H-UFE- 
 
 1LLED 
 
 A-CHAPIN'RAY
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED
 
 EACH LIFE 
 UNFULFILLED 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA CHAPIN RAY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "TEDDY, HER BOOK," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 1899
 
 Copyright, 1899, 
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND Co. 
 
 AU rights reterved 
 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 Each Life Unfulfilled 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 " REALLY, Mr. Heaton, I can't see what ever 
 brought you to this wilderness." 
 
 " Really, Miss Tiemann, the same remark 
 might apply to you." 
 
 The girl laughed lightly. 
 
 "To me? Oh, the farm is a regular feature 
 of my summer existence. For the past seven 
 years we have spent July here, and I shall prob- 
 ably go on spending July in this hamlet till the 
 end of time. Auntie always rushes off, directly 
 after Commencement, to get rested from her 
 mad whirl of gayety." 
 
 " Commencement? " 
 
 " Yes ; my uncle is president of one of these 
 microscopic western colleges. You see, I know 
 how you Harvard men regard us. But you 
 haven't answered my question." 
 
 "As to what?" 
 
 "How you chanced to come here into that 
 camp." There was a slight, a very slight accent 
 of scorn in her voice. 
 
 2061Q7?
 
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 " Oh, 'twas one of Jack's flights. We are off 
 for the summer, and somebody in Chicago told 
 him of the place. It sounded promising, so he 
 drifted up here to see what it was like." 
 
 "And you drifted with him. You must be an 
 ideal companion, Mr. Heaton, to follow your 
 leader so blindly." 
 
 Heaton dropped his oars for an instant, and 
 pushed back his little gray cap. 
 
 "Why not?" he answered. "The trip was of 
 Jack's making. I had no plans to speak of, only 
 to get off and take a long vacation while I was 
 free to go." 
 
 " I 'm going to ask another question," she 
 announced, after a brief interval. " Right oar, 
 please ! I hate to give orders in this peremptory 
 fashion ; but you are running us straight into 
 the other boat. Who is Jack?" 
 
 " Did n't you see him? Oh, no ; I remember. 
 He had gone before I met you. He is a young 
 cousin of mine, a fine fellow, too ; going to be a 
 doctor as soon as he has cut a few more wisdom 
 teeth and attended a few more clinics. He 
 went up, Tuesday morning, to spend a week 
 with some friends in Waukesha; but I didn't 
 care anything about the people, so I preferred 
 to stay here and wait for him. It 's so like Jack 
 to go rushing off at a moment's notice." 
 
 He had taken up his oars again, and his 
 companion was silent for a time, as she sat 
 
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 watching the steady, strong sweep of the blades 
 through the water, and the slender, sinewy hands 
 of the man before her. She liked his hands, for 
 they were slim, but firm. All in all, she liked 
 his whole appearance, and she looked at him 
 more closely than she had done at all since she 
 had met him, two days before. He was tall 
 and slight and alert, yet with a little air of 
 hesitancy at times, which she was at a loss to 
 explain. His voice was distinct, but low and 
 quiet, and his manner impressed her as being 
 an odd blending of strength and gentleness. 
 
 " How do you like the camp ? " she resumed, 
 after a prolonged pause. 
 
 Heaton looked up at her, with a sudden flash 
 of fun in his brown eyes. 
 
 " Immensely, in my own way. It 's a little 
 different from anything I have seen, and I've 
 enjoyed sitting back and watching the others. 
 Jack is in the middle of it all ; but I could n't 
 quite stand that, and it was growing rather mo- 
 notonous, so I was glad enough when old Na- 
 poleon, as the boys call him, took it upon 
 himself to introduce me to your aunt, the other 
 day." 
 
 " Auntie hailed you at once as a congenial 
 spirit," Miss Tiemann answered, as she trailed 
 her little brown hand through the baby waves 
 that were following their boat. "She came 
 back to the house, rapturous because you had 
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 agreed to carry her letters to the post office. 
 If you ever want to win Auntie's heart, just help 
 her to get, or to send off her mail, and in return 
 she will grant you the half of her kingdom." 
 
 "Then row over to the village with me, Mon- 
 day afternoon, and bring back the mail," he 
 returned quickly. "I often go up, and her 
 letters will give me an additional excuse, you 
 know." 
 
 " Left oar, quick ! " was the sudden response. 
 " You are running right into those lily pads. 
 I can't talk and steer this rudderless boat at the 
 same time, without wrecking both ourselves and 
 the conversation. It is too quiet and pretty to 
 talk, anyway." 
 
 " But will you go? " he urged. 
 
 " Yes, anywhere, so long as I can be on this 
 charming little lake. Auntie won't let me go 
 out alone, and there isn't anybody here " 
 She paused abruptly, fearful of having given too 
 broad a hint. 
 
 "You are forgetting Father Napoleon," he 
 said gravely. " Still, I shall be very grateful if 
 you will let me take you out often, as long as 
 we stay. It's a bit lonely for me here, since 
 Jack went." 
 
 " I shall probably be the one to go first," she 
 replied ; " for we leave here, next Thursday." 
 
 " So soon as that? I 'm sorry." 
 
 " So am I, for I love the place, in spite of the 
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 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 six o'clock breakfasts at the farm ; but Auntie 
 has other engagements for August, and I usually 
 follow her as dutifully as you do your cousin." 
 
 She was silent again, and sat leaning back in 
 her place at the stern, with her eyes fixed on the 
 distant outline of the hotel on the hillside above 
 the lake. Heaton looked at her stealthily, 
 from moment to moment, and he was conscious 
 of a greater sense of enjoyment than he had ex- 
 perienced before since Jack had left him. In fact, 
 he had missed his cousin sorely, though he had 
 urged his going away for a week's break in 
 their continual intercourse. Jack's bright, 
 happy-go-lucky fashion of floundering along 
 through life made him the best possible com- 
 panion that Heaton could have had just then ; 
 and, notwithstanding his occasional moody days, 
 he was thoroughly grateful for his cousin's jovial 
 willingness to give up his other plans and spend 
 the summer killing time with him in out-of- 
 the-way corners of the earth. To be sure, it 
 was Heaton who paid all the bills ; but, on the 
 other hand, Jack was giving him more than 
 mere money could ever buy. 
 
 The people at the camp had not interested 
 him in the least. Their jokes passed his com- 
 prehension, and their free-and-easy intercourse 
 grated on his sensibilities. Neither had he 
 cared, till now, to go over to the hotel, two miles 
 away. He was usually to be seen paddling 
 5
 
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 about on the lake, or lying in his hammock, or 
 else seated cross-legged beside his tent, writing 
 page after page with an eagerness which had led 
 the jocose Napoleon to circulate the report that 
 he was penning endless love letters. 
 
