her character. These manifestations of 
 vanity were in themselves peculiar. She 
 dressed for women, not for men, obscurely 
 realizing that these value each other more 
 for outward than for inward graces. Her 
 mean apparel, while at her aunt s, had been 
 to her a source of unending chagrin and 
 humiliation. In her improved environment 
 she enjoyed nothing more than the possi 
 bility of an occasional new dress. It must 
 be said that the exigencies of Pontifex as 
 to elegance were not great. The most ad-
 
 16 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 vanced socialist could not have desired a 
 more perfect system of levelage. Of course 
 there were poorer and richer, but wealth 
 was modest, conservative, old-fashioned. 
 The few houses of importance were rarely 
 thrown open. They had a furtive, apolo 
 getic aspect behind their shrubberies, all 
 signs of life and animation being confined 
 to their "backyards," as the small garden 
 inclosures were called. Here Monsieur in 
 shirt-sleeves sucked his pipe on the veranda 
 steps, and Madame, in a sunbonnet, picked 
 currants for Sunday s tea. 
 
 In this atmosphere Mrs. Joe Bush had been 
 born, bred, and nurtured. Her early poverty 
 had kept her more or less a prisoner. After 
 her marriage, impending maternity, then its 
 cares, the part alloted to her in the general 
 household work, all had tended to chain her 
 within the narrow limits of Pontifex parish. 
 Strange as it may appear, the great metrop 
 olis, which was only a two-hours journey, 
 she had never visited but three times in her 
 life. She had then passed the hurried hours 
 in one or two of the large retail shops which 
 offer to the purchaser every conceivable ne 
 cessity. Heated and wearied she had eaten 
 a hurried luncheon, after which, with the 
 country woman s dread of missing her train,
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 17 
 
 she had wasted nearly an hour, awaiting her 
 husband in the ferry-house. 
 
 Once she had gone to the park and been 
 driven around in one of the public carriages. 
 She had been passably disappointed. She 
 walked, with Joe shuffling by her side, a few 
 blocks on Fifth Avenue. She looked up 
 at the barred shutters and dusty hinges 
 of the front windows and doors of some of 
 its palaces. They seemed to her dreary 
 enough. The absence of grounds about 
 them, their neglected gloom, somewhat sur 
 prised her. 
 
 " I guess it s splendid inside," she said to 
 Joe, who, with his hat pushed back from his 
 forehead, was nursing a toothpick between 
 his lips. 
 
 " Seems likely." 
 
 " I guess they give balls here." 
 
 " Mostly in the winter. The families is 
 out at their summer homes now." It was 
 August. 
 
 " How would you like to have that big 
 one?" asked Mrs. Joe doubtfully, stopping 
 in front of a white pile whose chaste serenity 
 detached it somewhat from its surroundings. 
 She thought it rather plain. 
 
 " Well, I guess I d make a queer figure 
 cutting pigeon-wings in one of them grand 
 parlors."
 
 18 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " If what I ve heard and read about those 
 as occupies them is true, they ain t always 
 better born or reared than you, Joe Bush." 
 
 " That s so ; some men has a powerful 
 grip to make money and spend it." 
 
 " You ve never had a chance." 
 
 " I guess it ain t all chance. I guess it 
 lies in the men," said Joe, with that sagacity 
 which sometimes surprised his friends. For 
 these friends, and even his wife, were wont 
 to address him in the tone one uses toward 
 children or invalids. Is it a tribute to inno 
 cence, or to weakness? It is possibly a form 
 of respect. 
 
 " I guess all eyes is alike, but some has 
 high walls in front of them." 
 
 "Well, I don t know." 
 
 "Well, I do." 
 
 "I guess I ain t one of em;" said Joe, 
 following his idea; " you had ought to Ve 
 married one of em, so Dottie could have 
 been a lady." 
 
 "She ll be a lady." 
 
 " Her mother s one, that s so," said Joe 
 gallantly. 
 
 " And what d she and I do without you? " 
 said Mrs. Bush after a pause, during which 
 she had reflected that this last speech of 
 Joe s deserved reward. He was not by 
 nature an encomiast.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 19 
 
 To tell others they are necessary to us 
 unfortunately carries no conviction. They 
 must be necessary to believe it. Joe, who 
 was a modest man, shook his head pro- 
 testingly. 
 
 " Pontifex is a bad place for them as wants 
 to get up in the world," she continued. 
 
 "All places is bad," said Joe, with the 
 profound pessimism of the tiller of arid soil. 
 
 " I guess these rich folks struck good 
 ground at any rate," said Beth, smiling. 
 
 But Joe possessed one of those rare natures 
 which draw no comfort for their own impo 
 tence by belittling the performance of others. 
 
 " I guess they knew how to turn it to 
 account then," he answered shortly. 
 
 " What I said a while ago about walls is 
 true, tho ," said Beth. 
 
 " I ve seen em as had eyes that d pierce 
 a stone fence." 
 
 Joe was right. Far-sightedness is char 
 acter. Perception lies deeper than optical 
 impression. His simple, reverent spirit often 
 puzzled his wife. His religion whose form 
 was emphasized by eating strawberries and 
 cream under bunting at church festivals to 
 the sound of hymn tunes nasally intoned 
 taught him, above all, resignation; a patient 
 acceptance of his lot; gratitude that it was 
 no worse. If he looked upon going to
 
 20 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 church, as do most of the members of the 
 Protestant sect to which he belonged, less 
 as a certain duty and possible privilege than 
 as a compliment to the " minister," its prac 
 tice nevertheless bore fruits; sweeter, per 
 haps, and more precious to him than to those 
 who seek transport in the grand chants and 
 eloquent appeals of stately temples. Relig 
 ion is life, not method. 
 
 Beth, although she consulted the Bible as 
 a probably correct prophet of fortune a 
 practice that she and some of her school 
 mates had kept up from childhood was 
 becoming, as time wore on, more and more 
 of an unavowed skeptic. Church bored her, 
 and during the Rev. Onesyphorous Leggs s 
 long sermons she dreamed strange dreams 
 for a poor farmer s wife. What we have not 
 is what appeals to our imagination. It was 
 with her lacks that young Mrs. Bush s fancy 
 was paramountly busy. She was wide awake 
 to the trend of the times. Her narrow exist 
 ence longed for new interests, but these were 
 material, and such as would pander to her 
 vanity, which was more boundless even than 
 her pride. Her point of view was purely 
 personal, intensely rationalistic. She saw 
 in the great movements which develop the 
 resources of new nations and sway their 
 fate only a means to private ends. Money
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 21 
 
 seemed to her the only solution to the prob 
 lem which fretted her, the only key to fit 
 the door of that social advancement for 
 which she secretly pined. As all lovers 
 sigh for the wings of liberty which riches 
 lend to love, so Beth sat restless on her hard 
 pew bench, listening to the preacher s tirades 
 against the powerful of this earth, who could 
 with such difficulty get to heaven, as through 
 a needle the camel, while on the other hand 
 he prayed the humble to remain humble and 
 bow to the hand of God. She admired the 
 strong. " Nature s darling, the strongest," 
 appealed to her clear sense, for as yet she 
 had got into no direct conflict with him. 
 She had hardly reached the door of the 
 arena; the struggle and dust, the cries and 
 rush that reign within, met her ears as 
 a distant and invigorating tonic, giving her 
 nerves throbs of expectancy. Now, during 
 the one walk on Fifth Avenue, they were all 
 on the alert, those high-strung American 
 nerves. 
 
 " When I was in school, we read about the 
 French Revolution. I guess it was just such 
 people as these that got their heads cut off." 
 
 " Eh?" said Joe. 
 
 "They chopped off the king s and queen s, 
 too." 
 
 "Is that so?" said Joe, interested.
 
 22 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " But I guess there ain t any cause for revo 
 lution in our free land." 
 
 "Everybody can be heard from here," 
 said Joe. 
 
 "Well, I ain t so sure " 
 
 " We ve got a free press," said Joe, proud 
 of this knowledge; "the working people is n t 
 stifled." 
 
 "They d better try it!" 
 
 But her cry was not of revolt. It was of 
 hope. She as yet had no desire to destroy, 
 only to build up herself, her child Joe 
 would have to be dragged up. She faintly 
 perceived this, but she felt herself capable of 
 lifting weights. 
 
 Dismissing these topics of unimportance, 
 Joe began to talk of a horse he had lately 
 gotten in exchange for a cow. 
 
 "Farmer Green s folks is mighty mean. 
 I can t say as he was high fed. If he war n t 
 thin! He fell the first time I drove him over 
 to the depot crossing, back of Smith s gate, 
 but he fell easy and did n t do no damage. 
 He only broke a strap, gagging. Since I 
 nursed him up and fed him a bit I never seen 
 a horse as could beat him, or do his chores. 
 Now he s fat and slick as anything." 
 
 "That s good," said Beth, thinking of 
 other things. 
 
 " I wonder," she said, as they swung and
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 23 
 
 staggered in the crowded car which was con 
 veying them to their ferry, "I wonder if we 
 passed Mrs. Archibald Marston s town house 
 now?" 
 
 "What do you know about it?" 
 
 "There was a picture of it in Mrs. Boyer s 
 Herald on Sunday. It s splendid!" 
 
 "You re always talking of em." 
 
 " She s real exciting to read about. I 
 read of her wedding first, and I ve kept 
 reading till I know lots of things she does." 
 
 "I guess she don t do much. He s a 
 capitalist. I suppose they have a mighty 
 easy time, all play and no work." 
 
 "Well, no matter, I like her to have a good 
 time." 
 
 "I can t see " said Joe. 
 
 Here the car stopped with a creak and a 
 jerk, and Mr. and Mrs. Bush made a run for 
 their ferryboat.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 It is not often that any of us attain exactly 
 that meed of success which we have craved, 
 or conjectured possible. Any gift, grace, or 
 talent with which we start equipped can only 
 be retained and made efficient through in 
 cessant self-sacrifice and vigilance. This as 
 sertion should doubtless be inscribed in that 
 dictionary of "received ideas," which Flau 
 bert, king of mockers, desired to dedicate to 
 the inhabitants of Philistia. To those "im 
 beciles" who could thus if ever tempted fo 
 the slightest originality dip back at once 
 into the tenebras of platitude. 
 
 It is probable that Archibald Marston re 
 mained an unprovoked argument in contra 
 diction of this assumption. He had made 
 no sacrifices, had been only very moderately 
 vigilant, yet all the good things of this life 
 "had been added unto him." His programme, 
 to be sure, early laid out, was mapped on 
 large lines, and, curiously enough, it had not 
 failed of its expectancy. For instance, he 
 would have regretfully expressed the fear 
 24
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 25 
 
 that he should lose his father at an early 
 age. His father had deferred entering into 
 nuptial ties until in middle life. When Archi 
 bald was twenty-three years old, his papa 
 was duly gathered into the family vault 
 where his father the butcher had rested 
 for seventeen years. Is it necessary to state 
 that this particular butcher had been a meat- 
 dispenser of genius? He, too, like his grand 
 son, had a large programme. A great gen 
 eral makes war, and does not rest content 
 with the laurels of a single battle. This par 
 ticular general had waged mighty wars upon 
 rivals in the trade. He had beaten them all. 
 A plain man always, when he died he left 
 his millions to be divided between a son and 
 daughter. To his portion the son added in 
 wider enterprises of finance several more 
 millions. He had expended a part of this for 
 tune in the education and training of his son. 
 He wished to make of him a fine gentleman. 
 It may be said that Archibald had risen fairly 
 well to this demand. He was certainly a 
 man of presentable appearance and manner, 
 with as much polish as the end of a century 
 not distinguished for amenity permits. If 
 he sometimes sat while women stood, lounged 
 while they sat, did not always uncover his 
 head when he bowed to them, and never saw 
 a woman whose youth had waned, this was
 
 26 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 more a matter of pose than of politeness. 
 He was not sure enough of himself to follow 
 out the natural instincts of kindliness which 
 lay in his nature, for if his was hardly a 
 chivalrous character it was not a brutal one. 
 And this pose such as it was good- 
 humored at bottom, and not particularly 
 harmful unless to himself, had served him 
 well. He was essentially a favorite, and 
 above all he was a man of fashion. He very 
 rarely did anything clever, and never said 
 anything wise; yet young girls liked him, 
 young married women invited him, and his 
 men associates called him a " good fellow." 
 He could boast of no personal beauty. His 
 figure lacked grace. He had a snub nose, 
 his neck was too short and thick, his shoul 
 ders too high, and the calves of his legs were 
 thin. He carried himself, however, with an 
 ease that disarmed criticism. He was him 
 self extremely critical of other people, an 
 attitude usually impressive. 
 
 His plan of life was much less compli 
 cated than his father s or his grandfather s. 
 It had, in fact, been made exceedingly simple 
 for him. He decided early to go to college, 
 to pass with as little study as possible, and 
 to amuse himself to his utmost there and 
 afterward. Having inherited his fortune 
 precisely at the time it seemed fit to him to
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 27 
 
 travel, he concluded to do so. He decided 
 he would live in Europe for a few years see 
 life the world then return and settle in his 
 own country. He concluded that the life of 
 a country gentleman for a large part of the 
 year at least would suit him best. He also 
 decided that he would marry a handsome 
 woman. There was one thing above all 
 others that in this woman of his choice must 
 be intact, and that was the escutcheon. She 
 must be a lady. When he began to look 
 about him, his eyes rested with favor almost 
 immediately upon a young girl who had just 
 crossed the threshold of womanhood. The 
 second time he saw Lola Fenton he told him 
 self that she was charming. A lady she cer 
 tainly was. About her pedigree there could 
 be no shadow of a doubt. She was on both 
 sides of her house descended from a far 
 nobler and more ancient ancestry than are 
 four fifths of the members of the English 
 House of Peers. Her direct American fore 
 fathers had been men distinguished in poli 
 tics, diplomacy, and letters, and their women 
 celebrated for beauty and elegance. They 
 had also for several generations possessed 
 sufficient wealth to meet the exactions of the 
 world. She was the elder daughter of Mrs. 
 Gardiner Fenton, a widow. From her 
 mother she inherited personal loveliness,
 
 28 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 but it was not of the kind which strikes at 
 first sight. 
 
 The most difficult subject to paint is that 
 which requires demi-tints. 
 
 Lola Fenton s beauty was of extraordinary 
 delicacy and refinement; pensive rather than 
 brilliant, poetic rather than positive, there 
 was in it an element at once mysterious and 
 fugitive. She was tall and thin; her hands 
 and feet, her throat, her waist, were long, 
 and so were her limbs. Her head was small, 
 crowned with fine soft hair in which there 
 was little color. It was of an ashy, dead- 
 leaf hue. Her forehead was low and broad, 
 her eyes dreamy and gentle, of a violet gray 
 outlined by bluish shadows. Her nose was 
 small and tipped upward. Her mouth was 
 exquisitely tender and somewhat sad. Wide 
 in repose, when she spoke or smiled she drew 
 the lips together and pouted them out as 
 does a child who sues for a kiss. In the 
 expression of her face there was something 
 indefinably touching. Her complexion was 
 pale. 
 
 In spite of her spirituality of appearance, 
 Miss Fenton seemed to take very kindly to 
 German cotillons, late balls, routs, dinners, 
 dances, suppers, and the opera. She was 
 everywhere an acknowledged belle. Before 
 the end of her first season she was engaged
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 29 
 
 to be married to Archibald Marston. Her 
 mother s friends entered some protest. The 
 butcher was disinterred. This was a cruelty 
 to Marston, whose matrimonial venture was 
 intended to conclusively sink this inconve 
 nient predecessor. 
 
 "How was it possible," they asked, "that 
 Lola should so drag her family into the dust?" 
 It had to be conceded, however, that the 
 dust, such as it was, was golden. The dust 
 and its quality, however, had not been 
 weighed in the young girl s balances. She 
 was passionately in love. At this people 
 marveled. The "What can she see in him?" 
 gathered force with every reiteration until a 
 torrent of questions rose and broke on the 
 strand of social exigence. 
 
 This question, always enigmatic, was as 
 difficult of solution as is the one which asks 
 why one woman is a success in the world 
 while another is distanced in the race. The 
 mere answer that she possesses social talent 
 does not seem to cover the ground. Miss 
 Fenton herself was far less beautiful than 
 many of her maiden rivals. She was not a 
 wit. Never could it be said of any feminine 
 creature that she made less effort. She 
 seemed to be one of those exceptional beings 
 who are born attractive, who have but to 
 cross a threshold to be surrounded, raise her
 
 30 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 eyes to be adored. It was this very lack of 
 aggressiveness which captured Marston. He 
 was accustomed to other methods. Mothers 
 and daughters had not been cold to him. 
 For though they might now in the hour of 
 their disaffection ask, "What can she see in 
 him? " they had been fully aware of the solid 
 advantages which he could offer them. 
 
 To be in love with her husband is not favor 
 able to the career of a young matron. It is 
 apt to make her watchful where blindness is 
 incumbent, eager where zeal is out of place, 
 and a sure subject of raillery to the heart- 
 free. It is possible that Lola Fenton s bark, 
 when she became Mrs. Archibald Marston, 
 might have sunk in this quicksand had not 
 her husband s guiding hand been at the helm. 
 He saw to it that their devotion was not too 
 pronounced in public. Her own reserve 
 would hardly have countenanced exhibitions 
 of affection, but what he desired was a clever 
 and haughty mistress to his establishment, 
 not a love-sick wife. He wanted a partner, 
 not to sing madrigals. 
 
 In the first year of their marriage she did 
 not quite understand. Her mind, though 
 thoughtful, was not quick to meteoric im 
 pressions, and so she managed to be very 
 happy with her husband, in spite of him. 
 As contentment is the vital atmosphere of
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 31 
 
 the soul, she bloomed like a lily in the dew. 
 What physician is worth one drop of joy! 
 Health cast its soft flush on her cheeks. 
 Marriage opened up life for her. She grew 
 in mind and heart, and was transfigured. To 
 those who help such growth in us we should 
 be grateful. Lola was grateful. 
 
 When he took her to the splendid home 
 he built for her in the country, her cup 
 seemed indeed brimful of pleasure. She 
 loved nature. She loved the moonlit fields, 
 the breath of flowers under wet leaves, the 
 crisp odors of the sea at ebb-tide, and to her 
 love for her lover were now added all these 
 beautiful things. It was only the over-bub 
 bling of this inward content which she gave 
 to the world. Her husband supplied her de 
 ficiencies. It was he who superintended her 
 list and scratched out and erased undesira 
 ble names. It was he who organized the 
 house, ordered the dinners, and it was even he 
 who superintended some of the subtle details 
 of his wife s toilettes. She thanked him 
 without many words, pouting out her lips 
 and smiling at him from out of her deep 
 eyes. He had known a few passions of 
 straw, and they had blazed up and dried his 
 heart a little but it was, as hearts go, 
 fairly juicy still. Not imaginative, not given 
 to overmuch emotion, he had, like many
 
 32 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 men, sought the stimulus of sensation. If 
 his disillusions were less violent than those 
 of men of imagination, they were at least suf 
 ficiently succinct to make him appreciate the 
 companionship of his exquisite young wife. 
 He was glad to settle down, for he was by 
 nature fond of order. His tastes were re 
 spectable. He was honorable in money mat 
 ters. He had the horror of debt and of 
 confusion of the man who has always been 
 sure of his meals and whose debts have al 
 ways been paid for him. 
 
 Not being in active affairs an agent had 
 the supervision of his vast estates he could 
 give his wife not only the fidelity which he 
 had sworn he respected the oath but, 
 what is more unusual in America, a consid 
 erable portion of his time. And here, after 
 the early months of nuptial gayeties, house- 
 warmings and bridal dances, the first little 
 cloud appeared on the conjugal horizon. 
 Mrs. Marston, in apportioning the seasons, 
 planned for an occasional solitude a deux. 
 She quickly found that this was to be de 
 nied; for while her desire for society was 
 spasmodic and intermittent, her husband s 
 seemed to be permanent. He was always 
 inviting guests, and when she had organized 
 a dainty feast for two, three or four were 
 sure to enjoy it, through Mr. Marston s in-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 33 
 
 terference. He seemed never tired of the 
 evident admiration which she inspired; how 
 then could she be ungracious? Between 
 Lola and her husband there was fortunately 
 none of that acute temperamental antagonism 
 which is probably physical, and from which 
 spring unjustifiable hatreds. So she would 
 heave a little sigh and hope that the next time 
 nobody would come. Of a romantic fancy, 
 Lola shrank from garish light. She some 
 times wanted shadow. She wanted a lover 
 who should lie at her feet, read to her from 
 the poets, now and then just brushing with 
 his lips her hand. Her hopes had held all 
 the loveliest imaginations of the things we 
 dream. Trodden paths, which her husband 
 adored, looked to her a trifle worn. She 
 told herself that these fantoches of the mind 
 must be brushed aside like cobwebs, since 
 they were in the way. Her husband laughed, 
 called her romantic, and kissed her with a 
 light jest. She took the kiss, which warmed 
 her heart in spite of all it was growing a 
 little chill and told herself with a faint sigh 
 that her dreams had been but the radiant 
 aurora of all early youth. In a few years 
 she had sacrificed her hopes, she had resigned 
 herself to be forever before the footlights. 
 The desire for a more intellectual comrade 
 ship became fainter as the weariness of the
 
 34 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 crowd s encroachments increased. It was 
 certainly a very exclusive crowd, elegant and 
 esthetically satisfactory, if not quite conge 
 nial. As is often the case, the inferior nature 
 had vanquished. Marston remained master 
 of the field. He certainly had taste. It was 
 exemplified by the selections he made during 
 their short trips across the Atlantic, of paint 
 ings, statuary, rare tapestries, porcelains, and 
 furniture for their city and country homes. 
 These were marvels. Lola did not cease to 
 vaunt her husband s artistic perceptions. 
 Sometimes indeed, when not otherwise en 
 gaged, Mr. Marston discoursed on art. He 
 pooh-poohed the moderns. Paris! phew! a 
 millinery shop! Rome! there was the school 
 to which all art must turn; from the men 
 who build and decorate to those who paint 
 and chisel, from the men who mould soft pot 
 teries to those who chink hard metals. With 
 out Italy s suggestions where would David 
 have drawn the classic impulse with which 
 he conquered France, or Asmus Carstens 
 that which made him father of German art? 
 He discoursed wisely on Rome s architecture; 
 of the use of columns in front of closed walls, 
 of the construction of domes above circular 
 interiors, dwelt on cylindrical and groined 
 vaultings. He spoke of early Christian in 
 fluence, and of Byzantine outgrowths; of
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 35 
 
 forensic basilica, of cancelli, of ambones. 
 He dwelt on Bondone and Bramante, and 
 sighed that the giants were all dead! He 
 flagellated Correggio, called him "a modern," 
 " unrefined," "lacking in repose." He patted 
 Paolo Caliari on the back, approving of his 
 spirit and his richness. He chattered of the 
 Greeks; Polycletus, Myron, Alcamanes 
 "Give me the lofty," he would say, " I don t 
 want the pretty." Then he would descant 
 on the portrait busts in terra-cotta of the 
 Gregorian collection, of the painted vases of 
 Etruria; marveling at fools who did not know 
 that those representing black figures on a red 
 ground are of a greater antiquity than those 
 which reverse these colors. When their host 
 mounted this art horse, I regret to state that 
 his audience was usually stifling yawns, while 
 his wife, with eyes that begged approval, 
 nodded, with faint smiles and dovelike coo- 
 ings, her rapturous admiration. Wrapped 
 in absorbed attention, "See," she would seem 
 to say, "what a man I married!" The fact 
 is that what Marston knew of art was of the 
 crudest and most superficial. 
 
 His old nurse a privileged person who 
 now presided over the nursery was of this 
 opinion. 
 
 " Laws! he "s brought in more chucks," she 
 would say to Lola irreverently.
 
 36 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "Why, Nursey, this is the Flight into 
 Egypt, " Mrs. Marston had once said to her, 
 exhibiting a pre-Raphaelesque portrayal of 
 the sacred journey, "and you call that 
 chucks?" 
 
 "Egypt! Well, it ain t a bit like it then," 
 said Nursey, who was a traveled person. 
 "I guess he got cheated, poor dear, and 
 it ain t the first time neither, he s that guile 
 less." 
 
 " Maybe they had n t got there yet," said 
 Lola, examining the picture anxiously. 
 
 As years went by, Lola noticed that her 
 husband s artistic harangue was always the 
 same, that he did not expand his learning 
 or teach anything fresh to his hearers; but 
 she continued to gurgle and nod and en 
 courage. Perhaps eye, speech, gesture, ad 
 here to custom longer and more tenaciously 
 than the mind, and are more lenient to rou 
 tine. 
 
 Of the contents of his establishments it 
 must be said they resembled somewhat the 
 collection of an art salesman. When he had 
 brought all these things home he had little 
 genius at their disposition. His houses were 
 like great museums through which his wife 
 walked with a slight sense of oppression. 
 She did not feel entirely at home in them. 
 There was so much!
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 37 
 
 Marston secretly regretted that his wife 
 did not lend herself more absolutely to his 
 views of existence, but consoled himself by 
 the reflection that the slight languor that she 
 brought to her duties of hostess was essen 
 tially "good form." It seemed to distance 
 and detach her from other and more eager 
 women. Unappreciated qualities sometimes 
 please by their reflex action. He forgave 
 her, therefore, and thought, upon the whole, 
 he could not have done better. Forgave 
 her that she had discarded the trained nurses 
 into the antechamber, and had herself 
 guarded their only son born in the second 
 year of wedlock when he lay ill with scar 
 let fever, thus endangering her own health 
 and beauty. Forgave her that she would 
 not leave his own, her husband s bedside 
 when he had broken his collar-bone in a fall 
 from his horse. The little son, Archibald, 
 Jr., had his mother s small ears, long fingers, 
 slight ankles and wrists. In him the butcher 
 seemed to be effectually eradicated, for which 
 Marston was very thankful to his wife. The 
 butcher, indeed, was more and more forgot 
 ten, or only very rarely brought to life in the 
 columns of some insectivorous sheet, whose 
 sting was hurriedly torn off and thrown into 
 the grate lest "the servants" should get hold 
 of it.
 
 38 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 This was the married pair whom Mrs. 
 Bush had followed in the records of social- 
 activities with such unceasing interest. 
 They were, in fact, conspicuous and greatly 
 envied.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 " I am glad to get home to America," 
 said Mrs. Ayrault, leaning back and survey 
 ing the table with a satisfied inspection; 
 "how nicely dear Lola does things!" she 
 added, sotto voce. 
 
 Hospitality is a perfume. That of the 
 powerful a quintessence to those who are its 
 beneficiaries. Vanity is caressed. 
 
 " They tell me it s Marston does it all, 
 and that Madame only sits up here looking 
 her best. I fancied you smart women," 
 said Mr. Isham, whom Arden Ayrault had 
 addressed, " thought it the proper thing to 
 decry your own country." 
 
 " Pshaw! " said his handsome neighbor. 
 
 " I m sick of the Continent," said Mr. 
 Isham, " the Latins fatigue me. They are 
 too excessive. They are violent, yet with 
 out impulse. They do not harbor force in 
 love or friendship. This explains their in 
 fidelities." 
 
 " I understand you," said Mrs. Ayrault. 
 " Hearts are weak, or is it nerves ? They 
 
 39
 
 40 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 cannot resist or meet this exhaustless de 
 mand." 
 
 " I will say for the French " Mr. Isham 
 helped himself to a pickle " that family ties 
 are strong with them." 
 
 " The natural ones, yes," said Mrs. Ay- 
 rault. "Where marriage is an affair of busi 
 ness and le man an enemy to be deceived or 
 cajoled, a girl s mother remains her best pro 
 tector." 
 
 " Then we Anglo-Saxons have a sense of 
 justice even in our gossip. I m weary of 
 the personal persiflage of foreign high 
 life which slays the character as if it were a 
 gnat. I m descended from Puritans and am 
 conscientious." 
 
 "Well, the English are heavy enough," 
 said Mrs. Ayrault, " and occasionally in 
 earnest. Why don t you try them? " 
 
 Mr. Isham blew his nose very loudly and 
 coughed. He was a victim to chronic bron 
 chitis. At least so he told his friends. 
 
 "The trouble with our cousins is that they 
 are too commercial. They always want to 
 sell you something. When I stayed with 
 Lady Stockton, Sir John had a litter of pup 
 pies he wished me to purchase. I explained 
 to him how inconvenient it would be to carry 
 puppies about in traveling. . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Ayrault laughed.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 41 
 
 " Yes, I remember Brownlow, Muriel 
 Hatch s husband, the Earl, you know, actu 
 ally made me buy a saddle-horse which his 
 sister wanted to get rid of, before I left Drogo 
 Towers." 
 
 "I thought," said Mr. Isham, "you had 
 larger powers of self-defense." 
 
 "When a British eye is fastened on an 
 American ducat, who shall be safe?" 
 
 " I confess I like their phlegm," said Mr. 
 Isham; "the result, no doubt, of the con 
 stant exercise of the muscular system. Gar 
 rulity is unusual in England, even in age. 
 The nervous forces are otherwise expended." 
 
 " Does not the work of the brain in artis 
 tic pursuits such as yours use up the energies 
 beneficially? " asked Arden. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Isham; "nothing but 
 body movement cures nervousness, curbs the 
 tongue, and sweetens the temper." 
 
 " But what satisfaction you must have! " 
 exclaimed the lady, bending toward the 
 great artist. 
 
 " The desire for fame is doubtless the un 
 acknowledged hunger of all humanity after 
 the eternal the immortal but it is only 
 won through degrading processes." 
 
 " Degrading? " 
 
 " Why, yes, in a measure. To curry favor 
 with the public has always in it a note of
 
 42 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 baseness. They buy, we. produce; a mere 
 trade after all. They criticise, we shudder, 
 hide it as we will. The performer is always 
 an inferior to his auditor. Genius is the 
 fool s slave. The fool sits safe. He has 
 paid his way. He sits in his box with his 
 Philistine smirk on while the poor actor 
 sweats and trembles." 
 
 " Dear me! " said Mrs. Marston, their fair 
 hostess, " dear me! How wildly interesting 
 you two people are. Hush, Tad! Don t 
 talk nonsense to me any more, I wish to 
 hear what s going on at my right." 
 
 " Can t I listen too? " lisped Tad Nailer, 
 with his vacant eye turned toward the bald 
 spot above Mr. Isham s brow. 
 
 The great artist often came down for a 
 day or two to Marston Terrace. It was 
 almost the only visit he ever paid. He had 
 the reputation of being something of an 
 ogre, inaccessible and sauvage ; but he ad 
 mired Mrs. Marston and the pecularities of 
 this menage interested and amused him. He 
 also thought their chef made an excellent 
 bouillabaise. 
 
 " The tip end of her little white finger is 
 worth a hundred big hulks like his," he 
 thought; " yet he plays Sir Oracle, and she 
 looks up delicious! delicious! " and as a 
 keen student of human physiognomies and
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 43 
 
 human weaknesses Mr. Isham always re 
 turned to the entertainment with renewed 
 gusto. 
 
 " How you must study faces," said Mrs. 
 Marston to him, " to catch and fix as you do 
 fleeting and ephemeral expression! If an 
 ugly woman comes to you, do you ever re 
 fuse to paint her? " 
 
 " It is astonishing," said Mr. Isham, " how 
 a word of commendation will efface ugliness. 
 We are ugly because we are evil-minded, 
 morose, or unhappy. Flatter her a little, 
 and behold she is pretty? " 
 
 "When you did my portrait," said Arden 
 Ayrault, "you certainly did not flatter me! " 
 
 "You are vain enough already!" 
 
 " I like that! " 
 
 " Of course you like it," said the Count de 
 Beaumont, who was sitting at Mrs. Ayrault s 
 other shoulder; " women wish to be thought 
 vain." 
 
 " Are we all alike, then? " 
 
 " Everybody looks alike to the ordinary 
 observer," said Mr. Isham; " that is why life 
 is so much richer to clever people. It takes 
 original minds to see originality. The pano 
 rama is indistinct to the triflers. That is why 
 brilliant intellect recognizes worth in simple 
 persons whom the imbeciles only despise 
 and trample upon. I once heard a silly girl
 
 44 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 say to Mrs. Jack Gresham that she had just 
 read a story whose heroine was such a fasci 
 nating woman! But they are only attractive 
 like that in books, said she, simpering, while 
 the arch-syren she was addressing passed 
 on." 
 
 "You ought to have married a woman like 
 the fair Constance, Isham," said Mr. Marston, 
 not without a point of malice, " and given us 
 the spectacle of two meteors twirling to 
 gether in a whirl of astral space." 
 
 "We artists cannot give ourselves such 
 luxuries. Love a la Constance is expensive." 
 
 "Artists are proverbially fickle," said Mrs. 
 Marston. "They don t like to say for 
 ever. " 
 
 " It s sometimes easier to say forever 
 than to-morrow, " said Mr. Isham, with his 
 quaint humorous laugh, " particularly when 
 one s bank account is low." 
 
 " So, Sir Lemuel, you lost your happiness 
 for glory? " 
 
 " Too few people, my dear Marston, know 
 happiness to be said to have lost it. At best 
 they lose a hope or a habit. My wife would 
 have made me content, and herself too, pos 
 sibly, if she had never asked me, Do you 
 still love me? If a woman asked me that 
 exasperating question I should be hateful 
 enough to think Do I? a propensity
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 45 
 
 which springs from my New England par 
 entage." 
 
 " I think you would make just the nicest 
 kind of a husband in spite of your analytical 
 propensities," said Mrs. Marston. " I shall 
 take you for my second. As Archibald is 
 pretty healthy, I shall be fat and middle- 
 aged, but I shall never doubt the affection I 
 inspire." 
 
 " Modern women have suppressed middle 
 age," said Mr. Atherton, a widower, a man 
 of the world, always a favorite in drawing- 
 rooms. "Show me a middle-aged woman 
 to-day. There are none." 
 
 "You see them still in the provinces," 
 said Mrs. Plunkett, drawing her eyes away 
 for one brief moment from the enraptured 
 observation of her beautiful daughter, oppo 
 site. " You see them still in the provinces." 
 She spoke as if alluding to some extinct bird 
 whose claw-prints an ancient boulder might 
 inconveniently have kept. 
 
 " Mrs. Gresham is artificial," Count de 
 Beaumont was saying. 
 
 "That is why I like her," said Mrs. Ayrault. 
 " I hate simple people." 
 
 " O, eccentric people amuse the outsiders, 
 but are never popular in their own family," 
 said Mrs. Maury; "the conservative quali 
 ties are better for every day."
 
 46 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "Artists should eschew the happy mar 
 riage. If properly understood and at peace, 
 talent rarely develops to its utmost. It needs 
 a little wholesome damming to produce the 
 torrent," said Mr. Atherton. 
 
 "And the unfinished is nothing," said Mr. 
 Isham reflectively. 
 
 "I suppose," said Mrs. Ayrault, "there 
 are worse things than an unhappy marriage." 
 Her own had been unfortunate. She was 
 separated from her husband. " But there 
 are moments when one thinks not." 
 
 " From what are called ruined lives spring 
 charm and power," said Mr. Isham. "We 
 are all condemned to suffer and die. What 
 matter an hour sooner or later? " 
 
 " Dear me, how dismal we are getting! " 
 said Mrs. Marston. 
 
 "That is the trouble with discussing life 
 seriously," said Mrs. Plunkett. " One always 
 gets dismal. But tell us about physiognomy, 
 figure, gesture, Mr. Isham. Can you read 
 character through these? " 
 
 "There s a good deal in it. There are 
 types, of course. A man with large lips is 
 usually false. A woman with full lips, ten 
 der. The big-headed, short-legged people, 
 so detestable from the artistic standpoint, 
 sometimes rule the world." 
 
 " Have patriots any particular aspect? "
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 47 
 
 " They are often commonplace in appear 
 ance, because they are rarely idealists. They 
 are men of action, never philosophers. These 
 last, the humanitarians, waste time in 
 dreams." 
 
 " What s that, Isham? Discussing social 
 ism, eh?" Mr. Marston raised his voice. 
 
 " Nothing was further from my thought." 
 With another dry cough. " Plague on this 
 bronchitis of mine! " 
 
 " You have a cold? " asked Mrs. Plunkett. 
 
 "Chronic thanks, no, no more wine." 
 This to an elderly and distinguished lawyer 
 who had several times pushed the Madeira 
 across the tablecloth with the deprecatory 
 self-conscious attitude of the senior Ameri 
 can who takes his pleasures as if he would 
 say, " Here we are, my. boys wine, women, 
 and song! Let s be merry while we may! 
 Monday is n t here yet! " 
 
 " I m conservative," said Marston. " I m 
 down on all talk of progress, petticoats, an 
 archism and incendiarism, women s suffrage, 
 and labor emancipation. As for the social 
 ists, I d hang them all every damned cur 
 of them!" 
 
 Mr. Isham coughed persistently for two 
 minutes. 
 
 " Don t you think, Mr. Marston, when 
 more avenues are open to women, they will
 
 48 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 renounce vice, men will have fewer expenses, 
 marriages will be more frequent? " said Mrs. 
 Maury, one of the guests. 
 
 " Would les cigales go to work? " said Ath- 
 erton. "That "s the question." 
 
 " All women are born angels," said young 
 Tad Nailer, blushing a bright scarlet. " It s 
 us men who make them wicked! " 
 
 Mr. Isham looked at the speaker over his 
 spectacles from under bushy eyebrows, with 
 a glance half contemptuous, half approving. 
 He drew in his breath with a short, wheezy 
 sound. 
 
 " That s a good boy! " said Mrs. Marston, 
 patting Tad s hand. 
 
 " Don t you think, Marston," said Ather- 
 ton, "that we are ignorant of the laws which 
 underlie the processes of evolution, and that 
 much as you and I may deprecate changes 
 palpably to our disadvantage, nevertheless 
 change is inevitable?" He looked around 
 as he spoke, at the magnificence of the 
 dining-room which the ancestral butcher 
 had furnished. 
 
 " I don t know anything about that," said 
 Marston, fuming; " er my ancestors . . . 
 were er . . . self-made . . . yes, self-made. 
 I m not ashamed to own it." 
 
 His wife raised her lovely eyes to the 
 ceiling. Now she knew he was faultless.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 49 
 
 She prayed God to forgive her for having 
 once, yes, once, feared her beloved was just a 
 wee wee bit of a snob, and for having agon 
 ized over it. No doubt at the time her liver 
 must have been disordered. Such injustice 
 could have but one explanation the bilious 
 one. 
 
 The Madeira was in Marston s veins, and 
 in his wine he was an honest man. " Why 
 should others rob me of the results of their 
 industry and wisdom? " he said, glaring. 
 
 Mr. Isham again blew his nose. 
 
 "Our forefathers," said Atherton, "were 
 robust men, with a sense of duty and respon 
 sibility. We who profit by their labors are 
 watched sullenly, but need have no fears if 
 we emulate these qualities." 
 
 " Not at all, not at all! " said Mr. Marston. 
 " I don t agree with you. It is the best men 
 they wish to destroy; not the mean ones who 
 let their wealth roll up while the poor starve; 
 but the lavish, who scatter, are benefactors, 
 and are therefore conspicuous." 
 
 " Deny the socialists as you will," said 
 Mr. Atherton, " there are men among them 
 who think and feel intensely. For this I 
 respect them." 
 
 " Mere rhapsodies! " said Marston. 
 
 " Don t you think," whispered Mrs. Mar 
 ston to Mr. Isham, "that it s often the best
 
 50 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 part of people which makes them con 
 servative? Archie is so good to the poor! 
 You don t know all he does! Nobody 
 knows! " 
 
 " You see, my dear Mrs. Marston, what 
 the masses ask for now is not alms, but 
 opportunity." 
 
 " And has n t everybody opportunity in 
 our country? " asked the host, catching his 
 guest s remark on the wing. 
 
 " No! " bawled Mr. Isham. 
 
 "There must be selection," said Mr. Ather- 
 ton. " How are you going to clutch the 
 strongest and keep him down?" 
 
 " In the development of Western civiliza 
 tion our altruistic feeling will soon teach us," 
 answered Mr. Isham. "As a great writer 
 has lately told us, the very citadel is leagued 
 with its besiegers. Intellect and reason, which 
 are other words for individualism every 
 man for himself are always selfish, and 
 must be controlled by the extraordinary 
 ethical movement which is the outgrowth of 
 all great religious teaching. All excluded 
 people will be brought into a wholesome 
 rivalry of life. Even the broken-winded will 
 have room to breathe, only we must not be 
 impatient. The process of creation, which 
 is still going on, is slow." 
 
 14 1 am glad I have no convictions, and can
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 51 
 
 hold my peace. It is all so bewildering," 
 sighed Mrs. Ayrault. 
 
 " So was the French Revolution to onlook 
 ers, Mrs. Ayrault; so was the emancipation 
 of the slave to his owner. I must say," said 
 Mr. Isham, "the nigger has cost us a great 
 deal. It was a good turn which was done 
 him when he was brought over from Africa. 
 He improved immensely over here. One 
 almost envies an autocracy when one sees 
 how the Czar freed the serf with a stroke of 
 the pen, while we shed and expended, in our 
 republic, oceans of blood and bagsful of 
 money." 
 
 " But you surely thought slavery quite 
 dreadful?" said Mrs. Plunkett. 
 
 " Of course it s dreadful, madam. It s 
 dreadful to come into life and find yourself 
 at the foot of the ladder with all the best 
 positions out of your reach and already 
 filled. The laws of the universe, as we 
 regard them with our limited vision, are not 
 calculated to make us very comfortable." 
 
 " Refined epicureanism is always the ac 
 companiment of thoughtless wealth and 
 power," said Mr. Atherton, who himself had 
 a decided distaste for what he called the 
 " common people," " and makes us cruel." 
 
 "That is coming right, all the same," 
 said Mr. Isham. " Our evolution, it seems,
 
 52 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 must be very gradual. A slow, organic 
 growth with a life-history at its back. Units 
 have always been sacrificed. The cruelty 
 remains and has to be swallowed. Let the 
 poor devils take what comfort they can from 
 the patience the priests preach to them. 
 The French, where they have discarded 
 such teaching, have presented a sorry spec 
 tacle. O, I don t find fault with them in 
 idea, a wonderful people; but this restrain 
 ing force they need, or else it is not others 
 they destroy, but themselves. Christianity 
 knew what it was about when it preached 
 the beyond. Slowly but surely the liberal 
 views are encroaching, advancing, conquer 
 ing a mere question of time. Slaves are 
 free. Men have grown sensitive to wrong. 
 My friend, Marston, here, who talks of 
 stringing up anarchists, would not hurt a fly." 
 
 Mrs. Marston smiled, radiant. 
 
 " I saw him spend a half-hour yesterday 
 picking a splinter out of his shepherd s hand. 
 He was very gentle with the lad. He is not 
 half bad-hearted." 
 
 Marston laughed a little shamefacedly. 
 
 " In England day by day we see the ad 
 vance of democracy, a democracy born of 
 kindness on one side, as well as discontent 
 on the other. The conservative s is a forlorn 
 hope. They are practically but the puppets
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 53 
 
 of blind destiny, which stays their hand when 
 it sees fit. Soon the hours of labor will be 
 shortened; higher education will be more 
 generally attainable; capitalists will give the 
 surplus of their means to enterprises which 
 will benefit the workingman, and, Marston " 
 he leaned over the table an d fixed his 
 host with his piercing eyes " the ladies will 
 have the ballot, and rule us more effectually 
 than they do to-day." 
 
 "Here s to the success of your millen 
 nium! " cried Mr. Atherton, raising his glass. 
 "I wish I was convinced." 
 
 "You said religion had taught us so much. 
 You are from Boston, are you not, Mr. 
 Isham?" said Mrs. Plunkett. "I presume 
 you are a Unitarian." 
 
 "Do I look like a Unitarian, madam?" 
 
 "Why, how do they look?" asked Mrs. 
 Plunkett. " Have they any distinctive mark 
 on them? I know so many nice Unitarians." 
 