 He was certainly lonely, and he had gladly seized 
 his opportunity, two days before, when Napo- 
 leon had waylaid him with the information that 
 Mrs. Mackie was hunting for some one to carry 
 her letters across the lake. Heaton knew Mrs. 
 Mackie by sight. The little gray-haired woman 
 and her pretty niece were familiar figures about 
 the camp, and he had willingly placed himself and 
 his boat at her service. His zeal had been 
 rewarded. He had brought back a goodly 
 handful of letters which he had delivered at the 
 farm, and Mrs. Mackie, effusive in her gratitude, 
 had introduced him to her niece and left the 
 girl to entertain him while she lost herself in the 
 mazes of her correspondence. 
 
 In the easy, off-hand life at Idlewilde, ac- 
 quaintances were quickly made, and it had seemed 
 quite natural, when Saturday night came, that 
 Heaton should offer to row Miss Tiemann up to 
 the hotel, for the weekly hop. The boat from 
 the farm was already full, and Mrs. Mackie had 
 easily fallen in with the young man's suggestion. 
 She had implicit belief in her womanly intuitions, 
 and from the moment of her meeting him, she 
 had been convinced that she could safely trust 
 6
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Mr. Heaton in all things, even with her care- 
 fully-guarded niece. 
 
 Heaton was glad now that he had decided to 
 risk the proposition, even though it had taken 
 him out of his self-sought quiet, and had cost 
 him some grumbling at the narrow limits of his 
 tent mirror. Full dress might be undesirable ; 
 but at least he did like his tie to be smooth, and 
 even this was difficult to attain before a glass 
 five inches long. 
 
 The summer twilight was darkening the upper 
 end of the lake ; but at the west there still lin- 
 gered a rosy glow. He watched the girl, as she 
 sat outlined against it, with one hand holding 
 the folds of her dainty summer gown, the other 
 negligently dangling in the water beside the 
 boat, while her pretty, girlish face was raised to 
 look at the stars coming out in the velvety 
 blue above her head. He could study her at 
 his ease, for she had given herself up to a 
 rapt, childlike enjoyment of her surroundings, 
 and was quite unconscious of his gaze. She 
 was so young, so pretty with the rosy light fall- 
 ing across her face and deepening the tones of 
 her pale pink gown ! In after years he never 
 quite lost the memory of the picture before him 
 during their first hour alone together. 
 
 The other boat came alongside, as they 
 bumped against the piles at the landing, and 
 Miss Tiemann roused herself from her reverie. 
 7
 
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 A moment later, she was laughing and chatter- 
 ing with the friends who had rushed down from 
 the hotel to meet her at the landing. It was 
 plain that she was a general favorite; but 
 although she was the central figure of the en- 
 larged group, she kept Heaton close at her side, 
 as they scrambled up the steep hill and entered 
 the great dining-room, already cleared for danc- 
 ing. Here Heaton was forced to abandon her 
 to the others for a time; and, not caring to 
 dance with any one else, he attached himself to 
 Mrs. Mackie's side, where he sat talking dutifully 
 to her while his eyes followed her niece, as she 
 whirled past him. She danced, as she did 
 everything else, with a frank enjoyment which 
 made it seem impossible that she would ever 
 pause or grow weary. Heaton, though he had 
 supposed his dancing days were ended, grew 
 restless and heedless of Mrs. Mackie's friendly 
 commonplaces while he waited for his own turn 
 to come. 
 
 Nevertheless, the pleasantest time of all was 
 when he was rowing them both, aunt and niece, 
 homeward under the quiet light of the stars. 
 They talked fitfully, now discussing some trivial 
 event of the evening, now lapsing into a silence 
 only broken by the regular plash of the oars, as 
 they struck the smooth surface of the lake. The 
 other boat had lagged far behind, out of sight 
 and hearing, and the world about them was very 
 8
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 still. All at once Miss Tiemann began to sing 
 to herself with the little, low, humming sound of 
 a contented child. 
 
 " Sing something, Elinor," her aunt urged. 
 
 " Please do," added Heaton, turning to look 
 around at her, as she sat behind him in the bow 
 of the boat. 
 
 "Too bad of you, Auntie, to disturb my 
 dreaming! Truly, Mr. Heaton, I don't sing 
 very much; it's only a fond aunt's partiality 
 that makes her ask me." 
 
 " Let me be the judge of that," he insisted. 
 
 Without more ado, she began to sing a little 
 Slumber Song of Kiicken, simple and quaint, 
 but well suited to her clear, light soprano voice. 
 She showed training and accuracy, yet her voice 
 lacked something which perhaps time alone 
 could give. Nevertheless Heaton, as he listened 
 to her and unconsciously adapted his stroke to 
 the rhythm of her song, was supremely content. 
 He wished that Jack were there to accompany 
 her with his rich tenor. Then, upon reflec- 
 tion, he was devoutly thankful that Jack was 
 several miles away, doubtless paying court to 
 some other fair maiden. Jack usually had all 
 the women at his feet ; for once it was better to 
 have him at a safe distance.
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 " PROMPT to the minute ! " Elinor exclaimed 
 gayly, as she came running down to the landing, 
 two days later. 
 
 Heaton held up his watch. 
 
 " I was n't going to tell you," he said, laugh- 
 ing; " but you boasted too much, and your pride 
 must be humbled. You are exactly five minutes 
 behind time." 
 
 " I could n't help it," she returned impeni- 
 tently, as she took his outstretched hand to 
 steady herself on the way to her seat. " I Ve 
 been in a state of persecution, this last hour, 
 and I could n't escape before." 
 
 "Who has been persecuting you?" he asked, 
 while he let his oar-blades drop into the water. 
 
 " The minister here. He wanted me to sing 
 at a concert, next v r oek. I believe it was for the 
 benefit of the Sunday-school melodeon ; but I'm 
 not sure. Anyway, he asked me if I could n't 
 sing ' Silver Threads among the Gold.' Fancy 
 it ! " And she laughed gleefully to herself. 
 
 " Might I inquire what answer you gave? " 
 
 " I showed unbounded tact. I told him that 
 I 'd heard it and it was a sweet thing, a very sweet 
 10
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 thing, but I was afraid I could n't sing it. Be- 
 sides, I was going away too soon. He offered 
 to change the date ; but of course I could n't 
 allow that." 
 
 " Miss Tiemann, how long since you finished 
 your studies at the Jesuit college, over here? " 
 
 " I came from there yesterday, and left the 
 fathers all bemoaning my departure," she re- 
 plied demurely. " But I was quite sincere. It 's 
 a song that I Ve often heard alluded to as being 
 ' real pretty.' To be sure, one man I met 
 applied the same words to the ' Messiah ' Halle- 
 lujah. He meant well ; but his language struck 
 me as being a trifle inadequate." 
 
 "Are you working much at your music?" 
 Heaton asked, as he pointed the boat's bow up 
 the lake and dropped into his usual slow, steady 
 stroke. 
 