 " They look complacent, madam, as be 
 hooves men who have robbed the Lord Jesus 
 Christ of his divinity." 
 
 "O, dear me!" said Mrs. Plunkett, some 
 what agitated, "perhaps you are a Presby 
 terian?" 
 
 " I shall certainly not quarrel with my 
 Presbyterian friends," said Mr. Isham. 
 " They live in such material smugness, and
 
 54 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 give such excellent dinners! They assure me 
 that this result of luxury springs from their 
 scrupulous observance of the Sabbath. What 
 do you think about it, madam? " 
 
 Mrs. Plunkett found that Mr. Lemuel 
 Isham, of whom she had heard so much, 
 made her a little uneasy, as we feel in the 
 society of those we secretly suspect of laugh 
 ing at us; yet nothing could be more im 
 penetrable than his face, which was at once 
 grave and respectful. 
 
 " While Isham delivers himself of his 
 theories," said Mr. Marston, " I vote we 
 adjourn to the smoking-room. Here, Fran 
 cois, bring us lights." 
 
 The men adjourned to the tabagie, the 
 ladies to the library, where the three mas 
 tiffs and little Archie s collie were warming 
 their noses before a wood fire. 
 
 " Bush, the new gardener, arrived this 
 afternoon, and desires to see Monsieur," said 
 Francois, the maitrc d hotel. 
 
 "Ah, the new farmer," his master cor 
 rected him. " Tell him to wait for me a 
 moment on the porch. I 11 be there in a 
 minute. I wish to say a word to him." 
 
 A quarter of an hour later he found Bush 
 awaiting him, hat in hand. Mrs. Marston 
 also came out and joined her husband 
 under the stars. She and Joe Bush looked
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 55 
 
 at each other. That first glance made them 
 allies. 
 
 " What good eyes he has," she said to her 
 husband afterward. 
 
 " Did she say anything about me? " asked 
 Mrs. Bush when Joe had walked back to the 
 cottage. She was still dressed in her travel 
 ing-cloak, finishing her supper with that 
 feeling of strangeness and lost leverage born 
 of arrival in a new home. 
 
 " I guess she had comp ny. I guess she 
 was busy," said Joe evasively. " No, she 
 only stayed out a half-minute." 
 
 " Is she such a beauty?" 
 
 " Well, no, now, I should n t say she was 
 a beauty. She s got a sweet-lookin face." 
 
 Beth rose with a vague sense of disap 
 pointment.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 BETH, who had a natural aptitude at com 
 mand, found that the first days of her in 
 stallation flattered this pronounced inclina 
 tion. It was not only agreeable to be the 
 mistress of a cozy and comfortable retreat, 
 vine-embowered, freshly painted, crisply 
 cleanly, with its porch on which Dottie 
 might play she found a distinctively suave 
 flavor in being addressed as " ma am " by 
 the three dairy girls. The farm-hands, who 
 were to be given meals at the cottage, were 
 even more obsequious. They doffed their 
 hats when she came out to wring and hang 
 a scrub-cloth on the line which stretched its 
 wires under the locusts behind the house. 
 They called her Madam Bush, and wiped 
 their feet on her door-mat when they crossed 
 the threshold, with exemplary considerate- 
 ness. She had entered precincts where 
 order and law reigned, where there were 
 some traditions of inequality. Such had 
 scarcely existed upon the soil from which 
 she had sprung. Josh, their chore-boy at 
 
 56
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 57 
 
 Pontifex, was a second cousin of her hus 
 band s. He never wiped his feet. When 
 his work was over he came into the kitchen 
 and ate and talked with the family. Now 
 she found that she was not expected to sit 
 at meat with the laborers and milk-girls, and 
 was only to oversee their repasts from the 
 vantage-ground of landlady. The maids 
 took turns in waiting upon the table, and 
 washed up the dishes when all was done. 
 They slept in an adjoining cottage, which a 
 stout, red-cheeked Irishwoman presided over. 
 
 "The big house," whose classic outline 
 she could barely define through the foliage 
 which half concealed it, seemed, indeed, dur 
 ing these first days, more unreal than when 
 she had conned descriptions of its majesty 
 in the thumbed pages of her Sunday Herald. 
 Its engraved representation, which she had 
 pasted in her old scrapbook, looked more 
 genial and approachable. Her chagrin that 
 its mistress had not spoken of her, on the 
 night of her arrival, was followed by a sharp 
 pin-prick. She learned that Mrs. Marston 
 and her guests had gone away at dawn. 
 
 Before she was definitely told from head 
 quarters, and in detail, what were to be her 
 special duties, she would have time to "set 
 tle" herself, that vague word which, to femi 
 nine minds, conveys so much. To be
 
 58 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 unpacked is not to be established, to be 
 dressed is not to be ready. On the whole 
 it was well. 
 
 "I declare, the home is so pretty it s a 
 shame we ain t acquainted around here," she 
 said to Joe. 
 
 "I guess after the first church sociable 
 we ll get friendly with the neighbors." 
 
 " There ain t any other grand houses like 
 Mr. Marston s, is there, here? " 
 
 "I m told two mile off some rich New 
 York men s got mansions. I guess they re 
 friends of the master s." 
 
 Beth laughed and flushed. " Why do you 
 say master like that, Joe Bush? You ain t 
 the gardener, you re the foreman." 
 
 The flower-gardener, Mr. Ackerman, had 
 shown them about the place a little, and 
 confided the poultry to Mrs. Bush s care. 
 Beth was no novice in such matters, and she 
 assumed with a good will tasks which 
 seemed easy enough when viewed in the 
 light of her past. 
 
 She amused herself Saturday afternoon 
 after her work was all done arranging her 
 sitting-room. She cut out a yellow paper 
 cover for the mantel-shelf. She hung some 
 green shades to the windows. The chairs, 
 which were in sad disarray, she set against 
 the wall with the accuracy of a methodic
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 59 
 
 eye. The table she drew exactly into the 
 center of the room, measuring distances 
 with praiseworthy fidelity. Upon it she 
 placed a cheap lamp, a family Bible, and 
 two red-bound books on the subject of 
 temperance, which an enthusiast had once 
 left with her as he tramped by on a hot sum 
 mer s noonday. She viewed books as bric- 
 a-brac. To these she added a photograph 
 of the entire Bush family, taken in a group, 
 framed in braided straw. Joe in the fore 
 ground, with Dottie, ten months old, on his 
 knee, and a curiously exaggerated right 
 hand resting on the child s fat shoulder; and 
 her own handsome features, just visible be 
 hind her mother-in-law s large bonnet pre 
 senting a livid blot. Two old brass spittoons 
 she burnished up, and ranged on each side 
 of the hearth. Joe had potted some plants 
 for her. She stood these in the window, at 
 which she hung up the cage of Dottie s 
 thrush, which bird Josh had reared expressly 
 for his little relative, and which the child 
 had carried all the way from her home with 
 patient watchfulness. It chirped cheerfully 
 in the sunshine, singing on its perch in 
 gleeful carelessness, while Dottie thrust 
 her fingers between the bars, screech 
 ing with delight when they got pecked for 
 their pains.
 
 60 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 It was summer Long Island summer. 
 Hot, long days followed hot, long days. The 
 cows made holes in the turf of their burned 
 pasturage to cool their burning flanks. Far, 
 far away the sleepy Sound sent up now and 
 then a murmur when a steamer disturbed 
 its quietness, lashing its peaceful waters into 
 wave-crests. 
 
 Deserted by its owners, who had gone 
 with friends to camp in the mountains, the 
 great villa looked like a Greek temple, where 
 it slept upon its low hill. From its stately 
 terraces the prospect was magnificent, but 
 they were not near to the sea, and when the 
 Marstons wanted a briny dip they drove to 
 the shore, on which they owned a private 
 bathing-house. To the west of the house 
 lay the Italian garden. The French windows 
 of Mrs. Marston s bedroom, which opened 
 upon an upper balcony, looked out upon its 
 walks. This balcony was in itself a charm 
 ing place. There were seats about it, and 
 statues, and dark orange trees in terra-cotta 
 pots. Sometimes of a morning she would 
 bloom out upon it, clad in one of her pale- 
 rose peignoirs, like a flower suddenly blown 
 at the touch of dawn. While her husband 
 was building the house, she was reading 
 Percier and Fontaine, and the result had 
 been the pleasure-ground, unique in Amer-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 61 
 
 ica, and seeming but another apartment of 
 a domain consecrated to ease. She desired 
 box-hedges, and dreamed of arbor vitae, but, 
 like all judicious Long Islanders, had com 
 promised on privet. This was so dense, 
 finely cut and cared for, it was found to 
 answer every purpose. In the center of the 
 parterres, to which one ascended at four 
 angles by stone steps, rose a fairy pavilion, 
 where tea was served on warm and windless 
 afternoons. It was a rotunda supported by 
 Doric columns. Its interior was lined with 
 mirrors. It was of white stucco, and glis 
 tened in the sun. It contained a marble 
 table and seats which Mr. Marston had 
 found in Rome. To the south the garden 
 was bounded by several acres of uncultivated 
 woodland. At the foot of its main walk 
 was a rosery, in the middle of which a foun 
 tain played ; about the fountain bloomed 
 azaleas, hydrangeas, and such flowering 
 plants as the season furnished. The basin 
 was sunk to reflect upon the breast of its 
 clear water the surrounding growths. Here 
 and there at the edge of a bosquet, or open 
 ing of an arbor, one caught the gleam of 
 white statuary a dancing nymph, an airy 
 graceful faun, giving the scene a festive and 
 gay air. 
 
 " My husband has so much taste," Lola
 
 62 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 would murmur to her friends when she 
 showed them this garden, planned by her 
 self. Under her calm exterior lay ever this 
 ardent and anxious affection, asking sym 
 pathy. Mr. Isham understood her secret 
 desire that all should do her husband honor. 
 It touched him. 
 
 The glass graperies and conservatories 
 were quite in another direction, skirting the 
 eastern limit of the grounds. Through 
 these, and through the flower-garden, Mr. 
 Ackerman piloted Mr. and Mrs. Bush one 
 Sunday afternoon. The French chef, Pierre 
 Rose, was sitting in the pavilion in his shirt 
 sleeves, smoking a cigarette and reading 
 his Courier. As the Bushes approached 
 he picked up his jacket, put it on, and, with 
 a low bow, was duly presented by Mr. 
 Ackerman. 
 
 " Quelle belle enfant placing his hand 
 paternally on Dottie s yellow curls. 
 
 He was a handsome, well-dressed person 
 of about thirty-five, with a sarcastic mouth, 
 a great deal of curly blue-black hair, and a 
 general air of one who has seen the world 
 and found it well enough. He joined the 
 party, throwing away his cigarette, and saun 
 tered with them along the paths. 
 
 " Who is he, anyway? " asked Joe of Beth, 
 with a puzzled air.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 63 
 
 " Mr. Ackerman says it s the cook." 
 Beth smothered a giggle. 
 
 "Well, if I ain t blessed! " 
 
 She could hardly snub this august individ 
 ual, who was so much more polished than 
 Joe, and far better dressed than any of the 
 men she had ever associated with; yet her 
 distinct contempt for "servants," and fear 
 of their possible familiarity, rose in her 
 throat. She contented herself by dropping 
 back with Dottie, and letting the gentlemen 
 walk in advance. By and by they met some 
 maids from the house, strolling and chatter 
 ing, looking very smart in their livery of 
 black cashmere, wide white collars and cuffs, 
 tiny ribboned caps, and embroidered aprons. 
 
 "I d hate to wear anything like that," 
 thought Beth, to compensate herself for the 
 disagreeable impression that their outfit was 
 far more tasteful and suitable than her own. 
 
 They stopped as they passed, and one 
 addressed a soft word to Dottie, but Mrs. 
 Bush pushed the child on with only a digni 
 fied and distant nod. 
 
 "Well, if she ain t a proud one!" said 
 Bridget Summers. 
 
 " Mrs. Daggett never put on any such 
 airs," said Delia. Mrs. Daggett was the 
 late farmer s wife. She had been of Irish 
 birth.
 
 64 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "They re Americans," said Mary, the 
 under-laundress. "Augustine says so." 
 
 " Well, and if she be, she need n t eat us. 
 We ain t exactly dirt." 
 
 " If those servants think I m going to 
 associate with them," Mrs. Bush said later 
 to her husband, " I 11 know it." She tossed 
 her head scowling. 
 
 " I guess they would n t expect it," said 
 Joe. " Ain t the men and dairy-girls been 
 respec ful? " 
 
 Beth shook her head. She did not under 
 stand anything any more. A sudden abyss 
 seemed to yawn under her feet. 
 
 " Seems as if I did n t know what was 
 expected," she said under her breath. 
 
 " I guess it don t do any harm to be civil," 
 said Joe tentatively. "It s all one." 
 
 " It s a fine place," he said by and by, 
 looking at his wife uneasily. "We never 
 seen anything like it before." 
 
 But his efforts at conjugal conversation 
 were baffled by silence. 
 
 Things and people all have two aspects: 
 those of our impatience or of our tolerance. 
 Beth s tolerant moods seemed, since her 
 arrival at Marston Terrace, to be sorely 
 strained.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The church sociable, which Joe s prophetic 
 instinct whispered would soon throw down 
 the barriers of formality between the new 
 comers and their neighbors, did not fail to 
 take place. They were bidden to it two 
 weeks after their arrival. Here Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bush made some acquaintances. They 
 were treated with marked consideration. 
 Mrs. Bush, who improvised a somewhat 
 elaborate toilette for the occasion out of a 
 piece of black silk, the gift of her mother-in- 
 law, and some embroidery ripped from a 
 discarded winter costume, looked extremely 
 handsome. A certain excitement, indispen 
 sable to the beauty of her highly nervous 
 type, lent itself to this result. Among the 
 feasters whom she closely inspected, while 
 they in their turn "took in" her striking 
 figure, two persons detached themselves to 
 dwell afterward with persistence in her 
 memory. The rest was a bright mass of 
 comely maidens in starched muslin frocks, 
 which looked somewhat outgrown, belted at 
 
 65
 
 66 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 their slim waists with garish ribbons, and 
 whose hats were surmounted by a large va 
 riety of bows, feathers, and cheap flowers. 
 Some of them wore showy watch-chains, 
 brooches, and earrings. The matrons, in 
 soberer attire, with sallow cheeks, frequently 
 when over thirty displaying in their smile 
 a double row of palpably false teeth, gener 
 ally wore black bonnets over thin hair 
 whisked from a part two ringers wide. The 
 men, rugged-handed, spare, with shrewd, 
 kindly eyes, generally wore black broad 
 cloth; some few of the younger ones, the 
 lighter rough suits of the day s mode stamped 
 "ready-made." 
 
 Two persons, I say, detached themselves 
 from the crowd. One was a young woman, 
 whose name was given to Mrs. Bush by the 
 doctor s wife while they partook of coffee 
 together under the tent. 
 
 "That s Floribel Pullen," she said. " Have 
 you seen her before? She s well known 
 around here." 
 
 Something in the lady s tone of voice sug 
 gested to Mrs. Bush that this knowledge was 
 not altogether without spice, and might even 
 touc i on the forbidden. 
 
 " / have n t become acquainted with the 
 neighbors, even by sight, yet," said Mrs. 
 Bush prudently.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 67 
 
 " Well, she s a gay one! " 
 
 " She s real pretty." 
 
 " How old, now, would you take her to 
 be?" 
 
 "Well, I guess twenty-four, perhaps." 
 
 " Twenty-four! " If she had not been too 
 ladylike to whistle, the doctor s wife would 
 have relieved herself in this primitive fash 
 ion. " If Floribel Pullen ever sees thirty- 
 four again, she 11 be mighty content." 
 
 "W T ell! she s young-looking." 
 
 "It s a wonder, too, with all she s gone 
 through," and again the physician s spouse 
 raised an eyebrow charged with meaning. 
 " Here, Miss Pullen," she called out to the 
 object of her comments. 
 
 Floribel lowered a white parasol, and 
 closed her eyes half-way. 
 
 "Did you speak to me, Mrs. Opdycke?" 
 she asked in a clear, ringing voice. 
 
 "Yes; I want to introduce you to Mrs. 
 Bush she s living over at Mr. Marston s. 
 Mr. Bush s taken the farm." 
 
 " I m sure I m very glad to meet you, 
 Mrs. Bush," and Miss Pullen, extending a 
 neatly gloved hand, courteseyed. 
 
 Where she got those gloves, that parasol, 
 those fresh, perfectly fitting gowns, had long 
 been an unsolved riddle to the minds of 
 Paradise. The Pullens were known to be
 
 68 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 poor. The only son and brother was a ne er- 
 do-weel, the mother foolish and shiftless, 
 with no known sources of income, the father 
 dead. 
 
 She had white hands that did little or no 
 work, as one could see by their finger-tips; 
 while her well-shod feet, quick to tread the 
 mazes of the dance, swift to run in the ways 
 of pleasure, were laggard to all unpleasant 
 errands. 
 
 Now she came forward, with her vivid 
 smile, those idle arms outstretched to greet 
 the stranger. Her enemies, and she had not 
 a few although of this she seemed una 
 ware could not but admit that she had a 
 "manner with her." This manner was now 
 uppermost. If it concealed turpitude, it did 
 its work well. It was always modest, seemly 
 decorous, candid. Yes, here it went a trifle 
 far. There was a childish inflection of 
 voice, upraised lids filled with innocent and 
 unslaked curiosity, asking to be taught, to 
 sit at one s feet, to listen mayhap to be 
 chidden and shed a tear or two. This atti 
 tude, which may have been a birthright, had 
 crystallized into the parti pris. It still suf 
 ficed for the simple. The subtle questioned 
 its values. 
 
 While she chatted glibly with Mrs. Bush, 
 exclamatory, surprised she lived in a con-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 69 
 
 stant condition of infantile wonderment- 
 absorbed, sympathetic, eyes, ears, and 
 tongues were busy with her name. 
 
 Miss Pullen s earliest recorded love af 
 fair had been a tragedy. While she was 
 still very young, an admirer of hers was 
 drowned. She appeared immediately in 
 widow s weeds, insisting that she was en 
 gaged to him. The hostile and spiteful 
 saw in this only a fine piece of comedy. 
 They had doubted his intentions. He was 
 the son of Mr. Paradise, a prosperous farmer, 
 after whom the hamlet was named, a rich 
 man, whose girls learned French, and whose 
 sons were sent to college, far above the 
 Pullens in position. Her lamentations, how 
 ever, had been loud if not prolonged. She 
 had exacted much commiseration from her 
 acquaintances. A bereavement which fails 
 to crush does not therefore stifle in us a 
 desire for pity. Somebody must suffer if a 
 just balance is to be obtained, and the dead 
 to have their dues. She had risen from this 
 blow with a certain smell of mould and 
 mystery clinging to her garments. She 
 was eminently occupying. 
 
 " If there ain t Florrie Pullen makin up 
 to Marston s new people. She d be in 
 with the last strange face if it had the 
 devil s horns growing above it," said Mrs.
 
 70 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Bryan, the innkeeper s wife. " I don t say 
 but what Miss Bush looks to be a right smart 
 lady," she added, repentingly, after a hasty 
 survey of Beth s straight back and shoul 
 ders. " I hear they "re good folks down in 
 Pontifex." 
 
 " Mr. Oakes is sweet on her now," said 
 the addressed person, with a glance toward 
 Floribel, in which malevolence was veiled 
 in a certain satisfaction. Twenty years 
 older than a husband who was not entirely 
 impervious to feminine charm, the stout 
 postmistress, Madam Fesser, although of a 
 proverbially indulgent temper, could never 
 theless defend her own when attacked, as 
 her collie dog could fight for a bone. She 
 was well content that Floribel s foray should 
 be directed into another camp. 
 
 " He d better look out then for that 
 black-browed beetle as comes up of a Sun 
 day after Florrie. Her ma says he s her 
 reg lar comp ny, a lawyer from the city. I 
 guess it ain t Oakes as 11 cut him out. He 
 ain t got a cent to bless himself with, the 
 poor lad, for all his pride an learnin . They 
 do say, tho , that the city chap is mighty 
 sick of his bargain 
 
 Other women s men are apt to present an 
 aspect of fatigue to vigilant feminine critics. 
 Mrs. Bryan lowered her voice, and the two
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 71 
 
 old dames with heads in close contact, and 
 vibrant bonnet-strings, continued their talk 
 in muffled murmurs, shaken by occasional 
 bursts of shrill laughter. 
 
 " Mr. Oakes, let me make you acquainted 
 with Mrs. Bush: Mrs. Bush Mr. Oakes." 
 
 Beth looked up. This was that other 
 individuality, besides Floribel s, which, from 
 the moment of her advent on the church 
 campus, had invaded and held her thought. 
 A tall, slender young man, with unreadable 
 gray eyes eyes which burned like two 
 fitful fires, curls of thick light hair, grow 
 ing low on a forehead broad and prominent, 
 a straight, finely-chiseled nose, a square, 
 strong jaw, with lips drawn into set stern 
 ness ; a rare smile, totally devoid of merri 
 ment, nevertheless lighted up the face into 
 evanescent spirituality, giving it at moments 
 a strange beauty ; slightly stooping shoul 
 ders, the chest narrow and hollowed, but 
 withal a nervous and muscular flexibility of 
 frame. 
 
 The reason that these two persons stood 
 out from among the country-bred circle of 
 which they appeared to form a part was that 
 Floribel, for all her candor, looked like a 
 woman of pleasure, and Mr. Oakes like a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Yes, in spite of his worn trousers, his
 
 72 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 threadbare black coat, his sunburned straw 
 hat with its faded ribbon, there was about 
 him that discernible " quality " which is born 
 in a person, never acquired. Possibly some 
 remote ancestor, who had wielded sword or 
 pen, at any rate power, had infused into his 
 veins that drop of ichor which lifted him 
 from among his fellows. Yet Percival Oakes 
 was only a village school-teacher as yet. 
 In the heart-devouring weariness of his lot, 
 while he hearkened to the drowsy voices of 
 the dirty urchins and frowzy lasses who sat 
 under his tuition, these two words, " as yet," 
 flamed in his soul. That soul was full of 
 bitterness. Ill-clothed, ill-fed, a chronic suf 
 ferer from acute dyspepsia, his face was 
 already lined with the marks of morbid intro 
 spection, impotent cynicism, and impatient 
 scorn. He walked through the beautiful 
 meadows, his head crouched between his 
 shoulders, or hanging forward on his breast, 
 wrapped in dark musings. If nature was 
 hardly a spectacle to him, it was never a 
 refuge. His was not the reverie of the 
 Oriental, to whom action is fatal and futile, 
 but an agitated dream devoid of tenderness. 
 His eyes, rarely turned upward to the heaven 
 of stars, burrowed earthward. This habit 
 gave him a frowning aspect, which passably 
 alarmed children, and made young girls
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 73 
 
 afraid of him. He was not over-popular. 
 He was considered to be an inefficient 
 teacher. It was said of him that he was 
 above his work. Being alone in the world, 
 without friends or money, he had been un 
 able to obtain any higher education than a 
 common school one, but by this he had 
 profited. An industrious, steady student, he 
 carried off every prize. He was still a stu 
 dent, an inveterate reader, and he perused 
 deep, strange books, whose very names would 
 have filled the mouth and disconcerted the 
 brains of Paradise. His opinions were known 
 to be of the most radical, and although he 
 attended " meeting," there were those who 
 whispered that he was a free-thinker, that he 
 went to church as a mere form, and not to 
 give cause for scandal to his scholars. He 
 spent his petty stipend almost entirely in 
 books, hardly giving himself the necessaries 
 of existence. He boarded on the outskirts 
 of the hamlet with a forlorn widow as lonely 
 as himself. He was only twenty-three years 
 old. 
 
 There was but one person who could boast 
 that she had ever made him laugh. This 
 wasFloribel Pullen. Sometimes of an even 
 ing he called at her mother s house, and once 
 or twice at dusk they had been met walking 
 together in the fields. This had been enough
 
 74 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 to set the gossips at work, but there was 
 really nothing. Floribel enjoyed his in 
 cendiary, disconnected talk, which waxed 
 a bit wild in its theoretic denouncements, its 
 vain dissatisfactions, and in which the ego of 
 a repressed nature played so arrogant a part. 
 It is not the kings and great ones of earth 
 who suffer from la maladie des grandeurs; it 
 is those whom fate has thwarted. Nature 
 revenges her own cruelties. In lunatic asy 
 lums those who play they are emperors and 
 gods are recruits from the rank and file of 
 the ineffectual and unfortunate. 
 
 Floribel thought him clever which he 
 was while the young man was grateful to 
 her for her unflagging spirits, her perfect 
 amiability; and, shall it be said, the fact that 
 she was contemptuously spoken of by other 
 women drew him to espouse her cause. 
 Notwithstanding that Oakes looked upon all 
 merry-making as frivolous, her sparkling 
 gayety was pleasant to him. 
 
 Now, when he and Beth raised their eyes, 
 two little evil spirits, which dwelt behind 
 them, looked out and recognized each other. 
 They nodded and winked at each other, 
 these spirits of revolt, shyly and furtively. 
 Only there was this difference: Beth, who 
 was much older than Oakes, had not yet 
 reached his landmark. She wanted to scale,
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 75 
 
 to rise, to reach; he wished to pull down, to 
 scatter, to destroy yes, he had traveled thus 
 far already. 
 
 " Marston s folks is away, ain t they?" 
 asked Mrs. Fesser, bustling up to join Mrs. 
 Bush and the schoolmaster while they 
 were exchanging a few perfunctory words. 
 "There s letters lying for them at the office. " 
 
 "Yes," said Beth, "they ve gone to the 
 mountains." 
 
 " Well, Archibald Marston s a good 
 man." 
 
 "Good! why good?" asked Oakes gloom- 
 ily. 
 
 "Well, he s a kind neighbor," said Mrs. 
 Fesser, " anyway." 
 
 " Kind! " The word shivered with new 
 meaning. 
 
 " He ain t ever done us no harm as I know 
 of," said Mrs. Fesser, not without asperity. 
 "No one likes to be so picked up, " she 
 told her husband afterwards. 
 
 " It s those kind men who ruin the earth," 
 said Oakes with a scowl. 
 
 " I ain t one as dislikes a man cause he s 
 richer than others," said Mrs. Fesser. " I 
 guess if we had his riches maybe we d do as 
 he does, and not so well either. He ain t 
 mean. It ain t them as splurge and spend 
 as them dynamiters ought to blow up, but
 
 76 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 them as is stingy, and locks up their money 
 in the banks where it don t do nobody any 
 good." So Marston s views found echo in 
 Mrs. Fesser s words. 
 
 " My wife s about right," said Mr. Fesser, 
 coming up. He had lately been forgiven an 
 escapade, and was glad to deliver himself of 
 this tribute to Mrs. Fesser s good judgment. 
 " When Marston built here land rose consid 
 erable. It s brought luck. Why, Farmer 
 Sammis, he got four thousand for a bit of 
 land no bigger n our back yard that did n t 
 raise nothing nor shellfish and fiddlers, cause 
 of its havin a strip o shore." 
 
 " Perhaps Mrs. Bush can tell us," said the 
 schoolmaster with an enigmatic smile, "why 
 land, which is the heritage of the whole hu 
 man race, should rise and fall in values 
 according to the whim of the few?" 
 
 It is probable that Beth did not understand 
 him, yet a secret sense of being distinguished 
 by his thus addressing her brought a sudden 
 flush to her forehead. 
 
 " It does seem as if it were wrong," she 
 said, half inaudibly, in that low, nasal tone 
 which was her habitual one. 
 
 " And wrong will be avenged," said Oakes 
 with stifled heat. 
 
 " My wife s right. One of them anarchy, 
 cranky fellers gave a lecture over to Queen s
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 77 
 
 on Monday night. Me and Charlie Bryan 
 stepped in. Well, if he did n t say marriage 
 ought r be done away with, and men and 
 women live free like savage folk." 
 
 Mrs. Fesser threw up a hand in protest. 
 
 " Well, if I ever ! If that don t prove they 
 ought to be locked up, I don t know as what 
 does!" 
 
 Fesser greeted these exclamations with a 
 series of virtuous nods. He was very com 
 fortable on his wife s salary. 
 
 " I m sure Mr. Marston s a good man, 
 and his wife s a very fine lady," said Flori- 
 bel, turning the subject from dissolving mar 
 riage ties with her usual tact. "Ain t she 
 beautiful, Mrs. Bush?" 
 
 Beth did not like to acknowledge that she 
 had never seen the mistress of Marston Ter 
 race, whom she would not have liked to call 
 her own. 
 
 "Yes, she s beautiful," she said evasively. 
 
 Percival Oakes paled. Of a romantic tem 
 perament, all his dreams of equality, all his 
 hopes for the dismemberment of existing 
 law, all his passionate longing for redress, 
 broke into nothingness before the phantom 
 which Floribel s words awoke. He detested 
 Mr. Marston with that deadly detestation 
 whose enmity is none the less measureless 
 because it is unreasoning. He resented his
 
 78 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 patronizing " How are you, Oakes? " and 
 movement of head and whip as he passed 
 behind his rapid horses, peppering the school 
 master, plodding on the roadside, with sum 
 mer dust, or splashing him with autumn mud. 
 He loathed the man s self-satisfaction, the 
 fashion of his covert coat, the cut of 
 his short brown beard. He loathed him, 
 and he loathed his friends. There was one 
 in particular, one who was always with her, 
 Mrs. Marston, whom he would have liked to 
 spike, and split, and roast, like the bull-calf 
 that he was! Mrs. Marston! ndar her! Ah! 
 there could be no desire for equality here. 
 This woman, toy of fate though she was, 
 tossed in the hands of such miscreants 
 words had lost their meaning to his stormy 
 consciousness she indeed was born to 
 sovereignty. None would deny it to her! 
 The haunting sweetness of her mouth when 
 she once addressed him in the train, thank 
 ing him for a slight service he had raised 
 a window the bull-calf could not manage 
 revealed to him her being. He felt that he 
 alone understood her. She whose love 
 should be a free gift to the trembling adora 
 tion of a timid vassal! She to be the slave 
 of custom the dupe of destiny! He pitied 
 her! 
 
 In the young man s thought there clus-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 79 
 
 tered mistily about her person a boundless 
 reverence, such as the early Christians doubt 
 less felt in their blind worship for the queen 
 of heaven. The one gentle, wholesome in 
 fluence that filled his breast was that of this 
 lady. It rested him. No Bernard de Ven- 
 tadour, no Gaisses Brulez or Quienes de 
 Bethune ever gave mistress a more trans 
 cendent homage than did this poor fellow 
 to the woman who had spoken to him once. 
 Sometimes he divined rather than saw 
 her, under her parasol, in the sunshine, pacing 
 her terraces, or lingering in her gardens; 
 sometimes she passed him swiftly at even 
 ing in her low phaeton, under the boughs, or 
 he caught glimpse of her, followed by her 
 groom, galloping on her black horse across 
 the twilight. At the mere thought of her 
 there blossomed in his breast a mystic flower, 
 a new ideal of manly honor, a new belief in 
 woman s purity.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 " Here, Mr. Asch Fenno, hand me that 
 string." 
 
 " I can t reach it." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me you are too lazy 
 to get up and walk to the table? " 
 
 " What in the world are you heating your 
 self so for? It s infernally warm out here." 
 
 "Hush! Here s some one crunching on 
 the gravel; it must be the Plunketts; but 
 no," a laugh. " It s only our new gar 
 dener s farmer s wife. Here, catch! " 
 
 Mrs. Marston threw a small hammer, fol 
 lowed by a garden trowel, over the ballus- 
 trade, at the base of which she was kneeling. 
 These agricultural implements landed very 
 near the nose of a young gentleman taking 
 his ease in a hammock. This hammock 
 swung in the veranda, a retreat furnished 
 like a room, with tables, lounges, chairs, 
 books, cushions, and a general aspect of 
 careless comfort. He himself presented a 
 picture of perfect repose. If in Mr. Oakes s 
 dark cogitations the cognomen of " bull-calf" 
 seemed applicable, to the casual observer it 
 80
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 81 
 
 must have appeared groundless and unmer 
 ited. 
 
 There are not many finer specimens of 
 physical manhood cast in the capricious 
 mould of nature. His figure, admirably pro 
 portioned, has the lightness and agility of 
 the Greek wrestlers trained to Olympian 
 conflicts. Iphitus himself would doubtless 
 have selected him for the ten months novi 
 tiate which fitted to suppleness and strength 
 the aspirants to the green crown. His face 
 is no less remarkable; it is chiseled as with 
 the deft hand of a Myron modeling a Mar- 
 syas. The hair, a rich bright brown, is 
 abundant, silken, and curly; the mouth, albeit 
 without sensibility, is absolutely correct to 
 the rules of sculptured proportion; the lips 
 are red, the teeth gleam from between them 
 a flash of snow. The eyes widely open, 
 of a dark sapphire blue, are of such flawless 
 brilliance that they resemble glass-bawbles 
 more than the pristine stone itself; they are 
 surrounded by dark eyelashes of unusual 
 thickness. 
 
 "What a beastly bore!" Mr. Asch turned 
 over his white flannel form in the hammock, 
 and glanced between its meshes with a som 
 nolent eye. " Have I got to go away?" 
 
 " Why, yes, certainly; I Ve never seen her 
 before. I have to tell her things."
 
 82 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "What things? I won t listen. I m 
 asleep." 
 
 "Well, they are certainly not corrupting 
 to your innocence," said Mrs. Marston, 
 laughing. 
 
 Mrs. Bush pushed open the veranda gate 
 and mounted the two steps which raised its 
 flooring from the grass. 
 
 " How are you, Mrs. Bush?" Mrs. Mars- 
 ton nodded; extending her right hand. 
 
 So at last Beth stood before her idol! She 
 saw a tumbled blue gingham frock, from be 
 low whose hem pointed two slender shoes 
 slightly whitened at the toes by contact with 
 dew and sand; disheveled, somewhat color 
 less hair under a battered sailor hat; 
 a delicate little nose upon whose slender 
 retrousst tip the sun had just dropped a 
 freckle. The hand extended was incased in 
 a soiled suede glove reaching the elbow, 
 wrinkled at the wrist. It is probable that 
 the pit still expects the queen of the drama 
 to appear in regal bravery; that a crown, an 
 ermine cloak, or at least a scepter remain to 
 it the only sure insignia of royalty. The 
 vulgar conception of a pedestal is stilts. 
 Although Beth had assured her husband, 
 while still in the wilds of Pontifex, that she 
 anticipated relations of intimacy and of 
 friendliness with their new employers, pos-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 83 
 
 sibly these exaggerated hopes had already 
 paled. Mrs. Archibald Marston had too 
 long filled her ideal of elegance and of 
 power for the first view of her not to clash 
 violently with all her preconceived imagina 
 tions and to be a fresh disappointment. As 
 she shook the lady s extended hand with 
 three cold fingers and followed her stiffly 
 into the boudoir, she wondered who the 
 "man" might be glaring at them through 
 the hammock netting, and not rising when 
 they passed him. She felt almost dizzy with 
 her disillusion and chagrin. Yet strangely 
 enough she had not been ten minutes with 
 the fair chdtelaine, had not listened to the 
 ripple of her soft talk, the vibrations of her 
 high-bred laughter, before she realized the 
 distance between them to be enormous, 
 and abysmal. No negligence of apparel, 
 no lack of startling claims to beauty, 
 nay, the very lack of these, seemed but to 
 widen the separation, to accentuate the fact 
 a fact made clear to Beth s sharp insight, 
 notwithstanding its apparent incongruity. 
 Beth had herself made careful preparation 
 for the occasion. She had once more donned 
 the black silk dress, with its embroidered 
 collar and cuffs. She wore a pair of tight 
 and extremely glact gloves. She carried 
 her purse, in lieu of a card-case, between her
 
 84 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 thumb and index as if prepared for a shop 
 ping bout down Broadway; on her head was 
 her best Sunday bonnet. It was rather high 
 and had a bunch of red poppies at its apex. 
 Her lips, dry with agitation, were pursed 
 into their visiting angle, while her whole 
 person assumed an unbending rigidity. Her 
 hostess, on the contrary, was perfectly at 
 ease; one hand went to her hip and remained 
 there; with the other she pushed her hat 
 from her forehead, giving a tug to the front 
 locks of her hair which she dragged down 
 to meet the root of her little nose with an 
 impatient exclamation. 
 
 " I ve been gardening," she explained, 
 pulling up her skirt and crossing one knee 
 over the other. " My stockings seem to be 
 coming down, too," she said, smiling, and 
 gave a jerk to the article in question, reveal 
 ing as she did so a silken garter with a dia 
 mond clasp to it. 
 
 Beth froze upon her chair. 
 
 "Well, how do you like it here? " 
 
 A sudden resolve shot through Beth s con 
 sciousness. She leaned back in her seat, 
 crossed one foot over the other, since this 
 was the requisite " pose," but did it con 
 servatively, only displaying the two first 
 buttons of her perfectly fitting boot. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I m trying to get
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 85 
 
 used to it. Of course it ain t like Pon- 
 tifex." 
 
 Her tone somewhat surprised Mrs. Mars- 
 ton. 
 
 "Ah! Pontifex? That s your old home, 
 is it not? " 
 
 " Yes, my husband s property is there," 
 said Mrs. Bush vaguely, " and it is such a 
 fine place We have the very best so 
 ciety." 
 
 Mrs. Marston suppressed a desire to titter. 
 
 " Have you met any of the neighbors 
 here?" she ventured. "I hope you will 
 feel at home." 
 
 " They ain t the sort of people I ve been 
 used to," said Beth haughtily. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " I sha n t care for Dottie to associate with 
 any of the children around here. They re 
 rough." 
 
 " There are some nice children here, I be 
 lieve," said Mrs. Marston, more and more 
 intrigute. 
 
 "I m very particular," said Mrs. Bush. 
 
 " Have you been to the church? " 
 
 "Well, yes," said Beth; " it s small. I 
 guess the best folks here is Episcopals." 
 
 "And how is the dear dairy getting on?" 
 said Mrs. Marston lightly, changing the sub 
 ject. " I 11 come over to-morrow and see
 
 86 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 you all there. And the poultry? I hope 
 you re setting some ducks eggs, Mrs. 
 Bush." 
 
 " I will do all I can to please you, Mrs. 
 Marston," said Mrs. Bush, "while we stay." 
 
 " Are you so discontented you think of 
 leaving us? " asked Mrs. Marston, a trifle 
 coldly. "Everybody loves this place, and 
 thinks it quite charming." 
 
 Beth was silent. A painful pause ensued. 
 She was the first to break it. 
 
 "You re real comfortable here," she said, 
 superciliously, looking through the superb 
 portieres which divided the boudoir from the 
 cold white spaces of the ballroom beyond. 
 " But ain t these hangings hot in the sum 
 mer? I would n t care to have such about 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Marston was speechless. 
 
 There were a few more words about the 
 butter and chickens, then Mrs. Marston 
 arose and said somewhat dryly: 
 
 " I m awfully sorry, but I m expecting 
 friends and really I must dress myself. I m 
 so untidy. Come again, some morning 
 that is the best time and bring . er 
 
 your little girl what is her 
 name? " 
 
 Then as Mrs. Bush sprang from her chair 
 with the impetus of a ball shot from a can-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 87 
 
 non s mouth, Lola Marston made another 
 effort at conciliation. 
 
 " I do hope they carried out all my direc 
 tions about the cottage the painting and 
 papering. I was away and could n t see to 
 it. I hope you found it clean and nice." 
 
 "It s some cramped," drawled Beth. "I 
 think Mr. Bush s going to ask Mr. Marston 
 for a new kitchen, and I think if he d put us 
 up a piazza like this you have here it would 
 be much more like what we ve been used to 
 in Pontifex." 
 
 She inwardly thanked Providence that 
 Joseph was not within earshot. 
 
 " We have had great expense lately," said 
 Mrs. Marston, now decidedly roused, "and 
 I have much doubt nay, I am quite sure 
 Mr. Marston will do nothing of the kind. 
 Good-afternoon." 
 
 "Good-afternoon," said Mrs. Bush, with a 
 slight inclination of the head. She did not 
 know if she was expected to shake hands 
 again, and half extended her digits, tortured 
 into their six-and-a-half glove; but Mrs. 
 Marston did not see, or ignored, the gesture, 
 and slipped past her with a nod of dis 
 missal. 
 
 As Mrs. Bush emerged once more into the 
 veranda, Fenno Asch, who still sprawled in 
 the hammock, woke with a start, and gave
 
 88 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 her an exhaustive inspection. She tugged 
 at the gate for a moment ineffectually, but 
 he remained prone, offering no assistance, 
 watching her discomfiture with a smileless 
 stare. When she got herself once more 
 upon the turf, she could almost hear her 
 heart beat. In its humiliation and its anger, 
 she thought that it would break. 
 
 Fenno Asch shook himself. He liked 
 Marston Terrace very much. They let you 
 alone, and then the cooking was first rate, as 
 was also the Madeira. At the other houses 
 where he visited he was sometimes expected 
 to talk to a girl, or what was not quite so 
 deucedly unpleasant, but still inconvenient 
 to make love to the lady of the house. One 
 never knew where that game would end. 
 But there were no such levies made here on 
 his good-nature. There was no nonsense 
 about Mrs. Marston, and when there were 
 girls they talked together until the fools 
 who like "girling" came up at dusk. These 
 were in fact few. American flirtation that 
 white fire wherein no wings were singed 
 only occupation of old-fashioned house- 
 parties exists no more. " Le flirt," so 
 painfully and laboriously emulated by the 
 Parisienne, is to-day but spasmodic and spec 
 tral. It is only very ancient maidens and 
 superannuated beaux who still wave the fan
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 89 
 
 and flourish the hat under the mosquito awn 
 ings of damp piazzas and sunlit lawns, or 
 whisper together in the secret places of the 
 stairs. " Le flirt " is dead. " Le sport " has 
 killed the pretty pastime of a frolic god. 
 Young men and maidens, restless benedicts, 
 and dissatisfied matrons meet to measure 
 muscle. They wrest from one another the 
 prizes of Tennis, Golf, or Badminton; ply 
 the oar, swim matches, jump fences, and chat 
 of the merits of their " wheels." When this 
 is done, they yawn in each other s faces and 
 turn for solace to a cigarette. . . . and their 
 own sex. Wooings are brief, hidden, and 
 end abruptly in rupture or at the altar. 
 They are conducted secretly, and the gen 
 tleman in particular is wondrously ashamed 
 of himself ! He is mortified at a weakness 
 which is not a part of " training! " Even 
 the girl s vanity, if not exempt from the de 
 sire, is innocent of the practice of dragging 
 her lover about for her friends to see tied up 
 in blue ribbons. A marked reserve has come 
 between the sexes, bordering on indifference. 
 The heart flutter, the fevered pulse, the ex 
 hilarated brain are now reserved for more 
 important tests of skill than mutual fascina 
 tion. 
 