 Averse as she generally was to speaking of 
 her plans, Miss Tiemann felt no reserve, as she 
 met the friendly eyes that were looking into her 
 own. There was no tinge of self-assertion in 
 Heaton's manner, yet she was conscious of 
 feeling very young and childish beside him, 
 and it was with the simplicity of a child that she 
 answered his question. 
 
 " For two years I have given all my time to 
 it, nearly. I want so much to be able to sing 
 well, some day; but I am afraid there isn't 
 much chance for it." 
 
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 In spite of himself, Heaton smiled at the sud- 
 den note of despondency in her tone. 
 
 " One of my good friends has said, ' If you 
 must, you must, and many musts will make 
 a hit,' " he observed. " You '11 probably get 
 your success, if you work for it. Most people 
 do in this world, I notice. Where have you 
 studied ? " 
 
 " Only at home as yet ; at home with Auntie, 
 that is. My home has been with her since my 
 father and mother died." 
 
 " So your parents are dead, too," he said 
 quickly, as if pleased at discovering this bond 
 of sympathy. " I 'm alone, too, so I live with 
 my married sister in New York, when I 'm at 
 home." 
 
 "Where does your cousin live?" questioned 
 the girl idly, more from a desire to get away 
 from the subject of her singing than because 
 she felt any especial interest in the reply. 
 
 " New York, too. We Ve grown up together 
 ever since we were small boys, and we are great 
 chums, even if he is five years younger than I." 
 
 " By the way," remarked Miss Tiemann ; 
 " Auntie was asking why you did n't come over 
 to see us, last night." 
 
 " I was n't invited," Heaton responded ; " and 
 I did n't know how strictly you might be keeping 
 Sunday." 
 
 " We take a vacation here," she answered, as 
 
 12
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 she raised her sun umbrella and held it, sail-wise, 
 to catch the fresh breeze. " There, is n't that a 
 help?" 
 
 " Yes, only I 'm afraid you will be burnt to a 
 cinder without it." 
 
 She glanced upward at the blazing sun. 
 
 " I don't care," she returned. " I 'm in a mood 
 to defy Auntie to-day. She wails bitterly over 
 my copper-colored nose, and I actually think 
 she 'd insist on my wearing one of those floppy 
 sunbonnets, like the women in camp, if I were 
 only a little younger and more biddable." 
 
 " After all, sunburn is fashionable," said Hea- 
 ton consolingly, though the dazzling glare on 
 the water was reddening his own cheeks and nar- 
 rowing his eyes to a pronounced squint. 
 
 " That 's what they all say ; but, if the truth 
 were known, there 's a great deal of nonsense 
 written about the summer girl and sunburn. 
 They say we sit by the summer sea, and read Ar- 
 nold and Clough and those men ; but that 's all 
 they know about it. What we girls really do, when 
 we 're socially off duty, is to wrestle with the 
 sunburn on our noses, and rue the day we were 
 enticed into going crabbing." 
 
 " I hope your Sunday was successful." 
 
 " How unkind of you to twist my words 
 so ! Up here, I don't mind, and I grow red 
 and brown till Auntie holds up her decorous 
 hands in horror." 
 
 13
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 If the darkness had made Miss Tiemann 
 dreamy, the other night, the sunshine appeared 
 to be producing the reverse effect to-day, and 
 she chattered constantly while the boat danced 
 along over the water. Heaton answered to her 
 mood until his face lost something of its quiet 
 gravity and grew suddenly young and boyish. 
 There was something indescribably attractive to 
 him in this pretty little maiden with her wavy 
 brown hair and her bright brown eyes. Her 
 saucy fun and her evident enjoyment of each 
 passing moment reminded him of Jack ; but, in 
 spite of her twenty years and a certain womanly 
 trimness of her slight figure, she seemed to him 
 years younger than his tall cousin. 
 
 In reality, Heaton was several years her 
 senior; but the apparent difference between 
 them was far greater than the actual, for as 
 a rule he talked little, and his manner was as 
 quiet and settled as hers was buoyant. More- 
 over, at times a close observer might have 
 noticed a little look of weariness about his kind 
 brown eyes, and the short brown mustache that 
 shaded his upper lip could not quite conceal the 
 lines which time, or care, or sorrow had traced 
 about his sensitive mouth. He was in no sense 
 a handsome man ; but, in looking into his thin, 
 clear-cut face, one instinctively realized that he 
 was of good material and finely wrought, and he 
 wore his rough-and-ready camping suit with an
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 ease* which showed that his tailor respected him 
 more than he respected his tailor. 
 
 Elinor came out from the little post office 
 with her arms full of letters and packages. 
 
 "No," she answered to Heaton's offer to 
 relieve her of her burden ; " I am going to carry 
 them back to the boat. It makes me feel 
 rich to be holding so many letters, even if they 
 are n't all for me. We '11 divide when we get 
 into the boat; till then, you must possess your 
 soul in patience." 
 
 " Very well." And Heaton took her um- 
 brella. " If you wish to turn postman, you are 
 welcome ; but at least you will let me save your 
 long-suffering cheeks one bit of friction." 
 
 " Oh, no ; let me have the sun, please," she 
 begged. " It is too late for it to do me any 
 harm now, and it is almost my last chance, we 
 are going away so soon. I 'm a real child of the 
 country, for I love the fresh air and the sunshine 
 and this wonderful clear light on the hills." 
 
 Heaton's brows contracted. 
 
 " So do I," he muttered, half to himself. 
 
 Seated in the boat, Elinor fell to sorting the 
 letters in her lap. 
 
 " Mrs. Mackie, Mrs. Mackie, Mrs. Mackie, 
 Mr. T. M. Heaton," she read. " Mrs. Mackie, 
 Mr. Thomas Murray Heaton " She raised her 
 eyes abruptly. 
 
 Heaton was watching her, while an amused 
 '5
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 little smile played about the corners of his 
 mouth. 
 
 "Well? "he asked. 
 
 " Is that your name ? " she demanded. 
 
 " It certainly is." 
 
 " Are there two of you ? " 
 
 " Not to my knowledge." 
 
 " Are you the Mr. Heaton who writes the 
 stories in ' The Century ' ? Why did n't you tell 
 me?" 
 
 "Why should I? It's nothing," he returned 
 evasively, though he was pleased at the bright- 
 ening flush on her face, which was paying an 
 eloquent tribute to his work. 
 
 " It is ever so much," she answered, so ear- 
 nestly that there was a slight quiver in her 
 voice. " I have read them, and I know ; and 
 then it is so big and beautiful to do such work, 
 to write for the people you 've never seen, but 
 who want to see and know you." 
 
 Her whole face was glowing with her girlish 
 enthusiasm, and Heaton told himself that he 
 had never before known how beautiful she could 
 be, when she was stirred below her surface of 
 gay society mannerism. Nevertheless, he met 
 her words with a little laugh, although he was 
 unable to conceal all his satisfaction at her 
 praise, as he answered, 
 
 " You are making too much of a small affair, 
 Miss Tiemann. A dozen stories of no particular 
 16
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 merit will scarcely rank me among the immor- 
 tals. Moreover, I like best that my friends 
 should forget I ever write, so I shall ask you 
 to keep my secret while I am here." 
 