 Asch rarely went into the city, so it was 
 just as well his hostess should understand he
 
 9 o EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 did not propose to do any day s work at 
 home. He was probably the most absolutely 
 successful expression of entire selfishness 
 that could be conceived. His selfishness 
 had reached a sublimity which made it ad 
 mirable. He never did anything for his 
 friends whose houses he slept in, whose sta 
 bles he commanded, whose yachts he steered 
 to the havens of his own desire no, not 
 even to send a flower at New Year s to their 
 wives, a toy at Christmas-time to their chil 
 dren. In the world he recognized no obli 
 gations, and would have seen the daughter 
 of a favorite entertainer partnerless a whole 
 evening with delightful serenity. Lavish 
 toward himself, he was parsimonious toward 
 all others, never under any provocation yield 
 ing to an impulse of generosity. Yet women 
 of position and of fastidiousness coddled, 
 petted, and continued to invite him with 
 tremulous assiduity. This was the more 
 remarkable in that men are usually divided 
 by women into two categories, and liked and 
 disliked accordingly: the man with whom a 
 woman feels her femininity and the man with 
 whom she does not. The former is desira 
 ble, the second is an incubus, a stop-gap at 
 disappointed house-parties or at impromptu 
 dinner-tables. These classes or types have 
 their subdivisions; the former, for instance,
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 91 
 
 comprises the man who is simply tempera 
 mentally attractive to women without effort 
 of his own, through qualities which are more 
 guessed at than understood, and again 
 the man who brings his intelligence to bear 
 upon his intercourse with women and whose 
 intellect is directed to charm them. The 
 first pleases, the second holds. The first 
 attracts, the second captivates, and is incon- 
 testably the more dangerous of the two. 
 Now, there is no man at this moment alive 
 with whom a woman feels herself less a 
 woman than with Fenno Asch. Wherein 
 lies, then, the secret of his success? There 
 are men who have dared to say that he is 
 stupid, but it is a question if persons who 
 can thus suck the best from others, and live 
 the parasites of an indulgent community, are 
 really dull-witted. Fenno Asch is certainly 
 not intellectual; he is grossly ignorant on 
 nearly all subjects of reputed importance; 
 but stupid he cannot be. I am myself 
 inclined to believe him extremely clever. 
 Just now, when my story touches him, he was 
 the subject of peculiar solicitude. His long- 
 suffering mother, whom he had for years 
 treated with a neglect and indifference un 
 paralleled, whom he had insulted, ruined 
 pecuniarily, and deserted, suddenly married 
 again. Loud then were Asch s complaints
 
 92 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 and meanings " his home " was broken up, 
 destroyed. More than ever must his friends 
 now rally to his rescue. He did not men 
 tion to them the fact that his stepfather had 
 twice in one short twelve months paid his 
 debts; such bagatelles were only dwelt upon 
 by sordid and vulgar minds. The women 
 shook their heads and wept over him. 
 "Dear Fenno! poor Fenno! What a nasty, 
 wicked woman she must be, for driving him 
 from his rightful place at his dead father s 
 table!" They caressed him with renewed 
 ardor such ardor, at least, as he would tol 
 erate; he was not himself ardent. 
 
 Once Singleton Ackley had permitted 
 himself to express doubt as to the young 
 gentleman s valor on the occasion of the 
 sinking of a yacht when he had swum ashore 
 and allowed two women servants to drown be 
 fore his eyes. But in an excited chorus the 
 ladies present reminded him that he once 
 kicked a man; how then could he be a pol 
 troon? Yes, Mr. Isham remembered it. 
 The victim had taken advice after a feeble 
 strike-out from the shoulder with which 
 some clubmen, pouncing upon and drag 
 ging him away, had speedily interfered. 
 He was much smaller than Asch. This fact 
 was not dwelt upon. He, the victim, had 
 himself carried in a hansom down to the
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 93 
 
 old artist s studio. Mr. Isham, although 
 gruff, was a man of the world, and was next 
 best as an adviser to the polished expert, 
 Ackley, who was out of town. He received 
 the youth with a grim glare through his 
 gold-rimmed glasses. The occurrence was 
 laid before him. 
 
 " What ought I to do? " asked the victim, 
 with a fretful whine. 
 
 "Young man," said Mr. Isham, still glar 
 ing, "there is but one thing to do under 
 the circumstances kill him." 
 
 The victim started. 
 
 "Is not that rather extreme eh?" he 
 whimpered. 
 
 " I ve given you advice. I ve nothing 
 more to say." 
 
 "But er " 
 
 " Kill him and go to the devil, both of 
 you," said Mr. Isham, growing purple, "for 
 the two chicken-livered puppies that you 
 are! " 
 
 The victim had prudently disappeared 
 down the stairs with a rapidity unusual to 
 him, and had hidden himself away in his cab. 
 There had been no blood shed. 
 
 " She s the handsomest woman ever I 
 saw," said Mr. Marston, coming up across 
 the lawn. 
 
 " How many more times in your life shall
 
 94 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 I hear you use that formula, Mr. Marston? " 
 asked May Plunkett, appearing at the ball 
 room s glass door. She had driven over 
 with her brother to dine. "Who s the 
 beauty now? " 
 
 " My farmer s wife. I Ve just seen her 
 for the first time." 
 
 "How s that?" 
 
 "They came just as we left." 
 
 " And is she such a stunner? " 
 
 "Superb! " 
 
 Fenno looked up. " What! that thin- 
 lipped Yankee woman who has been worry 
 ing Mrs. Marston here for an hour? And 
 waked me up in the best part of my nap? 
 Why, Marston, you must be getting in your 
 dotage! " 
 
 " Mr. Isham ought to paint her," said May 
 Plunkett. "When I went to him he said he 
 had done with professional beauties, that he 
 would paint no more of them. He wants to 
 get close to nature. What a sweet, gruff old 
 thing he is, to be sure! " 
 
 The Marstons had been at home only 
 twenty-four hours. That very morning 
 young Archie had cantered up on his mus 
 tang to the cottage, and in a dialogue with 
 Dottie invited her mother to the call whose 
 success seemed now so problematic. 
 
 The Chesterfieldian manner, the aristo-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 95 
 
 cratic grace of the ten-year-old son of the 
 house of Marston as he delivered his message 
 would have surprised the ruddy butcher, his 
 great-grandfather, when behind his bloody 
 apron he wielded his carving-knife, cutting 
 up joints, sirloins, and hind-quarters for a 
 hungry generation. It surprised Dottie, 
 whose brown legs shrank up in alarm, tuck 
 ing themselves under her short pink frock 
 while she sucked her thumb vigorously, and 
 eyed the boy with a measure of distrust.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A few days after the encounter of the gar 
 den, Monsieur Rose, taking his evening 
 promenade, strolled up to the cottage, in 
 tending to have a chat with the new farmer 
 and his handsome wife. He had sometimes 
 offered a cigarette to the late Mr. Dag- 
 gett, while Mrs. Daggett mixed for them a 
 glass of excellent grog. There was affa 
 bility in his eye, geniality on his urbane 
 features. Beth, from an upper window, saw 
 him approaching. Joe, in his shirt-sleeves, 
 was sitting on the porch-step, smoking a 
 short clay pipe. He heard a rush above his 
 head as if it were the rustle of wings, then 
 through the mosquito-bar of the front par 
 lor casement a husky command to "come in 
 at once and shut the door after him." Never 
 regardless of this particular master s orders, 
 Joe prepared to obey with leisurely scrupu 
 lousness. As he reached the narrow hall 
 way he was seized with no very gentle hand 
 and huddled head foremost into the open 
 sitting-room. His wife then began a series 
 96
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 97 
 
 of signals and wild girations which she found 
 herself finally obliged to translate into lan 
 guage if they were to penetrate the hide of 
 Joe s well-known obtuseness. 
 
 " It s that cook, the French fellow," she 
 said in a tragic whisper. 
 
 "Well, now, is it?" 
 
 "Hush! didn t you see? He s most 
 here. Now, Joe Bush, this is to settle things. 
 Am I a servant here or not? Am I to as 
 sociate with cooks, or am I not? " 
 
 Joe stared. Life was assuming labyrin 
 thine intricacy. To his straight mind it was 
 becoming a hopeless entanglement. 
 
 " Eh? " He was trying to gain time. 
 
 " Do you expect me to receive this . . . 
 creature as my equal?" 
 
 " Well I never! I ain t invited him to 
 call," said Joe deprecatingly. 
 
 " You did n t! More impudent he for 
 coming then, and so you can tell him with 
 my compliments." 
 
 Joe opened his mouth, and it remained 
 open, his eye hurtling about as if seeking a 
 way of escape. 
 
 "So there! " His wife gave him another 
 shove and flew past him upstairs to her bed 
 chamber. She closed and locked its door 
 with a snap, as if she feared the entire race 
 of French chefs, armed with no honorable
 
 98 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 intentions, were in hot pursuance at her 
 heels. The long-nailed fingers of Monsieur 
 Rose had already fallen on the knocker. 
 
 Rap, rap, rap. 
 
 Joe stood irresolute. A silence 
 
 Rap, rap, rap. 
 
 He cautiously crept to the window and 
 perred out. 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur Bush," said Monsieur 
 Rose, "comment $a va? Are you and 
 Madame at home?" 
 
 Pearls of anguish beaded on Joe s fore 
 head. He liked his place, the poor fellow! 
 It seemed a paradise to him. He desired 
 to be on pleasant terms with everybody, and 
 his instincts warned him of the dangers of 
 this internecine warfare. A snort from his 
 wife s room, however, rallied his wavering 
 spirit. 
 
 " Wait a moment, Mr. Pierre," he said 
 through a chink of the shutter, " I 11 be 
 out." He stopped and put on his coat. 
 
 Monsieur Rose himself was faultlessly 
 dressed. Joe greeted his visitor, but did not 
 offer him a chair. 
 
 "Is Madame at home? " repeated Rose 
 gallantly. "Am I disturbing an after-sup 
 per tete-a-tete? Hein? I thought I heard 
 Madame Bush speaking. Surely I would 
 not drive her away! "
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 99 
 
 Joe lowered his tones to a muffled key. 
 " To tell you the truth, Mr. Pierre, my wife 
 is at home, but she ain t visible." 
 
 " It will be for another time," said Pierre 
 lightly. 
 
 But Joe felt that these futile if natural 
 hopes had better be instantly slain. He 
 could not bear a repetition of this ordeal. 
 
 "Well," he said, " I guess not." 
 
 Monsieur Rose stared, now more than 
 puzzled. 
 
 "You see," said Joe, confidentially, "my 
 wife s peculiar. She ain t used to the ways 
 here. She ain t used to bein friends " the 
 words stuck in his throat and choked him; 
 all his inherent hospitality rose within him 
 in an agony of protest "to bein friends 
 with those as is in service." 
 
 Pierre was beginning to understand. 
 
 "You mean to tell me, Monsieur Bush," 
 he said, "that your wife sends me this mes 
 sage that I am dismissed? Do you know, 
 Monsieur Bush, that she \sdiablement imper 
 tinent, is your wife, Monsieur Bush?" 
 
 Joe s head oscillated from side to side 
 with a rotary motion, like some planet set 
 loose from its orbit. 
 
 Pierre drew himself up with a jerk, bring 
 ing his heels together with a click. 
 
 " Now," said Joe, blandly conciliatory, "/
 
 ioo EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 think she s wrong. I myself ain t got any 
 such notions. I m for bein sociable with 
 everybody, high or low, rich or poor. I 11 
 always be glad to see you, Mr. Pierre." 
 
 For a moment Pierre had meant to strike 
 him. Now as he met the man s sad regard, 
 a sudden comprehension of his predicament, 
 an odd emotion bordering upon compassion 
 forced his hand back into his pocket, and, 
 without another word and only a low whistle, 
 he turned on his heel. 
 
 The splendid courage and the base 
 cowardice of Joe s performance pierced his 
 keen Gallic intelligence, filling him with a 
 species of admiration and pity. 
 
 " Sacre tonnerre" he muttered to himself. 
 "En voila un qui a trouvt une megere." 
 
 When Beth returned from her first visit 
 to the big house, three weeks later, it is 
 probable she had forgotten this episode. 
 But Joe had not. When he remembered it 
 the cold perspiration gathered under his 
 round shoulder-blades. 
 
 The day after her call upon Mrs. Marston 
 she asked her husband to have her conveyed 
 to the station, as she desired to go into the 
 city to make some purchases. She would 
 take Dottie with her, and begged her hus 
 band to give her twenty-five dollars. He
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 101 
 
 gave the money with his usual unquestion 
 ing docility. 
 
 She returned in the evening with a blue 
 gingham, exactly the same shade as Mrs. 
 Marston s, a pair of long, loose, tan suede 
 gloves, a parasol trimmed with lace, a pink 
 paper lamp-shade with a rose on it, a glass 
 vase for flowers, a locket for Dottie, and a 
 sailor hat for herself. Dottie was carrying 
 an enormous bundle. It proved, when un 
 packed, to be a mandolin, tied with a wide 
 bow of mauve satin ribbon. She explained 
 to Joe s astonished query that Mr. Oakes 
 was a fine performer on this instrument, and 
 had offered to give her lessons. 
 
 During those brief moments passed in 
 Mrs. Marston s drawing-rooms, no detail of 
 their luxury had escaped Beth s searching 
 eye. She had returned to her abode with a 
 sense of discouragement and of dismay. Her 
 aggressive conduct poor Beth did not know 
 that in the great world no one is aggressive 
 unless under penalty of instant expulsion 
 had seemed to make her at least partially 
 victress in an encounter she felt to have been 
 a duel. She now set about altering the 
 arrangements of her domain. She pulled 
 the chairs out from the wall, and set them 
 here and there, awry an incommodious
 
 102 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 method for the lumbering Joseph, who fell 
 over them and bumped himself twenty times 
 a day. She put the pink shade on her brass 
 lamp, and filled the flower-vase with roses. 
 She opened the slat of one shutter, and 
 allowed a ray of light to enter. If it faded 
 the carpet " it could not be helped," she told 
 herself with desperate recklessness. She 
 confiscated the family Bible and put two old 
 magazines in its place, while the mandolin, 
 with its satin embellishment, was displayed 
 in the most prominent corner of the apart 
 ment. She had seen such a one in Mrs. 
 Marston s boudoir. These things done, she 
 set about making unto herself the gingham 
 frock almost as exactly like Mrs. Marston s 
 as she could well remember. The sailor hat 
 was distinctly unbecoming to her severe cast 
 of physiognomy. Nevertheless, she perched 
 it upon the top of her thick hair, which, 
 from being neatly brushed back, she now 
 pulled and crimped into a loose lock falling 
 almost to meet her large, shapely nose. This 
 change of coiffure and the hat gave her face 
 a hardness, a boldness, which Joe had never 
 seen there. He sighed, but he said nothing. 
 She had spent all the money he had given her. 
 If Monsieur Rose was not admitted, Mr. 
 Oakes, on the contrary, was welcomed with 
 almost overwhelming cordiality. He and
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 103 
 
 Floribel Pullen were invited to tea at six 
 o clock one evening, over which meal Mrs. 
 Bush presided in her new blue costume, with 
 Dottie at her elbow in a clean starched pina 
 fore with yellow ribbons at her shoulders 
 and the locket depending from her little 
 brown throat. Mr. Oakes repeated his visit, 
 and was again invited to tea. Even social 
 istic young schoolmasters, afflicted with a 
 chronic form of dyspepsia, like cleanly and 
 well-set tables, and it must be said that, 
 while Beth was rather an indifferent cook of 
 meats and vegetables, her pastry, biscuits, 
 and preserves were of the best. Mr. Oakes, 
 at any rate, added materially to his dys 
 pepsia in their consumption, pressing Dottie 
 closely in the race. Beth had meant to say 
 a word to her husband of her first visit to 
 Mrs. Marston, surcharged as it had been to 
 her in emotional experiences; but when at 
 the first syllable she met his dull stolidity, it 
 was borne in upon her that there was noth 
 ing to relate nothing to tell. Her own 
 consciousness became as blank as his. 
 Explanation seemed impossible. One per 
 son, however, she found able to gauge these 
 subtler springs of feeling. Tentatively, al 
 most timidly, she ventured to speak of them; 
 of her pride, her sense of, and desire for, 
 equality with the best, her ambitions for her
 
 io 4 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 child. She found herself instantly compre 
 hended. No circumlocution was necessary. 
 Mr. Oakes understood. To a woman this is 
 precious. To prepare for hours, mayhap 
 days, a phrase, a word intended to electrify 
 a particular pair of male ears and have it ac 
 corded scant attention or met with careless 
 misapprehension, is one of those minor trials 
 which secretly gnaw feminine fortitude. The 
 subjects which so tormented her filled his 
 mind too, it seemed. Whenever they met, 
 they soon turned to these topics pregnant to 
 them with meaning. They fanned in each 
 other s hearts their discontent and envy over 
 which, I have said, the evil spirits which 
 dwelt within them had already clasped 
 hands. As was but natural, the man s influ 
 ence, being that of a certain culture, was far 
 the stronger. He lent her books which, be 
 tween the enforced tasks of her household, 
 she read with strange avidity. He would 
 come of an evening and, while Joe puffed 
 his stump of a pipe on the porch, under the 
 pink lamp-shade, already, alas! grown spot 
 ted and soiled, their heads bentclose, Oakes 
 would explain to Mrs. Bush intricate pas 
 sages. The books were all in the same strain. 
 Strong pleas against authority, cries of revolt, 
 protests against tyranny and oppression, sta 
 tistics of unutterable cruelties, crimes, mis-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 105 
 
 cries, stern facts about a groaning multitude 
 while a few feasted; a bold scoffing at all 
 religious teaching, shifting kaleidoscopes of 
 horror and despair; above all Reason, with 
 its Ego, which will be heard and satisfied; 
 the individual unwilling to be flattened in the 
 mortar of humanity, mocking at patience. 
 From the perusal of these works Beth rose 
 tottering, uncertain, bewildered; a gradual 
 loosening of all her old faiths, a slow but 
 sure deletion of all her former beliefs went 
 on in her soul, which seemed to shrivel within 
 her. Her teacher was too young and too 
 inexperienced to appreciate the peril of sow 
 ing such seed in such a soil. By a gradual 
 disintegration her wish to rise was giving way 
 before his dispiriting forebodings of general 
 destruction. She felt within her the rum 
 blings of a distant, brewing, tempest. Her 
 arm was a strong one; could it accomplish 
 nothing? The sense of a hopeless doom en 
 veloped her. Sometimes at night it laid a 
 cold hand on her heart. In the meanwhile 
 Joe, having said a short but fervent prayer, 
 lay on his back, snoring loudly, enjoying the 
 repose due to the just. 
 
 "What do you think of Mrs. Bush?" Mr. 
 Marston had asked his wife, after the first 
 interview.
 
 106 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " I don t make her out exactly," said 
 Lola. " She was rather pretentious and 
 dressed up for a farmer s wife. Americans 
 are so absurd in such matters. I confess I 
 liked Mrs. Daggett better. She did n t put 
 on airs." 
 
 " O, she was well enough, but old Dag 
 was such a brute of a drunkard. It s just as 
 well his last spree killed him. This man 
 seems steady and honest. I rather want 
 him to stay; so if she has crotchets, concili 
 ate them a little, my dear." 
 
 " Why, I m sure, darling," said Mrs. Mar- 
 ston, " I m always nice to servants. By the 
 way, there is already some row. The 
 domestics say she snubs them, and refuses 
 to be on visiting terms. There s been some 
 fuss with Pierre." 
 
 "What difference can that make? There 
 was too much running too and fro in Dag- 
 gett s time with the men and maids. I 
 did n t like it. If she s reserved, so much 
 the better. There 11 be less gossiping." 
 
 "And she s quite dissatisfied with the 
 cottage. Says she wants a new kitchen 
 and veranda, like ours." Mrs. Marston 
 laughed. 
 
 " O, well, perhaps this autumn I 11 put 
 out a small wing for them. It is cramped; 
 and while the builders are here I don t care
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 107 
 
 if they knock up a piazza, for her at the east 
 of the house." 
 
 Mr. Marston preferred expense to per 
 sonal trouble. 
 
 " I 11 tell her what you say, Archie. Per 
 haps she 11 be more contented." 
 
 There were always men at work upon the 
 place. They were now putting up an elabo 
 rate fence to divide pasturage from wood 
 land. 
 
 Mrs. Marston, remembering her husband s 
 words, signified to Mrs. Bush upon the fol 
 lowing morning that she would again receive 
 her. Beth once more put on her parapher 
 nalia of war. It was now the blue gown and 
 the sailor hat. She burned her front lock 
 off with the tongs, which it is to be sup 
 posed did not sweeten her temper or im 
 prove her appearance. 
 
 Thus shorn but not baffled, she was 
 ushered into the library. This lofty apart 
 ment always seemed somewhat over-fur 
 nished and encumbered. There were too 
 many chairs, too many bookcases, too much 
 bric-a-brac, entirely too many lamps, which 
 were overtall and overshaded. Lola never 
 felt quite at home in it. Indeed there were 
 many parts of the house whose decorations 
 delighted her husband, but made her uneasy. 
 They fretted her eyes with their elaboration,
 
 io8 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 their lack of repose. More poetic than 
 artistic, she lacked, however, that individu 
 ality of taste which finds an instant remedy. 
 She was sometimes a little helpless amid her 
 splendors. 
 
 Mrs. Bush found her in a high-backed gilt 
 chair, her feet on a velvet cushion, reading. 
 She wore a peignoir of some flexile texture, 
 rose-colored, cut in Greek fashion, with 
 flowing sleeves slashed at the shoulders, 
 displaying her slender arms. It was bor 
 dered by bands of rich creamy Valenciennes 
 laces, clasped at the throat and waist with 
 buckles of pearls. On her fingers sparkled 
 many splendid gems. Her head was crowned 
 by a large black hat surmounted by dusky 
 tufts of ostrich feathers. Her eyes were 
 deep as quiet lakes sleeping in shadow. 
 Asch was lounging on a stool at her feet, but 
 scrambled up at Mrs. Bush s entrance and 
 escaped. 
 
 All the old worship which Beth had once 
 felt for this woman while still unknown, and 
 which more recent sentiments were quickly 
 stifling, now woke within her. A healthful 
 admiration for her loveliness suddenly mas 
 tered her. 
 
 " You look just like a picture, Mrs. Mar- 
 ston."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Lola blushed. " Really? " she said, smil 
 ing, "you are very kind to tell me so, Mrs. 
 Bush, if it is a pretty picture. Sit down 
 here by me. I want to talk to you." 
 
 " You look just like you used in my 
 dreams." 
 
 " Your dreams? " 
 
 " Yes," went on Beth, catching her breath 
 and with a nervous twitching of her hands. 
 " I dreamed about you before ever I saw 
 you. I d read about you for years in the 
 newspapers." 
 
 " O, those dreadful newspapers! " 
 
 " They ain t dreadful to those as lives 
 dull lives," said Beth, forgetting all her 
 former Pontifex boastfulness. " They bring 
 em into life." 
 
 Something in her hurried utterances ar 
 rested Lola s attention. She had not 
 guessed her to be dramatic. 
 
 " I never even look at those things about 
 people. I don t care much for that side of 
 life." 
 
 109
 
 no EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " No, you live it," said Beth. 
 
 " And I can assure you, Mrs. Bush," went 
 on Lola, laughing, " that it is much more 
 amusing to read about, and sounds much 
 nicer than it is. A great deal of it is a 
 horrid nuisance." 
 
 " Mr. Oakes says," said Beth, " that the 
 rich say that to keep the poor quiet, to keep 
 em grinding and sweating, while they dance 
 and make merry." 
 
 "Ah? Mr. Oakes?" 
 
 " Yes, he s a young gentleman as visits 
 us here." 
 
 Mrs. Bush s momentary naturalness gave 
 place once more to her artificial " company " 
 manner. Her mouth pursed itself. Her 
 tone became prolonged and nasal. Her 
 backbone snapped into rigid line. 
 
 " A friend of mine. He s real smart. 
 He reads with me evenings. He s teaching 
 me the mandolin." 
 
 It is hoped that Lola s heroic efforts not 
 to laugh outright, a desire to which the 
 exact imitation of her costume had already 
 given wings, was not evident. She made 
 a grimace behind her hand to recover the 
 equilibrium of a sufficient gravity before 
 replying. 
 
 "O, yes. I ve heard of him. He s very 
 nice-looking. He has queer ideas, has he
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART in 
 
 not? I heard he was leaving here on 
 account of them. That he was a . . a . . 
 socialist or something." 
 
 " He only took the place just for a while 
 until he got suited." Beth s vocal organs 
 were more and more languorous. " He 
 ain t at all like the people around here. 
 He s above em. He says the socialistic 
 doctrines will soon invade the world." 
 
 " Dear me! " 
 
 " You ought to think him nice-looking, 
 Mrs. Marston, for I guess he admires you 
 very much. 
 
 A few days before, Oakes had asked 
 Beth s permission to read aloud to her an 
 original poem which he intended to set to 
 music for the mandolin. The verses were 
 addressed "To Lola," and were a painstak 
 ing imitation of De Musset s " Andalouses," 
 of which its author had lately made an ex 
 haustive study in the original. Oakes, with 
 praiseworthy industry, had taught himself 
 to read French. The opening words of the 
 love ditty were, " Pale as an autumn night." 
 
 " Why, that s quaint! It s Mrs. Marston s 
 first name," Beth said suspiciously. 
 
 " A mere incident it s a common enough 
 Spanish name," the schoolmaster answered. 
 
 Then they had spoken together of Mrs. 
 Marston, and Beth noticed that the sneer
 
 ii2 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 which met her mention of every member of 
 that high-life circle which so filled her with 
 curiosity, and which she so envied, had died 
 on his lips. He had said little, but Beth, 
 who was observing, made a mental note. 
 She expatiated to Oakes on Fenno Asch s 
 incredible impoliteness, not only to herself 
 but to Mrs. Marston. 
 
 " He ain t civil enough to bow to a woman 
 if he goes by her, and he don t know enough 
 to open a door for her." 
 
 And then with energy Oakes had again 
 applied to him that epithet of "bull-calf," 
 which secretly delighted Elizabeth. 
 
 " He admires you very much." 
 
 Lola was quite serious now. She could 
 hardly recover her speech, so disconcerted 
 and nettled was she. Why this woman was 
 quite too dreadful. 
 
 " I m sure I m greatly obliged to him, 
 but I hardly fancied he would be so ... 
 presumptuous." She rose and walked to 
 the window. 
 
 Beth saw she had committed some fateful 
 blunder, and a purple flush dyed her brow, 
 which the burned lovelock left lorn and ex 
 posed. In a moment Mrs. Marston had 
 turned around again. 
 
 " I sent for you this morning, Mrs. Bush,"
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 113 
 
 she spoke in a business-like voice, " to say 
 that I mentioned to Mr. Marston about those 
 improvements over your way, and he con 
 sents. The new piazza will be begun next 
 week the kitchen, later." 
 
 Beth, who had never known before such 
 comfort as she now enjoyed, and who had 
 almost forgotten her request, opened her 
 eyes widely, and could only murmur her 
 thanks. Mrs. Marston hoped she would go, 
 but her visitor still sat on the edge of her 
 chair, embarrassed, fidgeting, caught in the 
 difficulty of the departure whose mesh tan 
 gles the uninitiated. Lola was beating an 
 impatient tattoo on the parquet floor with 
 her high-heeled shoe. The situation was 
 becoming intolerable. 
 
 "Will your family visit you? Do you 
 expect them here?" she asked at last, in a 
 dry, staccato voice. 
 
 " I wrote my sister-in-law and her hus 
 band," said Beth, recovering her composure, 
 "to come up Tuesday. I guess they ll be 
 glad to. They ain t been married long." 
 
 After a few more questions about her 
 relatives, she did finally get herself out. 
 
 " She s entirely a new experience," said 
 Lola that evening to her lord. " I doubt if 
 they ll do." 
 
 "Why, how?" he asked.
 
 ii 4 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " O, she says such extraordinary, such 
 unsuitable things to me. I can t make out 
 if it s ignorance or impertinence." 
 
 " A little of both, I should imagine," said 
 Fenno Asch. " I met her on the road this 
 morning. Whew! She looks a vixen! " 
 
 Lola lay back on her cushions and laughed. 
 
 "You can t imagine the funniest thing 
 I nearly fell off my chair when she came in. 
 She has exactly copied my old blue ging 
 ham, and wore a hat just like mine. She 
 looked like a guy." 
 
 "What sort of things does she say?" 
 asked her husband; but Lola did not tell 
 him. 
 
 As to Beth her whole mind was in a fer 
 ment. Her speech, which Mrs. Marston 
 had rebuked and now forgotten, burned her 
 as with a hot iron. "Presumptuous"; she 
 looked up the word in the thumbed diction 
 ary she had used at school, to make sure 
 she was not mistaken. Should she tell 
 Oakes brand him, too, with this insult? 
 Then there were evidently mistakes as to the 
 laws of fitness. Why did Mrs. Marston wear 
 soiled cotton gowns of an afternoon at five 
 o clock and appear so splendid of a morn 
 ing? Why did she read when other women 
 worked, and work when others read? Was 
 it true what she had said that the life she
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 115 
 
 lived looked sweeter than it was? To Beth 
 it looked very sweet. To Beth the Mar- 
 stons library, with which fastidious critics 
 found fault, was an apartment of imposing 
 and unparalleled magnificence. Her vanity, 
 which somehow this woman s mere presence 
 seemed to excite and fan only to grind to 
 dust, rallied a little at the thought of her 
 sister-in-law s impending visit. Before Mary 
 Bush, now Mrs. Bucknell, she could pose to 
 her heart s content. The word was unknown 
 to her, the attitude was becoming clear. 
 She could dazzle her at least. There had 
 been no lamp-shades in Pontifex, Dottie had 
 been decked with no locket and yellow rib 
 bons, there had been no vase of roses, and, 
 beyond all, no Mr. Oakes. She planned, and 
 plotted, and arranged how she could at once 
 startle and petrify the Bucknells with the 
 glories of her present lot. It was Wednes 
 day they would not arrive until the Tues 
 day following and this gave Beth five days 
 in which to prepare her coup. Again on 
 Thursday she had herself carried into town. 
 This time she went alone. She could not 
 be troubled with the child. She took a 
 horse-car from the crowded ferry, and was 
 jogged across the city to the precincts of 
 Sixth Avenue. Here she alighted to walk. 
 One after the other, she passed the shops of
 
 n6 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 dry goods and novelties, ribbons, lingerie, 
 and the mysterious product known as " neck 
 wear." She reached finally one whose di 
 mensions and importance seemed to suggest 
 what she required. She was speedily at the 
 dress-goods counter. She spied a piece of 
 rose silk crepe-de-chine in the niche be 
 hind the clerk s head which satisfied all her 
 longings. 
 
 " How much is this a yard? " she asked, 
 fingering eagerly the clinging folds which 
 he unrolled before her. 
 
 "This comes expensive, ma am," said the 
 clerk. " It s four dollars." 
 
 "Four dollars! And only single width! 
 Why, it s terrible high!" 
 
 "That s so;" the clerk gave an imper 
 sonal shrug. " There s cheaper cashmeres 
 in the same shades at the next counter." 
 
 "Show them to me, please." 
 
 They were much coarser, thicker, more 
 opaque, and still very exorbitant in price. 
 She hesitated for some time, but at last 
 recklessly came to terms. This dress must 
 have a train, and she measured two extra 
 yards for the flowing sleeve. Then there 
 was the lining, two yards and a half of 
 pink ribbon, and the lace! At the thought 
 of the lace her courage flagged. She priced 
 a piece which she admired lying on a pile
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 117 
 
 of tulle. The clerk informed her it was five 
 dollars a yard, but, seeing her dilemma, 
 presented her with some at sixty cents 
 which he said would do for summer wear. 
 Upon Mrs. Marston s tea-gown there had 
 been fully a dozen yards of a very different 
 quality from this cheap stuff. Even Beth, 
 who could not distinguish real lace from imi 
 tation, felt convinced. She compromised 
 by buying five yards. 
 
 " It ain t needed on the train," she said 
 to herself. 
 
 The next few days were employed in the 
 fabrication of a Greek garment such as 
 should make Mary Bucknell s eyes dart 
 from their sockets and her mouth water. 
 She hesitated about the bare arms. Hers 
 were very dark, rather thin, and there was 
 down on them. No, she did not dare. Not 
 before the men, the farm-hands, her husband. 
 Blind as she was, she did stop short here. 
 It could not be risked. She filled the inter 
 stices with white muslin. The effect was 
 peculiar, but she thought passable. She 
 had also purchased a wide black hat, and 
 she surmounted it with two high plumes, as 
 Mrs. Marston s had been surmounted by a 
 half-dozen, and a bow of ribbon. It was 
 more becoming to her than the sailor one. 
 During these preparations the cottage meals
 
 n8 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 were more or less irregular. One night 
 Dottie and Joe went to bed supperless, and 
 it is certain that Joe churned the butter and 
 saw to the hens. 
 
 Beth, in poking about the cowhouse one 
 day after some eggs a vagabond hen had 
 hidden there, caught sight of an old gilded 
 harness hanging on a peg, evidently dis 
 carded by the coachman. Its meretricious 
 glitter caught her fancy. She came home 
 and indited a carefully written letter to Mrs. 
 Marston in which she asked permission to 
 use this harness with the family carry-all. 
 She got Mr. Oakes to correct the grammar 
 and expression of her screed, and when it 
 was completed it was worthy of Madame de 
 Sevigne. She signed it " Mrs. Elizabeth B. 
 Bush." Her messenger, the shepherd-boy, 
 returned with a brief word scratched across 
 a card. It told her hastily that she was wel 
 come to the harness if it was all right with 
 the coachman, as Mrs. Marston knew noth 
 ing about it. This was signed, "Truly 
 yours, Lola Marston." 
 
 For nearly an hour Beth pondered over 
 this missive. Was this the sort of letter 
 grand ladies wrote to each other, or was its 
 curtness a fresh slight especially directed to 
 herself ? Then there was the signature ;
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 119 
 
 this certainly was friendly, "Truly yours, 
 Lola Marston." 
 
 In a note to Floribel Pullen she signed 
 herself, for the first time in her life, " Beth 
 Bush." It was hazardous, but at all events 
 she would risk it. She was burning her 
 ships, and concluded that whatever she did 
 would be wrong. A certain audacity seemed 
 the safer mean. 
 
 Floribel Pullen gladly accepted her invi 
 tation to supper. Beth was torn between 
 her desire to exhibit Miss Pullen to the 
 Bucknells, and a slight dismay at the thought 
 that the Bucknells must be shown to Miss 
 Pullen. Azubel, the brother-in-law, was not 
 elegant. 
 
 " My sister-in-law s real plain," she said 
 to her at church on the Sunday. " I can t 
 say as she s dressy, but they re used to the 
 best society down in Pontifex. They re 
 old-fashioned, but they re used to comfort 
 and going with the best." 
 
 Mrs. Bucknell s plainness, she felt, could 
 thus be made to appear mere eccentricity, a 
 vagary of an otherwise distinguished person. 
 In this aspect it became a distinction. For 
 Azubel she felt it wiser not to apologize. 
 
 Floribel had felt a little left out in the 
 cold during Mrs. Bush s and the school-
 
 120 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 master s philosophic studies. She herself 
 was not philosophical. She liked fun, flat 
 tery, and to be made love to. Percival 
 Oakes found Elizabeth s tremulous uplook- 
 ing held a charm which Floribel s comrade 
 ship had lacked. His and Beth s vanities, 
 which were not frivolous, were more success 
 fully complementary. They had something 
 better to do than to make love. 
 
 The golden harness was duly polished, 
 and did service bravely over the farm team. 
 Joe mopped his brow, put on his Sunday 
 coat, and went to the station to meet his 
 relations. When they reached the cottage, 
 after their hot drive, the sound of music 
 agreeably titillated their ears. As they 
 entered the parlor this was the tableau that 
 met their surprised glance. Sitting on a tall 
 chair with a cushion behind her, and another 
 under her feet, was the lady of the house. 
 On her head was a large hat, surmounted 
 with nodding plumage. She was dressed in 
 strange garments, flowing and rose-colored, 
 trimmed here and fastened there with lace 
 and ribbons. At her feet, in a recumbent but 
 slightly cramped position, sat, or rather 
 crouched, Mr. Oakes. He was picking at 
 the mandolin. His performance was occa 
 sionally interrupted by the sound of sobs 
 and screams from the upper floor, the evident
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 121 
 
 protest of a person in pain. It was in fact 
 - Dottie. 
 
 Ten minutes before the entree of her rela 
 tives Dottie had broken the only flower-vase, 
 spilling the water over her best dress and 
 yellow ribbons, and scattering its roses pell- 
 mell to the carpet. By turns indulged to 
 excess, or severely disciplined by her foolish 
 mother, Dottie was an exceedingly disagree 
 able little girl. She had willfully and dis 
 obediently pushed the table near which she 
 had been forbidden to play. She was now 
 paying the penalty of her crimes in bed, 
 undressed, and locked up. This unlooked- 
 for contretemps had rendered the tranquil and 
 ideal scene which met Mr. and Mrs. Buck- 
 nell s astonishment a trifle difficult, but Beth 
 was learning to surmount dilemma.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Lola Marston often left her gay guests to 
 their own pastimes in the long evenings, and 
 escaped from them to the upper air of her 
 balcony. She would linger here for awhile, 
 glad of a few brief moments in the soft sum 
 mer air, glad of the rest from their jests which 
 sometimes wearied her; of their merriment, 
 which sometimes jarred. She would lean 
 out and gaze across the wide plateau to the 
 woods beyond, whose dim outline rose un 
 real and shadowy under a myriad stars. 
 The smell of the dark orange trees, the 
 glimmer of the statues, the vocal melodies 
 of air and nature reminded her of Italy, 
 where she had spent some years of child 
 hood. She liked to draw into her lungs the 
 acrid perfume of the leaves, the distant odor 
 of the tides, which blew across the marsh 
 lands. She liked to lose herself in the soft 
 lapping silences, in the cool stillness of the 
 dusk. She was a little tired tired of talk, 
 of badinage, of light. 
 
 Oakes, passing by one night, skirting the
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 123 
 
 grove of locusts, through which a path had 
 lured him from his direct homeward way, 
 looking up, saw her. The rules of etiquette 
 were not well known to this intruder, and 
 yet a form of pride, akin to finer instincts 
 which guide the civilized, had thus far 
 guarded him from willing trespassing. Far 
 down within his soul he knew full well that 
 his assiduous visits at the cottage sprang 
 from a secret wish to be brought nearer to 
 the mistress of the castle. He had ceased to 
 desire to see Mrs. Marston. He desired that 
 she should see him. Recognize him she 
 must, admit his existence, be forced to know 
 he had a name, his own name, not some 
 other man s. This curious obsession is less 
 uncommon than we imagine this passion 
 ate craving for a place in the regard of one 
 who represents a world apart from us, be 
 yond and inaccessible. Her approval, at 
 least her notice, had waxed of infinite im 
 portance to the phantasies of his sick mind. 
 Her world! how far from his! And why? 
 He ground his teeth when he remembered 
 how small he seemed to it, fit only to be 
 trodden into insignificant obscurity. This 
 longing to-night had grown into positive 
 pain, and when he saw the distant flutter of 
 her draperies he boldly struck the footpath 
 which came so nigh the house that he could
 
 124 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 hear the music from the open drawing- 
 rooms. 
 
 Should he speak to her? make some 
 excuse for loitering here? Coin some false 
 phrase, invent some wily subterfuge that 
 should, for a moment, make her bend her 
 head in his direction, or mayhap whisper a 
 word to him across the night? But when he 
 was indeed so close, a step upon the gravel, 
 a sigh, almost, would have revealed him to 
 her, his courage sank. Trembling, ashamed, 
 he cowered against a tree-trunk, hidden 
 amid the bushes, fearing to breathe lest her 
 unconsciousness should be disturbed. 
 
 Away in the distance the Italian gardens 
 slumbered. The roses nodded sleepily; 
 great, high gladioli shot heavenward, the 
 mignonette threw out its dank aroma, while 
 yellow lilies exuded heavy savor, in which 
 the bees sank swooning. The dancing 
 nymphs gleamed like fantastic specters 
 amid the shroud of vapors, which hung low 
 on the fountain. The marble basin glittered 
 between its dusky borders, while its waters 
 dripped in ceaseless cadence. Across this 
 peace, the shrill and tender cries of birds, 
 piercing or plaintive, awoke a dissonance 
 like some regret, some black remorse, clutch 
 ing the conscience in an hour of pleasure. 
 
 The phlox waved purple clusters, white
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 125 
 
 petunias drank the dew, the amarantus slept 
 in its wet leaves, the nebulosa looked like 
 smoke-flecks upon the verdant borders of the 
 pathway. The garden lay asleep with its 
 stiff hedge-rows, its cut yews, its quaint 
 dwarf birches. The philosopher in Percival 
 Oakes s heart gave way, the poet awoke. 
 He glanced upward he saw her at last in all 
 her glory, this pale lady of his musings. She 
 was in full evening dress of opaline satin, 
 her arms and bosom bare; above her brow 
 there rose a jeweled coronet. He could 
 guess all her beauty in that white fire which, 
 ever since that day when she had thanked 
 him for a service, seemed to environ her. 
 What mental phenomenon was it which made 
 this unknown woman to this unknown youth 
 a thing to be at once worshiped, pitied, and 
 adored? for in his feeling for her there 
 were tears. Sterile as death, barren in its 
 unearthly purity, his ideal passion yet was 
 warm enough for him to resent that she 
 should suffer. And . . . she suffered. Had 
 he not guessed it? Why should she not? 
 Love s own avatar! Why was she left to 
 lonely reveries on nights like these? Why 
 was she not missed and swiftly sought for? 
 What were her thoughts, this lady of the 
 gentle eyes? He guessed that they were sad. 
 The Madonna in glory, robed with clouds,
 
 126 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 her slender feet upon the crescent moon, 
 immaculate, serene, could not have seemed 
 more unapproachable than she did now. 
 Afraid, he slunk away, hugging the bank, 
 and was soon lost in the fast-gathering 
 gloom. Clouds swept the firmament, a chill 
 crept up the valley from the Sound. Lola 
 shivered and sighed, as if some angel of sor 
 row had brushed her with its pinion. 
 
 " How cold it grows! " she said. 
 
 She came back into her room. She took 
 up a candle, and shading it with her hand 
 as she crossed the windy hall, went in, an 
 instant, to look at her sleeping son. 
 
 " Darling angel! " she whispered, as she 
 bent beside him. She drank in the sweet 
 breath from between his hot red lips. It 
 was like nectar to her. " Darling angel! " 
 
 The sadness in her face vanished. It 
 gave way to an ineffable content. 
 
 They claimed her when she appeared at 
 the drawing-room door with a round of 
 applause. 
 
 " Bravo! " cried May Plunkett, who was 
 spending the night at Marston Terrace, 
 " I ve won my bet! " 
 
 "What bet?" 
 
 " Mrs. Ayrault insisted that my last risqute 
 story had shocked you, and that we would 
 not see you again to-night."
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 127 
 
 " Why, I did n t hear it," said Mrs. Mar- 
 ston, smiling faintly. 
 
 " I said . . ." 
 
 "Stop!" said the rest. "Do you wish 
 to drive Mrs. Marston away again? It is 
 not decent in her own house." 
 
 " What geese! " said Mrs. Marston. " If 
 you are all still quarreling, and as noisy as 
 when I left you, I will surely go away again, 
 and to bed this time." 
 
 May Plunkett was leaning back in an arm 
 chair, her bright beauty in the full bloom of 
 its twenty years. 
 
 " She puts us all out," Mrs. Ayrault 
 said with a laugh that ended in a funny 
 little groan. 
 
 Lemuel Isham, whose presence was made 
 audible by a wheeze and roar his cough 
 resembled the protest of an angry lion 
 was sketching her. 
 
 The old artist s steady eye and hand, with 
 only a bit of charcoal, in masterful, broad 
 strokes had already thrown upon the can 
 vas a silhouette of unusual force and char 
 acter. 
 
 " That won t do that won t do. Hold 
 on . . ." he muttered to himself. " That 
 will all have to come out. Why, I m spoil 
 ing her! I m giving her a soul! " 
 
 "What did you say, Mr. Isham?" said
 
 128 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Miss Plunkett, raising her head from a 
 whispered colloquy with Asch. 
 
 She was the only girl he ever deigned to 
 notice. Why he did so was enigmatic. 
 She was an heiress, but Asch did not seem 
 in a hurry to make matrimonial investments. 
 He preferred his friends should do so. 
 There was less risk, and Asch was essentially 
 prudent. This was one of the occasions 
 when he was indulging her. Duly grateful, 
 she did not wish to loose a moment of his 
 attention. 
 
 "I said," growled Isham, "that it was 
 impossible to do you justice without color 
 without the flesh." 
 
 " You said nothing of the kind. Did he, 
 Mr. Asch?" she asked, coquettishly. 
 
 " I should say . . . the flesh was very 
 important, don t you know," said Asch, 
 fastening his eyes upon May s throat with an 
 impertinent stare. 
 