 The girl's face fell. 
 
 " And may n't I even tell Auntie ? " 
 
 "I would rather not, if you don't care. A 
 year ago, even, I should n't have minded ; but 
 the future is all so uncertain that I like to say 
 as little as possible about my work. As a favor 
 to me, please," he added gently. 
 
 It was not the first time since they had met 
 that he had referred to the future in this tone of 
 gravity. Elinor was unable to read his mean- 
 ing, and something in his face made her feel 
 that it was better not to ask. 
 
 " Well, if you won't let me tell, I suppose I 
 must n't," she said resignedly ; " only it 's not 
 quite fair not to let us burn just a little bit of 
 incense before you. 'T is n't every day that we 
 get a real, live lion at Idlewilde, and we 'd like 
 to hear him roar a little. Is this what you are 
 writing, all the time ? " she asked suddenly. 
 
 Heaton nodded. 
 
 " Yes. But how did you know? " 
 
 "Oh, gossip flies, and Napoleon's voice is 
 louder than he thinks," she replied lightly, 
 although she blushed as she realized the true 
 cause of her interest in his answer. Notwith- 
 standing the fact that the present week would 
 2 17
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 put an end to their acquaintance, she was secretly 
 glad to discover that her companion was not 
 engaged to some other woman. At least it gave 
 more freedom to their temporary intercourse. 
 
 Heaton, unconscious of the interpretation 
 which Napoleon had put upon his devotion to 
 his pen, was unable to read the cause of her 
 blush. In spite of his pleasure at her praise, he 
 was sorry that she had found him out, and he 
 determined to throw himself upon her mercy. 
 
 " You know how these people talk," he said ; 
 " and you have found out, to-day, how they 
 martyrize the stranger within their gates. They 
 have no perspective in such matters. If they 
 were to hear that I 'd ever written a word that 
 was salable, they would demand an auction of 
 stories for the benefit of the melodeon, to supple- 
 ment your singing." 
 
 " But Auntie is n't like that," she urged. 
 
 " I know," he said; " only " 
 
 He was silent for a moment, rowing steadily. 
 Then he dropped his oars, as he said, with an 
 evident effort, 
 
 " The fact is, Miss Tiemann, I have n't written 
 much lately. Till I came here, I had n't touched 
 a pen for weeks, and I may give it up entirely." 
 
 " Oh, why? " she asked eagerly. 
 
 " Stern necessity. It 's too long and too dull 
 a story to tell, so I won't bore you with it. 
 Still, I care enough for my writing so that it 
 18
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 will be hard for me to let it go. I 'm sorry to 
 be so mysterious about it," he added, with a 
 forced lightness of manner ; " but now I have 
 told you so much, I 'm going to ask you to say 
 nothing about my work, and, so far as you can, 
 to forget it." 
 
 He bit his lip for a moment, while the water 
 flew past them, lashed to foam under his quick 
 strokes. Then he looked up again, and, though 
 his lips were smiling, there was an expression in 
 his brown eyes which somehow made her think 
 of an animal in pain. 
 
 " If you ever do come across any of my work 
 again," he said ; " deal with it as gently as you 
 can." 
 
 Awed by the intensity of his manner, Elinor 
 let fall the letters, and held out her hand in 
 token of agreement. 
 
 " I will," she said slowly.
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 " I DIMLY suspect that I made a fool of myself," 
 Heaton remarked to himself, while he was put- 
 ting his tent in order, the next day. " I hate 
 scenes ; but that girl nearly led me into making 
 one, and now she must think me a cross between 
 a milksop and a Don Juan. Fancying my talking 
 melodramatically of the future! " He laughed, 
 but his laugh had nothing mirthful in it. Then, 
 when he had finished his labors, he strolled 
 across to his hammock and threw himself down 
 at full length, while he considered how best to 
 remove the disagreeable impression he might 
 have created. 
 
 Child as he thought Miss Tiemann, still he 
 cared for her good opinion, and he disliked to 
 have her carry away with her the idea that he 
 was given to forcing his confidence upon com- 
 parative strangers in any such way as this. As 
 a general thing, Heaton kept his feelings to 
 himself. Even Jack, his constant companion, 
 had little idea of the real inner life of his cousin, 
 so it was all the more surprising that he had 
 been betrayed into speaking as earnestly as he
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 had done, the day before. At the time, he had 
 been sincere enough ; but now it seemed to him 
 an unwarranted display of sentiment. His brown 
 cheeks grew hot at the memory, and he had a 
 passing desire to run down to Chicago, that day, 
 and telegraph Jack to meet him there. 
 
 "But what is the use? " was his philosophical 
 second thought. " I sha'n't see the girl again 
 after this week, and she has forgotten it all by 
 this time, most likely, so I may as well make 
 the most of the present good times, and not 
 care what she thinks of me. Confound those 
 letters, though ! " 
 
 For a moment he lay still and looked about 
 him. Camp Idlewilde was at its best, that 
 breezy July noon, for a heavy rain, the night 
 before, had washed all heat and dust away, and 
 every tent and every green tree and tuft of 
 grass was fresh and smiling in the sunshine. 
 Up in the cabin on the hill, a boy choir from 
 the city were giving their daily hour of practice 
 to a chorus from one of the greater oratorios. 
 Though too far away to distinguish the words, 
 Heaton enjoyed the rhythmic beat of their fresh 
 young voices, and he marvelled that those clear, 
 sweet tones could come from the restless little 
 imps who pervaded the camp at other hours, 
 shrieking in shrill, discordant glee. Outside the 
 cabin, a dozen rabbits were stupidly hopping 
 about, or stopping short to sit up and listen to
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the voices of their quondam enemies. On both 
 sides of him lay the tents, scattered about 
 among the trees, and beyond it all stretched 
 the lake, shining like a broad, silvery mirror 
 between its sloping banks. Napoleon and his 
 kindred were away, and the camp was very 
 quiet. 
 
 Five minutes later, Heaton rolled out of his 
 hammock, gave himself the shake which, in 
 camp, answered for his mid-day toilet, and 
 strode away to the farm. He found Elinor 
 swinging in her hammock under the oak-trees 
 on the lawn. Throwing aside her book, she 
 welcomed him cordially. 
 
 " Auntie is lying down," she said, as, without 
 rising, she stretched out her hand to him. 
 " Everybody here but myself takes an after- 
 dinner nap, and I get desperately lonely, while 
 I wait for them to wake up. Bring out that 
 chair on the piazza and entertain me." 
 
 He obeyed her, and settled himself at her 
 side. 
 
 " How shall I proceed? " he asked. 
 
 "Talk to me about about yourself," she 
 said audaciously. 
 