 The girl flushed, but the man s senses 
 remained as cool as a mountain brook. 
 Perhaps it was this unruffled calm before 
 their charms which piqued and pleased 
 the women. Who can tell? It certainly was 
 more convenient. Nineteenth-century women 
 are too much occupied for complication. 
 
 Old Isham took off his spectacles and 
 looked at them both. He blinked.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 129 
 
 "You are actually growing fat! too fat!" 
 said Asch. He had a thin, membranous 
 voice, highly pitched. 
 
 "Thanks for the compliment," said May 
 Plunkett, piqued. " I ve just lost eight 
 pounds. I was weighed in the Turkish 
 bath." 
 
 "Where did they go the eight pounds? " 
 asked Asch. "That is what I always ask 
 myself. What becomes of em?" 
 
 "What becomes of dead birds? " said Mr. 
 Isham. 
 
 "Eh! What the deuce have the birds 
 to do with the eight pounds lost by Miss 
 Plunkett? I can t see." 
 
 "Whew! whew! whew! " Mr. Isham went 
 on working, his nose within two inches of the 
 easel. " No, I dare say not." 
 
 "That is queer," said May. "I never 
 thought about that." 
 
 " Have you ever thought about anything? " 
 asked Mr. Isham. 
 
 Fenno Asch threw back his head and 
 emitted a loud laugh utterly devoid of mirth. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Isham, how horridly rude you 
 are!" 
 
 "I m not half as rude as your friend, Mr. 
 Asch," said Mr. Isham. " I don t think you 
 too fat. On the whole, I rather regret those 
 eight pounds. If you say so, I 11 put them
 
 i 3 o EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 in here. The question is, to what part of 
 your frame do you wish them added? " 
 
 "Mrs. Marston," cried May, "come and 
 take my part. The gentlemen are behaving 
 cruelly to me. They are making fun of me 
 and saying nasty things." 
 
 "O, I think you quite capable of self- 
 defense, May dear." Mrs. Marston was look 
 ing over some music at the piano with Count 
 de Beaumont, who had been torturing a so 
 nata of Beethoven s ever since dinner. 
 
 "Ah, voila, we hold it," said the Count. 
 "Hum, hum, hum." 
 
 " Adieu Grenade, ma ^harmante . They 
 sang it in the Champs Elysees. All Paris 
 went crazy." 
 
 " Hum, hum, hum. Is that it? " asked Mrs. 
 Marston. 
 
 " Not exactly. Yes, now. Hum, hum. 
 We ve got it. Parfait." 
 
 "Well, here goes then." The two mingled 
 their voices while Mrs. Ayrault drummed 
 the accompaniment. 
 
 "That is too high for me. My voice is 
 such a poor little squeaky thing. Can t you 
 transpose it? " 
 
 " I 11 try," said Mrs. Ayrault. " There 
 now, begin again." 
 
 Turn, turn.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 131 
 
 " Et le doux son de la mandore 
 Fremissait sous les doigts legers. 
 
 "That is just like your fingers, so smooth 
 and so light," he found time to leave in her 
 ear, between the couplets. Mrs. Ayrault 
 improvised a running interlude which she 
 ended with a crash. 
 
 "They can be heavy enough," she said, 
 shrugging her shoulders. " But don t you 
 think we ve punished the piano, as May 
 says, with our improvising long enough." 
 
 " No, no. Go on, go on. It s perfectly 
 lovely." 
 
 " Adieu Grenade, ma charmante, " hummed 
 May, joining in the refrain. 
 
 " It s a dream! Is it not, Mr. Isham? " 
 
 " I don t know anything more invigorating, 
 unless it s Mr. Asch s conversation," said 
 Mr. Isham. 
 
 Asch glared at him, scowling; but the 
 Bostonian went on drawing, imperturbable. 
 Asch s mere voice acted upon his nerves as 
 does the barking of a weak-lunged dog when 
 one wooes sleep. It must be confessed, how 
 ever, that Asch s bark was not persistent. 
 He had the genius of pause. 
 
 " How much longer do you suppose Beau 
 mont intends making an ass of himself?" 
 said Asch.
 
 132 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "How an ass? He sings delightfully," 
 said May, teasingly, wishing she might rouse 
 jealousy. 
 
 "Why, with the Ayrault and generally " 
 
 "You cannot comprehend such devotion, 
 now can you, Mr. Asch? A man giving his 
 whole life for 
 
 "Rot!" 
 
 "That s just it! You think all love rot! " 
 
 "Well, isn t it now? Did you ever see 
 any that was n t? " 
 
 " I 11 wager she never did." Had Mr. 
 Isham sneezed or spoken? " Whew! whew! " 
 
 "Were you ever jealous, Mr. Asch? I 
 don t mean a little, but murderously." 
 
 Asch opened his handsome eyes in a won 
 der which was at least sincere, but he could 
 find no word. 
 
 " You seem to think all the er emo 
 tions rot," said May. " Did you ever expe 
 rience that one? " And she giggled. But 
 Fenno Asch s genuine astonishment at her 
 surmise still robbed him of speech. 
 
 "I do so love a jealous man! " 
 
 "Women always do love donkeys!" said 
 Fenno. 
 
 "You are right there," said Mr. Isham, 
 with an unmistakable accentuation. " They 
 dew" He rang out the last word in 
 the best Nantucket twang with which he
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 133 
 
 sometimes amused the ladies after break 
 fast. 
 
 " So you think a man s a donkey for being 
 jealous? I don t. I respect him for it. I 
 even love him, for in that way one can tor 
 ment him so nicely." 
 
 " Thanks! I d rather be comfortable." 
 "Ah! You do think jealousy uncomfort 
 able?" 
 
 " Can t say. Never tried it," 
 "Then you have never loved! " 
 "Shouldn t be surprised," Mr. Isham 
 mumbled as he gave a sharp pat to May s 
 charcoal eyebrow. He rose, and made from 
 a distance an exhaustive examination of the 
 portrait. 
 
 "All wrong; all wrong. It s got to 
 come out! There s too much sense in it. 
 Might be a Santa Scholastica. Why, there s 
 actually some expression in those eyes. 
 They re not foolish enough irresponsible. 
 It s all got to be done over. I ve spoiled 
 her. Dear me! dear me! The limitations 
 of art are incredible." 
 
 "And you, Mr. Isham, have you ever 
 loved?" 
 
 "Ah! my dear Miss Plunkett, I was born 
 too soon. In my day, to be in love was a 
 great expense; and you see I never could 
 afford myself the luxury."
 
 134 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "Why I don t understand!" 
 
 " In those simple, frugal times, to love 
 meant marriage," and as May Plunkett 
 moved away to speak to Mrs. Ayrault, who 
 was calling her, the old man went on as if 
 addressing the ambient air. " Girls did not 
 have dots in those days, and men had to earn 
 their own living. Their greatest happiness 
 was to slave for the worshiped lady, to be 
 stow everything upon her, for which, in 
 return, they felt themselves blessed if she 
 gave into their keeping her little hand. 
 To-day fortunes are a heritage; love an in 
 vestment. I am old. I leave the field to 
 the more enterprising generation." And he 
 waved his hand toward Asch with a contemp 
 tuous inflection on the word "enterprising." 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Isham," said May, 
 who had caught the last word, " I think the 
 old fellows are more enterprising than the 
 young ones. They are less ... er ... 
 prudent." She looked at Asch as she spoke. 
 " But I missed all that you have been say 
 ing. Tell me over again." 
 
 " I was saying the boys had to rough it in 
 my day, dear young lady; and that prudence 
 was not a part of our valor." 
 
 " I hate prudent men," said Miss Plunkett. 
 " Cowards are prudent. But what did you 
 say to Mr. Asch?" she persisted.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 135 
 
 " I must not repeat myself," said Mr. 
 Isham, smiling and shaking his head, " al 
 though that is one of the prerogatives of 
 age. One would not like to become a bore." 
 He sighed. 
 
 " Fancy your being a bore, Mr. Isham, 
 with all your wonderful talent! " 
 
 "What has my talent to do with it?" 
 asked Mr. Isham, gruffly. "When did so 
 ciety care for performance? All it wants is 
 personality. It asks us to be ornamental, 
 amusing, or amused; and it is quite right, 
 too. The bores are those who expect its 
 praise for the things it cares nothing at all 
 about. For the things of which we are most 
 proud, our friends rarely give us credit or 
 applause. Now, I do not want the applause 
 of society. How could I growl and bark at 
 it if I owed it gratitude? Society is a tonic. 
 It kills our vanity. It shows us its folly. 
 Nobody cares for our best actions or our best 
 gifts. When I was a very little boy I saved 
 the life of a friend s pet dog, but I got my 
 jacket and my hands dirty, and I remember 
 that my father whipped me severely. He 
 represented society which dislikes the un 
 sightly." 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Isham knew that it was his 
 very bark and growl which made him ac 
 ceptable, and he could laugh in his sleeve at
 
 136 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 the human masquers who found his own dis 
 guise piquant. 
 
 In the other room a quadrille had been 
 formed. Of course nobody knew how to 
 dance it. Its formality had degenerated into 
 a general scamper and frolic. A couple were 
 playing backgammon in the library as a cover 
 to sentiment. Others had strolled out upon 
 the terrace. From one to another of these 
 scattered groups Archibald Marston wan 
 dered the amiable entertainer, the genial 
 host. Never, perhaps, had the realization of 
 his ambitions been more absolute than to 
 night. He had at his house to-day the very 
 cream of a coterie famed for exclusiveness. 
 Fashion was represented by youth, beauty, 
 and wealth, but in his character of man of 
 the world this was not enough. Isham was 
 there to do the heavy artistic; de Beaumont, 
 diplomacy; there was even a stray congress 
 man out on the veranda, admitted because 
 politics was to him a fad, not a career, and he 
 was chatting with a young married lady who 
 had once been known to publish a sonnet in 
 Harper s Magazine. Even literature was not 
 neglected. It is doubtful if any of the 
 house-party had read the sonnet. They 
 spoke of it vaguely, in whispers. It is also 
 quite certain that had they read it they would 
 have criticised it with unusual severity, see-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 137 
 
 ing the author was their intimate companion. 
 There are no more severe critics of an art 
 than those who know not its alphabet. At 
 the time of its publication there had been a 
 moment of terror, followed by a reaction. 
 They generously decided not to drop her. 
 For this there were four reasons. She was 
 pretty; she dressed extremely well; she was 
 good-natured; and she gave amusing little 
 dinners at which " frumps " were never met. 
 Would she have " frumps " after the sonnet? 
 That was the question which agitated the 
 community for six months. One never can 
 be sure. Sonnets are proverbially upsetting. 
 The first year settled the question. She did 
 not change her circle. She was saved! 
 
 Yes, Marston was happy perfectly so! 
 There was the house. It was the apple of 
 his eye. He was careful not to appear too 
 well pleased with its stately proportions, its 
 luxurious furnishings, but he could with dif 
 ficulty conceal his satisfaction under a well- 
 bred indifference. Above all he was pleased 
 with his wife. She certainly was exquisite. 
 How superior to all these fussy, restless 
 women whose languid manner was mere 
 affectation, disguising petty aims and low 
 designs. Her indifference was not feigned. 
 It was real. Sometimes, indeed, it had vexed 
 him vexed him that she was not more
 
 138 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 modern, that her conservative ancestry had 
 left with her traditions which made her re 
 semble a mediaeval lady of the sixteenth 
 century wandering bewildered through the 
 noise of this. But to-night, as he looked at 
 her, he appreciated that this was power. He 
 realized in her that something which raised 
 her above them all nay, above him and 
 he felt generously inclined to forgive her! 
 He went now and touched her arm, and said 
 an affectionate word to her, so overbubbling 
 with his pride that he did not care if it was 
 "bad form." She instantly responded with 
 her soft lips pouting out at him; behind the 
 raised top of the grand piano her palm sought 
 his, and she gave his hand a gentle little 
 squeeze, a glow of tenderness lighting up 
 her sweet face. He was not often so demon 
 strative. 
 
 The party was breaking up. It was nearly 
 one o clock. The moon hung low on the 
 horizon; the clouds had drifted away. The 
 night was superb. 
 
 " It is quite too beautiful to go to bed ! " 
 said the author of the sonnet, coming in 
 nevertheless, with her congressman. 
 
 " I really must disappear," said Mrs. 
 Marston. " I have to get up early in the 
 morning, and drive very, very far. I shall
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 139 
 
 leave you to your own devices, and to 
 Archie s." 
 
 " Where are you going? " they all asked. 
 
 "O, no matter! You could never guess." 
 And she would not tell them. She was, in 
 fact, going to pay a visit to the county poor- 
 house, which she never neglected, however 
 onerous might be her other duties.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The poor house a square, brown build 
 ing, surmounted by a cupola stood at an 
 angle of two roads in a pleasant field. It 
 was surrounded by trees. Although over its 
 low doorway one might well have written up 
 the " Lasciate ogni speranza voi che en- 
 trate " of the great Tuscan s hell, yet its 
 aspect was not particularly forbidding. It 
 was only when one penetrated among its 
 tenants that the sense of its gloom struck a 
 chill to the heart. Although Mrs. Marston 
 had the habit of visiting " Smith s Institu 
 tion," as this refuge was called by the cour 
 tesy of amiable trustees, she never did so 
 without the inward shudder with which we 
 face an unwelcome task. When the effort 
 was over, she heaved a sigh of relief hardly 
 tempered by that sense of exhilaration 
 which the priests tell us duty done leaves 
 with the virtuous. What satisfaction indeed 
 could come from the contemplation of such 
 hopelessness? 
 
 To-day she found the inmates already at 
 140
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 141 
 
 their midday meal. In the summer they had 
 a light supper; in winter the meals were re 
 duced to two, and they went supperless to 
 bed, the fact that the evenings were shorter 
 being given as excuse for this curtailment. 
 
 Lola was too sincere to indulge in that 
 foolish exclamatory admiration with which 
 the dwellers in luxurious homes view hospi 
 tals, asylums, and retreats dedicated by 
 charity to the unfortunate. Nevertheless, so 
 strong is the force of custom, that even she 
 was not quite free from that forced cheer 
 fulness, that strained approval with which 
 the children of the world accost the chil 
 dren shall we say of the earth? The 
 painful contrast of her elegant garments 
 with the squalor of their own humbled her 
 into that apologetic attitude with which the 
 man who occupies a seat in a drawing-room 
 car nods to his friend who is hurrying to find 
 one in the rear. Yet it would never have 
 occurred to Lola Marston to change her 
 manner of dress to suit this new environ 
 ment. In this she was wise. It is best 
 always to be one s self. There is nothing to 
 gain and least of all with the uneducated, 
 whose force of vision we should not under 
 value by shams or by hypocrisy. She 
 knew they liked to see her as she was, and, 
 beyond this, being in spite of her softness a
 
 142 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 person of individuality, she did not purpose 
 to suit herself to others. She demanded 
 that they should suit themselves to her. 
 
 The matron met her in the upper hall. 
 She was a disheveled woman with a ruddy, 
 coarse complexion and a somewhat abrupt 
 manner. She was not unclean, or entirely 
 ill-favored, however, and under her turbu 
 lent and vigilant defiance there lurked, Mrs. 
 Marston knew, a sort of shamefaced sympa 
 thy for the beings whose welfare she was 
 delegated to watch over. She showed Mrs. 
 Marston into her room. Two decidedly 
 dirty little children frolicked on the floor. 
 One, a charming little girl in a soiled scarlet 
 frock, ran up smiling, and touched Mrs. 
 Marston s rich coat with wonder and delight. 
 The other, a robust boy of three, scrambled 
 up into a rocking-chair, having possessed 
 himself of a greasy picture-book. In his 
 mouth he held a long rusty iron nail; now 
 and then he took it between his thumb and 
 index, and puffed out his pink cheeks. 
 
 "Well, if he ain t smoking," said his 
 mother, with sudden laughter. " He sees 
 the old men a-doin of it, and he s such a 
 monkey he just catches up all he sees." 
 
 Mrs. Marston smiled. 
 
 " They are dear children," she said. 
 "What are their names?"
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 143 
 
 " Keziah and Johnny, ma am. After me 
 and my husband." 
 
 "Ain t papar comin in to see the lady?" 
 asked Keziah, stroking gently Mrs. Mar- 
 ston s lace parasol. 
 
 " O, I guess he 11 be along," said the 
 woman, whose name was Mrs. Monk. 
 
 " I have never seen your husband," said 
 Mrs. Marston, with the same set smile which 
 gave her jaw a feeling of having been dislo 
 cated and reset. 
 
 "He ain t much to look at, but he s 
 good; he s a year younger n me," said Mrs. 
 Monk. 
 
 " O, that makes no difference. You re 
 young too," said Mrs. Marston. 
 
 "Well, I ain t so young as I was. I m 
 going on thirty." 
 
 " And how are they all? " 
 
 "Much the same. Old Madam Kate s 
 gone. We had her funeral last week. Mr. 
 Walsh, he came over to read the service." 
 
 " And Mrs. Davis, is she still here? She 
 seemed such a hearty creature. I should 
 think she might get work." 
 
 " Well, and so she could." Mrs. Monk 
 leaned back in her rocker, displaying her 
 thick feet, swinging far apart gracelessly, in 
 their woolen socks and stout shoes. As she 
 rocked she caressed the end of her nose,
 
 144 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 upon which the heat had left its flush, with 
 her knitting-needle. Her garments exuded 
 that curious odor which do those of persons 
 whose effects are washed in the same place 
 where their cooking is done, and as Mrs. 
 Marston looked at her she found herself 
 wondering how any man could love this 
 woman, or even want her this woman in 
 whom all element of charm seemed so en 
 tirely absent. 
 
 " About Mrs. Davis I have to laugh!" 
 Mrs. Monk rocked vigorously, and indulged 
 in a peal of hilarity. " She d got a splendid 
 offer, only six weeks back. A widower 
 two sons wanted her to look after them a 
 bit do the cleanin and mendin . Five dol 
 lars a month all found! Well" Mrs. 
 Monk tipped her chair and laughed again 
 "well, she wouldn t quit here. She s in 
 love! and it ain t with the house neither." 
 
 " Mrs. Davis? That old woman?" 
 
 "You may say it." 
 
 " You re joking, Mrs. Monk? " 
 
 "No, I ain t. Ask Maggie." 
 
 Maggie was the wit of the establishment; 
 an Irishwoman, irrepressible, with a wag 
 ging tongue and a shrill jollity which rever 
 berated ever and anon through the silent 
 halls. 
 
 "In love!"
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 145 
 
 "I guess that s the color of it. She s 
 just crazy after a man here. Amos P. they 
 call him. His name s Amos P. Hubbs." 
 
 "Mr. Hubbs!" 
 
 "Well, if it ain t queer, I don t know." 
 
 "Why? What?" 
 
 " Says she knowed him when she was 
 younger, over in Brooklyn. That may be. 
 I must say them two is n t like the rest. 
 They re educated and quiet-spoken and, 
 well, I suspect they ve been better off. She 
 washes for him, mends his pants and duds 
 now and then, does little chores for him. 
 He ain t no good. He s got the rheumatiz. 
 But he s a great hand to talk. Well, he 
 hangs around her, and they re dreadful set 
 on each other." 
 
 "That old woman!" Mrs. Marston could 
 only ejaculate again. 
 
 "Yes. He ain t so old. He ain t more n 
 fifty-five, and she s goin on sixty if she s 
 an hour; but she s a fine-lookin woman for 
 all that, is Mrs. Davis, and that widower 
 would have hired her. Well, would you 
 believe it, she weighed it in her mind for 
 two days and nights. She could n t sleep or 
 eat she was that flustered. It meant leav 
 ing the poorhouse, and she s a well-born 
 woman, Mrs. Davis, and a good home, and 
 wages, too, agin a rainy day; but when the
 
 146 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 time come she could n t do it. You see she 
 could n t leave Amos. I guess she thought 
 he d kinder miss her." 
 
 Mrs. Monk laughed once more, but this 
 time there was less spontaneity in the merri 
 ment; it wavered a moment and then ceased, 
 sobering into sudden silence. Mrs. Marston, 
 too, had grown grave. 
 
 " Is she quite alone in the world quite 
 friendless?" 
 
 " She ain t got no relatives as I know of. 
 They re all dead, or maybe ungrateful. 
 She s been a good woman always, so I 
 heard some folks who knowed of her tell. 
 Nobody ever asks for her. She s been here 
 nigh on seven year. Her husband was a 
 bad egg, I guess, but he ain t livin ." 
 
 "Then I suppose this ... er ... affec 
 tion ... is the only one she has in the 
 world." 
 
 "Well, I guess it s all there s left to 
 her." 
 
 The last words were uttered in a tone so 
 gentle that it was almost a sigh. Mrs. Mar 
 ston looked up surprised. Her deep eyes 
 met the opaque ones of the matron. There 
 was a pause. 
 
 " The quaintest thing is she s changed re 
 ligions. She was Congregationalist Mrs. 
 Davis blue as blue! Went to meetin
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 147 
 
 reg lar. Yes, a reg lar blue light. Well, 
 will you believe it, when the priest come 
 here to see Amos, when he thought he d die 
 with pain across his chest, three weeks back, 
 she ups and gets him to baptize her a Cath 
 olic. Now, ain t that droll? I guess they d 
 like to be married, but we could n t have it 
 here." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " I don t say as if they went out and did 
 it as the trustees could raise objections. 
 There ain t no law agin marriage. But you 
 understand . . ." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, she s bound to be the same as 
 him. I guess she was afeard if they wan t 
 the same religions they d get separated 
 somehow in another world. They ain t got 
 much to look for here, I guess." 
 
 Mrs. Monk s voice was a little husky. 
 
 " So this place has its idyl," murmured 
 Lola. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Its love affair." 
 
 " Seems so." 
 
 They were silent. 
 
 " How sad!" said Mrs. Marston, after a 
 while. 
 
 "Well it is, now you come to look at it." 
 Mrs. Monk stopped, and scooped up her son
 
 148 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 who had crawled to her side. She buried 
 her face in his tangled curls with a maternal 
 gurgle of satisfaction. 
 
 " She is n t so unattractive after all," 
 thought Mrs. Marston, with contrition. 
 
 A sound of moving chairs warned them 
 that the diners had finished their repast. In 
 a few moments Mrs. Marston entered the 
 women s department. There they were all, 
 Maggie and Phoebe and Mrs. Davis, with 
 her added aureole of romance. Her hand 
 some motherly face smiled under its black 
 fluted cap. Maggie was obstreperous as 
 usual, full of gossip and reminiscence, teas 
 ing the others, and shaking her old yellow 
 face at them. 
 
 " Have done, Maggie Sullivan! You re 
 crazy. Here comes a lady." 
 
 There was Phcebe, the ruddy giantess, 
 who had lived all her life in the poorhouse, 
 and had borne a child there, so long ago 
 indeed that, though the girl remained, the 
 scandal which had heralded her birth was 
 half forgotten. 
 
 The girl, Tot, stood now with arms akimbo, 
 idle, dawdling, simpering, upon the neigh 
 boring door-sill. Tot was not "all there," 
 as the Scotch have it. 
 
 Then there was Diana. Dianawasanegress. 
 She was as black as ink. O, Artemis,
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 149 
 
 starry-eyed, swift of foot, would not thy 
 lip have curled in scorn and anger had this 
 namesake of thine dared pollute thy great 
 Ephesian temple, seeking blessing? 
 
 About Diana there hung a horrible and 
 ghastly interest. Even Mrs. Marston found 
 it difficult when the wretched creature was 
 in the room to detach her eyes from a fas 
 cinated scrutiny of her shapeless, ghoulish 
 ugliness. She was short-limbed and heavily 
 built ; from her swarthy throat her head 
 rose, unnaturally small. It was perfectly 
 round, surmounted by a crown of bristling 
 wool ; her forehead was flat and lowering ; 
 her nose wide; her jaws prognathous, with 
 brutal lupine lips, which held between them 
 always the stump of a clay pipe. The rat- 
 like roving of her beady eyes suggested a 
 mind preyed upon by impulses of malignity 
 and apprehension. 
 
 " When she ain t smoking she gets 
 fidgety, "the matron here remarked. "Gets 
 sort of wild and nervous, and can t do her 
 dishes." 
 
 At twenty Diana had been nurse to the 
 child of a farmer s wife. One day furtively 
 she carried the child into the neighboring 
 woods, and there crushed in its head between 
 two stones. She had no dislike to the baby 
 no grudge against its parents. What
 
 150 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 savage and sensual instinct found vent in 
 this hideous deed ? What inherent depravity 
 was known only to herself. The jury had 
 disagreed; six were for hanging her, while 
 six insisted she was irresponsible. The word 
 which the slayer of a President has left to 
 us, that crisp and comprehensive appellative 
 "crank," had not been added yet to our 
 American vocabulary. That word which 
 designates those dangerous beings who vacil 
 late forever upon the edge of madness was 
 still to be invented by one of its most viru 
 lent exponents. Diana was refused at the 
 Lunatic Asylum, declared unfit for the 
 Idiot s Home, so twenty years before, she 
 had been brought here. There had been 
 talk of a new trial, but time, perhaps, had 
 assuaged the grief of the bereaved mother; 
 at any rate, here ever since she had re 
 mained, forgotten. If the furies which had 
 shaken her youth still slumbered, who could 
 say? She passed her days in washing dishes; 
 if now and then she rattled them in the sink, 
 nicking their corners with vengeful emphasis, 
 it was perhaps the expiring protest of a 
 burned-out volcano. She always curtesied 
 to Mrs. Marston, calling her by name, but 
 with her Lola could never bring herself to 
 speak, acquitting herself by a nod of greet 
 ing.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 151 
 
 To-day her attention several times wan 
 dered to where a new physiognomy detached 
 itself from among the well-known ones of 
 the women. Something there was, however, 
 of reserve and modesty in the bear-ing 
 of the new inmate, so that she hesitated to 
 intrude even a smile in her direction. Her 
 tact was rewarded. The young woman, 
 who was neatly dressed and had a certain 
 refinement about her person, moved forward 
 and addressed her. 
 
 " I m a newcomer, ma am," she said. "I 
 would never have been here only for my 
 child." 
 
 "Ah! "said Mrs. Marston, her eyes all 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Yes, I had a good place down by Ros- 
 lyn. They re rich folks. I scrubbed and 
 cooked for the men in the lower farm. The 
 lady was kind to me. She let me have 
 Rosy. Rosy s my child. But one day her 
 arm began to swell up, and she got the 
 blood-poisoning, and I had to leave my 
 place to nurse her. She came near dying. 
 The doctor says I saved her with my care. 
 But they got a Polish woman, and she did 
 not have any baby, and so ... I found it 
 convenient ... to come in here. ... I 
 had to come." 
 
 " Why would n t the widower s place do
 
 152 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 for her? " asked Mrs. Marston, turning to 
 Mrs. Davis with an inspiration of helpful 
 ness. 
 
 " O, they re decent folks," said Maggie. 
 " They d take no young uns." 
 
 The young woman flushed, and made a 
 deprecating gesture. Mrs. Marston turned 
 the subject which seemed to involve some 
 hidden sting, and continued to chat with the 
 others. Rosy s mother relapsed into silence. 
 By and by she left the room. In a moment 
 she reappeared with the child in her arms 
 a lovely child with dark curls, great lus 
 trous eyes, and cherry lips. The little one 
 had on a clean cotton frock. 
 
 "This is my Rosy," she said. 
 
 "Surely, surely," said Mrs. Marston, kindly, 
 "she doesn t look like an invalid. She s a 
 beauty." 
 
 The mother s face lighted with pleasure. 
 
 " Does she now? " she said. " She s nearly 
 well." 
 
 "Are you English? " asked Mrs. Marston. 
 
 "Yes, ma am. How did you guess?" 
 
 " By your speech," said Mrs. Marston, "as 
 they said to Peter." 
 
 " Well, 1 won t deny my nation, as he did," 
 she answered, a trifle proudly. 
 
 "She is very intelligent," thought Mrs. 
 Marston. " Oh, how dreadful! "
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 153 
 
 "You see," said the young mother, while 
 a bright pink color rose in her cheeks, " she s 
 the best baby when she is n t ill. I used to 
 tie her with a long rope to a tree just out 
 side the window where I worked so I could 
 see her, and do you believe she stayed there 
 all day long with never a whimper. Just 
 laughing and crowing and playing by her 
 self. I used to carry her milk out to her. 
 Those people were good. I ll never get 
 such another chance again. People won t 
 have children." 
 
 "She s a lovely child," repeated Mrs. 
 Marston, with that sense of despair such 
 cases awaken in us. 
 
 She noticed that her words found no echo 
 with the other women. She rose and made 
 her adieux, leaving a golden coin in little 
 Rosy s hand. 
 
 Still, on the whole, with all their lack of 
 charity, with their frivolity and narrowness, 
 the women imparted something to their sur 
 roundings which the men could not. Some 
 where within those withered breasts there 
 were movements of motherhood, love-tones, 
 an occasional spark of that lightheartedness 
 which God has given to feminine things, 
 that spirit of natural gayety which bubbles 
 up now and again in the veins of the most 
 sorrowful of women, a flotsam of their girl-
 
 154 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 hood. There were plants in the window 
 where they sat; there was even a canary- 
 bird in awooden cage, singing in the sunlight, 
 and they themselves were occupied. Many 
 of them were sewing, and all were chatting. 
 If it was not home-like, it was at least not 
 grave-like. 
 
 But grave-like was the melancholy of the 
 men s ward. Two or three tramps belong 
 ing to that genial genus which perambulates 
 country roads, and whose stomachs are al 
 ways ready to absorb cold griddle-cakes, 
 discarded biscuits and warmed-over coffee, 
 sat near the door. One with crutches, one 
 in a high, brimless hat, one in a tattered uni 
 form, were exchanging a monosyllabic col 
 loquy in a corner by the empty stove which 
 served as a spittoon. These were the men 
 of the world. They had something to relate. 
 But the others, the others! Each alone on 
 his chair, his back to the wall, unoccupied, 
 humiliated, undone. With the fine percep 
 tions of her delicate nature, Mrs. Marston 
 noticed that this humiliation this sense, as it 
 were, of mortification, defeat, failure which 
 left no mark upon the women, had stamped 
 itself indelibly here. They avoided her eye, 
 they had nothing to say. All was over! 
 She had brought some newspapers, and she
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 155 
 
 now produced them and tried to rouse their 
 interest in the last election. 
 
 " Well, ma am, I was once a Republican," 
 said an old man, rising and offering her his 
 seat. "And I m an old soldier, and I got 
 my pension, but I m so sick I came in here 
 for the doctor. I m eighty-three and full of 
 pains. I guess my pension ll not last em 
 much longer." 
 
 " We gave em a good lickin this time in 
 the State," chuckled one of the tramps, 
 addressing no one in particular, and rubbing 
 his knees. He was "Crazy Jim," who scoured 
 the country roads early and late. A hump 
 backed man, with an embarrassed manner 
 and a pinched, starved face, appeared at the 
 doorway. " That s Mr. Fussi. He s a mu 
 sician," said Mr. Hubbs, addressing Lola. 
 
 Fussi, too, was a new arrival. 
 
 "Are you an Italian? " asked Lola. His 
 pathetic figure filled her with pity. 
 
 " My father was," he replied, shortly. He 
 had one of those faces which haunt the 
 memory. 
 
 " And you are a musician? " 
 
 " Whose music nobody wants," he said, 
 with a smile that Mrs. Marston never for 
 got. 
 
 " Good-day." Flourishing one arm as if
 
 156 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 he were uncovering before her, the musician 
 turned away and went quickly up the narrow 
 stairway, vanishing from her sight. 
 
 " He s a perfect gentleman, Mr. Fussi is," 
 said Mr. Hubbs. " But I guess, like the 
 rest of us here, he s met with misfortune." 
 
 " Well, I 11 bring you fruit and oysters 
 the next time I come, and I hope you will 
 all be well. Good-by, Mr. Hubbs." 
 
 "Good-by, Mrs. Marston." 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 Once more in her carriage she could think 
 again. It was a ten-mile drive through 
 woody lanes and meadow lands. The 
 sunshine lay upon the fields. Summer 
 breezes ran with crackling sounds through 
 the dry grass. The mill at the old pond 
 turned lazily its crumbling wheel. The 
 thirsty cattle drew close to the water under 
 the shade of trees for shelter from the heat, 
 switching their tails to brush from their dry 
 flanks the flies that bled them. Their low 
 ing and the buzz of insect wings were the 
 sole sounds which shook this scene of in 
 finite repose. Yes, she could think, and 
 there was time. Think! What did it all 
 mean? What were these wrecks of the 
 world? Why were they ever born to linger 
 thus? And were they really as miserable as 
 they appeared to her? Self-love protected
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 157 
 
 them, perhaps. We are never, in our own 
 estimation, quite as forlorn as others see us. 
 But to Lola all was pain, and to her use 
 less questionings the only answer was, as she 
 drove homeward through the quiet noonday, 
 her silent tears.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IT is difficult to remain on any height. 
 The bluest sky breeds tempest. 
 
 A cloud appeared athwart Archibald Mars- 
 ton s visual ray as he threw open his shutter, 
 and looked down on his fair terraces early 
 one morning. This cloud was found to be 
 somewhat larger than a man s hand. It was 
 also found to be of a vivid crimson. Under 
 close inspection it proved to be of mousse- 
 line de laine and to assume the outline of a 
 woman s polonaise. It obscured, to him at 
 least, the entire horizon. Because of it he 
 could not eat an egg the butler brought him, 
 nor drink his coffee with appetite. After 
 this unsuccessful meal he returned to his 
 window. Yes it was still there, flagrant, 
 indecent, insolent. 
 
 Upon his terrace, not thirty feet from 
 columned portico, there was a stone seat, a 
 favorite one with his guests, many of whom 
 could see it from their windows. Upon this 
 seat, arrayed in this peremptory, harsh, cruel 
 color it was of that magenta red which 
 158
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 159 
 
 gives the toothache sat Mrs. Bucknell, and 
 by her side, in black, not red, this lady s 
 husband. 
 
 He rubbed his eyes, did Mr. Marston, to 
 be sure he was not dreaming. But no, they 
 were too real. There could not be a doubt. 
 He told himself that they would linger but 
 a moment, that it was a mistake, some horrid 
 blunder they would speedily repent of and 
 be gone. But no! what did he now per 
 ceive? She rose and spread a shawl down 
 on the grass, on which she squatted. She 
 pulled some worsted from her pocket, she 
 began to knit, while Bucknell, stretching 
 himself at full length upon his stomach on 
 the seat, pushed back his hat between his 
 ears and began to sleep. Before assuming 
 this attitude he had slowly removed his 
 shoes, which lay on the grass near to his 
 wife s knees. His large brown cotton socks 
 rose between Mr. Marston and the view. 
 
 Ringing hastily for his valet, Mr. Marston 
 gave him to understand that there were 
 some strangers in front of the house, that 
 they must be at once informed that it was 
 inhabited, the grounds private, and that they 
 must ... er ... move on ... or, rather, off. 
 
 The valet speeded to fulfill his mission. 
 He found Mr. Bucknell too sleepy to dis 
 turb, and therefore addressed himself to
 
 160 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Madame. He came back shaken with 
 laughter, hardly able to assume that decor 
 ous demeanor which Mr. Marston exacted 
 from domestics. When he recovered speech, 
 it was to say that Mrs. Bucknell had 
 informed him that they were no strangers, 
 but friends, the sister and brother of Mr. 
 Bush, and would do no damage. They con 
 tinued to snore and knit. Mrs. Bucknell 
 even turned around, and from under her big 
 bonnet grinned and waved her hand at Mr. 
 Marston, while the valet delivered her mes 
 sage, as much as to say: 
 
 "It s all right. We are all one family. 
 Do n t worry. Ta ta!" 
 
 Mr. Marston was transfixed. Hurrying 
 into his dressing-gown, oblivious of his bath, 
 he almost ran across the hall and tapped at 
 the door of his wife s apartment. 
 
 Lola was having her hair combed by her 
 maid before the mirror. Her husband s 
 wild uncomeliness gave her a start. 
 
 "Why, my dear, what is it?" 
 
 "Come!" he said. His eyes were glued 
 to hers with an ominous glitter like a snake s 
 charming a bird. 
 
 "Come, why, where?" asked Lola, still 
 more mystified. But he continued to beckon 
 with one finger and to repeat, "Come!" 
 
 Hastily tying the ribbons of her white
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 161 
 
 robe de chambre, her hair upon her shoul 
 ders, Mrs. Marston followed her unshaven 
 husband. He almost pushed her to the 
 window, where from behind the curtain they 
 watched the Bucknell pair, still sleeping, 
 knitting, and immovable. 
 
 "Well!" said Mrs. Marston, with a short 
 gasp. 
 
 "It s a picnic!" said Mr. Marston. "I 
 think they ve brought their dinner. They 
 evidently mean to spend the day, possibly 
 the night. Mrs. Ayrault s windows open 
 just here, do they not, my dear?" his voice 
 was unnaturally pleasant and urbane "and 
 Ackley s, and the Count s, and others? Oh, 
 yes, Mrs. Sanford s." (Mrs. Sanford was the 
 author.) "Pretty sight, is n t it?" 
 
 "Have you sent out?" asked Mrs. Mars- 
 ton. 
 
 "Yes, I ve sent out. I sent Marvin. And 
 they did n t go!" 
 
 "They did n t go, Archibald?" said Mrs. 
 Marston, tragically. " I ve said this all 
 through, and you would n t listen." 
 
 " All through? What are you talking 
 about, Lola?" Mr. Marston paced the floor 
 impatiently. He was certainly not hand 
 some. The sense that he was not at his best, 
 but at a disadvantage, increased his irritabil- 
 ity.
 
 162 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "That Americans would n t do." 
 
 "Nonsense! What has Americans to do 
 with it?" 
 
 "They don t know their place. They are 
 impossible. I ought to have insisted." 
 
 " I say nonsense!" Mr. Marston spoke 
 with that sharp, short anger of the habitu 
 ally amiable. He was in fact exceedingly 
 annoyed, not exactly with his wife, but with 
 everybody who might be about. I once saw 
 a child fall and hurt herself. She ran across 
 the room and slapped her brother s face. 
 Humanity s revenges are not more logical. 
 The Anarchist who cannot kill the God he 
 defies, curses and slays his creature man. 
 
 "If they don t know their place they ve 
 got to learn it. Of course I won t put up 
 with this thing a moment longer. I 11 have 
 Bush sent in and either dismiss him . . ." 
 
 " He is such a nice man," said Lola. "So 
 sweet and patient over Archie s garden. 
 Ackerman never would plant it in rows as 
 he wants; and children like to carry out their 
 own little ideas, and I think it s a good thing. 
 It makes them self-reliant; and then Daggett 
 did drink so, and Joseph is quite sober. He 
 works early and late. He is very industri 
 ous. Daggett was frightfully lazy." 
 
 The magenta polonaise fluttered on the 
 wind.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 163 
 
 "O, of course, my dear, if you like this 
 hugger-mugger style of living with chumps 
 like these eating clams on our front piazza 
 steps, I have not another word to say. Per 
 haps you wish to ask Mrs. Bush to dinner 
 to-night, or else we d better turn this into a 
 tramps lodging-house at once." 
 
 Mr. Marston s sarcasm was lost on his 
 wife, for her head was out of the window. 
 
 "She s got on the queerest sort of a 
 bonnet, and Archie heavens!" Mrs. Mar- 
 ston gave a muffled scream. " He s got his 
 boots off! You did n t /^//me that, and she s 
 nursing them! She s got them in her lap!" 
 
 Mr. Marston drew near with the face of 
 one led to execution. 
 
 "You 11 have to go down, dear! " 
 
 "Just as I am?" 
 
 "Without one plea! " laughed Lola. 
 
 " I 11 be damned if I do! I beg your par 
 don, my dear, but really . . ." 
 
 "Then /will," said Lola. She knew her 
 husband well. She knew he would fume 
 and fret, but when there was anything to be 
 done that required moral courage, she did it. 
 There was a reason for this. True moral 
 courage braves opinion. Herein lay all the 
 difference between their characters. Mr. 
 Isham had guessed it. It was one reason 
 why the satire which he could point so
 
 164 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 mercilessly was never directed at Mrs. Mar- 
 ston. He addressed her always with deferen 
 tial courtesy, listening for her answer with 
 respect. 
 
 Fortunately, the Long Island mosquito, 
 just then borne on a gust from the falling 
 tides, blew inland, and began to whiz, and 
 buzz, and sting, about the head and face of 
 the reposeful Bucknell. From their post 
 of vantage Mr. and Mrs. Marston watched 
 the attack, saw Mrs. Bucknell s waving arms 
 charge in gallant defense, smiled at her final 
 slow but sure defeat. The crimson lady 
 stumbled to her feet, picked up her shawl, 
 folded her knitting, shook her slumberous 
 lord, not over-gently, gave a parting scowl 
 the sun was in her eyes at the colonnade 
 and the offenders, unconscious of their mis 
 demeanor, pattered down the steps. 
 
 Lola heaved a sigh of relief. " But it s 
 only put off," she said. " Of course, some 
 body s got to speak to Bush." 
 
 Notwithstanding his Anglo-Saxon dislike 
 of "scenes," anger did sometimes give to 
 Mr. Marston a force which in milder mo 
 ments was unknown to him. Physically he 
 was as brave as a lion, morally he was a 
 poltroon. 
 
 Enough occurred on this unfortunate day 
 to let loose the dogs of war, and of his
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 165 
 
 wrath. Later, while walking in a portion of 
 his woods especially reserved for his family s 
 uses, he caught sight of a man and woman 
 sauntering leisurely before him. Their 
 heads were half concealed by a blue parasol, 
 the woman s gown trailed in the leaves. 
 Yes, it must be his wife. His wife and the 
 Congressman, to whom she had promised a 
 stroll about the place. He called. They 
 stopped. They turned. They faced him. 
 
 "Ah, how are you, Oakes?" he said in 
 his bland tones, as of a good king to his 
 subject, from which the other shrank as from 
 a blow. " How are you, Mrs. Bush?" 
 
 "I m pretty well, I thank you; and you, 
 Mr. Marston? " said Beth. 
 
 "So, so. Pleasant afternoon, isn t it?" 
 
 " I do n t seem to care for the climate 
 here," said Mrs. Bush. " It ain t anything 
 like so cool as Pontifex." 
 
 " It s entirely a matter of taste," said Mr. 
 Marston, who wished to be disagreeable, but 
 did not know exactly what measures to 
 adopt. " I should advise people who do 
 not fancy Long Island to live elsewhere. In 
 fact to avoid it. They can be spared. Ha! 
 ha!" 
 
 There was no mistaking his meaning; and 
 before Oakes! Elizabeth trembled, blank 
 with resentment.
 
 166 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mr. Marston," she said, 
 shortly, and walked on. Oakes followed her 
 with a gloomy bow to the master, his step 
 weighed with import. At the same time 
 his anger was more directed against Eliza 
 beth than against Mr. Marston. Too en 
 tirely devoid of humor to gauge her follies 
 and laugh at them, the young man was not 
 lacking in certain instincts of propriety, 
 which had suggested to him that very after 
 noon that they should bend their steps in 
 another direction. He had proposed a dif 
 ferent walk. Beth had not listened. If he 
 entertained the hope of meeting Mrs. Mar 
 ston face to face, it was certainly not under 
 such conditions, dancing attendance on her 
 farmer s wife. Of course the growing an 
 tipathy between Mrs. Bush and her employ 
 ers, the tumult of contradictory emotions 
 which filled Beth s breast, the conflicts of 
 her mind, were quite unknown to him There 
 are those to whom we find it difficult to re 
 peat the unkind comments they inspire. If 
 this springs from some special personal dig 
 nity Percival Oakes possessed it. Beth had 
 never dared reveal to him the words with 
 which Mrs. Marston seemed to degrade 
 him. No, she could not! Therefore this 
 intrusion upon the lady s grounds was the 
 more excusable. Nevertheless, unsophis-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 167 
 
 ticated in such matters, ignorant, he had 
 protested, and now the whole unwelcome 
 situation suddenly dawned upon and sick 
 ened him. Before a man belonging to the 
 class that he abhorred, he had been placed 
 in what a false position! And he owed it 
 all to her! As he looked now at the thin 
 outline of her mouth, and watched the ner 
 vous clutch with which she grasped her 
 parasol, he thought her hideous. In fact, 
 for a moment Beth had become so. That 
 he should have lent himself so long to her 
 persistent claims upon his time may seem 
 peculiar, for after all he was far, far above 
 her. His restless, ardent mind had wider 
 ambitions than hers, for she thought only 
 of herself and of her child; he harbored 
 hopes for the race. Yet it perhaps was not 
 all mystery. Hidden agencies work subtle 
 spells. Percival Oakes was young. He was 
 not wise. He was alone in the world. He 
 was conceited, egotistic, arrogant in spirit, 
 but he was loving. It is not easy with all 
 these attributes to be a stoic. It must be 
 remembered that if he had no happy, joyous 
 outlet for his affections, he had no impure 
 one. He lived chastely. He had no mis 
 tress, and no sweetheart. The vine-embow 
 ered cottage, the bright lamp, the cheerful 
 tea-table, the enthusiastic welcome of a very
 
 i68 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 handsome woman, who dressed for him 
 he knew it who listened to his words in 
 rapturous admiration, who was zealous to 
 learn all he could teach, whom he felt to be 
 no ordinary person, dizzied his brain a little, 
 not overmuch, but a little. It was the near 
 est semblance to a home that he had ever 
 known. It stilled in some mean measure 
 his hunger of the heart. There was nothing 
 else. Floribel Pullen amused him. She 
 never interested him. Beth was interesting. 
 Her longings, her aspirations, her dissatis 
 factions, her complaints, nay, her very as 
 perities, raised her to quite a different 
 plane from the giggling schoolgirls and 
 cackling dames of Paradise. Floribel Pul 
 len had laughingly told him that he came to 
 see her so rarely now, she was sure " hand 
 some Mrs. Bush " was cutting her out, and 
 he had felt a slight pleasure at her chaffing; 
 but to-night he felt no pleasure. A brutal 
 desire to revenge himself on the woman 
 beside him for this encounter with Mr. Mar- 
 ston, and the latter s contemptuous parting 
 exclamation, led him to say just the one 
 thing which in her sorry plight Elizabeth 
 could least support. 
 
 " I saw Madam Marston driving yester 
 day," he said, in a dogged voice. " I thought
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 169 
 
 her the most beautiful woman I ever beheld. 
 Pity she married that fool." 
 
 " I had heard about Mrs. Marston before 
 I seen her," said Beth, trying to steady her 
 voice, whose tone was indistinct and hoarse. 
 "When I did meet her I wasn t so much 
 struck with her beauty. She ain t exactly 
 what I d call a reg lar beauty." 
 
 " Oh, there are beauties and beauties," 
 said Oakes, clearing his throat, taking long 
 swinging strides, and slashing at the leaves 
 mischievously with a stick he had cut. "There 
 are coarse, showy beauties, and there are 
 others like tall lilies that look as if they d 
 break if you breathed on them." 
 
 " Oh, I guess Mrs. Marston s tough 
 enough," said Beth, with heightened color, 
 "for all the training and ramping she does 
 from morning to night, with all the comp ny 
 they keep." She laughed a trifle shrilly. 
 " Why, Joe says they ain t to bed most nights 
 until near morning." Her devouring curios 
 ity about the doings at the " big house" had 
 led her to frequent nocturnal catechisings of 
 her long-suffering Joseph. 
 
 "These grand ladies," said Oakes, "have 
 the obligations of their position." He 
 stopped short, amazed at his own Philistin 
 ism. How unmercifully he would have 
 sneered at this phrase if launched by another.
 
 1 7 o EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 A flood of jealousy, not bred in the flesh, 
 not born of passion, but none the less fierce, 
 implacable, ran riot in an instant through 
 Elizabeth s throbbing veins one of those 
 pristine, savage torrents, which no mortal 
 can foretell, no moral effort quench. The 
 enmity of sex to its own, old as the universe, 
 which, in spite of priest, and prayer, and in 
 vocation, still sways the human creature, 
 swept her, resistless. 
 
 Had Oakes half understood his influence 
 on this woman, the impression and power of 
 his words, their full significance to her, it is 
 certain that with all his boasted iconoclastic 
 theories, he would have now been dumb, 
 have ceased to fan her animosity; but he was 
 self-absorbed, young, inexperienced. He 
 therefore continued to exasperate Elizabeth 
 with foolish praises of Mrs. Marston s loveli 
 ness. 
 
 "Miss Pullen is one of them coarse beau 
 ties you speak about, perhaps? " she said, 
 ironically. " But the people here say you 
 like her very much, that you re real intimate 
 with her." She looked at him narrowly, 
 with eyes that threw out blind sparks, like a 
 cat s in the dark. She had lingered on the 
 word " intimate." 
 
 Oakes raised his eyebrows, shrugged his 
 shoulders, and remained silent. He lacked
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 171 
 
 the breeding to indignantly defend Floribel 
 from intended aspersion, yet was not quite 
 disloyal enough to sully her. 
 
 " Why don t you stand up for her?" cried 
 Beth, lashed to fury by his calmness. " It s 
 dirty things the folks here say of her and 
 them as dangles after her. If I were a man 
 or half a one I d die before I d let a lot 
 of foul-mouthed witches throw mud at my 
 . . . my . . . sweetheart, and say . . . and say 
 ... I shared her love with other men who 
 was richer n me, and winked at it." 
 
 She ended almost in a shriek. Even be 
 fore he had abruptly touched his hat and 
 left her, without a word of farewell or of 
 warning, she realized the enormity of her 
 assault, and that it leveled her in his regard 
 with the lowest of her kind. The vulgarity 
 of her speech, its uncalled-for violence, its 
 disgusting familiarity unknown to men and 
 women of her class, be it said to their honor 
 and the comparison he would draw forever 
 between her and . . . that other one not 
 Floribel upon whom all her rage now cen 
 tered, against whom he might guess her 
 words were aimed, filled her with infinite 
 despair. In losing him she lost the one 
 higher link between herself and that refined 
 and graceful atmosphere she so much 
 coveted. Was it her fault she was not edu-
 
 i 7 2 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 cated, gently nurtured? Was it a crime her 
 youth had been so hard that it had left its 
 harshness on her features, its roughness on 
 her hands? But now she had put herself 
 outside the pale. She might rail against the 
 inhabitants of Paradise, calling them her in 
 feriors, might boast to him, as she had done, 
 of her insulting slights to Mrs. Marston s 
 servants, to Mr. Rose, but now he was a 
 prince, Pierre Rose, compared to her she 
 was a fish-wife. One of those bare-legged, 
 unsexed creatures that dug for clams down 
 on the shore, in tattered sunbonnets, with 
 bony arms, and scraping shovels, who swore 
 and quarreled with each other, and stopped 
 to drink at the liquor-seller s on their way 
 home. She staggered into the cottage, and 
 fell upon her face, across the sofa. Her 
 breast was rent with dry and tearless cries.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 BY and by her meanings ceased. She 
 picked herself up from a recumbent to a sit 
 ting posture; she smoothed out the crumpled 
 breadths of her petticoat with that habit of 
 thrift and of order which is not easily un 
 learned. Economy of work, that lesson 
 poverty teaches, made her regret the care 
 lessness which would necessitate the smooth 
 ing-iron. She began to pull at the flowers 
 in her hat, whose edges had been crushed in 
 her abandonment. She dusted its edges 
 with her handkerchief; then, pressing this 
 to her burning eyes, she sat down again as 
 if to gather her scattered faculties. 
 
 Now, Elizabeth was a clever woman, albeit 
 undisciplined and lacking in soundness of 
 judgment, and already in her heated brain 
 the thought was uppermost how to reinstate 
 herself, to regain her scattered self-respect, 
 to return at least to where she had stood 
 before. At the mere memory of Oakes she 
 shuddered. For the first time she compre 
 hended the exaggerated space he had occu 
 pied in her horizon, the exalted importance 
 
 173
 
 174 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 she had attached to his opinions, the almost 
 febrile interest with which she had listened 
 to his oracular discourses, his impractical 
 denunciations. Sobered by the occurrences 
 of the afternoon, remembering but too dis 
 tinctly Mr. Marston s words, remembering 
 too, the home from which she had come, to 
 which she doubtless must return if she left 
 this, her better, wiser self, not penitent, 
 perhaps, yet humbled, warned her to pause, 
 to examine herself well. Such systematic 
 self-examination had been a part of that 
 religious training which the puritanical in 
 fluences of her childhood fostered. It 
 was not unknown to her. Suddenly the 
 mysteries which environed her seemed rent. 
 She saw with physical distinctness a down 
 ward path, intoxicating yet pernicious, to 
 which her steps were tending. We often 
 run with astonishing heedlessness down a 
 hill, which we know must be reascended, and 
 it is only when we have nearly reached the 
 bottom we stand aghast at the distance 
 stretching behind. Many, discouraged, re 
 main in the valley; they have not limbs or 
 wind for the return, but Elizabeth s limbs and 
 wind were not yet exhausted. No perversion 
 is immediate. There are no sudden sins. 
 The soil is rotten. The final crumble is op 
 portunity.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 175 
 
 She looked about her. 
 
 What a heaven of peace was this little 
 house, how snug, how pretty, how dear! She 
 remembered her enchantment when in those 
 early days of spring it had first met her 
 view. How well in health they had been 
 here! Dottie, herself, and Joe. Joe with 
 compunction she now remembered how small 
 was the time she had given to him lately. 
 He had been indisposed one day with a slight 
 feverishness, and she felt vexed at giving up 
 her lesson on the mandolin with Mr. Oakes 
 because her husband lay upon the sofa in 
 the best parlor while his room was being 
 swept and aired. She had been cross to 
 him, chiding him for imprudence, for sitting 
 out on chilly nights without his coat, con 
 tracting malaria, and giving trouble through 
 his own folly. Then . . . Dottie where 
 was the child now? Surely, surely, it was 
 her supper time. She had not exactly ne 
 glected Dottie, but she too in all these new 
 exactions of dress and entertainment, in all 
 these trips to town, and readings, and Span 
 ish madrigals, had been sometimes in the 
 way; once or twice forgotten. Then the 
 money! Beth grew pale when she remem 
 bered all the money she had spent, and . . . 
 on herself, her finer underclothing, her 
 dresses, hats, shoes, stockings, gloves, and
 
 1 76 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 the parasol with lace upon it! Joe s wages 
 had been stretched, nay overdrawn. There 
 was a bill she could not meet this month. 
 She had not liked to tell him of it lest it 
 should worry him. 
 
 " Dottie, Dottie," she cried, with this new 
 rush of contrition upon her, a sort of home 
 sickness to find her child and clasp her for 
 an instant to her breast. She ran toward 
 the door, " Dottie, Dottie!" As she reached 
 the sill her husband crossed it. Something 
 in his face arrested her, breathless, upon its 
 threshold. 
 
 Mr. Marston, when he left Mrs. Bush and 
 Mr. Oakes to finish their twilight ramble, 
 was not in the sweetest of humors. His 
 temper, it might be surmised, was only a 
 trifle less ruffled than theirs. As he crossed 
 his lawn he caught sight of Joe working in 
 the vegetable garden. He quickened his 
 pace and was soon near him upon the other 
 side of the hedge. Stooping over some 
 roots he was conscientiously digging up, Joe 
 raised his head at his master s summons. 
 
 " Here, Bush, here." 
 
 Wiping his hand on his forehead, and 
 throwing down his trowel, Joe in shirt 
 sleeves, with his old straw hat rammed 
 down over his ears, prepared to respond.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 177 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir." He slowly stepped through 
 the furrows with the measured step of the 
 agriculturalist, which is never accelerated, 
 nor would be though the heavens fell. 
 
 " Here, come through the upper gate. 
 I 11 walk up and meet you. I want to speak 
 to you." Obedient, Joe turned northward. 
 In a few minutes the two men stood side by 
 side in the open field. 
 
 " What are you doing? " Mr. Marston s 
 annoyance had cooled a little, the exercise 
 having increased his heart s action, but he 
 was angry at having to be angry. Such de 
 tails bored him. 
 
 " I was diggin up of them roots." 
 
 " A waste of time for you. Let Charlie 
 do that. It s mere child s play! Did n t I 
 tell you I wanted the hay taken in? There s 
 thunder in the air." 
 
 " The hay won t get a-wettin . Don t you 
 be afeared. There won t be no wet spell at 
 present. I held on to hitch up after loam 
 for the farm road. Farmer Taft s got a 
 fine lot, sir, and it s a short haul. There 
 ain t no rain comin . It s looked that way 
 every night for three weeks. The drought s 
 on us. I knows it. It won t let up on us 
 yet." 
 
 "When I say a thing s to be done it s to 
 be done, you hear, and not to be neglected
 
 178 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 for something less important," said Mr. 
 Marston lashing himself. " I don t want 
 explanations or excuses. I m sick of 
 them." 
 
 Joe stopped, astonished. He was unac 
 customed to being so addressed, unless in 
 deed, by his wife. He was himself so patient 
 that he rarely provoked others, and his 
 wife s "tantrums," as he called them to 
 himself, hardly counted. He had learned 
 to bear them or escape from them with 
 equanimity. "She s kind of excitable," 
 he would say, apologetically. " She don t 
 mean the half she says." He supposed all 
 women to be alike, and their words to mean 
 little. His mother had a high temper too. 
 His experience of the sex was limited. 
 
 "I tries to please ye." His eyes, full of 
 melancholy, dwelt for a moment on Mr. 
 Marston, who turned away his own, uncom 
 fortable under their pleading scrutiny. 
 
 " I know I know," he said, more kindly. 
 " But there are things that don t please me 
 not at all not at all; which must be 
 spoken about, and it s deuced disagreeable, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 Joe pushed back his hat and grunted some 
 inaudible protest. Mr. Marston lowered his 
 tone to a confidential key. 
 
 " This morning my wife ... I ... we . . .
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 179 
 
 when we looked out of my . . . her . . . our 
 windows . . . hem upon the terrace, saw 
 some persons ... er ... a man and a woman 
 sitting close to the house, taking their ease. 
 He had pulled off his shoes. Mrs. Marston 
 was greatly shocked." 
 
 " I guess it must have been my sister 
 Mary and her husband," Joe smiled, broadly. 
 He was relieved. He had feared his work 
 did not suit. 
 
 " Exactly; it was your sister, so my man 
 Marvin tells me. She had on a most extraor 
 dinary dress." At the memory Mr. Mar- 
 ston s anger of the morning returned and he 
 scowled. " One which . . .er . . . made her 
 peculiarly conspicuous to our guests, even 
 from a great, great distance. Such a cos 
 tume is a blot on a landscape. I really can t 
 permit it." 
 
 " Do you want me to speak to her about 
 that dress? " and a quizzical expression rose 
 to Joe s lips. " Her heart s sot on it. 
 Sister Mary never was tasty like Elizabeth 
 Mrs. Bush, I mean. Allays had a hanker 
 ing after cryin colors. Now I never cared 
 for em myself." 
 
 "Nonsense, Bush!" said Mr. Marston, 
 now thoroughly aroused again. " What 
 have I, what can Mrs. Marston have to do 
 with the accouterments of your family unless
 
 i8o EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 indeed . . ." He remembered his wife s 
 animadversions upon Beth s outfit, and won 
 dered if he ought to mention it here. " I 
 mean if they keep out of our sight they can 
 wear anything they please. Your grounds 
 about the cottage are quite large enough 
 for your visitors quite " his wrongs 
 whipped him now to say all. 
 
 "I 11 speak to em to my wife," said Joe. 
 The idea of facing Beth with such a message 
 sent his heart into his boots. 
 
 " Really, Bush, your family seem to have 
 no sense of decency, of reserve. Here this 
 very afternoon after the unpleasant most 
 unpleasant ... er ... affair of the morning, 
 I met your wife close to the plateau upon 
 Mrs. Marston s favorite path, with that 
 ridiculous schoolmaster at her heels. He 
 is n t welcome here, do you hear? I won t 
 have him hanging about. I dislike the man. 
 I distrust him. I dislike him excessively. 
 I won t have him on my grounds, and you 
 can tell him so with my compliments." 
 
 Joe paled under the tan which made his 
 skin resemble some animal s hide. 
 
 " Do you mean," he asked slowly, " that 
 I m to tell the schoolmaster he ain t to call 
 on us any more? " 
 
 " I said nothing of the kind nothing. I
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 181 
 
 repeat to you I ve nothing to do with your 
 household and its arrangements. You can 
 receive anybody you like unless unless 
 dangerous characters." 
 
 " Dangerous . . ? " 
 
 " I m alluding now to no one in particu 
 lar. Of course, this is a gossipy little village 
 so I m told. So the maids tell Mrs. Mar- 
 ston. I don t hear any of these things. 
 Nor does she, for that matter Mrs. Marston, 
 I mean. But a young woman as good-look 
 ing as your wife cannot be too careful in such 
 a community. With her husband her child 
 the dairy, she should have no time for . . . 
 er . . . frivolity." 
 
 " My wife ain t ever been the light kind," 
 said Joe, in changed accents. " Nor has 
 any one ever afore accused her of that in my 
 hearin as I knows of." 
 
 The murmur of the thunderstorm seemed 
 to lower near, enveloping them in its heavy 
 breath. 
 
 "My good Joseph, no one does now. I m 
 talking to you as I would to a friend one 
 of my friends." He made a gesture of his 
 hand toward the house which loomed stately 
 against the sky. There was a pause. 
 
 " If that s all you have to say to me I 11 
 quit work now, sir. It s six o clock."
 
 182 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "That s all." Mr. Marston smiled; but 
 there was no responding smile on Joseph s 
 face. Upon it had descended a settled 
 sternness. He pulled his hat down once 
 again over his ears and eyes, and plodded 
 back into the garden to get his tools.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "Joseph Bush," said Beth, "what ails 
 you? Is it the chills again? " 
 
 Joe entered. He divested himself care 
 fully of his coat, folded it, and placed it 
 upon a chair, but he kept his hat on. They 
 were in the " best parlor," that shaded, 
 cared-for room which had gone through 
 such transformation since Beth first reigned 
 there. Something ominous seemed fore 
 boded by this interview between husband 
 and wife in these official quarters reserved 
 for " company," swept and garnished for 
 days of feasting. Joe sat down by the 
 table, resting his arms upon it, his chin 
 propped by his thumb and index whose 
 dovetail nails sank in his thin jaw. 
 
 "No," he said. "I m some better of 
 them, I ain t got the chills." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" His face and man 
 ner betokened some unusual occurrence, and 
 there was a kind of desperate resignation in 
 her question, unaccompanied by her habitual 
 sharpness of tone. 
 
 183
 
 184 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Now the messages with which Mr. Mars- 
 ton had charged Joe were not calculated to 
 make him look forward with a great degree 
 of equanimity to this meeting with his wife, 
 and to say that it required all his courage to 
 deliver them and deliver them he would, 
 come what might is to state the matter 
 moderately. 
 
 " What is it? " There was again a note 
 of hopelessness in her words. 
 
 From his somewhat dejected pose he 
 looked up, surprised at her unusual meek 
 ness. 
 
 "Where s Mary?" he asked, looking 
 about him, weakly trying to gain time. 
 
 She remembered that the Bucknells had 
 harnessed one of the farm-horses to the 
 carry-all, and had gone for a drive as far as 
 the mill, taking Dottie with them. They 
 had not yet returned. She told him so. 
 
 "Ain t they goin home Tuesday? he 
 asked, as if preoccupied. 
 
 "Yes," said Beth. "Your ma s written 
 the hayin s on, and she wants Azubel Buck- 
 nell back." 
 
 There fell a silence. Joe was the first to 
 break it. 
 
 "It ain t the chills I ve got, but my dis 
 missal, or what comes near to it. Mr. Mars- 
 ton the master ain t satisfied."
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 185 
 
 A purple flush of shame rushed to Beth s 
 brow and cheeks. She stood up before her 
 husband, speechless. 
 
 " I guess," went on Joe, in a dull mono 
 tone, " I guess he ain t used to our ways nor 
 we to his n." He looked that she should 
 rant or shriek. Her silence startled him. 
 " I don t know as you ve liked it here, though 
 I must say as how we ve never had more 
 comforts nor better pay, and the child 
 a-plenty to eat and good air to breathe. It 
 ain t your disposition to be cheerful as some 
 folks is with nothin . You re terrible am 
 bitious, but I like the place. I thought as 
 how when you was fitted out, and fixed up, 
 perhaps we could save and lay away for 
 when we re old and not so fit to toil. The 
 pay is good. I never dreamed to make so 
 much. Ye see, my wife," he went on, " if 
 you was wantin to be a lady I mean to live 
 like them high-falutin ones does over there 
 in the big house, like Miss Marston does 
 you had n t ought to ve married me. I ain t 
 the kind as ever can give it to ye. I ain t 
 a lazy feller. I works and works and 
 works, but I ain t got the hang of it. I 
 can work myself, but I ain t got the hang 
 of gettin work out of other men. There s 
 them as has it and them as has n t it, and 
 there s no use of cryin over spilt milk."
 
 1 86 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 The familiar quotation seemed to encour 
 age him, and he raised his head and smiled 
 a little. 
 
 "Tell the truth, Joe," said Beth, in a low 
 voice, the crimson flush still on her forehead 
 although her lips were white and dry, " It s 
 me the Marston s ain t satisfied with. It 
 ain t you. You done your work perfectly 
 and they know it." 
 
 " I seen my duty and I done it," said Joe, 
 evasively; "but it seems with them high- 
 falutin folks that ain t enough." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " That ere dress of Mary s she s so sot on 
 I bet she s got it on this afternoon 
 seems she and Azubel went a-traipsing 
 around the big house, and sot themselves 
 right down under the portico, and Mary s 
 dress a-flarin and " Joe scratched his 
 head "the Marstons comp ny could see 
 it a mile off, and it wan t suitable." 
 
 " Did they tell Mary Bucknell to leave?" 
 asked Beth, with agitation. 
 
 " Now, I don t know as they did," said 
 Joe, reflectively, raising his eyebrows; "but 
 Mr. Marston, he says they did n t want any 
 of us to come about their grounds more n 
 we need. 
 
 Beth was strangling, but she gulped down 
 the rising flood of words where was the
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 187 
 
 use? Mortification at its climax finds speech 
 inadequate. 
 
 Joe cleared his throat. The worst was to 
 come, and Beth knew it; but she would not 
 help him. He cleared his throat, but was 
 dumb. He eyed her piteously as if asking 
 her to spare him, or come to his relief. 
 
 "There was more he said, and things as 
 hurt me." 
 
 " Hurt you?" 
 
 " Beth, I ain t been a hard husband to 
 ye, has I? " 
 
 Hard to her? He? As she looked at the 
 patient lines about his mouth, and those sad 
 eyes that could not look a lie, and the round 
 shoulders and awkward feet, always so ready 
 to do her errands, a tenderness unusual to 
 her swept her soul. The burning at her 
 heart rose in moisture to her eyes. 
 
 " No no no my husband, you ain t 
 been hard! " She laid her hand upon his 
 neck. He took it in his and pressed it gently. 
 
 " We ve seen good days together and bad 
 ones since we went a-courtin in your aunt s 
 orchard. Do you remember, Elizabeth? 
 Some of both. I ve sometimes thought 
 when Oakes was around, and he and you 
 and Miss Pullen talkin so smart and lively, 
 as how I m a rough sort of a chap for such 
 society. I ain t one as is quick like you,
 
 188 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Beth, to pick up ideas. I guess I stick pretty 
 fast to the old ones. Well, I was a-sayin , what 
 with you and Oakes, and your fine dresses, 
 Beth, and all with my wish to stay here 
 and put by something for ma who is old now 
 and ailin , and worrits with the farm I 
 ain t got the grit to make a fortune easy 
 what with it all, seems as if we weren t as 
 happy as we might be." 
 
 Something fell and splashed upon his 
 forehead. He looked up at herwonderingly. 
 " Don t take on so, Beth." 
 " Did he say anything against me? " 
 Then heroically Joe said to her: "He 
 don t like you walkin around with . . . the 
 schoolmaster . . ." 
 
 "Well," said Beth, "he can rest quiet. 
 Mr. Oakes and I will do no more walking 
 around, I guess." 
 
 Joe was puzzled. She felt almost pleased 
 that a slight was to be put upon Oakes. She 
 wished Mr. Marston had openly insulted 
 him. 
 
 "I thought you and he were mighty good 
 friends," said Joe, emboldened. Maybe it s 
 as well to give him the slip a bit. I guess 
 he thinks a heap of himself." 
 
 "Yes," said Beth. "I guess he does." 
 " He thought a good deal of you eh?" 
 "Pshaw! "said Beth. Her tears were dry
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 189 
 
 now. The color had faded from her cheeks 
 and brow. Her heart beat more quietly. 
 
 "Well," said Joe, "I guess I d better go 
 and clean up for supper." He got up and 
 walked to the door. She followed him. 
 
 "Joe," she said, "I m going to try to get 
 along. You told me how it would be before 
 we came. That we d be little better than 
 their servants. I would n t believe it. I 
 will try to bear it for the child s sake." 
 
 To this woman death was preferable to 
 acknowledgement of defeat. Since her 
 other methods were deemed offensive and 
 absurd she thought she might regain some 
 status through excess of sacrifice. 
 
 " I will do what I can." 
 
 He thanked her with a look, and as they 
 heard the carry-all rumble up and stop with 
 its dusty load, the commonplace once more 
 closed in upon them with its inevitable pall. 
 
 Mrs. Marston s dove-eyes grew big with 
 approval at her husband s prowess when in 
 his finest ex-cathedra manner he told her of 
 his encounter with Bush. 
 
 " I virtually dismissed them if things 
 did n t improve," he said, exaggerating a 
 little. 
 
 " Such things are so unpleasant! I m so 
 grateful to you for taking it off of me."
 
 190 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 He continued to boast. He had even 
 attacked the wife and sister-in-law; unpleas 
 ant, of course, but necessary. A place like 
 theirs could not be managed without disci 
 pline. 
 
 She applauded admiringly. " Mrs. Dag- 
 gett was such a simple person. It seems 
 so odd to have a farmer s wife who needs 
 to be coddled." 
 
 " Well, she is very independent. I imagine 
 she henpecks poor Joseph. Of course we 
 need not keep them a moment if they do 
 not suit us. They are only servants after 
 all." 
 
 "She hates the idea, the maids tell me. 
 American farmers are not exactly that." 
 
 " All nonsense! I pay him why Rose is 
 a scholar compared to Bush. He speaks 
 several languages." 
 
 " I know," said Lola, laughing, "but then 
 he wears a white cap when he is at work. 
 Fancy Bush in a white paper cap! " 
 
 The picture sent them both into a peal of 
 merriment. 
 
 "The difference is just this," said Lola. 
 " Rose will wear his cap, and so will his 
 son, and his son s son. But Joe s son, if he 
 had one, might be President of the United 
 States. If he took after his mamma he 
 would certainly try to be."
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 191 
 
 " It s all folderol! That is the reason of 
 all this discontent and dissatisfaction; every 
 boor trying to ape his betters, to do what is 
 not expected of him. Agriculture is as 
 honorable a career as any other, and a far 
 more healthy one. Why in Heaven s name 
 cannot our farmers sons be satisfied to till 
 the earth, and not be thirsting to be petty 
 lawyers, doctors, and politicians? " 
 
 Lola s visual organs suffered a moment s 
 eclipse, in which, on a dark background, 
 loomed a butcher s cart. She only said: 
 
 "Dearest, these hopes are perhaps whole 
 some. This wish for higher education, for 
 a betterment of both men s and women s 
 spheres is robust, and probably vivifying. 
 Such persons are more apt to be industrious 
 and thrifty." 
 
 " I don t want people to be stagnant, to 
 remain in ruts," said Mr. Marston. (Had 
 the butcher in some hypnotic current flashed 
 from her mind to his?) " I am always ready 
 to give a helping hand you know this, my 
 love. Our self-made men are often, nay 
 generally, our best. Some of them indeed, 
 for all we know, may be descended from 
 noble ancestry." 
 
 He looked away as if across imaginary 
 continents full of moated granges, tur 
 rets, and battlements, and heralded escutch-
 
 192 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 eons, where knights sat at the feet of ladies, 
 coiffed with the hennin. 
 
 " Poverty drove some of them across the 
 seas to found families as powerful as the 
 old ... er ... but it is false ambitions 
 whose expressions I resent." 
 
 " It is sometimes so difficult," said Lola, 
 " to know which are the false and which are 
 the real." 
 
 Then he told her there was to be a polit 
 ical meeting in the village soon for the fall 
 election. It would take place out of doors. 
 He had been asked to speak. He meant to 
 take active interest. 
 
 " I have n t any particular gift in that 
 line," he said. "But I could n t refuse." 
 
 " I shall be frightened to death if I go to 
 hear you," said Lola. " I thought you never 
 spoke." 
 
 " Oh, I 11 try not to make a mess of it. 
 I ve got through fairly well once or twice 
 at dinners." 
 
 Then he unfolded to her his political 
 tenets, to which she listened, dutifully awed.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 When Mrs. Marston stepped out on the 
 rickety porch after her visit she was sur 
 prised to hear pattering drops of rain. She 
 was also surprised to find it already so dark. 
 Her call, this late summer afternoon, had 
 been upon a neighbor, an humble one, whose 
 cottage lay on the edge of the pine copse, a 
 mile from Marston Terrace. The home 
 ward road was a lonely one. In fact, she 
 would shortly leave the public lane, which 
 was itself unfrequented, to strike into a still 
 more isolated pathway across the woods. 
 She knew she had plenty of time before her 
 dinner-hour of half-past eight for she was 
 a rapid walker nevertheless, she was some 
 what horrified to find, on consulting the 
 shimmering morsel which was caught by a 
 knot of diamonds on the lapel of her vest, 
 that it was already nearly eight o clock. 
 She had sat and chatted, regardless of the 
 hour, so rapidly the moments flew in the 
 monotonous droning of old Mrs. Taft s 
 talk. Time passes swiftly when unmarked 
 
 193
 
 i 9 4 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 by shock. She had brought only a lace 
 sunshade, and was shod in light, thin 
 shoes, but she picked up her petticoat, 
 raised the insufficient parasol to protect at 
 least her head and hat, and started off almost 
 on a run. A gust of wind shook her gar 
 ments. It blew her hair wildly about, whisk 
 ing short locks into her eyes. She looked 
 up. The clouds were heavy. Almost in the 
 zenith they were black as ink. Now and 
 again they emitted a lightning flash, fol 
 lowed by quick, reverberating thunder. 
 
 " One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, 
 eight, nine. If I can count nine between 
 the flash and the thunder it is not so very 
 near." 
 
 But when she had gone a quarter of a mile 
 she had ceased to count. There was such a 
 confusion of flash and roar that she lost her 
 courage. The inky cloud had burst. It 
 rained in torrents, sweeping the country in 
 its white sheet of unchained water. 
 
 " I was a dreadful goose to start," thought 
 Lola. " Shall I turn back? " 
 
 It seemed better to push forward. They 
 would be anxious about her at home, and 
 then it would be such a bore. Her gown 
 sacrificed, damp feet, a crushed bonnet, were 
 not irremediable evils. She did not mind 
 the rain and hurricane. The electric cur-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 195 
 
 rents in the air alone shook her nerves. She 
 gasped a little. 
 
 " I 11 go on now whatever happens," she 
 thought. 
 
 To accept the tempest without struggle 
 brings a sense of freedom and of excitement. 
 She felt no chill; she was in fact burning up 
 with the movement and exercise. She found 
 the path half hidden under its wet oak leaves. 
 Here the pines grew rare, merging into the 
 oak wood beyond. She met no one. One 
 rarely did; the surroundings were rural, not 
 suburban. The few inhabitants of the ad 
 joining farms were peaceable and decent 
 people. There were no tramps so far from 
 a railroad. She had, therefore, no fear of 
 men. She plowed on an eighth of a mile 
 more. Her draperies streamed and dripped. 
 On her cheeks flamed two bright stains. 
 The air was stifling, except when the gusts 
 blew their freshening breath upon her. It was 
 just then there came that terrible experience, 
 that horrible lightning stroke ahead of her, 
 that crash and swirl of terror which left her 
 limbs numb, her hands palsied, her heart 
 cold. One thing, however, it revealed to 
 her. Fifty feet from her was the Dougherty 
 house. 
 
 Yes, nestling under the foliage, in its 
 scant clearing, with its miserable green shut-
 
 196 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 ters, its peeling walls, one or two forgotten 
 hen-coops overturned at its east end, it rose 
 before her. 
 
 " Heaven save me," thought Lola. " I 
 can perhaps find shelter in here. Creep 
 into a window possibly." 
 
 She had made sure that she was not 
 "struck," that her limbs were still her own, 
 and not some one else s, and that Dougherty s 
 cottage was a sanctuary of refuge sent to 
 her by Providence. 
 
 Dougherty was a poor Irishman, who had 
 suddenly come into an unexpected inheri 
 tance. He had been left a farm and some 
 money by a distant relative. He and his 
 brood had hastened to pull up stakes and 
 rush to the seat of their new acquisitions, 
 and the old house with its patch of land 
 was now offered for sale. Mr. Marston, 
 upon a part of whose domain it infringed, 
 was in treaty for its purchase. As she hur 
 ried up through the high weeds, which 
 choked the approach, her hand already 
 raised to force, if possible, an ill-locked 
 latch, the door swung open. A man s tall 
 form appeared upon the threshold 
 
 "Don t be in the least alarmed, Mrs. 
 Marston, it s I Mr. Oakes Percival Oakes 
 the schoolmaster." 
 
 But she could bear no more. Her nerves
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 197 
 
 unstrung by her battle with the elements, 
 her hands still tremulous from contact with 
 their fury, she gave a faint cry, and fell back 
 against a tree-trunk, panting, with blanched 
 lips and distended pupils. 
 
 " I say it s Mr. Oakes," the voice con 
 tinued, quietly. "This door was locked, of 
 course. I forced it with my knife . . ." 
 
 He came up to her quickly, but she could 
 not speak to him. He, seeing her plight, 
 threw one arm about her, and, lifting more 
 than leading her, drew her toward the open 
 doorway, through which a flood of light 
 escaped into the gloom. She rested her 
 head against his shoulder looking up into 
 his eyes in helpless weakness. 
 
 " I have had a great fright," she said, by- 
 and-by, when she regained her voice. " You 
 must forgive me." 
 
 "It s I who need forgiveness for adding 
 to your fears." He had now released her, 
 and was standing at some distance from her. 
 He had made a pillow out of his coat for 
 her head, and had installed her on a rude 
 bench cut in pine which was wedged into 
 the wall and projected toward the open 
 grate, resting on a wooden pin. Some cones 
 and fagots were burning on the hearth, 
 emitting fragrant warmth. It was from 
 these the light had shone upon her entrance.
 
 198 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 They filled the room with a yellow, resinous 
 vapor. A rough table stood in the center 
 of the apartment; too bulky, perhaps, for 
 the general removal, it had been left to be 
 disposed of with the property. Lately 
 whitewashed, the walls were not unclean, 
 save from the dust of a few weeks neglect. 
 But the dust of pines, of dead leaves, and 
 of sand is not the dust of cities. It is pur 
 ple and golden, and perfumed as if blown 
 from flowers. The fitful gleam of the fire 
 cast a mantle of charity over the hut s de 
 nuded poverty. 
 
 Mrs. Marston noticed that on the table 
 there was a plate, a knife and fork, a flask 
 and glass, some biscuits, an open basket in 
 which was a pile of freshly-caught fish. 
 
 "Were you preparing your supper?" she 
 asked, smiling. 
 
 Oakes was still standing awkwardly close 
 to the table, looking down at her. The 
 storm-clouds seemed to have left their gray- 
 ness in his eyes, whose gravity was drowned 
 in shadows. He was still trying to recover 
 from his astonishment; that amazement we 
 feel when our time has arrived at last. But 
 there are joys we fain put off lest reaching 
 us they find us unprepared. Would the 
 grains of this hour-glass filter upon his 
 heart and stop its beatings, or would they
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 199 
 
 sift a respite on the violent emotions that 
 swept him, so that he might speak to this 
 sweet lady such words as fitted place and 
 hour? 
 
 "Yes," he said, after a pause, during 
 which the storm, for a moment lulled, 
 seemed to burst out in redoubled rage. It 
 rattled the window-panes, bending the trees 
 until they cracked and groaned as if in 
 pain. "Yes, I have spent all day on the 
 Sound. I generally do on Saturdays when 
 we shut up the school. I go down for a 
 long swim and to fish. I had some luck to 
 day. I was coming home the storm over 
 took me here, and as I thought I was in for 
 a good hour of it, I lighted a fire with some 
 dry sticks I found in the woodshed, and I 
 meant to broil my fish. I was hungry." 
 He talked rapidly. Was it to give himself 
 or her confidence? 
 
 " I hope my intrusion has not spoiled 
 your appetite. You seem to have quite a 
 little picnic here." Her voice was weak and 
 wavering still. She was very pale. She 
 had taken off her hat and was tossing up 
 her hair, coiling and fastening it with a dia 
 mond-tipped arrow which held its twisted 
 meshes. 
 
 " I take brandy and crackers with me 
 when I go for all the day." He reached
 
 200 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 for the flask and poured a small quantity of 
 the liquid into his glass. 
 
 "Will you not moisten your lips with 
 this, Mrs. Marston? It will prevent you 
 from taking cold, from feeling faint." 
 
 "Yes, I will. Thanks." She made a 
 grimace. " I hate the taste, but now, there 
 ah! it does give life. It does warm one. 
 I was cold." 
 
 "And your shoes? Will you not come 
 nearer the fire? warm your damp feet? " 
 
 She leaned down and with a deft gesture 
 resolutely pulled off her low high-heeled 
 tan shoes. They creaked on her open- 
 worked silk stockings. They were saturated. 
 She moved her toes about, and, timidly 
 resting her two hands on the seat, offered 
 them to the flame. 
 
 He stooped, picked up her shoes, and 
 standing them up on their slender heels on 
 either side of the hearth, watched them a 
 moment as the humidity ascended from 
 them in a tiny streak of spiral smoke. 
 
 "Ah!" he said. "They were wet in 
 deed!" 
 
 " Give me a biscuit, and do go on cook 
 ing your fish. It looks awfully fresh and 
 nice. Who knows I see no prospect of a 
 dinner to-night, and I have missed my after 
 noon tea. I may as well have my supper
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 201 
 
 with you. My family are doubtless at this 
 moment dragging the Sound for my dead 
 body, and beating the woods for my re 
 mains. Will you give me some of your 
 fish, Mr. Oakes?" She pouted out her soft 
 lips as she made this last request in her own 
 enchanting way. 
 
 Without replying he made a rampart of 
 fresh fagots upon which some red ashes had 
 already fallen, and placed the fish across 
 them. They began to broil and sputter. A 
 delicious odor of the sea seemed to rise 
 between the narrow walls. 
 
 As he came and went, Lola watched him. 
 His not ungraceful movements, his quick, 
 muscular agility full of that ardor of living 
 which gives the illusion of strength. He 
 wore a gray flannel shirt, and had a blue silk 
 handkerchief knotted carelessly under its 
 collar. He wore knickerbockers, with coarse 
 gray stockings. He had thrown off his 
 sailor s cap. His thick curly golden hair, 
 still moist from his bath, smelled of the 
 brine. His hands, sunburned and knotty, 
 the philosophic hand, had certain fingers 
 tapering to artistic shapeliness. The veins 
 of his brown throat throbbed with the exer 
 tion as he stepped hither and thither, pre 
 paring the impromptu meal. 
 
 A sense of warmth, of security, of com-
 
 202 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 fort, a sort of dreamy spell crept over Mrs. 
 Marston s consciousness, and she continued 
 to watch him at his silent work, her head 
 against his coat, her feet to the heat, her 
 hands about her knees. 
 
 "You seem to know how to cook," she 
 said, by-and-by. " My mouth is watering 
 already at the aroma of your cuisine." 
 
 " I used to prepare all my mother s 
 meals," he said, " when I was young." 
 
 She smiled. " Do you speak of your 
 youth in the past tense?" 
 
 " Life is not measured by years always, 
 but sometimes by hardships," he said, 
 shortly. 
 
 "Was yours a hard youth?" she asked, 
 softly. He was certainly interesting. The 
 thought of Fenno Asch flittered across her 
 mind. 
 
 " My mother was always ill, and we were 
 miserably poor." 
 
 " How sad! " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it was . . . sad," he 
 said, with a slight sarcasm in his tone. 
 "Your friends would think so. They call 
 themselves people of the world, I believe, 
 but I guess, Mrs. Marston,they do not know 
 much about it." 
 
 " I dare say not." 
 
 " She was ill, and she could n t eat. I
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 203 
 
 used to make up little messes for her when I 
 was only a shaver of eleven." 
 
 " You were a good son." 
 
 " Oh, I do not know about that. I was 
 cross to her sometimes. I do not for 
 get it." 
 
 " And ... she died?" 
 
 "Yes, she died. Poor woman! The fish 
 is cooked, Mrs. Marston. I 11 bring you 
 one." He carried his little plate over to 
 Lola with her fish, some biscuits, and a glass 
 which he had now filled with water water 
 with which he had provided himself before 
 her arrival, drawn at the well in a rusty pail. 
 She began to eat. He sat down on the floor 
 and ate his own fish as best he could in his 
 fingers, washing it down with a draught from 
 his brandy flask. 
 
 " I was very hungry. It tastes good, 
 does it not? " he said. 
 
 " Perfectly delicious! " 
 
 The rain once more swept the window 
 with its flood. 
 
 "And you were very young when she 
 died?" 
 
 "Twelve. That left me quite alone in the 
 world. I believe I have some cousins in the 
 West. I imagine they do not care about 
 their poor relatives. Most people do not. 
 I was what is called well-born. My mother
 
 204 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 and father were educated people. She was 
 the daughter of a clergyman. Not that I 
 care if I had sprung from tramps. It s all 
 the same to me." 
 
 " Have you a contempt for all refine 
 ments?" asked Mrs. Marston, courageously. 
 She remembered what she had heard of him, 
 and wondered now if he would unfold to her 
 his peculiar views. He was washing his 
 hands in a broken bowl he had found, and 
 wiping them hastily on his handkerchief. 
 He came and stood with his back against 
 the mantel, closer to where she sat. At last 
 he was near her; near that light breath, those 
 soft sighs, the ripples of her hair, the out 
 lines of her mouth, more guessed at than 
 seen in their dim environment, that chaste 
 breast! Those long, thin, white fingers of 
 hers were near! And near was that melodi 
 ous mystery of womanhood, that personality 
 differing from all others he had touched; 
 that exquisite, intangible aroma of the 
 patrician, of the lady, separating her from 
 other elementary women, making her a 
 creature of another sphere, almost another 
 sex from Beth Bush and Floribel Pullen. 
 
 " Have you a contempt for all refine 
 ments? " 
 
 "Not for such as yours." He must have 
 spoken though she should resent the per-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 205 
 
 sonal note as insult, and slay him for his 
 boldness. Ah, let her slay him! What mat 
 ter the hour was here! 
 
 " Mine! " 
 
 " I mean," he went on, hurriedly, " I hate 
 the vulgar upstarts who think they can 
 patronize such as I, when I do not ask their 
 patronage, or want it. In you, one feels the 
 real lady. One sees it. I mean, the first 
 time I ever saw ... I beg your pardon!" 
 
 But great ladies are sometimes amused 
 at what unsophisticated persons think will 
 offend them. His allusions to upstarts 
 passed unnoticed, for she could not have 
 believed he meant her husband. Lola did 
 not remember to have passed so odd a half- 
 hour in her life. She was alive to her finger 
 tips. Her nerves swung back into a reaction 
 of mental activity, ripe for impression. 
 