 " But why? There are so many more inter- 
 esting subjects," he said languidly. 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 " Thank you for the implied compliment," he 
 returned.
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "Tell me about your sister, then, if you 
 won't talk about yourself," she responded, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Bertha? There 's not much to tell. She 
 lives in New York, and she has two children, 
 and I live with her." 
 
 "And her husband, I suppose. Is she as 
 Eastern as you are ? " 
 
 " How do you mean? Am I Eastern? " 
 
 " In every way. The first moment I heard 
 you speak, I knew you came from the effete 
 civilization of the East. All your words, your 
 vowels, that is, sound so unlike ours. You 
 must notice the difference. And then you don't 
 look like the men here." 
 
 "Not even Napoleon?" he asked, as he 
 shifted his position and sat with his elbow on 
 the back of his chair, his head resting on his 
 hand. He had a habit of staring intently at 
 the ground while he was talking, and only glanc- 
 ing up now and then, as some especial point 
 in the conversation awakened his interest. In 
 some men it would have been awkward; but 
 it seemed too characteristic of him to admit of 
 any criticism. 
 
 " Napoleon is n't a fair type," she answered. 
 " He is unique ; but that German friend of 
 yours is more like our Western men. I had a 
 cousin at Harvard, a few years ago." 
 
 "Who was he, and what was his year? It's 
 23
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 absurd to ask, of course ; but one always tries to 
 pick up common acquaintances." 
 
 " Wilson was his name. He was in Eighty- 
 five, I think." 
 
 " That was my year. Was Jim Wilson your 
 cousin?" 
 
 " I feel better," Elinor declared gravely. " If 
 you once find a common acquaintance, you are 
 old friends directly. I've never seen Jim, to 
 be sure ; but it is a comfort to know that you 
 have. It bridges the chasm of the unknown 
 past." 
 
 " The most I remember about him," Heaton 
 confessed ; " is that he was called the laziest 
 man in our class. He was a bright fellow; but 
 he went through college such a mass of con- 
 ditions that the other fellows used to say he 
 could n't have made even an unconditional sur- 
 render." 
 
 Elinor laughed. 
 
 "That's Jim," she said. "I recognize the 
 fidelity of your description. But we must n't 
 stay here and slander my cousin. If it isn't 
 too warm, let 's walk to the spring. I '11 be ready 
 in a moment." 
 
 In an incredibly short time, she joined him, 
 dressed for walking. Heaton cast an approving 
 glance at her cheviot gown and little brown 
 shoes. 
 
 " I hope you are dressed for a rough tramp," 
 24
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 he said. " I want to show you one of my favorite 
 brooks, and it looks a little as if we might get a 
 shower." 
 
 To her surprise she had never seen him in 
 a brighter, more careless mood. His manner, 
 the day before, had made a profound impression 
 on her, an impression which it had been im- 
 possible for her to shake off. After dwelling 
 upon the matter throughout the morning, after 
 magnifying it, according to the fashion of girl- 
 hood, it was rather a disappointment to her to find 
 her moody, mysterious knight suddenly trans- 
 formed into the genial man of the world. Still, 
 she felt more at home with him in his present 
 mood, and her own gayety came back to her in full 
 measure, as they tramped away up the road at 
 a round pace, talking blithely as they went. 
 It was a new experience for her to find some one 
 who loved the country as she did ; and Heaton's 
 pleasure in every woodland thing was a constant 
 source of delight Challenge him as she would, 
 she could find no bird-note of which he was 
 ignorant, no flower with which he was un- 
 familiar. 
 
 An hour later, they were sitting on a rugged 
 hillside. To the right hand and the left, the 
 branches of the trees hung low about them, 
 caressing the tops of the green ferns that, thick 
 and soft, waved lazily in the summer breeze. 
 Close at their feet, a little brook went splashing 
 25
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 over tiny waterfalls and chattering along the 
 pebbles, on its way to a ruined waterwheel, six 
 hundred feet below. 
 
 All at once and without preface, Elinor broke 
 the silence which had fallen between them. 
 
 " Have you ever written anything but short 
 stories, Mr. Heaton?" 
 
 His eyes were still fixed on the laughing, 
 dancing water, though he roused himself at her 
 question. 
 
 " No, that is all." 
 
 " Why don't you try a novel ? " she asked. 
 
 He smiled thoughtfully. 
 
 " I am afraid it would be beyond me," he said 
 half mischievously. " I don't believe I have 
 had the necessary experiences." 
 
 For a minute she watched him closely. His 
 tone was quiet and dreamy, and his face ex- 
 pressed full content. It was new to her that he 
 should speak like this in regard to his writing, 
 and she liked the mood. It was as if, soothed 
 by the quiet beauty of the hour, he had for- 
 gotten himself and her, in his vague plans for 
 future work. 
 
 " You must get the experience," she returned. 
 " I think you could write a successful novel, if 
 you were to try." 
 
 " It 's not to be had for the mere asking," he 
 answered, still in the dreamy undertone he had 
 used before. " I have a notion that a book 
 26
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 can't be made to order, but that it must grow 
 up with us, if it is to amount to anything." 
 
 Elinor looked puzzled. 
 
 " I am afraid I don't quite understand." 
 
 This time he turned to look directly at her, 
 while his face lighted with his thought. 
 
 " I don't wonder, for I did n't make it very 
 clear. What I 'm trying to get at is this : that 
 our work is n't anything outside of ourselves. 
 It's a part of us, and grows with our growth. 
 That is one reason that failure tears us to pieces 
 so. We feel that the fault is n't in our work ; 
 it's in ourselves." 
 
 "But you will write a novel in time? "she 
 urged. 
 
 " Some day, perhaps. I have often thought 
 of it, and wished I could do it ; but it is beyond 
 me now. If the time ever comes that I dare 
 attempt it, I shall try." 
 
 " I hope it will come soon," she said, while 
 she stroked the long feathery ferns at her 
 side. " It would be so interesting to feel that 
 perhaps this very summer had played some part 
 in it." 
 
 She spoke with the simple egotism of a child 
 who tries to share the mood of an older com- 
 panion. Suddenly, to her surprise, she sa\v 
 Heaton's lips twitch nervously, while the color 
 faded from his face. 
 
 " What rubbish we 're talking ! " he said 
 27
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 sharply, as he hurled a stone into the pool 
 below him and sat frowning to see the clear 
 water grow dark with the up-turned sand. 
 
 She looked at him with startled eyes. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Only that my writing days are over, and I 
 shall do nothing more. Come, Miss Tiemann, 
 I think the shower will catch us soon, and we 
 must be starting for home." His momentary 
 passion appeared to have spent itself, as he 
 stooped to offer her his hand. 
 
 She rose reluctantly. 
 
 " Must we go ? This has been so pleasant, 
 and it is almost my last chance to revel like 
 this." 
 
 He looked down at her with his old, kindly 
 smile. 
 