 " What do you know about me? " 
 
 " Do you ask me that to remind me of the 
 great distance between us?" he asked, bit 
 terly. 
 
 " Oh, how can you think such things!" 
 she cried; but even as she spoke she 
 weighed the distance, and vaguely wondered 
 what her husband would think of this pro 
 longed and extraordinary tete-a-tete. 
 
 " I dare say many of my thoughts would 
 horrify you," he said, gloomily. " What I
 
 206 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 know of you is all naturally in my imagina 
 tion. I have a little of that. I scribble 
 verses sometimes. They are said to be 
 fairly good." He could not help telling her 
 this. He would have given his life to sing 
 for her " To Lola." He thought it a fine 
 thing. His voice had the ring of conceit in 
 it, which had made Joe Bush declare that he 
 thought a good deal of himself. 
 
 "You must send me some of your writ 
 ings," she said, somewhat perfunctorily, and 
 with that sense of impending weariness 
 which any claim upon one s time or admira 
 tion invariably arouses, and which painted 
 itself far too plainly on her transparent feat 
 ures. Fenno Asch did not write poetry. 
 It must be admitted that of the very few 
 things he did do he never spoke. Oakes 
 was disappointed. Floribel Pullen s florid 
 if uncritical enthusiasm seemed almost pre 
 ferable to this bland invitation. 
 
 " Oh, I am more interested in all new 
 movements, in watching the efforts of our 
 unfortunate human race to emancipate itself 
 from the thralldom of habit, from the 
 clutches of smug monopolists, of vulgar 
 demagogues, than in composing poems. 
 When I leave this hole, which will be at the 
 end of the school session, I hope to write
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 207 
 
 on these subjects." There was still the 
 aggressive key. 
 
 Mrs. Marston thought, " I could have 
 loved him when he spoke of his dead mother, 
 now all charm is lost." 
 
 " Of course," he went on, " my education 
 is insufficient, but a man can learn a good 
 deal from thirty to fifty." He spoke eagerly. 
 " This must be a fruitful period of existence. 
 If I live I am not sure that I shall think it 
 worth while I may yet learn something to 
 help my kind." 
 
 " These problems which agitate the uni 
 verse are so profound," said Mrs. Marston, 
 " that one must indeed know a great deal to 
 solve them. It needs a man of genius to 
 find the remedy. He has not yet come for 
 ward." 
 
 " If he did he would not be recognized. 
 They would stone him to death." 
 
 " You take a very sad view, Mr. Oakes." 
 
 " Oh, to be supreme for a moment! cried 
 the schoolmaster. 
 
 " And yet you would suppress all suprem 
 acies?" she ventured. " Is that logical?" 
 
 " They are admirable, but not to their vic 
 tims," he answered. " But I said for a mo 
 ment. Just time to readjust." 
 
 " He is really adroit, " she thought. 
 " Really clever."
 
 208 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " I fear we are all arrogant and self-willed, 
 and it was so intended, Mr. Oakes. The 
 leveling processes that socialists insist upon 
 would cripple individual ambition and par 
 alyze the very progress that they preach." 
 
 " That is what the priests tell us," he said, 
 contemptuously, " that everything bad was 
 intended." 
 
 " I know so little about such things. I 
 am, I know, very stupid." 
 
 " When women have a voice in the con 
 flict it will be heard and felt. You will think 
 more of these things. The time is nigh. I 
 mean to espouse the cause of woman, tram 
 pled upon and cheated as she is. You, Mrs. 
 Marston, will know better and care more 
 one of these days for the wrongs of your 
 sisters." He was almost eloquent. As her 
 eyes met his as if in question, he suddenly 
 smiled. 
 
 "Why, he has a beautiful face!" she 
 thought. " I do care," she murmured. " I 
 want to help them." 
 
 " Do you?" He continued to gaze at her, 
 still smiling, and for some unaccountable 
 reason her eyelids fluttered under his gaze, 
 and she blushed. 
 
 " She is one of those women whom no 
 man could betray betray or forsake," he 
 thought.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 209 
 
 " You see I have strange ideas, Mrs. Mar- 
 ston. I look upon the average marriage as 
 upon licensed prostitution," said this very 
 modern young gentleman. 
 
 Then, as she did not answer him " Per 
 haps you think me coarse," he said. "You 
 must forgive me. I m not accustomed to 
 speaking with ladies of your . . . class." 
 The last word came forth like the crack of 
 a whip. She bent her head as if she had 
 been struck with it across the cheek. 
 
 " I am no prude," she said, haughtily. 
 " And in the world in which I move, men 
 and women speak freely to each other. Too 
 freely, sometimes, perhaps." 
 
 " If I have offended you, pardon me," he 
 repeated. 
 
 "Go on," she said, " I like to hear you 
 speak." 
 
 It was his turn now to flush. The dark 
 red blood mounted to his hair at this enco 
 mium. 
 
 "Yes, I view the ordinary marriage as a 
 crime against your sex, Mrs. Marston. 
 Man s vanity and wickedness have invented 
 that possession attaches the woman while it 
 detaches the man. It is a lie. I 11 wager 
 one hundred women to every man wrecks 
 her delusions in the common life; but being 
 more virtuous, more modest, than man, she
 
 2io EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 clings wildly to the one to whom she has 
 given all, and he, in his asinine brutishness 
 and folly, mistakes a woman s despair for 
 her love. Man has subjugated woman. He 
 plumes himself on having won her." 
 
 Did his words arouse some far-away, faint 
 echo in the young woman s breast? some 
 vague remembrance or regret? some inner 
 consciousness of the murder in herself of 
 some quivering and exquisite thing? She 
 shifted her seat uneasily, and withdrew more 
 into the shadow so that he could not see her 
 face. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, "when women pro 
 test, insist, that they are happy, they often 
 make one think of children singing in the 
 dark to prove they are not afraid of ghosts." 
 
 " Where is the balm? " she breathed rather 
 than said. 
 
 "We have nothing to do with the reme 
 dies," he answered, with fatuity. "We de 
 stroy pull down. Let the next generation 
 rear up its temples on the ruins of the pasc. 
 Sufficient unto us is to point the way, to clear 
 away the debris, dig the foundations upon 
 which they shall build. This is our work. 
 Let them find theirs." 
 
 He threw back his hair with one hand, 
 his attitude, his gesture, were full of exalta 
 tion. Fenno Asch lying in the hammock,
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 211 
 
 her husband enjoying his placid cigar, read 
 ing his evening paper, flashed between them 
 with an incongruity which almost moved 
 her to laughter. She felt as if they as if 
 her husband required some apology. 
 
 " There are men good men who only 
 want to have the way shown to them. I as 
 sure you I assure you they are only wait 
 ing to be told what to do. You, yourself, 
 if you had inherited capital, riches and 
 power, would find it difficult it is difficult! 
 We . . . they want to do right." 
 
 " Do you think the ambulant fashion 
 models who surround you such a man, for 
 instance, as I saw near you yesterday in the 
 train I do not know his name has he one? 
 have distinct aspirations for relieving the 
 race, have any knowledge of the injustice 
 that broods at a stone s throw from their 
 gloved hands? I ask for information. I 
 am one of the . . . the people, the mass, an 
 obscure, unknown identity, valueless, yet 
 groping in darkness, suffering, with a brain 
 to think, and I sometimes ask myself what 
 such people imagine they were created for " 
 
 The impertinence of his speech almost 
 staggered her, its shocking lack of taste. 
 What right had he to cavil at her friends, to 
 sound again that personal cry which she had 
 purposely and tactfully avoided, to vex her
 
 212 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 with a question as difficult to answer as it 
 was insolent to pose? 
 
 Yet if Percival Oakes desired to stand out 
 before this woman, to force her to recognize 
 that he was not the village schoolmaster as 
 Opdyke was the doctor, and Mrs. Fesser 
 postmistress, he had succeeded. Never 
 again could she pass him by indifferently. 
 She might despise or hate him, but he had 
 sprung into an individuality, real, persistent, 
 palpable. He had detached himself from 
 the rest; but there was an impatience against 
 him within her which must find vent. 
 
 " You must not judge people superficially, 
 Mr. Oakes. I am surprised that you who 
 look at all subjects so deeply should do so. 
 The favored classes, as they are called, those 
 who happen to have good clothes, and look 
 to be amusing themselves, are often quite as 
 unhappy as the rest. They cannot escape 
 physical ills, nor treachery, calumny, ingrati 
 tude, which make us distrustful and cynical, 
 and in injuring our characters inflict upon 
 us irreparable harm. It is folly to imagine 
 that the lack of money is the only misfortune. 
 Only that which hurts what is best in us is 
 of consequence. Can you, who are so intel 
 ligent, suppose that the poor have a mo 
 nopoly of all the virtues, and that the rich, 
 as they are called, lie forever on roses?"
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 213 
 
 She left her bench, and, reaching for her 
 shoes, began to draw them on. She found 
 the process difficult. They were hard and 
 dry, having shrunk in the heat. 
 
 I think the storm is passed. I must go." 
 
 "Will you permit me to help you?" he 
 said, humbly. 
 
 " No, thanks. It is not necessary." 
 
 She adjusted her hat, and settled her light 
 open jacket with a jerk. 
 
 "There, that will do. My veil is a ruin. 
 I leave it on the table for the mice, with the 
 remnant of our excellent meal." 
 
 " You will permit me to walk with you as 
 far as your gate? I have no watch, but it 
 must be nearly nine. It is quite dark." 
 
 " Yes, I have one. It is nine. Yes, cer 
 tainly walk with me to the gate see," she 
 pushed open the door and stepped down 
 into the grasses, "the storm is over, and the 
 wind is so high it has nearly dried this sandy 
 soil already." The moon was rising. It 
 looked blood-red through the trees. 
 
 " I am glad it is drying," he said, with a 
 short laugh. " I took refuge here not to 
 wet my feet," and as she looked at him, 
 surprised, " I did n t want to spoil my shoes," 
 he said, simply. "They are the only decent 
 ones I have; they are new. The old ones 
 let in too much light."
 
 214 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 She forgave him instantly, everything. 
 
 " I was very much interested in what you 
 told me about your childhood, and your 
 mother," she said, gently. " Some day per 
 haps I shall see you again, and you will tell 
 me more." 
 
 She could not ask him to come and see her. 
 She instinctively felt it would be unwise. 
 
 " I rarely speak of her. She was one of the 
 unhappy ones forsaken, embittered. Per 
 haps I draw from her some of my asperity. 
 She used to talk very hardly of men. Poor 
 women have not a high opinion of us. I am 
 afraid you have thought me very . . . dis 
 agreeable. If you only knew, Mrs. Marston, 
 how sorry I am to have perhaps annoyed 
 you. 
 
 " No," she said, hurriedly. " I under 
 stand." Her lips trembled. She felt an 
 uncontrollable desire to weep. They reached 
 the gate. A star appeared on its other side, 
 hanging midway between earth and heaven. 
 It proved to be the end of Mr. Marston s 
 cigar. This gentleman, in evening dress, with 
 a wide-brimmed straw hat, loomed on the 
 gravel. This hat was one of his affectations. 
 He thought it had a country squire s negli 
 gence. It hung on a peg in the hall, and 
 was invariably donned when very fastidious 
 and conventional guests were expected.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 215 
 
 To-day we will say to his credit it had been 
 put on because it came nearest to his hand. 
 He was beginning to be anxious. She gave 
 her fingers lightly to Oakes for a moment, 
 parting from him before her husband bridged 
 the hundred yards that separated them. 
 
 " I was getting worried, dearest. Where 
 were you during the storm? I sent the car 
 riage around to Mrs. Taft s to see if you 
 were still there. The dinner is waiting. It 
 will be spoiled." 
 
 " I was there, but missed the carriage.- I 
 started before the worst, yet too late." 
 
 " Was that Taft with you? " 
 
 " No," she laughed. "Guess who?" 
 
 "Tommy Taft, then." 
 
 " No, Mr. Oakes, the young man that 
 teaches the children." Her words seemed to 
 settle him away again to a safe distance 
 where such restless spirits, who could have 
 no part among her household gods, should 
 be kept. Nevertheless, although she had 
 returned into Philistia, the curious desire to 
 weep, which Oakes had awakened in her, 
 remained. She felt as if upon her heart lay 
 a leaden load of unshed tears. 
 
 "Where in the world did you pick him 
 up?" 
 
 Somehow she resented the expression. She 
 could not herself have explained why.
 
 216 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " He picked me up," she answered, 
 quickly, "and was very nice to me indeed." 
 She went on recounting her adventures. 
 
 " What could you find to say to him dur 
 ing a whole hour? He s a queer cuss, they 
 tell me, a young fool. By the way, he s 
 Mrs. Bush s beau." 
 
 " I can hardly believe that. He s so very 
 superior to her," she said, coldly. 
 
 " Superior! " 
 
 "And he s not a fool. He has a beautiful 
 face." 
 
 " A beautiful face! Are you joking, Lola? 
 Oakes beautiful! Ha! ha! ha! That sallow, 
 round-shouldered fellow! The lightning 
 must have gotten into your eyes. Men do n t 
 get much mashed on one another s good 
 looks, but Asch, now I concede to you is a 
 handsome man un beau male, as the French 
 have it. But Oakes, ah! ah! " 
 
 " Fenno looks like a figure in a coiffeur s 
 window. Those long eyelashes of his are 
 ridiculous." 
 
 " Has he a name? " the schoolmaster had 
 asked her, and something in this query 
 seemed to have lodged its echo in her breast. 
 She remembered now with a certain shame 
 how she had admired Asch s manly figure. 
 How she had purred over him, and looked 
 after his comforts as other women did, out of
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 217 
 
 sheer imitation. Now, as she answered her 
 husband with spirit, she could only remem 
 ber Fenno s selfishness and the fact that she 
 was getting just a little tired of him. 
 
 Oakes threaded his way through the un 
 derbrush, after Mrs. Marston left him, mak 
 ing a short cut back to the Dougherty house. 
 The moon illumined it with its cool rays. 
 The drops splashed from the eaves upon 
 his head as he once more lifted the latch; 
 they seemed a chrism of calm, a baptism of 
 joy. He went in. The fire burned low. Its 
 charred remains glowed lurid. He jabbed 
 it with a fagot and threw on some cones. 
 They sizzled for a moment, and then sent up 
 a green flame. He seemed to see once more 
 beside him that tender, graceful presence 
 which had so long filled empty musings, 
 lending beauty to their loneliness. By tem 
 perament he adored all feminine softness, 
 was susceptible to sensuous charm. The 
 hour spent with her in this dim hut, in these 
 dank woods, seemed now unreal. Yet it was 
 one of those chimeras which haunt the soul 
 with divine ecstasy. He would have liked to 
 ring its raptures to the skies. " Earth s bells 
 do not chime in or toll our greatest joys or 
 sorrows," he thought. She seemed to have 
 left with him a certain peace. His angry 
 protests against men and things were lulled,
 
 2i8 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 quenched for a moment by her influence. 
 Perhaps she was right, he was unjust and 
 superficial after all. He remembered how 
 he had once detested a man whom he had 
 known to be his enemy. He had vowed to 
 do him hurt, but Providence took charge of 
 his revenge, for the man became blind, and 
 Oakes in the chances of life had met him 
 and been compelled to cut his food for him. 
 " How can one injure a blind man whose 
 food one has to cut up," he thought, with a 
 dry laugh. " Our enemies become blind 
 and so disarm us." He remembered that 
 the most dull-eyed youth he had known at 
 school, apparently nerveless and obtuse, who 
 studied not at all and ate enormously, had 
 killed himself under peculiar, tragic cir 
 cumstance because of a fancied stain upon 
 his honor. What plenitude of profound 
 experience could teach us to comprehend 
 each other, to fathom motive, to solve char 
 acter, to make allowance? Did the affec 
 tations of those whom he had called the 
 " fashion models " necessarily betoken fri 
 volity? Who could say? Perhaps they did 
 hide something better. For her sake he was 
 willing to believe it now. 
 
 Then he caught sight of her veil on the 
 table, shriveled from the wetting it had got. 
 He seized it, burying his face in its perfumed
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 219 
 
 meshes. He opened his shirt and thrust it 
 in. Rolling up his coat into a pillow, he 
 stretched himself out before the fire. He 
 would sleep here. Perhaps she would visit 
 him again in dreams. And, as he lay there 
 waiting, his fingers griped the bit of lace 
 against his heart.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Mr. Marston was occupied. Archie Jr. 
 had been ordered out of the house, where 
 his noisy presence was intolerable. The 
 servants trod softly. The dogs were chained 
 at the stables lest their barking should dis 
 turb the master. Lola, in a white dressing 
 gown, flitted anxiously from her apartment 
 to his, when he nervously called her from 
 the door of his open study. This study 
 joined his bedroom. He had another down 
 stairs next the tabagie which was dignified 
 by the name of "office." The larger library 
 fronting the terraces looked northward. 
 From its shelves the valet Marvin had 
 selected and brought up to his master 
 numerous tomes. In these musty volumes 
 Mr. Marston s nose had been buried a great 
 part of the morning. They contained 
 needed information as to American history 
 and political development which had 
 scourged his school days, but which he had 
 long since forgotten. He was engaged in 
 preparing his speech. The open-air meeting
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 221 
 
 was to take place on the following Wednes 
 day. It was now Monday. There was no 
 time to waste. He called this preliminary 
 travail "taking notes," but he knew that his 
 only salvation lay in an elaborate composi 
 tion, careful transcription to paper, with a 
 final committal to memory. His memory 
 was good. It had rarely played him 
 pranks. 
 
 " How will this do, my dear? " he asked 
 his wife for the eleventh time, as she timidly 
 looked in, fearful of interfering with his 
 industrious frenzy. 
 
 He began to read aloud to her a phrase 
 of his peroration. It had seemed to him 
 thoughtful and even elegant. Somehow, 
 now that he listened to the sound of his 
 own voice the words appeared flat and crude 
 the ideas nil. 
 
 "Of course," he explained, "sitting here 
 in a loose coat with you, my love, it cannot 
 be impressive as it will be delivered from a 
 platform with the excitement of an audience 
 upon me . . ." 
 
 There was no doubt of it. It sounded 
 empty and withal pretentious. 
 
 " Don t you think, Archibald," she ven 
 tured, "that, in view of the simplicity of 
 your hearers, it might be better to make it 
 a little more ... er ... colloquial?"
 
 222 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "Colloquial?" Mr. Marston frowned. 
 
 " Yes, really it is too impressive, too fin 
 ished. It reads to me a little like Racine." 
 
 "Racine!" Mr. Marston flushed, an 
 noyed. You don t know my dear, what you 
 are talking about. Racine poppycock! 
 . . . why, these are the very kind of peo 
 ple who demand some elaboration, some 
 polish. Depend upon it, they appreciate 
 style. My quarrel with our local orators is 
 that they have a tendency to talk down to 
 their audience instead of raising it to their 
 own level. A grave mistake!" 
 
 He had never thought of this before, but 
 it sounded well and would doubtless impress 
 his wife, and he must defend his diction and 
 dignity at any price. 
 
 "It may be so," said Lola, wagging her 
 small head. " Read more that I may judge 
 better." She closed her eyes, with the acute 
 anguish which lay in their gentle depths, 
 and prepared to listen. Her husband s 
 whole career seemed at stake. 
 
 " Here, perhaps you will like this part. 
 This about Abraham Lincoln, toward the 
 end, the great, the just, the pure, where is 
 it? I ve lost the page. The deuce take it! 
 Ah, here it is." 
 
 "Yes, I like that. That is very well," 
 said Lola, without enthusiasm.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 223 
 
 " Those allusions to our great men always 
 move a meeting of this kind to applause," 
 said Mr. Marston. " I suppose a bit of that 
 sort of buncombe is expected." 
 
 " Yes, of course," said Lola. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " When you make the speech, dear, do 
 you speak so very, very fast? I should think 
 the people in the back seats would have dif 
 ficulty in following." 
 
 " I know you are right. I do get racing. 
 I must correct this one serious fault. I thank 
 you for your valuable suggestion, my dear. 
 I will stand up now behind the table and try 
 to get up the right speed. One must not 
 be ponderous." 
 
 Racine rankled, but he made an effort to 
 be patient. She was a clever woman, and 
 if one wishes to learn one must be receptive 
 and supple not mulish. He placed one 
 hand upon the table, the other lightly in the 
 flap of his smoking-jacket where his heart 
 was supposed to perform its pumping pro 
 cesses. He began again to deliver his 
 speech. His slow enunciation of each syl 
 lable, heavy, colorless, without inflection, 
 filled her with dismay. She found she 
 could not follow the subject, so drowsy 
 did her senses grow in the monotony of his 
 tones.
 
 224 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " I think you might, perhaps, speak a wee 
 bit more rapidly than that." 
 
 He glared. " Don t you comprehend 
 I m only practicing to cure myself of over 
 much speed. Really, Lola, you might help 
 me instead of saying discouraging things to 
 me." 
 
 " You tell me you have spoken at dinners. 
 How did you get on then, dear? " 
 
 " I m not an orator. I know it. I have 
 only got on my legs two or three times in 
 my life. I cut it very short. I got through. 
 I was among friends." 
 
 " It must be just too awful not to ... get 
 through," said Mrs. Marston. 
 
 " Nonsense, I don t mean to make a fiasco 
 on Wednesday. A delegation is coming 
 over from Flushing; you may depend upon 
 it I shall not make an ass of myself if I can 
 help it." 
 
 Mrs. Marston said she felt confident that 
 he would not. 
 
 " Fancy," she said, reflectively, " your 
 making an ass of yourself ! " Then, after a 
 pause: " Suppose you suddenly forgot the 
 speech when you had learned it! " A new 
 terror thrilled her. 
 
 " I shall take my notes along." 
 
 "Ah!"
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 225 
 
 " If the worst comes to the worst I can 
 read from them." 
 
 " I don t think that would be nice at all." 
 She shook her head again decidedly. 
 
 " I don t know about it s not being nice, 
 my dear, but such things have been done. 
 Vou seem to be a regular alarmist to-day. I 
 declare you quite make me nervous. I expect 
 to throw the thing off without a moment s 
 hesitancy. I have a very fair memory. I 
 think when one has this gift it is better not 
 to speak impromptu. One may make a show 
 of one s self and spoil everything." 
 
 She agreed with him that it would indeed 
 be dreadful to make a show of one s self. 
 
 Turning over the pages of his manuscript 
 he found a tit-bit, something local and hu 
 morous, at which he laughed himself, a hit 
 of which he was immensely proud, and 
 which he read to her. 
 
 "That ll fetch them!" 
 
 His wife, however, to his chagrin, did not 
 laugh at all. She looked quite careworn, 
 almost haggard. It was evident she had 
 missed his point. 
 
 " Don t you think that funny? " 
 
 "Well, yes, it is rather funny," she said, 
 after a moment s hesitancy. 
 
 The announcement of the twelve o clock
 
 226 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 breakfast brought the seance to a temporary 
 conclusion. 
 
 When the day came, the Marston family 
 Mr. Marston in a long frock coat with a 
 carnation in his button-hole, Lola ethereal 
 in gray mull, little Archie in duck trousers 
 and a sailor collar got into the phaeton. 
 Fenno Asch drove May Plunkett in a Til 
 bury, Mrs. Ayrault and de Beaumont came 
 bumping behind in a village cart. They 
 thought it an enormous frolic. Mrs. Marston 
 had explained to the Count the necessity of 
 gentlemen in the United States interesting 
 themselves in politics, of establishing terms 
 of friendliness and sympathy with their 
 country neighbors, and of playing the gentil- 
 homme campagnard with urbanity and tact. 
 The Count screwed in his monocle, waved 
 one arm in the ether, and said he " seized 
 the situation." It was just the same in 
 France, at St. Quentin, near which was his 
 mother s estate. He often addressed the 
 people from the balcony, and then invited 
 them in to supper, since the Republic had 
 leveled all classes. One must march with the 
 times, make concessions. One s heart might 
 be with the king, but reason must be with 
 the nation. He told his mother this, but it 
 was difficult. She was a little arrierde. She
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 227 
 
 was a Rohan, an obstinate royalist. He 
 himself felt that he had a sacred duty to 
 perform to the Republic. Mrs. Ayrault, 
 who had heard all this before, gave a little 
 grin behind her fan. 
 
 " The bird that flew out of the ark was 
 about as liberal as you are," she said, while 
 she briskly tucked in her shapely limbs, and 
 the Count s lank ones under the light lap- 
 robe. " Don t talk rot." 
 
 " You are ravtssante," said the Count, 
 leaning back in rapture. 
 
 May Plunkett, skillfully driven by her 
 handsome escort, was very silent. She had a 
 problem to solve. Should she marry Fenno 
 Asch, who had never offered himself to 
 her, and never meant to. So many had! 
 Or should she wed the St. Louis Colonel? 
 The latter had offered. Of this there could 
 be no shadow of doubt. He had offered 
 himself and many other things. She 
 was weighing the pros and cons. Wom 
 anlike, she began with the cons. As she 
 laid them down she qualified them: 
 
 CONS. 
 
 Over fifty not much consequence. 
 Widower no consequence. 
 Two daughters married, therefore out of 
 the way.
 
 228 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Has attacks of gout pretty bad. 
 
 Gets red in the face and blusters un 
 pleasant. 
 
 Not well-born unfortunate. 
 
 Purse-proud regrettable. 
 
 Says gauche and stupid things horrible. 
 
 No appreciation of art or literature, little 
 education might be improved. 
 
 PROS. 
 
 Good-looking, manly cheering attributes. 
 
 Twenty millions a mere figure to a girl 
 accustomed to luxury, but, her money being 
 yet in anticipation, comfortable. 
 
 Two palaces already built, will build any 
 number more, anywhere, at a moment s no 
 tice; fine horses, coaches, yachts already 
 amusing. 
 
 Not dissipated a good thing always, oT 
 course. 
 
 Very much in love with her was this a 
 pro or a con? she was inclined to think 
 the latter, as, so far, she found his love ex 
 tremely disagreeable. 
 
 Had distinguished himself in the war 
 picturesque. 
 
 When they reached the grounds she was 
 just summing up her charges to the jury, her 
 friends. 
 
 In spite of the democratic tendencies of
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 229 
 
 the day, front seats had been reserved for 
 the Marston party. Percival Oakes, who 
 was one of the ushers, took off his hat 
 gravely to Mrs. Marston, and conducted her 
 to her place. The misty folds of her gown 
 brushed him as she nodded and spoke a 
 word. She installed herself between Archie 
 Jr., who had his papa s overcoat on his arm 
 (Mr. Marston was to accompany the delega 
 tion back to Flushing, where a reception 
 was to be held he might not get home un 
 til late), and Fenno Asch. Percival Oakes, 
 as he designated the seats to the ladies, 
 looked at him. 
 
 The day was brilliant. Over their heads 
 floated a snow-white cloud, shaped like a 
 shield. It might have been the sacred An- 
 cile, fixed there triumphant to guard them 
 from all ills. The rest of heaven was of a 
 vivid blue, burnished, blinding. Lola, blink 
 ing, raised her gray parasol. Behind her 
 sat Joe Bush, Beth and Dottie. Beth, re 
 splendent in a new foulard, brave with its 
 grape-vine pattern; Dottie, starched in a 
 fresh print, the gold locket and chain fast 
 ened about her little throat. Beth followed 
 Mrs. Marston s example, and raised her sun 
 shade the one of which she was so proud. 
 She noticed that her mistress s had no lace 
 upon it. Her eyes fastened themselves upon
 
 230 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 every detail of Mrs. Marston s, Mrs. 
 Ayrault s, and Miss Plunkett s toilettes. If 
 their hats were in the latest fashion then had 
 her Third Avenue milliner basely deceived 
 and cheated her. The brims were narrower 
 than hers. The woman s perfidy filled Beth s 
 soul. The sun was darkened to her. She 
 noticed with wonder that the tiny locks in 
 Miss Plunkett s neck were out of curl and lay 
 limp upon a chiffon fichu which was a trifle 
 rumpled, while the sequins upon Mrs. 
 Ayrault s yellow bodice were somewhat tar 
 nished; yet the effect the three women pro 
 duced among the crowd of gaping villagers 
 was startling. They distanced everybody 
 by the mere way they held their heads and 
 hands, spoke to each other in that mutual 
 camaraderie with its masonry of cabalistic 
 signals so easy to strive for, so hard to ac 
 quire. 
 
 Next to the Bush family sat the Pullens. 
 Floribel, charming in her simple cloth frock 
 with its scarlet necktie, and Mrs. Pullen in 
 black bombazine, crisp crape veil, and neat 
 black gloves. Why she should thus appear 
 always in deep mourning, was one of the un 
 answered questions of the neighborhood, 
 for her husband had died thirty years before, 
 and her son was living. On official occa 
 sions Floribel always decked her mother in
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 231 
 
 this careful livery of woe. She was a gaunt, 
 toothless crone, with a high-bumped fore 
 head and hatchet cheeks, but so dressed she 
 looked quite lady-like and imposing. Prob 
 ably Floribel thought that when a woman 
 has passed the age of love-making such ha 
 biliments are suitable and safe. 
 
 Pierre Rose, who had come across the 
 meadows with some of the maids to hear the 
 master speak, stared fixedly at Miss Pullen. 
 She did not return his amorous oglings, 
 but they did not appear to inspire her 
 with resentment. All the annoyance they 
 invoked was plainly painted upon the feat 
 ures of the gentleman who was wedged be 
 tween her and Dottie Bush. One of the 
 neighbors had once called him the " black- 
 browed beetle." The description suited him 
 passably. He was insectivorous in size and 
 color, and looked distinctly mischievous. 
 
 "If you re flirting with that Frenchman, 
 Florrie, it s time I quit," he whispered in 
 her ear. 
 
 "What Frenchman, Mr. Pear? " said Flor 
 rie, sweetly, the embodiment of unjustly 
 accused virginity. 
 
 " I ain t as blind as I may look," went on 
 the lover; "if there s more than one French 
 man in this assembly I guess I d know it." 
 
 "Well, there is then more than one
 
 232 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Frenchman, so there! I declare I believe 
 you re jealous," she said, shrugging her 
 shoulders and smiling. 
 
 "Jealous? Jealous of a cook? When 
 I ve sunk as low as that, Miss Pullen, I 11 
 seek another friend. . . ." 
 
 " Well now, Mr. Pear, you are mistaken 
 for once. There is more than one French 
 man here. That gentleman in front with 
 Mrs. Marston is a French gentleman, and 
 he s a Count, too! " 
 
 " You 11 be making eyes at him next, 
 Florrie. I guess it would just about suit 
 your fancy to be a Countess." 
 
 " I would n t marry a Papist not for any 
 title," said Miss Pullen, tossing her head. 
 
 "You d have to go to confession and tell 
 all your sins. That would n t suit you, eh? " 
 He bent his head forward eager to catch her 
 answer. 
 
 " That is against Bible injunction accord 
 ing to me," said Florrie. "You oughtn t 
 to tell your secrets. The Scripture says 
 and thy left hand shall not know what thy 
 right hand doeth. Is n t that right, ma? " 
 
 Mrs. Pullen nodded her head with a fee 
 ble gurgle of approbation. 
 
 "Yes, daughter, that s so," she said. 
 
 "Well, you re a clever minx, anyway," 
 said Mr. Pear, somewhat mollified by this
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 233 
 
 peculiar interpretation of gospel truth. 
 There s no catching you, is there eh, 
 Flcrrie?" 
 
 But the Count was not glancing toward 
 Floribel; he was seeking, as ever, the sorcery 
 which lay for him in Arden Ayrault s velvet 
 eyes. 
 
 By-and-by Floribel s city lover, seeing 
 Rose s maneuvers to attract her attention, 
 came back to the attack. 
 
 " I do n t care if it s a French Count or 
 cook, or that athlete out of the circus you 
 were talking with. Yes, I caught you, last 
 spring. I won t stand it. If you carry on, 
 I 11 quit," he repeated, with an angry scowl 
 at Pierre. 
 
 " Pshaw! That athlete! Why, I was just 
 showing him our view over the fence. A 
 nice young man. You call that talking, Mr. 
 Pear?" She stifled a yawn. "I declare 
 I m getting sleepy." 
 
 The jealousy of the man one loves is 
 delicious, of the man one tolerates, fatiguing. 
 Miss Pullen liked pretty presents, but she 
 liked agreeable words even better. She was 
 pleasure-loving. She was getting very tired 
 of her adorer. She thought with contempt 
 that he was willing to hurt, and yet afraid to 
 strike. 
 
 The brass band tuned its instruments, and
 
 234 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 broke into an overture. A beneficent inter 
 lude. Mrs. Marston turned and spoke to 
 the Bushes. 
 
 "I haven t seen you for a long time, 
 Mrs. Bush." 
 
 11 You don t come up much to the cottage, 
 Mrs. Marston." Her voice had a reproach 
 in it which never failed to arouse latent an 
 tagonism in Lola s breast. 
 
 " I will come in a day or two. I ve been 
 engaged with guests and other things." 
 Lola was determined to be gracious. 
 
 " I have got some new pullets to show 
 you, Mrs. Marston." She would not say 
 ma am, as she would have said to Mrs. 
 Opdyke; she feared it might be servile. She 
 went on: "And Wilhelmina has a heifer, 
 dropped last night." 
 
 Lola shook hands with Floribel, whom she 
 liked. She also addressed the girl s mother. 
 " How are you, Mrs. Pullen? " 
 
 "Well, ma am, I ve got the plumbago 
 and the bronkity so my tubes is some par 
 alyzed, but I m pretty fair, I thank you." 
 
 She did not care for the stories against 
 the girl. She thought they were probably 
 mere gossip. Her manners were certainly 
 modest, and she was always dressed so 
 neatly. 
 
 "You look splendid, Mrs. Marston. Just
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 235 
 
 splendid. So fat and beautiful. You are 
 not the fat kind, but you look real plump for 
 you. And Master Archie! Is n t he too 
 cute for anything! How are you, sir? 
 Shake hands. You have n t forgotten Pep 
 per, have you? Come in and see him some 
 day. Ma s taught him some new tricks." 
 
 Archie gave Miss Pullen his hand politely, 
 and asked some questions about her terrier, 
 which he had sometimes stopped to frolic 
 with. 
 
 Floribel spoke of Marston Terrace and its 
 loveliness. " I was over the other day," she 
 said. " We are so proud to have the place 
 here so near us. It s a regular show place 
 for all our visitors. We are proud of hav 
 ing you for a neighbor." 
 
 Beth, whose secret admiration for Mrs. 
 Marston was far more profound and complex, 
 marveled at Floribel s easy exposition of her 
 sentiments. 
 
 Floribel s blood was not curdled. It was 
 a healthy fluid, from which the processes of 
 circulation eliminated acids. It assimilated 
 neither envy nor malice. 
 
 "Yes, now do come and see Pepper, little 
 dear! " Mrs. Pullen was saying to Archie, in 
 her husky whisper. She was one of those 
 well-trained American mothers who invaria 
 bly follow their daughters initiative. She
 
 236 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 had never been known since Floribel s birth 
 to disagree with her or to speak first. 
 
 " I was going away this week," continued 
 Floribel, " but I would n t miss Mr. Mars- 
 ton s speech, no, not for anything. We all 
 came to hear him. I told my friend in At 
 lantic City she d have to wait." 
 
 Lola explained that her husband was not 
 an orator, and had only come to please his 
 party, at which Floribel shook her head in 
 credulously. She was sure Mr. Marston 
 must be a grand speaker. 
 
 With a sudden bray the band stopped. A 
 hush fell. The first speaker was introduced. 
 He was a man rough in dress, unshaven, 
 awkward, ungrammatical, yet somehow he 
 held attention. The child in the second row 
 forgot to fret, the old soldier who took the 
 tickets, to cough and spit, the belated school 
 girls crouching on the platform steps, to 
 titter. He was plausible, lucid, intelligible, 
 above all fluent. Fluency is a moral not an 
 intellectual attribute. The higher flights of 
 eloquence spring more from character than 
 from culture. Calm, composed, master of 
 his audience, and of himself, he seemed to 
 enjoy his own power. He sat down after 
 fifteen minutes, which had seemed but five, 
 amid clapping of hands and some shouts of 
 " Good, good! "
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 237 
 
 Another speaker followed, more preten 
 tious, better dressed, in black broadcloth, 
 with a white cravat; a state legislator. He 
 had the paunch and profile of a papal pre 
 late with an unctiousness which he had in 
 fact acquired while a student in a college 
 dominated by the Order of Jesus. He, too, 
 was a success. Easy, urbane, by turns 
 earnest or satirical, he possessed imagination 
 and dramatic quality. He held his hearers. 
 He retired amid a burst of cheers. It was 
 then that Mr. Marston got upon his feet. 
 
 He began. Lola noticed that his skin was 
 of a greenish hue, his lips parched, his eyes 
 restless and vacant. His hair seemed to 
 have arisen about his head like a halo of 
 rays; perhaps it was the heat. It looked 
 singular. She made a sign to him with her 
 hand to smooth it down. He did not seem 
 to understand her, and stopped short in his 
 speech, looking about helplessly. There was 
 a pause. He cleared his throat and began 
 again. He went on fairly well for five min 
 utes more or less. The Bible s thousand 
 years came to Lola s mind. What was time? 
 A mere unit of misery. Twisting on her 
 hard plank, she felt it so. Then then 
 there came a pause indeed a pause long, 
 awful, blood-curdling. From green his com 
 plexion seemed to become leaden livid.
 
 238 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 His eyes glazed in their sockets. The old 
 soldier hawked and snorted. The girls gig 
 gled and choked. The baby began to scream. 
 Mr. Marston looked toward them all in turns 
 and smiled such a smile! Lola had never 
 seen it on any other human being s counte 
 nance, much less on that of the husband 
 whom she loved. It might be that of a lost 
 spirit just consigned to eternal doom. He 
 was feeling for his notes! In his coat, his 
 vest, his trousers, everywhere, anywhere! 
 His notes! The worst had befallen him, 
 the horrible contingency. His mind was a 
 blank. The speech had vanished, but alas! 
 not only from his memory, but from his 
 pockets! They were empty! The cursed, 
 cursed things met him with vacuum. He 
 gasped, " Overcoat! " 
 
 It was then that Oakes rose to the occa 
 sion; in pity for the woman he revered, he 
 sprang to the assistance of the man he de 
 spised. He understood. In an instant he 
 had grasped the overcoat from Archie s 
 trembling ringers, wrested the notes from 
 their hiding-place, and handed them to Mr. 
 Marston. It is positive that there are times 
 when we could kiss the garments of those 
 whose lack of humor at other moments irri 
 tates. With gratitude ineffable Lola realized 
 that Oakes had seized the tragedy of the
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 239 
 
 situation, not its absurdity. His jaws might 
 have been made of iron, his forehead of 
 steel; not a line, not a vestige of ridicule 
 traversed the mask of his imperturbable 
 seriousness. He had saved her husband. 
 His action imposed upon the audience. The 
 glance with which she rewarded him was 
 one full of such poignant sweetness that he 
 almost died, inundated with the happiness it 
 brought to him. 
 
 Marvin, the idiot, had put the papers in 
 the overcoat instead of in the vest as directed. 
 Mr. Marston had time to feel that dismissal 
 would be too good for his valet, that death 
 by torture could hardly atone. He wished 
 the crafty Torquemada was still living to in 
 vent a new mode of lingering execution. 
 Fumbling, faint, he fingered the pages, faint 
 but rescued! 
 
 What did it matter that the people were 
 beginning to chatter, to scrape their feet, 
 that a voice, quickly quelled but plainly 
 audible, cried out, " He ain t no good. Mar 
 ston ain t no good " ? Let his enemies do 
 their worst he had . . . the notes! 
 
 He went on, faster, and faster, and faster, 
 showering the platitudes he had strung to 
 gether until they seemed to Lola a mere 
 medley of incoherent words. He skipped 
 the witty sally. He was in no mood for
 
 240 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 joking. With the final invocation to Lin 
 coln, which he delivered so inaudibly that it 
 missed its mark, he sat down, while the band 
 played " Hail to the Chief." There was a 
 round of brief but palpably forced applause. 
 There was more speaking and more music. 
 To Lola all was over. The sting of her hus 
 band s failure brought cold drops of moisture 
 to her brow, and she shivered, though not 
 with cold. To see the nullity of one we re 
 spect, even in so slight a test, is a form of 
 suffering Dante omitted from his purgatorial 
 cleansings. Children who first discover the 
 faults of parents, their makeshifts, or incom 
 petence, are in this sad plight. The Count, 
 however, was profuse in his commendations 
 of Mr. Marston s speech. It is true he had 
 not heard a word of it, but with his native 
 gallantry and kindness he saw his hostess 
 was uncomfortable, and came to her rescue 
 with such amends as he could make. He 
 even told her that her husband was a second 
 Mirabeau. 
 
 " Look here," Mrs. Ayrault whispered to 
 him, " don t make a donkey of yourself. 
 It was horrible, and she knows it. Poor 
 dear! For God s sake, let her alone." 
 
 Fenno Asch had been so bored that a pall 
 of deep dejection enveloped him.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 241 
 
 Why in the devil s name should Marston 
 desire to do such things? Why men should 
 choose to assume these absurd responsibilities 
 he could not for the life of him imagine. Ten 
 minutes of that nasty, ill-smelling crowd had 
 been quite enough for him. Even Miss 
 Plunkett s taut figure, as the young lady 
 sprang to her place by his side, was refracted 
 upon a jaundiced retina. She represented an 
 unwholesome nuptial temptation, which he 
 attributed to the bourgeois atmosphere just 
 inhaled. He was so rude to her on the way 
 home that the St. Louis Colonel s boom 
 again fluctuated upward. May told herself 
 that if the Colonel was rough with others he 
 was always a lamb with her. She decided 
 that Fenno was a brute. The valiant Col 
 onel s chances received an impetus which 
 bowled hopefully with every revolution of 
 the Tilbury s wheel. A man is less repul 
 sive when he has declared himself. 
 
 Oakes, plodding home through the fields, 
 could not enjoy the discomfiture of him 
 whom he so cordially disliked. Its cost had 
 been too great. He had seen what she en 
 dured. It was the blind man over again. 
 The impotence, the sarcasm of fate which 
 pursued all his hates. But she had leaned 
 to him in gratitude, and he had served her ! 
 This seemed enough!
 
 242 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 A few days later the schoolmaster left 
 Paradise. He went into the great city with 
 his small wardrobe and his box of books. 
 He went and was swallowed up. Its dark 
 waves closed over him, leaving no sign.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Beth had bowed to Percival Oakes across 
 the knot of Mrs. Marston s pale brown hair, 
 with a smile in which there lurked an invita 
 tion. His inscrutable regard crossed hers 
 coldly like the glint from some steel weapon. 
 He returned her salutation, but gave no 
 heed to its summons. 
 
 Her anger had cooled. She missed him. 
 She was not of a caliber calculated to cap 
 tivate her neighbors. They had viewed her 
 arrival with that measure of interest which 
 narrow communities evince toward strangers. 
 Too self-engrossed to be sympathetic, her 
 value to them had soon been gauged. She 
 took but scant interest in their affairs, and 
 her longing to be above them, even in its 
 meager achievement, was, while not fully 
 understood, yet obscurely guessed. 
 
 " She s awful proud," somebody had said 
 of her. 
 
 "She s that stuck up she thinks herself 
 bigger n Mrs. Marston, and puts on a sight 
 more airs." 
 
 243
 
 244 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 "Mrs. Marston don t put on airs. She s 
 a real lady, but Miss Bush, she seems afeard 
 people will trespass on her." 
 
 So ran the village tattle. 
 
 Yes, she missed him. She had in vain 
 waited for a call a note some sign none 
 came. Then, biting her lips with vexation, 
 she had herself written a short, friendly line 
 not an apology asking him to tea. He 
 declined with an excuse which was evidently 
 an invention, that false change which de 
 ceives nobody. Then it was that she fully 
 realized all she had lost. Even his egotism 
 had found a niche in her life. Few in their 
 wish to please but are base enough to pan 
 der to the egotist, and talk to him about 
 himself. Beth proved no exception; but 
 Oakes s egotism was of a kind which 
 charmed her without wearying. So she at 
 least had some excuse. His advanced views 
 and militant humor had become like wine to 
 her, a form of dissipation resembling the 
 violent pleasures of alcohol. She could not 
 forego it without pain. The dull pain of a dull 
 existence, which felt that above it, just above 
 it, so near that she could touch it with her 
 hand, lay another life, mysterious, dazzling, 
 which through some trick of a lost birthright 
 passed her by. It was the sights and sounds 
 from the great house which kept her dis-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 245 
 
 satisfied and unhappy. She sometimes 
 wished it and its occupants could be shut out 
 of her ken forever, wished it with a persist 
 ence growing to mania. Lack of air and 
 exercise, too frequent libations of strong 
 tea, absence of all mental occupations, ag 
 gravated these unhealthy broodings. Since 
 Oakes came no more she rarely went out; 
 she had no love of nature, and long walks 
 always fatigued her more than her household 
 work. She missed the mental friction of 
 his visits. Then she learned that he had 
 left Paradise. 
 
 Upon her lay the full weight of her sacri 
 fice. She determined to cease complaining, 
 to be a good wife, a good mother, to close 
 her ears to the solicitations of folly, to be a 
 happy and helpful woman. Somehow the 
 endeavor, praiseworthy in itself, was a trifle 
 ponderous, lacked lightness. Elizabeth, in 
 fact, was not elastic. 
 
 Joe, after the manner of husbands, seemed 
 not to remark the change in her, or, if he did, 
 scarcely to be grateful. He had often been 
 fain to escape from her tongue. He found 
 himself now somewhat oppressed by her 
 silences. There are silences harder to bear 
 than words. Their sting lies in the fact that 
 they must be ignored, whereas open reproach 
 may be met with scorn. But Elizabeth was
 
 246 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 doing her best. In moments of impatience 
 she now held her peace. She went about 
 her work as the animals do, with a sort of 
 blind obedience to rule. In the lairs of 
 caves and of woods, in the depths of seas, 
 in the nests of singing birds, in the holes of 
 insects, there is ever going on this watchful 
 wakefulness, this sleepless industry, this de 
 votional renouncement. The beasts teach 
 us something better than their brutal instincts 
 of pleasure, other things besides the uses of 
 their self-love and craftiness. They preach 
 to us law and order. The universe is a great 
 reformatory. In it the inexorable doctrines 
 of self-sacrifice are taught. Through all the 
 torment of desire, through all the raging 
 wish to grow, to widen, and to shine, an iron 
 hand bears down, and the preservation of the 
 species is insured. Secret of secrets at 
 which mute man looks up, marveling and 
 frightened. Deep down within Beth s heart 
 there lay that cryptic wonder, that occult 
 "why?" If Oakes had not forsaken her, if 
 she could have rallied from a desertion which 
 she attributed to his profound contempt, her 
 task would have seemed easier. His friend 
 ship, much as he was disliked in Paradise, 
 had cast a prestige over her, for if he was 
 disliked he was admired. She had reveled 
 in his society, proud to have him seen beside
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 247 
 
 her, liking to have the people know he was 
 her friend. How she envied Floribel, the 
 insouciance, which made her seem as happy 
 in the fellowship of that scaramouch, that 
 whining ferret, her dark lover, as in that of a 
 capricious and yellow-haired young poet. 
 Floribel possessed the temperament which is 
 uninfluenced by surrounding, which creates 
 its own atmosphere. Beth s laboratory knew 
 no such alchemy. She belonged to that sis 
 terhood dependent on environment. A word 
 could plunge her into heaven or scourge her 
 to the pit. When such is the soil, the seed 
 a passing bird shall drop roots quickly in the 
 harrowed track. 
 
 Lola reproached herself for her late lack 
 of concern about the weal of her whilom 
 barnyard pets, her apathy at the birth of 
 Wilhelmina s heifer, her supineness as to 
 dairy visiting. It was a long time since she 
 had watched the maids churning and form 
 ing the melting gold. In Mrs. Daggett s 
 day she had found leisure for all this. We 
 always have the leisure to follow inclination. 
 She told herself that it was all because of 
 her farmer s wife, of the dislike which she 
 felt for her. She disliked to be in the room 
 with her, even to catch sight of her in the 
 distance, and she chafed at herself for being
 
 248 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 so unreasonable. Mrs. Bush was not worth 
 such animosity. 
 
 " Dear me," she said to Mrs. Ayrault one 
 morning, " I suppose I must pull myself up 
 to x the cottage, and take some interest in 
 things generally. The butter was poor last 
 week." 
 
 The little party, disbanded after Mr. Mar- 
 ston s political eclipse, had now returned to 
 pass the Sunday which was the last of sum 
 mer. May Plunkett had driven over with 
 some young people to play tennis. It was 
 warm, and she and Asch left the others and 
 came to ask for lemonade. 
 
 " It will be fun," said Arden. 
 
 "Fun?" I don t like the woman. I 
 don t think I can stand her much longer. 
 She is so pretentious, so queer, and I don t 
 understand her. She embarrasses me. There 
 is no fun in scolding her, as I must, about 
 the butter. She will probably be insolent. 
 I am always expecting it from her." 
 
 Mrs. Ayrault sighed. 
 
 "Why do you sigh, dearest? " 
 
 " I sigh because I have missed my voca 
 tion." 
 
 " Your vocation? " 
 
 "Yes. I was just made for this; to look 
 after butter and eggs and chickens, and 
 farmers wives, and quarrel with them about
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 249 
 
 the cream; to have babies, to fondle and 
 sew for them, to see that their pantalets were 
 properly embroidered as our great grand 
 mothers used. I was created for domestic 
 joys. I am a dog-woman playing the cat. 
 A dog-woman with a big, faithful dog s 
 heart, who is playing at being a syren, and 
 who makes a jolly mess of it. 
 
 "This is a new light upon you," said 
 Lola, laughing. 
 
 " No, it is not; but you re so innocent, 
 and so sweet, just as sweet as sugar candy! 
 Anybody can impose upon you. I have. I 
 have also imposed on Beaumont. On you 
 because you are so ingenuous, on him be 
 cause he is so perverted. He thinks me 
 vain, wayward, capricious, untractable, pos 
 sibly false everything a man of his type 
 most adores. I, in fact, have no vanity, no 
 caprice, am not wayward enough to turn 
 that silly weather-cock over there spinning 
 on your lawn, and as to falseness bah! the 
 very thought of it makes me sick. I loathe 
 it. I am truth embodied. Pretense and 
 sham bore me so that they give me a pain 
 in my face, throat, and ears. Yes, really, 
 when I try to flatter, for instance, just a 
 little, just to keep my hand in, I have to 
 send for the doctor and take pills. I was 
 made for a pot au feu existence, with my
 
 250 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 gude man opposite smoking his pipe, my 
 bairnes frolicking at my knee, while I re- 
 Leeled the family stockings, or read Pil 
 grim s Progress aloud. And now this be 
 ing so, let us go up and examine the lurid 
 Mrs. Bush, who no doubt will look upon me 
 with disapprobation as upon a dangerous, 
 wicked enchantress, when I know perfectly 
 well I m a decent, respectable, reasonable 
 person, with no more evil in me than a com 
 mon house-fly, and about as much fascina 
 tion as a drone bumble-bee." 
 
 Some stragglers came in just in time for 
 Mrs. Ayrault s climax. It was received with 
 laughter, and a general clamor ensued to be 
 allowed to witness the impression Mrs. Ay- 
 rault would produce on the "lurid Bush." 
 
 The lemonade having been sipped, May 
 Plunkett and Asch, Mrs. Ayrault and Lola, 
 the Count, and one or two others picked 
 up their respective hats, parasols, and walk 
 ing sticks, and were soon ascending the path 
 that lead up to the cottage. It ran between 
 deciduous bushes, up a gentle declivity, un 
 til it emerged upon the open ground which 
 environed the farm buildings. 
 
 On that very morning another unpleasant 
 little scene had occurred between Bush and 
 his master. Two of the farm hands got 
 drunk. Their work was neglected. Mr.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 251 
 
 Marston, vexed, rebuked Joe for inefficiency 
 in controlling the men under him. 
 
 "You do your own work well enough," 
 he said, "but you don t seem to have any 
 faculty for making others work, or control- 
 ing them. They are not afraid of you, 
 therefore your orders are ineffectual." 
 
 Now Joe knew this Mr. Marston had 
 put his finger in a wound. He winced. We 
 rarely acknowledge the weakness in our 
 selves which we know to be paramount. 
 Joe became somewhat dogged. 
 
 " I tries to please ye," he kept repeating 
 in his usual refrain, dull-eyed, exasperating. 
 
 "It s no question of pleasing. I say it s 
 unfortunate, most unfortunate, when the 
 foreman can t get work and obedience out 
 of his men. They get drunk three days out 
 of the week, and you have to look to all 
 their duties as well as your own." 
 
 " I ain t lazy," said Joe, deprecatingly. 
 
 "Who says you re lazy? Do I? No 
 body charges you with laziness. What I 
 say is that you have no faculty as an over 
 seer, and on this place that is what I want." 
 
 Then Joe became a trifle testy, and said if 
 men had the devil of drink in them he 
 did n t see what he was to do about it. All 
 he could promise was to keep sober himself, 
 which being logical was provoking. Mr.
 
 252 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Marston rebuked him sharply for his reply, 
 and they parted not the best of friends. 
 There was again that vague threat of dis 
 missal which filled Joe with despair, because 
 he liked his place, prized its advantages, 
 and was by nature averse to change. He 
 knew that he could find nothing that he 
 liked better, and looked back with a certain 
 terror upon the unremunerative responsibili 
 ties of his mother s farm. To gauge our 
 own limitations and to love those who point 
 them out to us, is not the same process. By 
 an impulse extremely unusual to him, he 
 threw down his rake and came up to find 
 his wife. His heart was sore within him. 
 He half hoped she would receive his out 
 poured plaint for he told her what had 
 passed, dwelling on his wrongs with fire as 
 of old. He felt that it would relieve his 
 sense of injustice done, since he himself had 
 no gift of expression, and his own indigna 
 tion had always more of an element of sor 
 row in it than of anger. 
 
 But, true to her resolves, Beth, dry-lip 
 ped, dry-eyed, listened but answered not. 
 Thoroughly a woman, living more in one 
 present minute than in decades of the future, 
 the thought of possible dismissal neverthe 
 less made her sick and faint. And for in 
 competence! her husband s! hers! What
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 253 
 
 a triumph for the servants over there! For 
 the men and maids she had offended for 
 Pierre Rose, whom she knew to be her un 
 forgiving enemy. What a stain before the 
 villagers to whom these nearer ones would 
 soon betray the truth with covert jeers. Not 
 that! not that! They would themselves 
 give warning, throw up the place, but never 
 never never acknowledge that they were 
 beaten and undone in such a way as this. 
 
 If I seem to exaggerate so trifling an in 
 cident as a threatened change of farmers by 
 a Long Island landowner, I have failed to 
 portray Beth as she was. What makes us 
 smile, we who mayhap have wider horizons 
 and larger hopes, to her was terrible and 
 tragical. So she gulped down her passion 
 of resentment, and spoke quite firmly and 
 wisely to Joe s infinite amazement actu 
 ally advising a stronger hand over the men, 
 and pacific measures with "the Marstons." 
 She spoke of them thus with an infinite con 
 tempt of intonation, but with no outward 
 sign of violence or ill-will. 
 
 He returned to his work and she to her 
 reflections, but neither had gone far before 
 the sound of voices and of steps upon the 
 gravel flurried Beth to the conclusion that 
 visitors were approaching. 
 
 Picking their way through the shrubbery,
 
 254 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 passing the "Colony," a white pavilion 
 between the house and farm where an over 
 flow of bachelor guests sometimes found 
 shelter, Mrs. Marston and her friends had 
 reached the cottage porch. Now all women 
 should know better than to invade the farm 
 er s wife s domains at half-past eleven of a 
 morning, when she is sure to be among her 
 pots and kettles, her washing, baking, brew 
 ing, or dinner-getting, and Beth, even 
 though she kept a "slavey," and wore lace 
 on her parasol, was no exception to the rule. 
 
 She was a trifle unkempt, a bit bedrag 
 gled. She had just time to beat a hasty re 
 treat, to scuffle quickly up to her bedroom, 
 from where she called to " Jane " for a mo 
 ment s parley. 
 
 Jane, red-handed, mealy from her bread- 
 making, appeared upon the stairs. 
 
 " It s Miss Marston and the folks from 
 the big house," she announced in a stage 
 whisper, with witless gestures and silly 
 noddings. 
 
 " Ask them into the best parlor, tell em 
 I 11 be down in half a second, and here 
 stop, Jane," Beth grew agonized, for Jane 
 had already disappeared. She had heard, 
 however, and came back. 
 
 " I m here, Miss Bush." 
 
 " Throw open one of the shutters, only
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 255 
 
 one, do you hear, and just pass a duster 
 over the table. I ain t been in there to-day 
 to do my dusting." 
 
 With more cabalistic signs and posturings, 
 Jane once more vanished. 
 
 Beth heard her open the door. A light 
 step crossed the threshold. There was a 
 rattling at the shutter beneath. The girl 
 was obeying her commands. 
 
 A sense of discouragement invaded Beth 
 when she caught sight of her soiled calico, 
 her hair done up in its matutinal curl 
 papers, her finger-nails, and her complexion. 
 There was no time to be lost. Galvanized 
 into febrile action by the sounds below 
 they told her that only Mrs. Marston had 
 entered the cottage and that the others 
 were conversing with her from the porch 
 through the open window Beth tore the 
 papers from her forehead, hastily tossed up 
 her hair, wiped off her face and hands on a 
 damp towel, disengaged herself at a bound 
 from her skirt and bodice. For an instant 
 she stood irresolute. What should she put 
 on? From below she could hear the con 
 versation. Her name was mentioned. She 
 paused intent to listen. Were they laugh 
 ing at her already? But the words were 
 innocent. 
 
 " Mrs. Bush is very fortunate to have
 
 256 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 such a pretty little house. I could live here 
 myself, with the man of my heart," Miss 
 Plunkett was saying. 
 
 "Your ... er ... what?" asked Fenno 
 Asch. 
 
 " O, you need n t sneer, Mr. Asch. I m 
 serious. I say I could give up worldly am 
 bitions for ..." 
 
 " Don t talk twaddle, May," said Mrs. 
 Ayrault. " Mr. Asch s interrogation is 
 legitimate and even well-timed. You 
 need n t pout and toss your mane. We ve 
 heard of the Colonel, and the dance you re 
 leading him." 
 
 " You see the Colonel does n t exactly 
 offer love in a cottage," said May, laughing. 
 
 " Poor thing! Is it his fault that every 
 thing he looks at turns to gold? " 
 
 " Even mademoiselle s hair," said de 
 Beaumont. 
 
 " If you mean by that, Monsieur de Beau 
 mont, that my hair is n t a natural product 
 ... or that the Colonel dares ..." 
 
 " Dieurri en garde Mademoiselle, I said ..." 
 
 " If we had found a nice old-fashioned 
 farmhouse on this place," Lola was explain 
 ing from her place at the window-sill, " I 
 doubt if Mr. Marston ever would have built. 
 We could have added and tinkered, and 
 been romantic and uncomfortable, but now
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 257 
 
 I am glad he built, for the house is the 
 apple of his eye." 
 
 "Your house is charming," said Mrs. 
 Ayrault. "So airy, and wide, and cool. 
 And I think you like it too." 
 
 " O, I adore my home," said Lola. Her 
 words, mellifluously spoken, came direct to 
 Elizabeth s straining ears. 
 
 In the meantime the dice was cast. 
 Some evil genius surely held the cup. 
 From a dark corner of her closet Beth de 
 tached the tea-gown. It looked strangely 
 pink on this bright morning. Her fingers 
 grew awkward amid its intricacies. Clum 
 sily pulling at buttons, seeking for strings, 
 fluffing up bows of ribbon, she put it on. 
 She did so waveringly, with hesitation and 
 doubt. When she approached the mirror 
 she thought herself hideous. Should she 
 tear the thing off and cast it from her as be 
 ing a demoniacal temptation, don the crisp 
 calico which lay at hand, fresh from the 
 iron, suitable and trim? But the desire to 
 appear at leisure, elegant, a lady, in the eyes 
 of these people carried the day. The tradi 
 tion of the Mascotte holds a grain of veri 
 similitude. If we have not all mascottes we 
 are at least prone to believe in the power of 
 their opposites. Certain persons seem to 
 bring us trouble. It is positive that there
 
 258 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 are those who always find us at a disadvan 
 tage. Their visits appear timed to meer 
 our ruffled tempers, our disturbed digestions, 
 our disarranged coiffures, and this invaria 
 bly, persistently, through years of vain 
 effort to snap and conquer the fateful spell 
 they weave. Are they never to find us 
 calm, dignified and dressed, at rest with 
 them and the world? Their announcement 
 at last seems a portent of disaster, their 
 heralding a menace, their very name a hid 
 den threat, their presence a calamity. Is it 
 possible that upon so feeble a web as a pink 
 garment, poor Beth had hung her future 
 and its peace? 
 
 Pinning a recalcitrant fold about her 
 throat, tripping over the front breadth, which 
 was an inch too long, thrusting an escaped 
 hairpin in her hair, with a heart beating to 
 bursting and a hand shaking with agitation, 
 Beth crossed the hall. Mrs. Marston had 
 never seen the tea-gown. Beth knew it. It 
 was for this she had put it on. She thought 
 it such a pity that it should waste and fade, 
 and Mrs. Marston never know! If its in 
 vestiture produced surprise, on Mrs. Mar- 
 ston s face there was no sign. She drew 
 her chair a little from the window in her 
 light gracious way, greeting Mrs. Bush in 
 her low voice, half drowned by the gayety
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 259 
 
 from the porch, which, it must be confessed, 
 was waxing boisterous. 
 
 "Your friends are merry, "said Beth, with 
 a pinched smile. "Would they like to come 
 in?" 
 
 " No, I think not. I only ran up for a 
 moment just to ask about Wilhelmina, and 
 to speak about the butter. They are waiting 
 for me." 
 
 Then Beth, ill at ease, beating about for 
 a topic, launched as usual into those com 
 plaints which never failed to arouse Lola s 
 ire. 
 
 " The dairy s damp," she said. " I ain t 
 been used to one under ground. It s no 
 wonder the butter gets a taste. Now down 
 in Pontifex ..." 
 
 "We give everything that s required," 
 said Lola, not quite gently. 
 
 Beth saw her annoyance, and the demands 
 of hospitality forced her to hold out the 
 olive branch. 
 
 Would Mrs. Marston have a glass of 
 cherry wine she had made herself? She 
 asked it with the majesty of an empress, 
 and called "Jane" in the tone with which 
 Cleopatra might have summoned Charmian. 
 Lola, willing to be mollified, assented. She 
 did not like such cordials, but when Jane 
 brought it, after a very long delay, she
 
 260 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 tasted it good-naturedly and handed glasses 
 through the window to her guests, and 
 chatted pleasantly. By-and-by the conver 
 sation flagged so hopelessly that she got up 
 to leave. Beth accompanied her to the 
 door. Their apparition produced a curious 
 hush. All eyes were turned. 
 
 " It s Mrs. Bush," said Lola, addressing 
 the company in general and no one in par 
 ticular, with a slight movement of the hand. 
 
 Asch got up, stretched himself, and 
 yawned. de Beaumont brought his heels 
 together with a click, and bowed low, taking 
 off his straw hat with its blue ribbon. May 
 Plunkett said: 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Bush, I think your cottage is 
 such a dear." 
 
 Mrs. Ayrault adjusted her lorgnon. Beth 
 shivered as it swept her figure into its com 
 prehensive focus. 
 
 "How are you, Mrs. Bush?" she said, 
 with a slightly sarcastic inflection and illy 
 concealed amusement. I hope we have n t 
 disturbed you. We re a noisy lot, I m 
 afraid. Mrs. Marston wanted to leave us at 
 home, but we insisted upon coming up to 
 see you, and we re so glad now that we did. 
 Your cherry wine is excellent thanks!" 
 As she spoke she handed her half-emptied 
 glass to Beth, whose fingers had been out-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 261 
 
 stretched for a handshake, and who received 
 it sidewise, dripping its lees upon the trim 
 mings of her strange raiment. She sought 
 some word which came not, with which to 
 quench this handsome, mocking woman. 
 With those quick instincts which lie inher 
 ent in American women Beth had divined 
 the effect that she produced. She saw her 
 self . . . ridiculous. Yes, and when a few 
 moments later their words, their jests, came 
 back to her, she knew. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a guy?" said 
 Fenno Asch. 
 
 " Does she always get herself up so? " 
 said May Plunkett, " or was it for our special 
 benefit?" 
 
 " In my country," said de Beaumont, " the 
 mattresses fermieres wear a blue cotton apron 
 and cap." 
 
 " Mrs. Bush," said Arden, "was certainly 
 wonderful." 
 
 Et tu, Brute! For above all pierced 
 Lola s verdict. " She was grotesque." 
 
 Then there were peals of riotous laughter, 
 ill-bred as only that of men and women 
 whom etiquette habitually controls; the re 
 volt of a long thraldom, the protest of fash 
 ion against rule. The ultra-civilized must 
 have his holiday when- the pristine animal 
 wakes up, to howl and grin, uncaged and free.
 
 262 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Fainter and fainter grew their voices, 
 more and more distant the reverberations of 
 their derision. But they had been careless. 
 Peering through the creepers, her hands 
 upon her temples, a million scorpion tongues 
 let loose to lash her ears! What! they all! 
 Pitted against one! Powerful, self-possessed, 
 cynical! And but the one at bay! fettered, 
 insignificant, " grotesque " she she had 
 said it! In that quick birth of time before 
 the mirthful echo of their laughter died 
 on her ears, before she dragged herself 
 into the house, Beth had traversed the nar 
 row verge which separates hatred from 
 crime.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 They strolled across the gardens, heedless, 
 merry. They settled on the terrace. From 
 Mrs. Bush s false ambitions which found 
 expression in monkey tricks of futile imita 
 tion, they fell to discussing the various ele 
 ments which compose the elective associa 
 tion called society. 
 
 " I like my own dear, dull, insipid set the 
 best," Arden was saying, decapitating poppy- 
 heads as she talked, with probing parasol. 
 "We know each other s grip masonic, we 
 understand each other. I can chaff my in 
 timates, rebuke and snub them. They re 
 turn the compliment in kind, and gener 
 ously. No evil is intended, no offense 
 taken. We abuse each other roundly, then 
 kiss and come to tea. All is clear. I have 
 had my vision of Bohemia, and have taken 
 a flyer now and again into that realm, and 
 oh! how gladly have I crept back to our 
 Philistine ranks, all torn up, bitten, and 
 ashamed! When I walk and am tired, I 
 don t care to rest on a wasp s nest. Of the 
 263
 
 264 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 inhabitants of Bohemia, only the real ones 
 are interesting. Most of them are half-and- 
 halfs, and these are intolerable. A manqut 
 man or woman of the world is deplorable, 
 but a manqu^ Bohemian is far worse. He 
 lacks sincerity. Oh, I Ve had the craze for 
 sad-eyed female poets and for geniuses of 
 the tattered coat. We have all been there. 
 It s picturesque. But the fact is they re 
 just like ourselves, without our amiability 
 and with a million times more conceit. And 
 one never can say the right word to their 
 self-worship; they are never satisfied. The 
 nicer we are to them the more they black 
 guard us. They are always disappointed 
 in our entertainments, surprised to find our 
 gowns unbecoming, our houses stuffy, our 
 manners abominable. They sigh. They 
 had looked for better things. The sad-eyed 
 poet is touchy. She asks if our women 
 friends intended to slight her, our men to be 
 over-familiar. Every topic bristles with 
 dangers, every word must be weighed. A 
 la fin such commerce is ... irksome." 
 
 "The people who provide the music for 
 others to dance by are always blackguarded," 
 said Mr. Isham. " Their energy is consid 
 ered frivolous. Even Horace has his little 
 fling at the entertainers. They amuse
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 265 
 
 Maecenas too splendidly, he thinks. To me 
 they seem unselfish." 
 
 " I never tried any other set but our own," 
 said a young married lady who had driven 
 some miles for a call, "because it would 
 bore my husband." She began to give her 
 opinions of life in general and of husbands 
 in particular. Her own hated serious peo 
 ple only liked sporting men and larky wo 
 men. So she humored him. She never 
 denied him anything . . . anything within 
 reason, and the society which pleased him. 
 That was the only way to keep a man. 
 
 " I think the only way to keep a man 
 quiet," she was saying, " is never to deny 
 him any physical pleasure." 
 
 " Eh ? What? " said Mr. Isham, staring, 
 with his hand at his ear. 
 
 " I put down my opera box and footman 
 last winter such hard times, you know 
 that Blunt might have his hunters. He must 
 have his exercise. Men must be exercised 
 and amused or they get drinking and frol 
 icking." 
 
 There was something impersonal and ex 
 tremely na ive in these revelations of conju 
 gal theory. Impersonal and absolutely de 
 void of vanity. One felt, she thought she 
 or another could do it as well; conduct an
 
 2 66 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 orderly household, give good dinners, see 
 that the husband got his gallop. 
 
 She was tall, with the figure and uncon 
 scious movements of a handsome boy. Her 
 smile was full of childish explanations. 
 She had pretty blown brown hair, and large 
 round eyes, iridescent like soap bubbles seen 
 in candlelight. If these eyes were not 
 charged with mystery or danger they were 
 at least honest. She impressed one with 
 her honesty. She informed the company 
 that she read all the books that were worth 
 reading as quickly as they could be printed, 
 but that she never spoke of their contents 
 to her husband lest he should be fatigued. 
 Men could not be expected to take an inter 
 est in women s pursuits. Mrs. Blunt had an 
 answer ready for every timeworn riddle, but 
 how to keep a husband was, she thought the 
 most important one. While she elaborated 
 her resources in this direction which were 
 doubtless ample and fruitful Arden Ayrault 
 yawned at stated intervals with unblushing 
 openness. She had not kept her husband. 
 If report spoke truly, somebody s else 
 wife was keeping him, and Arden thought it 
 just as well. She had separated from him 
 some years before. The mere remembrance 
 of the man wearied her. All those things 
 which had torn her life had happened so
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 267 
 
 long ago that they brought mental lassitude. 
 Light discourse could never reach or touch 
 them any more. She had a sense of un 
 reality as to her past. 
 
 " Dear me," said she, " and how long can 
 a man be kept constant on this regime? 
 One craves instruction." 
 
 " I should say that one might keep a man 
 with these methods until he was seventy," 
 said Mrs. Blunt, with conviction. 
 
 " But women grow old and ugly," ven 
 tured Lola. 
 
 " My dear, don t get so easily discour 
 aged," said Arden, mischievously. " Diane 
 de Poitiers allured three generations, and 
 Helen of Troy was forty-six when she set 
 towns on fire." 
 
 " Fancy!" said Lola. 
 
 " In these days of Babcock extinguishers 
 the fire would be put out before it ever went 
 to history, and the poor Helens get no 
 credit." 
 
 " I read in Ninon de 1 Enclos s Memoirs 
 that she had a lover of eighty-four," said 
 Mrs. Blunt. 
 
 " I think it was horrid of her then," said 
 Lola. " Forty breaks most women s hearts. 
 I should think by eight-four that organ 
 would be pretty well battered." 
 
 "Well, I m seventy," said Mr. Isham,
 
 268 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " and mine is not completely damaged 
 yet." 
 
 " How can the heart be kept young? " 
 sighed Arden. 
 
 " Don t over-eat, don t be envious, and 
 never backbite," said the artist. 
 
 " Genius has no age," said Lola to him, 
 " but when I am old, who have no talents, 
 only affections, I want an old dead heart. It 
 would be so dreadful to love without requital." 
 
 " By the way, is May Plunkett going to 
 marry that Western Colonel? " asked the 
 practical Mrs. Blunt. 
 
 " I should think he was much too old for 
 her," said Lola. 
 
 "Tut, tut," said Mr. Isham. "If she is 
 what I take her for, Miss Plunkett likes her 
 own way. Let her take her lover of fifty 
 then. There s nothing so mulish as a boy. 
 Men of fifty have occasionally blundered, 
 are conscious of some failures, but trie young 
 fellows have no such handicaps. Why at 
 twenty I was as obstinate as a pig. Odious. 
 Well, now I m seventy" he rose and drew 
 up to the wood fire, turning his back to the 
 flame, and warming his hands under his coat- 
 tails " I look upon quinquagenarians as 
 mere lads. Ha! ha! So it goes! So it 
 goes!" And he laughed, and wheezed, in 
 genial contentment.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 269 
 
 " What the ladies like is ardor," said the 
 Count. " Women like men who take them 
 seriously." 
 
 " Is that the reason they coddle Asch?" 
 said Mr. Marston, maliciously. " Hang it, 
 if I ve ever been able to account for what 
 women did like or dislike." 
 
 " Ah, a man is more than a god or less 
 than a man with the ladies," said Mr. Isham, 
 " according to their sweet caprice." 
 
 " One cannot say," said the Count, reflec 
 tively, " that I ami Asch is entreprenant." 
 
 To the Frenchman full of enthusiasm and 
 of blood, a temperament which no mood of 
 gayety, no game of personal interest, no 
 titillation of vanity, no gust of passion ever 
 seemed to sway or to excite was an enigma 
 profoundly repulsive, yet withal interesting. 
 He had watched Fenno Asch as the Latins 
 watch, with keen critical acumen whetted by 
 distrust. His distrust he found groundless. 
 Asch s habitual and general incivility turned 
 out to spring from no enmity, but from the 
 impassive indifference which ground ambas 
 sadors in the same mortar as ordinary peo 
 ple, but which otherwise did not interfere 
 with them. The young man s absence of all 
 reverence disarmed de Beaumont s suspi 
 cion that he intended to be impolite, pushed 
 by that twinge of jealousy, envy, or manly
 
 270 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 rivalry so common among his own people, 
 de Beaumont had studied him carefully. He 
 knew that to Fenno Asch the trump of an 
 archangel would have seemed no more than 
 the blast of a penny whistle, the rush of his 
 mighty wing no greater than the flutter of 
 barnyard feathers. Before the loveliness of 
 the loveliest woman he knew the young man 
 could remain without dream as without de 
 sire, while the favors of an empress would 
 have left his heart cold and his head clear. 
 The Frenchman was torn, in his contempla 
 tion of this peculiar temperament which be 
 littles all things, between hot scorn and gen 
 uine admiration. 
 
 " I should kill myself if the man I loved 
 wearied of me," Lola was saying to Arden, 
 who followed Mr. Isham s lead and enlarged 
 on the fickleness of immature affections. 
 
 " O, my dear, I daresay," she replied, 
 with the mellow laugh which often belied 
 her words and puzzled the dull-witted. 
 " You are capable of just such silliness. 
 What s the use, will you tell me, of letting 
 him survive to have a nice time? Du rcste, 
 my love, a man who had once tasted of your 
 sweetness and who could get tired of it 
 would not be fit to live an hour. His career 
 had better be closed at once. He would be 
 a dog." She spoke jestingly, but with spirit
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 271 
 
 and meaning. Lola blushed furiously, she 
 knew not why. Marston nodded at his wife, 
 smiling. He seemed to say to her: 
 
 " I m all right. I m a faithful husband. 
 Don t worry. I m faithful." 
 
 " Bless me if he is n t reassuring her," 
 thought Mr. Isham, and chuckled to him 
 self. His host s fatuity always diverted him. 
 It is to be surmised Mrs. Marston was grate 
 ful. There are moods, however, when 
 women need less to be assured about the 
 sentiments they inspire than about those 
 which they experience. When they throw 
 out tentacula in that direction it is unfortu 
 nate that man s obtuseness rarely offers them 
 the needed aliment. The artist had some 
 times seen a wistful look in Lola s eyes 
 which had gone through his tough heart. 
 
 "Why doesn t he fall at her feet?" he 
 would ask himself with the ingenuousness of 
 the man who is n t married. 
 
 Archie ran in just then with his insepara 
 ble friends and followers, the mastiffs and 
 the collie. He sat upon a stool, at his 
 mamma s bidding, and drank a cup of milk, 
 and nibbled a piece of cake with aristocratic 
 daintiness, and his father, when he looked 
 at him, trembled with joy and pride, the joy 
 and pride of his own prowess. His love for 
 his little boy was very real. He called him
 
 272 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 to his side, and pulled his curls, and poked 
 him in the ribs, and played with him as per 
 haps the butcher may have played with his 
 own offspring. Archie laughed and 
 screamed with delight, and spilled his milk 
 and was not scolded for it. 
 
 By-and-by they scattered to rest or read 
 in their own apartments, and later to array 
 themselves for the cheerful feasting and 
 music of the evening hour. 
 
 When Lola bade her husband good-night, 
 she said to him: 
 
 " People seem to enjoy themselves here, 
 dearest. They like our home as much as we 
 do. I am sure I hope they are comfortable. 
 Kiss me." 
 
 Then quiet fell on the silent terraces, a 
 brooding stillness on the stately villa. 
 Everything slept. Not a sound swept the 
 night under its heaven of stars; but about 
 two o clock a change crept over the weather. 
 Gusts of wind seemed suddenly let loose, to 
 beat and scream, and whirl about the eaves. 
 
 Pierre Rose sat up and listened. Sat up 
 in his bed away in the servant s wing. He 
 awoke from a dream of love. His lips had 
 been glued to a pair of lips the wish for 
 whose possession had lately haunted him. 
 
 Pierre was a man of the world and some 
 thing of a cynic, but his dreams were far
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 273 
 
 less cool than his tenets. He awoke to find 
 the ivy which grew close to his window 
 sweeping long beckoning fingers across its 
 pane, from which a recreant shutter had 
 blown back upon the gale. He awoke to 
 find outside a wind-swept darkness, and 
 within a sense of cold, of desolateness, and 
 what was still more terrible a toothache. 
 To awake from a warm kiss to a toothache! 
 
 "What have I done?" thought Pierre, 
 groaning and tossing on his bed, "that the 
 Lord should so sacharner a moi ? " 
 
 Pierre was a serious person, and in his 
 way a believer. He was not much of a 
 dreamer when once well awake. Earth was 
 earth to him, as it is to most philosophic 
 Frenchmen; neither heaven or hell; a good 
 enough place if one could only keep one s 
 heart and one s self free from too many 
 complications, earn one s bread, pay one s 
 debts, and lay up something for old age. 
 
 Now he loved, and his love was decidedly 
 a complicated one. He was not at all sure 
 that he would suit the young lady, and he 
 was perfectly certain that she did not suit 
 him. Her name was Floribel Pullen. On 
 that very afternoon he had met her in the 
 woods, and had presented her with a locket 
 which had belonged to his mother. This 
 lady had been given to lockets. She had
 
 274 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 been a celebrity of the concert cafes, and 
 had danced and sung to the Parisian public 
 for many years. She had as much jewelry 
 as she had lovers, and such of her trinkets 
 as had not been sold to defray the expense 
 of masses for her repose of soul were still 
 owned by her son. For this son she was 
 ambitious. She intended him for the priest 
 hood. Was this a lurking expiatory aspira 
 tion which the lad might thus vicariously 
 fulfill? Should he rebel, she at least hoped 
 to make of him a doctor. Once, however, 
 in a sharp moment of poverty, when she had 
 sulked herself out of engagements, and out 
 of lovers, she apprenticed him as a mirmiton 
 to an Italian restaurant. This sealed his 
 fate. He developed a culinary genius so 
 remarkable that it settled his destiny. He 
 was one of those lucky individuals whose 
 talent orders fate. 
 
 Now his income was larger than that of 
 the average country clergyman or lawyer. He 
 was happy in his work, grateful to his mamma 
 for having allowed him to follow his own 
 bent. He managed to enshrine the poor 
 woman s memory in an aureole of filial rev 
 erence that her ill-concealed secrets, which 
 had poisoned his youth, could not dispel. 
 Floribel Pullen had admired the dangling 
 gem upon his watch-chain, and Rose had
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 275 
 
 promptly severed it with his pocket-knife 
 and laid it at Circe s feet. Floribel accepted 
 the gift, offered half in jest. She was one 
 of those women who accept . . . every 
 thing; but with such affable acknowledg 
 ment that a man must feel himself the 
 debtor still. 
 
 He doubted if he would suit her, because 
 he knew that the word "servant" meant in 
 Paradise a brand of immeasurable oppro 
 brium. He had not forgotten his reception 
 at Mrs. Bush s. Miss Pullen would certainly 
 not accord favors to a cook whom it was 
 probable she would decline to marry. 
 
 Rose for years had caressed the hope of 
 himself opening a restaurant which should 
 rival the great ones of Paris and of New 
 York. Like all wise Frenchmen, thrifty in 
 his expenses, he had laid up money. The 
 hope was fast ripening into a decision. 
 Towering above this refectory planed an 
 image of serene womanhood. He would 
 take a wife the day he opened its doors. 
 But one element was eliminated from his 
 purposes. The disturbing mischief-making 
 God of Love, that imp of mischiefs and mis 
 demeanors, was to be exorcised. If Anteros 
 was not to be of the banquet, even Eros was 
 superfluous. He knew himself capable of 
 respect and tenderness toward a wife.
 
 276 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 These he thought would suffice. From a 
 stronger sentiment he shrank in fear. Now, 
 tossed on his pillow by the sting of physical 
 suffering, he felt himself penetrated by that 
 other anguish at once so sweet and so 
 ensnaring. Floribel! She, whom he had 
 heard called light a hundred times! She, 
 whom he barely respected, and loved 
 only with that fierce desire of the senses 
 which he felt should be eliminated from 
 prudent marriages. Floribel Pullen! What 
 a helpmeet! Frivolous Floribel! vain Flori 
 bel! whom he adored just because she was 
 so frivolous and so vain. He groaned and 
 turned upon his bed, a toy to that master- 
 passion in which all resolve, like all sagacity, 
 crumbles and lies crushed. 
 
 Pierre was a quiet, sensible, decent fellow, 
 but Floribel Pullen had laughed into his 
 eyes on the day of Mr. Marston s speech, 
 and since that hour he had known no peace. 
 Now, all unnerved, he got up to fasten the 
 flapping shutter, whose rasping rattle yet 
 more excited his overwrought fancy. He 
 raised the window and looked out. The 
 night, in spite of the windstorm, was white 
 and clear. Upon the horizon were those 
 strange rays of yellow light of which one 
 asks if they are a memory of the sun-setting 
 or a herald of the dawn. The senescent
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 277 
 
 moon had vanished. Her waning trailed a 
 gleam, illuminating the heavens. 
 
 Lolling for a moment at the casement, 
 Rose became aware of a furtive flutter be 
 neath him, of a step upon the gravel, a 
 breath, a sign of human nearness. Over the 
 country, save for the fitful wind, deep silence 
 reigned. With the strained eye and ear 
 which darkness lends to us, he rather guessed 
 than saw and heard a presence. Yes here 
 there no doubt any more he caught 
 distinctly the waving of a garment, a long, 
 light cloak flung out for a moment against 
 the gale. The first impression of his excited 
 brain was that Floribel had come to him 
 ... at last, that in a moment he would be 
 beside her, that he would bear her in his 
 arms to shelter, and that there she would 
 shyly, yet willingly, nestle upon his breast. 
 Extremely intelligent, of a nature more wary 
 than impulsive, the flood of rapture that the 
 hope brought him, the thirst for her presence 
 which it awakened, warned the young man 
 decisively of where he stood. At the same 
 moment a painful twinge from his aching 
 tooth sent the tears into his black eyes 
 
 " Sacrt bleu! Sacrt totmerre!" he exclaimed 
 angrily, carrying his hand to his cheek with 
 the plaint of self-pity. The flitting female 
 figure had vanished; not, however, before
 
 278 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 he perceived it was not Floribel s. Whose 
 then? The height, the walk, the movement 
 of the head had shown Beth Bush. But 
 where one has not seen the features, who 
 can be certain? There are things we know 
 of which nevertheless we fain would be made 
 sure. If it indeed were she, what did she 
 here alone? on this cold night? In her 
 arms it had seemed to him she bore some 
 bundle. What? Something intangible, 
 feathery, weightless; it had half flown from 
 her and there against a tree was lingering, 
 entwining, beating about the trunk. What 
 was it? 
 
 " Sacrt tonnerre! " 
 
 He shoved down his window and went to 
 a small chest, from which he extracted a 
 vial of laudanum. From this he soon 
 dropped upon cotton, torn from his leathern 
 jewel-box, a few red drops and placed them 
 in his mouth. Beth or another, he did not 
 care. Curious he was, no doubt, but not to 
 the extent which pushes investigation. He 
 was suffering too much. Perhaps it was one 
 of the maids after all, belated in the village, 
 letting herself in through some carelessly 
 latched aperture. Yet it had seemed to him 
 the farmer s wife. It did not occur to him 
 to imagine in her nocturnal errand evil in 
 tent, and certainly not one of amorous in-
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 279 
 
 trigue. He laughed at the mere thought. 
 Whatever she might be, her thin-lipped 
 virtue, the man felt, was secure. Rose was 
 a passable judge of character. He rarely 
 made mistakes. Who could tell? Perhaps 
 she had heard the distant bleat of a lambkin 
 forgotten by the shepherd in the meadow, 
 and had come out to bring it to the fold. 
 
 The fumes of the drug when once again 
 he sought his couch, dulled alike wonder 
 ment and pain. He sank into heavy sleep. 
 From this, two hours later, he was suddenly 
 startled. His arm was almost roughly 
 shaken, two wild, frightened eyes looked 
 into his, while slender nails pierced the flesh 
 above the elbow. They were those of his 
 mistress. 
 
 " Pierre Pierre! " she was saying, hur 
 riedly. "Quick, quick, my good Pierre, 
 awake, awake! Fire! fire! " 
 
 Already, as he sat up, staring, he heard 
 her light step through the hall from sill to 
 sill, and her voice calling: 
 
 " Augustine Mary-Ann Jane Fran 
 cois fire! fire! fire! Marie Philip fire! " 
 
 And through the corridors the words were 
 taken up with cries of terror and dismay. 
 Some had locked doors; others, like Pierre, 
 left theirs ajar; some slept hard it took 
 longer to rouse them but on and on she
 
 280 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 sped, a winged Rhamnusia awaking the 
 slothful from their besotted slumbers, swift- 
 footed, ghostlike 
 
 "Awake, awake, be vigilant! Fire! fire! 
 fire! danger is nigh! "
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Very early Lola, who slept lightly, had 
 been awakened by a curious sound. It re 
 verberated in her half-wakened mind with a 
 throb of fear. She listened, startled. Some 
 one was in her room! She sprang from her 
 bed, fumbled for a match, struck it. It 
 flared, illuminating the vast apartment from 
 carpet to ceiling. Its spark snapped, and 
 went out between her trembling fingers. 
 Nothing! Yet stealthily creeping, creeping, 
 like a skulking creature crawling along the 
 floor, yes, more and more distinctly, now at 
 hand, almost under her feet, this strange 
 movement, this unearthly warning. What 
 was it? 
 
 "Jock Rip Victor," she whispered, 
 coaxingly, thinking perhaps a miscreant 
 mastiff was ramping, ambushed, behind some 
 convenient screen, and shrank from banish 
 ment. But to her call came no response. 
 And now as she stood there, paralyzed, 
 motionless, another of her senses started to 
 consciousness. She drew quick little breaths 
 281
 
 282 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 into her quivering nostrils, and with it an 
 odor tingling, peppery, as of something 
 charred and singed. Hastily enveloping 
 herself in her dressing-gown, with lighted 
 candle now, she hurried across the parquet. 
 What was that? lazily curling up close to 
 her desk? Twisting its serpent way between 
 her and the struggling dawn, indolent, im 
 palpable, a thin white vapor rose and coiled, 
 and louder, louder, louder, the creeping 
 grew, shivered, moaned like the plaint of 
 some imprisoned being panting for freedom. 
 As she paused an instant with distended 
 pupil, the vapor widened, darkened, then 
 flamed with a sudden reddish hue. To her 
 frightened fancy it seemed to assume de 
 moniac shapes, hostile and maleficent. 
 