 "What do you do at other times?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm a model of decorum. When I 'm at 
 home, except when I 'm practising, I sew em- 
 broidery, and make calls, and read Walter 
 Pater. Once in a while, a very long while, I go 
 to a party. Do you like parties?" 
 
 " What do you think?" 
 
 She eyed him narrowly. 
 
 " Ye es," she said ; " but not to distraction. 
 Your sister and your cousin drag you into them, 
 I think ; but you like to run away and sit in a 
 corner and look on. And yet you do know how 
 to waltz," she added musingly; "and that is 
 28
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 something. Most people waltz like either 
 snakes or frogs." 
 
 "Thank you for admitting so much. But 
 you Ve about hit the truth of the matter. I 
 like society in moderate doses ; but unfortunately 
 it does n't like me." 
 
 "Why not? Anybody can be popular that 
 wants to." 
 
 "I don't know as it's worth the trouble," 
 he answered, a little cynically. 
 
 She looked up at him with a sudden flash of 
 disapproval in her dark eyes. 
 
 " I don't see why you speak like that, Mr. 
 Heaton. It is n't honest. If you did n't care 
 about being popular, you would n't stop to think 
 whether people like you or not." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," he said meekly; 
 " only one has to pay such a price for social 
 success, nowadays, that it hardly seems worth 
 while." 
 
 " Stop sneering at society," she commanded. 
 " It is very good to me always, and I shall fight 
 for it. But here comes the storm. Let's run 
 to that cottage, down the road." 
 
 Breathless, they reached the cottage just as 
 the rain swept down upon them. On the steps, 
 Elinor paused and looked up at Heaton with 
 dancing eyes. 
 
 " When you do write your great novel, Mr. 
 Heaton, please put me into it, and be sure to 
 29
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 state that, even if I do love society, I am 
 admirably fitted to bear up under the hardships 
 of country life." 
 
 " I '11 put you in, just as you are," he re- 
 torted ; " without any alterations or reserva- 
 tions, and it will be as good as making you a 
 present of a pocket mirror." 
 
 In answer to their knock an old German 
 woman, wrinkled like a withered apple, appeared 
 in the doorway and led them into her neat 
 kitchen. There she gave them chairs, then 
 seated herself at her low spinning-wheel and fell 
 to work again, while from time to time her little 
 dark eyes wandered towards hA stranger guests. 
 
 With a ready tact and friendliness which 
 seemed to Heaton one of the most charming 
 phases of her character, Elinor had answered 
 the old woman's broken English in her own 
 tongue. She spoke German musically and 
 fluently rather than correctly, and Heaton's 
 more perfect command of the language made 
 him listen with amusement to her odd slips and 
 errors, while they drew near to watch the hum- 
 ming wheel. 
 
 Shyly at first, the old woman explained to 
 them that she bought a little wool, now and 
 then, to spin yarn for her husband's socks. It 
 was pleasant work for her. She loved the dear 
 little wheel she had brought from the Fatherland, 
 twelve years before ; and, while she spun, there 
 30
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 often came to her the thought of the far-off days 
 in the little house at home, only she inter- 
 rupted herself complainingly, the wool was poor 
 and broke often, not like what she had used in 
 the old country. 
 
 " Hier es ist Alles zu kurz, zu kurz Here it 
 is all too short, too short." 
 
 Then she forgot her grumbling, as Elinor 
 begged her to tell about her old home and 
 friends. Won by the girl's bright, friendly man- 
 ner, she talked on and on, until a sudden burst 
 of sunshine, slanting across the floor, announced 
 that the shower was ended. 
 
 Elinor rose. 
 
 "We must go now; but we have had a charm- 
 ing hour here. I am going home in a day or 
 two; but may I come again, next summer?" 
 she said, holding out her hand in farewell. 
 
 " Ach, it is wie die wool," answered the 
 woman quickly; " Alles zu kurz, zu kurz ; aber 
 come back, next summer, and bring your freund 
 mit" 
 
 " If he will be brought," returned the girl 
 gayly. " I shall come, anyway." 
 
 As they drew near the farm, a half-hour later, 
 Mrs. Mackie met them on the lawn. 
 
 " I am sorry to carry you off, Elinor," she 
 said, as she held out her hand to Heaton ; " but 
 I promised to bring you over to the Inn, as soon 
 as you came back. There is some kind of a frolic
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 going on over there, and they want you. Mr. 
 Heaton, we shall count on your coming over 
 here to supper, to-morrow night. It is our last 
 evening here, you know, so you must n't fail us.'' 
 
 Elinor stood looking after him, as he walked 
 away towards the camp. 
 
 " What can be the mystery about his writ- 
 ing?" she said to herself half impatiently.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 WHEN Heaton appeared, the next afternoon, 
 Elinor sat on the piazza, entertaining a number 
 of friends who had unexpectedly come over 
 from the hotel to bid her good-by. As she saw 
 him walking across the lawn, she rose and went 
 forward to meet him. He came towards her 
 with a light, quick step, looking up and down 
 among the group before him, evidently with the 
 design of discovering her and going directly to 
 her side. However, as she went towards him, 
 he passed her by without a sign of recognition, 
 halted for a moment to look again at the people 
 before him, and then bent over her aunt's chair. 
 A moment later, Elinor heard him asking for 
 herself. 
 
 " Behold me ! " she said at his elbow. " But 
 is this the way you treat your hostess? I went 
 to meet you, and you passed me by on the 
 other side." 
 
 She was surprised at the sudden change in 
 his face. For a moment, the color left his 
 cheeks; then it returned and swiftly mounted 
 to his hair. He laughed a little nervously. 
 3 33
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "Forgive an absent-minded man, Miss Tie- 
 mann, even if he has n't any manners. I was so 
 absorbed in seeing you that I did n't see you at 
 all." 
 
 " You have made a most wily answer, Mr. 
 Heaton. But come, let me introduce you to my 
 friends." 
 
 In the gathering dusk, they were still sitting 
 on the piazza, talking with the friendly, infor- 
 mal courtesy which quickly passes from more 
 general topics to the personal details of plans 
 and doings. Even more than her niece, Mrs. 
 Mackie had enjoyed the young man whom 
 chance had thrown in her way. Their daily 
 intercourse during the past week had only in- 
 creased the liking she had at once felt on meeting 
 him, and she sincerely regretted that their part- 
 ing, the next day, was to be final. It had been 
 one of those rare cases when a chance acquain- 
 tance of a summer day had quickly ripened into 
 a mutual regard founded upon similar tastes 
 and common interests. Moreover, though his 
 ease and courtesy showed him a man accustomed 
 to the social world, there was an added charm 
 in Heaton's manner which had attracted Mrs. 
 Mackie far more than the young men she was in 
 the habit of meeting. It was impossible for her 
 to analyse it. In a weaker man, it would have 
 been gentleness ; in a less genial man, it might 
 have been called sadness ; but in his strong self- 
 34
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 reliant manhood, it only added a flavor of mel- 
 lowness, like the taste which the sun gives to 
 the reddened side of the peach. 
 