 She knew then that her room was on fire. 
 Her first impulse was toward her husband, 
 her second to her child. Which which? 
 She craved the care of the one, the other 
 was so helpless! Was it selfishness which 
 took her first to Mr. Marston, or was it self- 
 reproach that for an instant she had wavered? 
 Ah! she still loved him best, she told her 
 self, as she laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 Shaken from one of those deep slumbers 
 which drug the energies and will, she found 
 it hard to stir him, to make him understand. 
 
 "What? What?"
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 283 
 
 The others were more quickly roused. 
 
 Fenno Asch, easily wakened, was the last 
 to appear. He sent for his valet, ordered 
 all of his belongings carefully rescued and 
 packed, made a comfortable toilet there is 
 a tradition that he shaved after which he 
 lit a cigarette, and leisurely joined de Beau 
 mont on the lawn. The latter was arrayed 
 in a pink silk bed-quilt, and was holding 
 helplessly in his arms a bust of that motherly 
 person who is called the Venus de Milo. 
 He had swung the goddess from her pedes 
 tal as he ran from his apartment, already 
 filled with smoke and rocked by falling 
 timbers. 
 
 Mrs. Ayrault and some of the servants 
 had formed a fire brigade outside with Mr. 
 Marston, who, in pajamas, a top hat, and 
 one slipper, was handling a hose with praise 
 worthy persistence. His figure loomed 
 against the flames which issued from the 
 ballroom. 
 
 The French maid, Augustine, away in the 
 further wing where no danger for at least an 
 hour could reach her, pushed by the force of 
 a dramatic nature, was hurling her garments 
 out of the window. Gowns, hats, ribbon, 
 petticoats, fluttered eastward, lodged in trees 
 and adorned neighboring bushes, while she 
 herself wildly gesticulated, weeping loudly.
 
 284 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 An Irish laundress was praying in the 
 kitchen, crossing herself in invocation to all 
 the saints and to the Blessed Virgin Mother, 
 while her young assistant was pulling at her 
 gown, hysterically imploring her to flee from 
 impending destruction. 
 
 Pierre Rose, after organizing a company 
 of the fast-arriving villagers, bidding them 
 do all they could to save from the lower 
 floors their valuable contents the upper 
 rooms were already impassable vanished. 
 
 Bush, early on the premises, worked vali 
 antly with Ackerman and the farmhands. 
 They had been warned by the alarm bell. 
 Francois, the maitre d hotel, robed in a 
 flowing nightshirt, was dragging pictures, 
 silver, books, and porcelains, helter-skelter 
 through the open windows. 
 
 " Rose, Rose," he called, missing the 
 young Frenchman s energetic helpfulness. 
 "Where can he have gone?" 
 
 Leaping over obstacles, gasping, breath 
 less, Pierre was running toward the cottage 
 where once before he had been so unwel 
 come a visitor. Its door was half ajar, and 
 now it did not close upon him, but gave 
 way to his nervous hand. In the narrow 
 passage, unwashed, uncombed, disconsolate, 
 loudly sobbing, stood . . . Dottie. 
 
 "What is the matter, little one?" said
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 285 
 
 Pierre, taking hold of the child s ear, and 
 looking about him furtively while he drew 
 her against his knees. Dottie, in spite of 
 her mother s protests, entertained a secret 
 admiration for Rose, and his confectionery. 
 She now explained to him with loud weep 
 ing how everybody had gone to the fire 
 her mother, and even the perfidious Jane 
 but that she, under some frightful threat of 
 punishment, had been forbidden to move, 
 and all this frantic fun going on and she left 
 out! 
 
 "Oh! oh! oh!" she shrieked, at the mere 
 thought of her wrongs. " The house will be 
 all burned up, and I 11 never oh, Mr. 
 Pierre, I 11 never see even the pretty big 
 light. I can t! Ma said I was n t to stand 
 out on the porch even, and oh! oh! oh! 
 
 Rose mastered his temptation to shake 
 her, and hearkened for a moment to her 
 ramblings. 
 
 " Look here, petite," he said to her, 
 " where is your mother? " 
 
 Dottie assured him that she did not know. 
 
 " Is she over at the big house? " 
 
 She had gone out, and that was all her 
 daughter could communicate. 
 
 " Now, cherie," said Rose, quickly, "where 
 is your mother s room?" 
 
 The child, puzzled, but somewhat pacified
 
 286 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 by Rose s exciting presence, pointed up the 
 narrow stairs. 
 
 ""Petite," said the chef in a low voice, 
 " will you go upstairs and get me a pair of 
 your mother s boots? " 
 
 "Did ma send for them?" asked Dottie, 
 eying him suspiciously. 
 
 " Bless me, yes," said Pierre. " She s 
 got her feet wet with the pumps." 
 
 " You said you had n t seen my ma," said 
 Dottie with astuteness. 
 
 "Blank the little Yankee," thought 
 Pierre. " She might be &Juge d instruction ." 
 
 " You misunderstood me, little dear." He 
 smiled, while inwardly consigning Dottie 
 and her family to ten thousand devils to 
 destroy. " Your mother sent me for her 
 boots. I was only joking." 
 
 "If I get the boots will you ask her if I 
 can come out and see the fire?" said the 
 commercial Dottie. 
 
 "Why of course I will. I will come back 
 in a few moments with her permission to 
 bring you." 
 
 " Hang it, if I don t throw the little bag 
 gage in and broil her," thought the French 
 man, at the end of his indulgence. 
 
 Slowly, and looking backward at him, as 
 if to make sure the contract was not a 
 cheat and lie, Dottie brought him a pair of
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 287 
 
 her mother s boots, still dusty with sand, 
 and delivered them to him from her little 
 brown hands. Pierre took and eyed them 
 with a peculiar gleam in his black eyes. He 
 concealed one of them under his coat as he 
 walked away, tossing the other from him 
 over the hedge. 
 
 "One is enough," he said audibly. 
 
 A little later he could be seen kneeling 
 upon the gravel which stretched under his 
 windows, first here, then there. Ah! here, 
 wound about a tree-trunk, in the wind some 
 thing yellow tossed and flapped. Rose gave 
 vent to a cry of triumph when he had pulled 
 a handful of straw from about a gnarled 
 root. Yes, again he kneeled, and by-and-by 
 uttered another stifled exclamation. He had 
 found what he sought! Quickly Beth s 
 boot sprang from its hiding-place; it fitted, 
 heel and toe, width and length, into a foot 
 print which, with several others of like size 
 and shape, was plainly marked on the soft 
 soil. Pierre Rose looked grave when he 
 arose from his recumbent attitude. 
 
 Fenno Asch, faultlessly dressed, mean 
 dered up to Lola, where she stood with 
 Archie and his nurses, below the terraces, 
 watching the burning of her home. She 
 met him with the chill and cutting light of a 
 pale glance from under haughty eyelids
 
 288 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 With murmured words she could not catch, 
 he turned on his heel and left her abruptly. 
 
 Mr. Isham had performed prodigies in 
 saving articles of value. The Count, while 
 less efficient, and impeded by his bed-quilt, 
 had fought the fire-god with equal bravery, 
 Asch alone saved . . . himself and his 
 effects. Lola, revolted, inwardly vowed he 
 had slept his last sleep under a roof of hers. 
 
 The flames, shooting forth in ever-increas 
 ing volume from the consuming pile, now 
 reached the portico. Their red tongues 
 played about an ornament, a bit of sculp 
 tured carving above the columns. Hit by a 
 piece of loosened masonry, its graceful 
 efflorescence wavered a moment, then fell 
 with a crash, its hot debris scattering their 
 ruins upon the path. A curious reckless 
 ness seemed suddenly to inundate Mrs. 
 Marston s mind, almost a sense of pleasure. 
 
 " See, Archie, see," she said to her son; 
 " now the columns will give way. Ah! there 
 is mamma s room. all fallen in. See, Archie, 
 see! And my piano, that must be gone. 
 Ah, Augustine! Where are my jewels? In 
 their case? My pearls and opal coronet? 
 And my coats the sable one that too? 
 Did it hang in the vestibule? And my poor 
 little bird? Is that dead? Did they save 
 that, do you think?
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 289 
 
 She ran hither and thither, fascinated. 
 The sparks fell on her hair. She wished 
 that she had more to burn, more to throw 
 upon the general pyre, that she might bring 
 to this great conflagration all her possessions. 
 She tore a scarf from off her neck, and cast 
 it on the wind, and watched it toss against 
 the crumbling walls and feebly scorch itself 
 to dust. Her spirit felt detached from all 
 material things. The intoxication of their 
 destruction was in her veins. 
 
 The villagers had grown a trifle weary; 
 they were piling the saved things into farm- 
 wagons and driving them across the lawn to 
 the "Colony." The wine cellar had been 
 sacked. Some of the men waxed hilarious, 
 Two were quite drunk, quarrelsome, noisy. 
 Others exchanged witticisms as they passed 
 each other with their self-imposed freight. 
 They forced themselves to gravity only 
 when they met the master, or cried "hist" 
 when they fancied one of "the family" re 
 marked their cheerfulness. Sympathy is fa 
 tiguing. Consternation gave place to indif 
 ference. There was almost a note as of orgy 
 in the air, and all the while the great and splen 
 did flame swept across the desolate country, 
 bearing down everything in its track. 
 
 It was just then that " Crazy Jim " came 
 down upon the scene.
 
 290 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 What village, or what county, but has its 
 "Crazy Jim?" He sought shelter and a 
 meal now and then in the poorhouse, but 
 most of his days and nights were spent upon 
 the roads, singing or cursing, as the mood of 
 his whisky was mild or virulent. To-day he 
 was in glee. His peaked hat all awry, his 
 face aglow. How did he get into the house? 
 How scale the stairs? No one could tell. 
 They saw at the window his furfuraceous 
 visage lighted up with exultation, his drool 
 ing mouth distended by wild laughter. He 
 began to throw things down, mattresses, pil 
 lows, tables, chairs. 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 Here was a costly china vase. He cast it 
 on the sward. It struck and broke. He 
 clapped his hands in rapture. 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 The emancipation of his cowed nature 
 whipped his blood to frenzy! He would 
 have liked to bray and brag of his impor 
 tance and his services. Mrs. Marston had 
 been kind to him. He was glad he had ar 
 rived in time. But soon they who were 
 watching saw there was no retreat for Jim. 
 Behind him swelled the dense, black pall, 
 before him death. Well, well, why not? 
 What was his life worth? His mean and 
 cowardly and driveling life?
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 291 
 
 " My God! my God! " cried Lola. " He 
 is doomed! He is lost! O, God, have 
 mercy on his soul! Poor Jim! Poor Jim! " 
 
 The women who surrounded her, Mrs. 
 Fesser, Mrs. Opdyke, Mrs. Bryan, Mrs. 
 Pullen, joined in lament and outcry. 
 
 Pierre Rose heard. In a moment he 
 placed the saving ladder. Like a cat, he 
 sprang from rung to rung, seized the mad 
 man by the beard, stunned his struggles with 
 a blow, and on his shoulders bore him down 
 to safety. 
 
 It was just then that Floribel, fresh from 
 her morning bath, in her best hat and Sun 
 day jacket, with sorrowing eyes and sweet 
 condolence, joined Mrs. Marston s group. 
 Rose, surrounded by the lauding women, 
 was blowing on his blackened hands. Their 
 eyes met.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Piled up with wreckage, the "Colony" 
 presented, some hours later, an odd appear 
 ance. In its tiny sitting-room Lola was rest 
 ing, sipping some tea with little Archie and 
 Mrs. Ayrault. The other guests had all de 
 parted in various trains, and thus relieved 
 her of their presence. She and Arden were 
 discussing the fire, but with a certain languor, 
 as a thing long ended, already relegated to 
 the past. 
 
 In an office across the hall three men 
 were closeted. They were Pierre Rose, Mr. 
 Marston, and the sheriff. Pierre s hands 
 were bandaged. Mr. Marston was flushed 
 at the cheek-bones, and appeared agitated. 
 The sheriff was sucking a pipe, and now and 
 then shooting a stream of brown liquid from 
 between his teeth. Sometimes this struck 
 the hearth at which it was aimed, and some 
 times it did not. 
 
 " I guess," he was saying, "the testimony 
 is fairly conclusive if Mr. Rose is willing to 
 take his oath." 
 
 292
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 293 
 
 "What period of time," asked Mr. Mars- 
 ton, " is included in the night season? " 
 
 "Well, I guess between the sun-setting 
 and the sun-rising," said the sheriff, scratch 
 ing his head. 
 
 " It was two o clock. I had a toothache. 
 I got up. I looked at my watch," said Pierre. 
 
 " If you can prove a motive . . ." 
 
 "It seems difficult," said Mr. Marston. 
 
 " In the day time, second degree. First 
 degree is imprisonment for term not less 
 than fifteen years; second, not more than 
 ten; third degree, seven years. Just had a 
 case up on Mount Ararat, third degree. Man 
 put up for seven years, if I remember." 
 
 "As I understand, it is the malicious de 
 struction of any building, house, or other 
 institution capable of affording shelter to 
 human beings." 
 
 " Ex-actly," said the sheriff, dividing his 
 assent by a hyphen of ejected saliva. 
 
 " The boot fitted into the footprint. I saw 
 the straw in her arms later around on 
 Madame s side, I found some more of it, 
 which the wind had carried to the terrace. 
 She set it under the wooden rail. The tem 
 pest it was high," said Pierre. 
 
 "Did not arson bear the death penalty 
 formerly?" said Mr. Marston, with blood in 
 his eye.
 
 294 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " Now I can t say but it did sometime 
 back," said the sheriff. " It s a common- 
 law felony, that s a fact, but nowadays it s 
 dealt with more mildly." 
 
 " Hanging is too good for such creatures," 
 said Mr. Marston. "They ought to be . . ." 
 
 " If she can t prove an alibi, and you pros 
 ecute, I guess it 11 go hard with her." 
 
 "What looks to me decisive is her disap 
 pearance this trumped-up summons to 
 Pontifex, their old home, just at the hour of 
 the fire, and her departure while it was in 
 progress, professedly to her aunt s sick-bed; 
 her forsaking Mrs. Marston and her duties 
 at such a sad moment. I have an assurance 
 from the telegraph operator that no telegram 
 was received." 
 
 " I guess she warn t very smart, "said the 
 sheriff. " Do you suspect anybody on the 
 premises of complicity? Husband? Eh? 
 They ain t ever smart at their first offense; 
 get flustered. What beats me is what they 
 had to gain . . . hem . . . hem." 
 
 "Non, Monsieur, non, -non" said Rose, with 
 f ervo r . " Monsieur Bush est mi honnete homme. 
 
 "What does he say? Eh? My French 
 is getting rusty," chuckled the sheriff. " I 
 never was much on foreign tongues." 
 
 " He believes in Bush s honesty, integrity, 
 and I must say," said Mr. Marston, " I do
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 295 
 
 myself. Mrs. Marston thinks highly of 
 him." 
 
 " Been informed? " 
 
 " Not yet, poor wretch," said Mr. Mars- 
 ton, uneasily. " Not yet. We must pre 
 pare our case." 
 
 " Guess you d better trot him around 
 here," said the sheriff. 
 
 " Will you break it to him?" 
 
 " I shan t beat around the bush, if that s 
 what you mean. I guess he s got to hear 
 the truth, and the sooner it s out the better 
 for all parties concerned." 
 
 " There s no hurry." 
 
 "Well now, I guess there is," said the 
 sheriff. "We don t want no grass growin 
 under our feet. If we can catch him in his 
 talk it may make things lively. Jog em up 
 a little. This ain t the first little operation 
 of the kind I ve performed this year. I 
 guess I can stand it if he can." And the 
 sheriff chuckled again. 
 
 It was then that Mr. Marston went and 
 called his wife, and that she was initiated 
 into the pregnant secrets of the conclave. 
 
 Unknowing of the storms which had rav 
 aged Elizabeth s heart and brain, the whole 
 thing was to her incredible. There are 
 characters which must be studied in en 
 tirety to be understood. Fragmentary
 
 296 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 knowledge of them is insufficient. The lit 
 tle comprehension she had gained of Mrs. 
 Bush s nature hardly accounted for the 
 transformation of a fretful scold into a men 
 tally disturbed and desperate pyromaniac. 
 The abrupt cataclysm which could hurl Beth 
 to such depths of infamy appeared apocry 
 phal, a fairy tale. The thought of Joseph 
 filled her with apprehension and distress, 
 and it was tearfully she begged her husband 
 to temper, as far as in him lay, to the man s 
 simple, loyal soul, the horrid blow that must 
 be dealt to him. 
 
 Joe was washing his hands and face, and 
 preparing to rest from his labors when he 
 received a summons about nine o clock that 
 his presence was desired at the Colony. He 
 had worked very hard all of the day with 
 the determination to help his employers to 
 the uttermost. He had himself put Dottie 
 to bed, and was preparing to seek his own 
 lonely couch. His wife s sudden incompre 
 hensible departure filled him with surprise 
 and with consternation, and if no glimmer 
 of the truth dawned upon his mind it was 
 restless and disquieted enough to be pre 
 pared for shock. 
 
 Waking in the night he had missed her 
 from his side. He had dozed, and when
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 297 
 
 she returned she complained of indisposi 
 tion, of sleeplessness, and had told him 
 that she had been resting in the spare room. 
 As to the occurrences of the morning, Jane s 
 and Dottie s accounts did not seem to agree. 
 Soon after he reached the scene of calamity 
 the former had brought him a verbal mes 
 sage from his wife to the effect that she had 
 but five minutes wherein to reach the stage 
 from Paradise to the railway station, that 
 she has received a call to her aunt s at Pon- 
 tifex where illness made her presence im 
 perative, that she must catch the first train 
 cityward, and feared delay should she go to 
 say good-bye to him in person. Mrs. Bush had 
 further given Jane directions as to the men s 
 supper and as to keys. When questioned as to 
 how and when the Pontifex summons had ar 
 rived, Jane became flurried, but she was posi 
 tive that Mrs. Bush had worn her traveling 
 dress, had taken a small handbag and some 
 money, and had walked away toward the 
 stage stables. These minor details had es 
 caped the eye of the only daughter of the 
 house of Bush. To her nothing had been 
 confided. She was told to be a good girl and 
 stop in the house, and she supposed her 
 mamma was going over to the big house to 
 see it burn, Filled with the woe of her own 
 disappointment, Dottie had seen no hand-
 
 298 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 bag, no money, and even her mother s cos 
 tume left but a dim impression. Yet she 
 thought she wore her dark dress. Later, 
 Dickson, the stage driver, who lounged 
 over to hear the news, admitted having con 
 veyed Mrs. Bush to the station, and having 
 seen her board the early train. With his 
 tongue in his cheek, Joseph laboriously 
 penned a postal to his wife he feared tele 
 grams as sure portents of death and sent it 
 to the afternoon mail by the shepherd lad. 
 Queries as to the particulars of her strange 
 flight, as to her aunt s condition, and ac 
 counts of the fire were compressed into the 
 limited space in disconnected phrases. To 
 doubt her truth never crossed his brain, but 
 he felt that her methods had been unusual 
 and upsetting. His heart, however, was so 
 full of sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Marston, 
 the sight of the smoking ruins of their home 
 so pained him that he was fain in their mis 
 fortune to forget his own annoyance. He 
 thought Elizabeth should not have left in 
 such a crisis, and certainly not without a word 
 with her husband, but he told himself in a 
 future hour all would be explained. Her 
 aunt had been a mother to her; she owed 
 her duty. 
 
 At Mr. Marston s summons he now hastily 
 wiped his hands, and, instead of his bed,
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 299 
 
 sought the Colony. The sheriff, absent for 
 several hours, had now returned by appoint 
 ment. He was already in Mr. Marston s 
 office. It took a long while to make the 
 unfortunate man understand his position, 
 and the role his wife was supposed to have 
 played. Perhaps Mr. Marston would have 
 been more than human had not the words 
 felony, fifteen years of prison, death penalty, 
 rolled over his tongue with a certain unction, 
 but it took time before Joe comprehended 
 that his wife was accused of arson, and he 
 was expected to tell what he knew. When he 
 fully realized that he must defend her, and 
 perhaps himself, from so heinous and terri 
 ble a charge, the expression of his face be 
 came so pitiable that Pierre Rose instantly 
 repented of his part in the affair, that Mr. 
 Marston grew fidgety, and even the sheriff 
 looked uncomfortable. He was asked point- 
 blank if Mrs. Bush had gone out in the 
 night, and he said "yes," and then contra 
 dicted himself and said " no," and finally 
 took refuge in silence. Then he asked, 
 looking about helplessly, that a lawyer 
 might be sent for, for him to consult with. 
 
 " You can have all the lawyers you want, 
 Mr. Bush, when your case comes up," said 
 the sheriff, kindly. "This is only a pre 
 liminary unofficial kind of a chat among
 
 300 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 friends, and they ain t going to take any un 
 due advantage of you." 
 
 " You don t expect a man to testify 
 against his wife, and the mother of his little 
 one?" asked Joe, huskily. " Mebbe there s 
 them as thinks they has cause to hate her, 
 as bears a grudge, 11 do it quick enough." 
 Pierre winced. 
 
 "Justice will be done," said Mr. Marston, 
 severely. 
 
 " And I think," went on Joe, looking at 
 Pierre, " that them as tries to hurt an inno 
 cent woman and a little child ain t much of 
 men either not according to my lights. 
 But Satan knows his children," he added, 
 under his breath, " and 11 claim em all in 
 his own good time." 
 
 " Of course, Mr. Bush, you are perfectly 
 confident of Mrs. Bush s innocence," said 
 the sheriff, blandly. " You understand, we 
 ain t pressing you to change your opinion, 
 which may be well founded. We have got 
 two witnesses and the evidence of the foot 
 prints. One of the farm hands saw Mrs. 
 Bush out on the path between the dwelling- 
 house and cottage at about three A. M. His 
 name is Thomas Shannon. He sleeps over 
 the barn, I m told. He rose to shut his 
 window from the storm." 
 
 The three men put their heads together
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 301 
 
 and whispered. Like a creature at bay Joe 
 looked from one to the other of his perse 
 cutors, for such they seemed to his distorted 
 fancy. Their net was drawing round him. 
 Unflinching as he was in rectitude, he had 
 always been slow to believe evil of others, 
 but now the mists began to scatter. Perci- 
 val Oakes, Elizabeth, their strange talks, her 
 disaffections, her suppressed angers, her 
 almost morbid self-control were these the 
 early signs of madness? The madness that 
 had killed her father? His head fell for 
 ward on his breast, and he remained plunged 
 in profound reflection. By-and-by, when the 
 three had done their talk, as if some sudden 
 resolve possessed him, he arose and stood 
 before them, pointing upward with one hand 
 as if to command attention. 
 
 " I have to ask of these present," he said, 
 solemnly, " a favor. I have a confession to 
 make, but I will make it to Miss Marston, 
 and I ask to see her alone." 
 
 Mr. Marston thought Mrs. Marston had 
 gone to her much-needed rest, and could 
 not be disturbed at present. 
 
 " I can wait till morning," said Joe, "but 
 if it were so as she ain t retired I d like a 
 word with Miss Marston to-night." 
 
 Lola expressed herself willing to receive 
 him upstairs, in the room where she was ly-
 
 302 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 ing on a lounge while the maids prepared a 
 bed for her. She motioned to them to leave 
 her and Bush alone when he had stumbled 
 up the stairs. She tried to speak cheerfully 
 to him, but the words died on her lips when 
 a lamp had been found and she saw the 
 man s face. It was livid. His eyes habit 
 ual melancholy had deepened into anguish. 
 
 " My poor Joseph," she murmured, half 
 inaudible. 
 
 He came up to where she lay, still hold 
 ing his battered straw hat between his fin 
 gers, and he, too, tried to speak, but could 
 not. She was shaken by the pathos of his 
 lonely figure. 
 
 " My poor Bush," she repeated. " This 
 is indeed terrible, but remember we exoner 
 ate you entirely." 
 
 " I guess when ye know the truth it ain t 
 me as ye 11 exon rate." He repeated her 
 word. " Can I speak with ye for a mo 
 ment? " As she looked up astonished: " I 
 had n t never been with such folks as you 
 was, Miss Marston, and I wan t used to their 
 ways. In Pontifex we was all alike, and 
 there warn t no lookin* up or down, but all 
 of us equal and like one big family. Here 
 it was different. Mr. Marston, he found 
 great fault with me, and I got riled. He 
 accused me and my folks of things we never
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 303 
 
 thought was wrong, and what with one thing 
 or another the devil got into my soul. 
 P raps I got covetous. I was angered and 
 sore, and, Miss Marston, I twan t my 
 Elizabeth that plotted the destruction of 
 your beautiful home. She thought too 
 much of ye. She never was tired of talking 
 of ye before ever she set eyes on ye. Why, 
 she was that set on coming to live in this 
 place I had to give in for peace s sake. I 
 say " he again raised his arm above his 
 head impressively " she s innocent. I 
 come to confess my guilt. I done it! I done 
 it! I done it! As God hears me, Miss Mar 
 ston, and you hope for His forgiveness in 
 the world we re all going to, my Elizabeth f s 
 innocent. I done it! " 
 
 The last word rang out wildly through the 
 silent room. Lola had listened earnestly to 
 these incoherent utterances, to this resolve to 
 suffer vicariously for her for whom it now was 
 plain the man would willingly give his life. 
 Yet those truth-loving lips were as if shriv 
 eled with the lie they told. They had grown 
 pale and harsh, and his tongue was parched 
 and dry in the ecstasy of his excitement. 
 
 "Why do you tell me this? "said Lola, 
 almost sternly. 
 
 " The first time ever I seen ye, Miss Mar 
 ston, when my wife asked me if you was a
 
 304 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 reg lar beauty, I told her there was hand 
 somer women, p raps, but yours was the 
 sweetest face ever I looked on. So, some 
 how, to-night, in my misery, I thought may 
 be it would be easy to ... to ... tell it all 
 . . . ask ye . . . " He broke down then 
 and fell into a chair, sobbing, beating the 
 air impotently with outstretched hands. 
 
 In a moment they were imprisoned fast 
 in Lola s slender ones, their rough palms 
 pressed in passionate pity upon her breast. 
 As she held them close, and bent over them, 
 all the nobility of his ignorant hope, of his 
 futile desire to shield the wretched woman 
 who was to-day, not only the mother of his 
 child, but a great criminal, swept her soul, 
 and as upon the perfumed sweetness of her 
 white bosom his head rested, for a moment, 
 all its weight of weariness and sorrow, Lola 
 cried out to him, throwing one arm across 
 his shuddering shoulders, cried out across the 
 waste of life " Oh, my brother! " 
 
 Outside the night crept on apace. It en 
 veloped alike the toad which burrows earth 
 ward, the bat which swirls and swoops in the 
 dark, the owl which hoots in the tree, and 
 the bird which sings to the stars. It fell 
 over the land, and inclosed it tenderly; 
 ardent, sombre, full of dreams.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Mr. Isham stood at his easel, He was 
 finishing May Plunkett s portrait. He was 
 dissatisfied. The hour of travail with the 
 artist is his hour of joy. His delivery that 
 of discouragement. The true artist is an 
 exile. He sighs for something lost, or left 
 behind, promised but never reached, toward 
 which he wanders with bleeding feet; and 
 sometimes he would fain lie down in the 
 desert, curse God and die. 
 
 A knock at his door roused him from 
 unpleasant contemplation. Usually impa 
 tient of interruption, he hailed this morning 
 anything which would distract him from his 
 present mood. 
 
 " I am getting old," he said to himself. 
 " My day is over." And a pang unknown 
 before to his philosophy left its sting in his 
 heart. And this day, which was over, had 
 it really ever dawned? Perhaps not. He was 
 inclined to think he had never amounted to 
 much. He would have done better to have 
 been a banker s clerk as his father had 
 
 305
 
 306 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 wished, or an engineer. He might by this 
 time have become one of those men who in 
 England are Prime Ministers, and in the 
 United States bank presidents or railroad 
 " magnates." 
 
 " I should at least have had some money," 
 he grumbled, but his grumbling to-day had 
 in it a note of suffering. " No, probably I 
 should not. I m incidental. At best a re 
 spectable mediocrity. I should have re 
 mained a clerk on two thousand a year. To 
 dirty canvas was my only alternative, but 
 even that was not a vocation. Lemuel 
 Isham, make no mistakes." 
 
 11 Come in." 
 
 The door swung open. A young man en 
 tered. There was a certain assurance in his 
 manner. If this young man had a vocation, 
 one felt sure he would recognize it. Possi 
 bly might mistake instincts for inspirations, 
 tendencies for talents, tastes for commands 
 direct from heaven. 
 
 "Where have I seen this gentlemanly, 
 shabby, clever-looking chap before?" 
 thought Mr. Isham, puckering his eyebrows, 
 and glaring at the intruder with a snort, 
 over his spectacles. 
 
 " Your face is familiar," he said. "Where 
 have I seen you before? I ve got a poor 
 memory for names."
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 307 
 
 " My name is Oakes." 
 
 " Eh? Eh? Oakes, did you say? " 
 
 " I doubt, sir, if you ever saw me before 
 in your life, but I ve seen you a great many 
 times." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Oakes, I m glad to meet you. 
 How can I serve you? Sit down, sit down." 
 
 " I ve seen you many times, and what s 
 more I know your works. As I can respect 
 talent when I find it, you will pardon me 
 for telling you that of the crowd who visited 
 Marston Terrace you always seemed to me 
 the only person of the whole gang worth 
 looking at twice." 
 
 " Humph! " said Mr. Isham. 
 
 The slightly patronizing tone of his un 
 known visitor, with the conceit which deems 
 its opinion of value, struck the old gentle 
 man as distinctly diverting. 
 
 " You probably never saw or heard of me, 
 although I stood sometimes in the mud 
 when you splashed by with Marston and his 
 friends." 
 
 "Indeed! Well, I don t know about 
 splashing you. I always remark the side of 
 the street we are not on looks the cleanest, 
 but when we have crossed over it s all about 
 the same. But. I have seen your face, and 
 now I remember your name. Were not you 
 the schoolmaster in Paradise?"
 
 308 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " I was." 
 
 " I have heard of you, and I can tell you 
 exactly now what I heard." 
 
 Mr. Oakes laughed a trifle unpleasantly. 
 " That I was a revolutionist, who frightened 
 all the old women? " 
 
 " Not at all! That you were a fool." 
 
 "You re frank, at least." 
 
 " Thanks. I can lie as well as anybody 
 when it s necessary, but it is a bad habit and 
 softens the brain." 
 
 " And I guess yours is n t soft yet." 
 
 " My brain is n t worth discussing, par 
 ticularly in the morning when, as you see, 
 I m busy. Did you ever pass this young 
 lady, eh? Did she ever splash you in the 
 ... er ... gang? Step up here, Mr. 
 Oakes, and tell me what s the matter with 
 her, eh?" He put his hand upon Oakes s 
 arm and twisted him to a stand before the 
 easel whereon Miss Plunkett faintly smiled. 
 Oakes s gray eyes dwelt intently on the 
 picture. 
 
 " It s the form and features of a girl I ve 
 often seen, but you have given her, Mr. 
 Isham, the soul of another woman." 
 
 " Eh? Eh? What did you say? What 
 did you say? Speak louder. I m a little 
 deaf," said Mr. Isham, gruffly. 
 
 "I think you heard me," said Oakes.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 309 
 
 " Perhaps the other lady occupied your 
 mind. The form, the features, the high col 
 oring are the girl s I don t know her name 
 the eyes are Mrs. Marston s." 
 
 " Damn it! " muttered Mr. Isham. " But 
 I believe the fellow s right. The fair Lola 
 had got hold of me and bedeviled me with 
 her sweet witcheries." 
 
 " Do you know Mrs. Marston? " he asked, 
 abruptly. There was a moment s silence. 
 
 " No," said Oakes. " I do not know 
 her." He could not have explained the 
 impulse, born no doubt of some refined 
 ancestry, which made him disclaim acquain 
 tance with the mistress of Marston Terrace. 
 The fine soul of the old artist perhaps 
 dimly understood his delicacy. He had 
 heard of Oakes, and now recalled that Mrs. 
 Marston had spoken of him kindly, and 
 had even told him some story of an en 
 counter with the young man in a wood on 
 a night of storm. 
 
 " How can I serve you? " he now repeated 
 more courteously. " Pray sit down, sit 
 down," and blowing his nose, and wheezing, 
 he pushed a stool fussily forward, and seated 
 himself upon another. Lounging was not a 
 rule of his atelier. 
 
 " Plague on my bronchitis! " he said under 
 his breath.
 
 3io EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 Oakes had a roll of papers under his arm, 
 and produced them. 
 
 " I called upon you this morning, Mr. 
 Isham, for two reasons. The first was to 
 ask you some particulars of the Marstons 
 fire. The second, to speak about a personal 
 matter. First, then, will you tell me I can 
 gather nothing from the newspapers if Mrs. 
 Marston and her little boy escaped quite 
 unhurt from the flames, quite?" He leaned 
 forward, eagerly, clasping his hands just 
 below two rusty but well-brushed creases at 
 the knees of his trousers. 
 
 " I was down there when the calamity 
 occurred. I saw everybody safely out: Mr. 
 and Mrs. Marston, and the boy. Nobody 
 was injured. Yes I make a mistake the 
 cook, Rose, burned his hand, I believe, while 
 rescuing a crazy tramp, who somehow got 
 upstairs." 
 
 "And she Mrs. Marston is well? you 
 are sure? I ... was sorry for her 
 
 Something in the young man s voice, a 
 vibration, a tremor, caused Mr. Isham to scan 
 him narrowly. 
 
 " It was hard lines. Yes, they were very 
 comfortable. Mrs. Marston caught a cold, 
 so she tells me, has coughed ever since. I 
 have a letter I got this morning. The ladies
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 311 
 
 stood out too long in the wet grass. They 
 were half clad." 
 
 "And Mrs. Marston looks to be delicate. 
 She could ill bear such exposure. The 
 shock alone was terrible for one like her. I 
 wished I might have been there ... to 
 ... to ..." 
 
 Again Mr. Isham looked hard at the 
 speaker. 
 
 " Mrs. Marston was very well taken care 
 of," he said, a little dryly, " of course." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "What was the origin of the fire? " 
 
 "There are various theories," said Mr. 
 Isham, vaguely, as if he knew far more than 
 he was willing to communicate. " I am not 
 at liberty to speak." 
 
 " Why, what can you mean? " The inten 
 sity of Oakes s manner seemed over-accentu 
 ated for the natural query. 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mr. Isham, with meaning, 
 " the Marstons had enemies." 
 
 "Why, why, Mr. Isham, is there a sup 
 position that there was incendiarism?" 
 
 "And sometimes our enemies are they of 
 our own household." 
 
 Oakes paled. A sudden, strange surmise 
 had crossed his mind. 
 
 " It could only be a deed of madness."
 
 312 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 " Possibly; but I will ask you to let even 
 the little I have dropped go no further. The 
 family have decided not to prosecute. I 
 mean I mean, not to investigate." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Mrs. Marston is a generous woman." 
 
 "I believe you." Again the young man s 
 manner betokened some inward tumult. 
 
 Mr. Isham turned the subject. "And 
 now what are these papers?" 
 
 "These papers, sir, are some essays I 
 have written." 
 
 "Indeed!" Mr. Isham smiled grimly. 
 
 "They dwell on and describe the lives 
 and the homes of the wretched, of the op 
 pressed. I have also taken up the cause of 
 woman," and as Mr. Isham threw up a dep 
 recating arm: " I know the ladies you fre 
 quent, sir, decry female agitators. Do they 
 appreciate that all their present ease is the 
 result of the effort of this much vilified 
 sisterhood? It was not the satisfied and 
 lazy ones who wrung reform from man s un 
 willing brutishness. They now enjoy what 
 the others have died for, and in their pam 
 pered folly insist it is enough. But the 
 mills of the gods go on. I thought I would 
 ask you to look over these essays, hoping 
 you might consent to illustrate them with 
 your pencil. Am I very bold? "
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 313 
 
 "Well, yes, rather. I don t do that sort 
 of thing." 
 
 " I once saw some sketches of yours, done 
 when you were young, in a collection, in an 
 exhibition . . ." 
 
 Mr. Isham leaned back in his seat and 
 gave way to one of his lusty roars. 
 
 " Some ass kept those, did he? Well, I 
 was n t much of a success at first. Munson 
 the great man then, told me I d better give 
 up, that I never should draw. My father, 
 I remember, blessed him. But I was pig 
 headed. How the bookmakers do detest 
 the race-horse to be sure who bolts every 
 course as a two-year-old, and manages to 
 win in his fifth year. People never forgive 
 us whose predictions of failure we nullify. 
 Ha! Ha! Ha!" 
 
 He seemed to have left behind his phase 
 of despondency, and to have, through some 
 reminiscence, been roused to high good- 
 humor. Pessimism is character, not phi 
 losophy or belief. Mr. Isham was not a 
 pessimist. 
 
 " The obstacles, the want of support from 
 friends, from family, then, did not cripple 
 you?" asked Oakes, with earnestness. 
 "You think there is hope for the lonely 
 souls? " 
 
 "The nightingale only chirps when he is
 
 314 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 with his mate. It is when he is away from 
 her that he sings," said the old man, a little 
 sadly. 
 
 That ephemeral beauty which Mrs. Mars- 
 ton had remarked in him suddenly transfig- 
 urged the schoolmaster s pale face, and gave 
 it radiance. It did not escape the eye of 
 the painter. 
 
 " I could take your hand for that, Mr. 
 Isham! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "And so you wish me to look over these?" 
 The old man turned over the leaves of the 
 manuscript, not unkindly. 
 
 " If you will. You understand a few 
 sketches of yours would be to me of im 
 measurable value, but I don t ask favors. 
 It s not a habit of mine. If the work is 
 not worth your trouble " 
 
 "Tut! tut! Young man, you go too fast. 
 What I can t understand is why you came 
 to me at all." 
 
 This indeed was a mystery which Oakes 
 himself had barely solved. Might it be the 
 eternal answer, that Mr. Isham was not the 
 rose, but had lived near her? 
 
 "Well, I will look over these, and see 
 you another day." And as Oakes parted 
 from his papers somewhat gingerly and anx 
 iously: " I 11 not lose them. Do not be 
 afraid," he said, smiling.
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 315 
 
 "This work is my ewe lamb," said Oakes. 
 " I hope it may make me famous. I have 
 only the one copy from my notes." 
 
 " So you want and hope for fame? " 
 
 Something in Percival Oakes, which had 
 for a moment touched Lola s imagination in 
 the wood-cabin, something of nobility and 
 of exaltation, piercing his moroseness, his 
 discontent, and his conceit, awakened Mr. 
 Isham s interest. 
 
 " Yes," said Oakes. 
 
 " And you expect it? " 
 
 " They told you I was a fool, but it s not 
 true. I m no fool, and I 11 prove it to 
 them." 
 
 "Who do you mean by they?" 
 
 "The people who crush us." 
 
 "Whew!" 
 
 " I had to express myself or die." 
 
 " That is right. It is better to express 
 one s self than to die. It is always better to 
 speak out. Better to quarrel than to mur 
 der." It was Oakes s turn to laugh. 
 
 " Sometimes the two are synonyms." 
 
 " Not always. It is repression that makes 
 the criminals." 
 
 " Mr. Isham," said Oakes, " if there were 
 more men of your wit the world would be a 
 better place." 
 
 "I don t know about that. I ve been
 
 316 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 outwitted very often. The world s good 
 enough. Oh, I know there are rich and 
 there are poor, children die, friends grow 
 cold, lovers betray, envy pursues success, 
 malice and treachery are rife, and all the rest 
 of it. Very bad, very bad, of course. But 
 since struggle seems to be the law of life, 
 let us meet it like heroes, and not like knaves 
 or cowards. Those antique fellows fought 
 destiny, the romantics were after their 
 tyrants; we moderns fight passions and mor 
 als, and our hearts and brains are the seat of 
 battle. Now you, I daresay, have a griev 
 ance, and you have aired it in your book. 
 If it is clever it will bring you a lot of fun, 
 and if it is not, it has at least given you 
 some pleasant hours and a healthful occupa 
 tion. All this you will say is a selfish view, 
 for I infer you desire to help humanity. It 
 seems to me I have heard as much. Well, 
 I hope you may. It s a difficult job, but 
 not impossible. You certainly will do so by 
 cultivating cheerfulness in yourself. Then 
 if your book is a success, you will assist the 
 publisher. Mrs. Publisher will get some 
 new bonnets, and the five little Publishers 
 new velocipedes. I wish you luck. You 
 won t put much money in our own pocket, 
 but you will be benefiting your neighbor. 
 Good-day, good-day, Mr. Oakes ; come
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 317 
 
 again, come again. I will be glad to see 
 you." And the old man, with his good- 
 natured satire, conducted the young man to 
 his door. 
 
 > i i 
 
 This was Lola s letter: 
 
 . . . " Archibald and the sheriff and Rose 
 think there was a good case, but I could not 
 stand the husband s humiliation. I just 
 could not. He took it all on himself. He 
 was so noble. I will tell you about it some 
 day. It seems there are angels left in the 
 world. Rose says it was all envy, that she 
 went almost crazy because she was not some 
 thing else like Arden, perhaps. Arden 
 always turns everybody s head. But how 
 extraordinary! We laughed at her the last 
 time we went up to the cottage the day be 
 fore the fire. It was horrid of us, but even 
 if she heard, how could such a trifle turn 
 her brain? Still I blame myself. I might 
 have been kinder, but she was so absurd. 
 Archibald says I am a goose, and that she 
 ought to be hanged. Bush and the child 
 have left, and I hear they found her near 
 Pontifex, somewhere at an inn. What a 
 meeting! But that man is godlike! I won 
 der if she confessed to him. But of course 
 her disappearance was confession. Was 
 it remorse, or fear? It was not at all clever,
 
 3 i8 EAT NOT THY HEART 
 
 at any rate, was it? She must be just a lit 
 tle mad. I hear they are going to the West. 
 Poor creatures! I can t help pitying her. 
 She seemed such a proud woman. Here it 
 is hushed up. No one knows, and no one 
 shall. I simply dragged myself around on 
 my knees to Archibald until he promised 
 not to do anything. Perhaps it was n t a 
 very strong case for us after all. 
 
 "Apropos, of Rose who insists she did 
 it he is going to leave us. You won t get 
 any more of his delicious bouillabaise. He 
 is going to be married, and to whom do you 
 think? But you won t remember her. She 
 sat next to us at that terrible political thing 
 when poor Archibald but, after all, I be 
 lieve you were not there, thank God! Her 
 name is Floribel Pullen. The neighbors say 
 she has been wicked, that she is very sly, 
 and over-fond of the gentlemen! I can t 
 believe it. She is candor itself, and most 
 attractive. It seems it s a great passion, 
 and so no more fish soup for us. I hope he 
 will be happy. He was a good fellow. She 
 was fascinated by his heroism about Jim. 
 The question is, does he deserve happiness 
 for saving Jim s life? Jim is such a nuis 
 ance! Archibald thinks he might better 
 have burned up. 
 
 " I got a chill that morning and am
 
 EAT NOT THY HEART 319 
 
 poorly. I cough all the time. I look quite 
 pulled and hollow-eyed. The doctors say 
 my left lung is a wee bit weak. We sail 
 next week on the Moravia." We shall be 
 gone a year or more. I feel depressed. I 
 think I must be ill. I shall seek the sun. 
 Come and see us off." 
 
 THE END.
 
 PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, 
 CHICAGO, FOR THE PUBLISHERS, 
 HERBERT S. STONE & CO., CHIC AGO, U.S. A.
 
 Date Due 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S. 
 
 CAT. NO. 24 161