 " I wished Mrs. Rose owned anything but a 
 melodeon, so that Elinor could sing for us," 
 Mrs. Mackie was saying, when she was suddenly 
 interrupted by a noise of flying feet and rum- 
 bling wheels. 
 
 Elinor sprang to her feet. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 A crash answered her question ; there followed 
 a sudden outcry, and then all was still. Heaton 
 leaped down from the piazza and rushed away 
 across the lawn. In an instant, he was back 
 again. 
 
 " Can you get me a lantern? There has been 
 a runaway, and one girl is hurt. Where can I 
 find some water?" 
 
 For the next half-hour, all was confusion. It 
 was as if the sudden shock had broken the still- 
 ness of the summer night into countless jarring 
 discords. Lanterns were moving to and fro, cast- 
 ing dull, reddish shadows over the group clust- 
 ered about the wreck in the road and throwing a 
 glare over the prostrate figure of the young girl 
 who lay unconscious in the dust. Mrs. Mackie 
 and Elinor were bending over her, while Heaton 
 stood by, lantern in hand, vainly endeavoring to 
 quiet her terrified companions. 
 
 Mrs. Rose had hurried into the house, to get 
 35
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 a bed in readiness, and, at the first sign of re- 
 turning consciousness, the girl was lifted and 
 carried into the farmhouse. The door closed 
 behind the women ; the men went back to pick 
 up the ruins of their carriage, and Heaton was 
 left alone. He threw himself down into a chair 
 and gave a sigh of utter weariness. He felt 
 strangely exhausted after the half-hour of ex- 
 citement and the strain of helping to lift the 
 plump young country girl. It was his first 
 emergency case, and it had made him deathly 
 sick to stand over her and watch her as she lay 
 there. Jack would have been in his element ; it 
 was just in his line. Mrs. Mackie had been 
 cool and collected, and even Elinor, girl as she 
 was, had surprised him by her efficiency. She 
 appeared to know by instinct just what to do 
 and how it ought to be done; and although 
 her voice had trembled, her hands were quite 
 steady. He had really been the one of them all 
 to be most unnerved; but he hoped that he 
 had not shown it. Too bad to have his last 
 evening spoiled in any such way, when he had 
 been anticipating it so much ! 
 
 Just then the door of the inner room opened, 
 and Elinor came out. 
 
 " Auntie wants to know, Mr. Heaton, if you 
 
 are too tired to harness old Dexter and drive 
 
 me to the village. The men are all away, and 
 
 we must have a doctor here as soon as possible, 
 
 36-
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 and somebody ought to go for the girl's sister. 
 I 'm sorry to trouble you; but " 
 
 Heaton started up eagerly. 
 
 " I 'm glad to do it. I was just wishing I 
 could be of some use, and at least I can drive 
 Dexter. How is she ? " 
 
 "We can't tell yet how much she is hurt; but 
 she seems to be suffering. We have been trying 
 to make her as comfortable as we can, and then 
 Auntie sent me to find you." 
 
 " I '11 go at once," he said, as he moved 
 towards the door. 
 
 " But why could n't you go alone ? " she asked 
 suddenly. "Then I could stay here and help 
 Auntie." 
 
 Heaton looked his disapproval. It was one 
 thing to go for a long drive with Miss Tiemann ; 
 it was quite a different matter to go jogging off 
 by himself over country roads. He knew Dex- 
 ter's customary pace, and he felt that he could 
 not bear it alone. He fibbed shamelessly. 
 
 " I 'm not sure of the way ; besides, I think a 
 woman ought to be the one to tell her sister." 
 
 In spite of her excitement, the dimples came 
 into Elinor's cheeks at his reply. Then she 
 said, 
 
 " I '11 go. I will be ready in a moment." 
 
 " Put on something warm," Heaton cautioned 
 her. " It will be cool, driving, and you must n't 
 take cold." 
 
 37
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 It was a relief to Heaton to be driving along 
 the quiet road, under the peaceful light of the 
 stars. The stillness about him, made the con- 
 fusion of the past hour seem strangely unreal, 
 like an ugly dream. Although some explana- 
 tion of his present position might be a necessity, 
 it was impossible for him to realize what had 
 just been passing. At least, he had the cer- 
 tainty of Miss Tiemann's society for the next 
 hour or two, and he felt his spirits rise at the 
 thought. 
 
 Elinor shivered slightly. 
 
 " Are you cold ? " he asked instantly, while he 
 turned to adjust her little fur cape. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I dressed warmly. How dark it 
 is ! Can you see to drive? " 
 
 " Of course. Anybody can drive this thing ; 
 it's slower than death. Did you see the girl 
 again ? " 
 
 " She 's no better, and Auntie told me to 
 hurry. She may be hurt internally, and the 
 sooner a doctor sees her, the better." 
 
 Heaton gave a vicious cut of the whip across 
 Dexter's chubby flanks. Dexter responded with 
 an assenting convulsion of his hind legs, and 
 then resumed his former meditative pace. 
 
 " Confound this beast ! " Heaton said despair- 
 ingly. " I believe he is in league with the 
 undertaker." 
 
 " Let me take the whip," she answered. " I 
 33
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 can goad him, while you drive. He must hurry. 
 Is n't it all strange ? " 
 
 " Very," Heaton assented with conviction. 
 " What do you mean is strange ? " 
 
 " This. When 't is n't a week since we met, 
 that we should be rushing trying to rush, that 
 is to get a doctor for a strange woman whom 
 fate has deposited at our door. Poor Mrs. 
 Rose ! She will have her hands full. For her 
 sake, I am glad we are going away, to-morrow. 
 There 's no telling how long the girl will have 
 to stay, if she lives." 
 
 "You don't think it is as bad as that?" 
 Heaton's sickness of the past hour came over 
 him again. 
 
 " Auntie looked anxious when we came away. 
 It 's a case, you know, that may be anything or 
 nothing. Poor Auntie will be worn out by 
 it all, I 'm afraid ; and I had never seen any- 
 thing of the kind before, so I could n't be of 
 much use." 
 
 " I was marvelling at your coolness," Heaton 
 answered. " I could only explain it on the 
 ground of vast experience." 
 
 Elinor laughed nervously. 
 
 " No, indeed ; only the result of a few emer- 
 gency lectures. It was horrible, horrible; 
 you've no idea of it all. Let's talk about 
 something else. I want to forget, if I can. 
 How long do you stay here ? " 
 39
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Jack comes, to-morrow night. We may be 
 here for a week longer; then go to the Dells, 
 and on to the head of the lakes. It is all 
 uncertain." 
 
 " How pleasant to travel in that way ! It 
 makes our settled plans very tame in compari- 
 son. And next winter you '11 spend in New 
 York? Sha' n't you write just a very little? I 
 shall watch for your work." 
 
 " I can't tell ; but I scarcely think so. Things 
 don't look much like it at present." 
 
 " I wish you would n't give up writing/' she 
 urged. Their solitary evening drive, following 
 the unusual excitement, had suddenly made 
 their acquaintance take on the aspect of a 
 ripened friendship, and she spoke to him with a 
 greater sense of intimacy than she had known 
 till then. " Tell me about it all." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " he asked quickly. 
 " Really, there 's nothing to tell, only I may not 
 be able to write." 
 
 "No; I didn't mean that." From his abrupt 
 change of tone, she saw that he had mistaken 
 her meaning and supposed that she was trying 
 to penetrate his secret. " I meant how did you 
 ever happen to write, in the first place." 
 
 " It was foreordained from the beginning, I 
 
 suppose," he replied, as he leaned over for the 
 
 whip and struck Dexter a sharp blow. " I was 
 
 intended for a lawyer ; but it did n't suit me half 
 
 40
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 so well as writing ; that 's all. Now the game is 
 played out, and I shall stop." 
 
 " And go back into law ? " she asked, thinking 
 that she read the secret of his aversion to the 
 future in the need that he should devote himself 
 to an uncongenial profession. 
 
 " It is doubtful. If you were a man, Miss 
 Tiemann, you would know that there are times 
 when we can only stand still and wait to see 
 what will come next. I am in one of those 
 times now. By next summer, it will probably 
 all be settled." 
 
 " And then you will come up here and tell 
 us all about it? " she said eagerly. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " I shall have looked my last at Camp Idle- 
 wilde, long before that time. Next year, though, 
 I hope you will give a stray thought to our week 
 together, Miss Tiemann. It has certainly been 
 varied in its nature." 
 
 " Next year," she answered as frankly as a 
 child ; " Auntie and I both shall miss you, for it 
 has been very pleasant, this acquaintance of 
 ours. But if you are such a wanderer, you '11 
 probably run across us again." 
 
 " My wandering days are over," he replied 
 sadly. " Now I shall have to settle down." 
 
 It was easy to find the doctor and send him 
 galloping out to the farm ; but there was a long 
 delay before the sister could be roused from her 
 4 1
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 heavy sleep and made to understand that she 
 must dress and go with them. The drive back 
 to the farm was apparently much longer than 
 the distance to the village had been. Any per- 
 sonal conversation between Elinor and Heaton 
 was out of the question. The girl was trying to 
 soothe and comfort her terrified companion, and 
 Heaton scarcely spoke, while he allowed Dexter 
 to shamble on at his own pace. He was listening 
 to Miss Tiemann, admiring her kindly tact, and 
 wishing that her clear, low voice would speak to 
 him so sympathetically if trouble should ever 
 come to him, as it must inevitably do. 
 
 The past week had been so short, so happy ! 
 Their pleasant friendship had been such a 
 delight to him, for, although he might easily 
 have been a popular man, in reality he made 
 few friends. This might have meant much to 
 him, if circumstances had been different. As 
 it was, it was all beginning and no end : a few 
 hours on the water, a walk, a drive, and all their 
 talk which had gone to show that they might 
 have been such good friends. The future might 
 have been so bright before him ; but he dared 
 not look towards it now. He could only shut 
 his eyes to it all, and stumble blindly onward.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 " AND how is the invalid ? " Heaton asked, the 
 next morning. 
 
 " Better," Elinor answered, as she buttoned 
 her gloves. " At least, we infer so, for her 
 temper is asserting itself. We heard sounds of 
 strife, this morning, while we sat over the break- 
 fast table, wondering whether or not she was 
 likely to die. Moreover, she scorned the hot 
 milk that the doctor ordered, and demanded 
 fried eggs. I think she will recover." 
 
 " After all our lurid experience, last night, it 
 sounds rather like an anticlimax," Mrs. Mackie 
 observed. " Of course, I did n't want her to be 
 injured seriously; but it would have been a little 
 more artistic if she had remained the pensive 
 invalid until after our departure." 
 
 " If you wished something artistic, Mrs. 
 Mackie, you should have listened to Miss Tie- 
 mann's efforts at conversation, last night. She 
 entirely dismissed probabilities, and adopted 
 ' art for art's sake ' as her motto. I heard her 
 assuring the woman that she knew just how it 
 was, she always wanted to go to bed early, her- 
 self, after she had done a hard day's washing." 
 43
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "Please don't, Mr. Heaton. I was utterly 
 demoralized, and I had n't the least idea what I 
 was talking about. It was n't fair for you to sit 
 by and listen, when you ought to have helped 
 me out." 
 
 Heaton gave her a laughing, sidelong glance. 
 
 " I licked Dexter," he said defensively. 
 " That was enough for one man to do." 
 
 " We shall be at Crawford's for two weeks," 
 Mrs. Mackie said. " If Miss Winnie should 
 come to an untimely end, do telegraph us. It 's 
 wicked to laugh, though, for the poor creature 
 was terribly hurt, last night." 
 
 " So was I once. I tumbled down the back 
 stairs and broke my collar-bone, when I was 
 two years old," remarked Elinor ; " but you Ve 
 laughed several times since then." 
 
 " Where do you go from Crawford's ? " 
 
 Heaton's question broke in upon one of those 
 pauses which so frequently come when friends 
 are waiting for the moment to say good-by. 
 They were sitting on the piazza, surrounded by 
 luggage, while they waited for the stage which 
 was to take them to the station ; and, according 
 to his promise, Heaton had come over to see 
 them off. To his surprise, he found the ap- 
 proaching parting harder than he had supposed 
 it could be ; and, in spite of his light, bantering 
 conversation, his face was unusually grave as, 
 from time to time, he glanced at Elinor, who 
 44
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 sat beside him on the uncomfortable wooden 
 " settee." 
 
 " We shall be in and out among the moun- 
 tains till October. Then we shall go home, and 
 I shall fall to work at my music," Elinor an- 
 swered, while she endeavored to tighten the 
 roll of her umbrella. " I mean to try, this year, 
 to see if there 's any music in me. I have 
 played with it till now; but, this last week, I 
 have been making up my mind to work in ear- 
 nest. I think I owe you the inspiration, Mr. 
 Heaton." 
 
 " Let me." Heaton held out his hand for 
 the umbrella. " How do you mean? " he asked, 
 as he slowly rolled it in his slim, muscular hands. 
 
 "'If you must, you must,'" Elinor quoted. 
 " Have you forgotten your own theory?" 
 
 He smiled at the recollection. 
 
 " I wish you success, the success which comes 
 in the ability to work on and on forever, with 
 nothing to come between you and your pro- 
 fession." 
 
 " I 'd rather rest a little, once in a while," she 
 answered lightly; but she added to herself, 
 " How he does hate law ! " 
 
 The stage came lumbering up to the gate and 
 stopped. In the confusion that followed, there 
 was no opportunity for anything but the most 
 hurried of farewells. Then the stage went on 
 again, jolting and rumbling along in the midst 
 45
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 of a cloud of dust. At the turn of the road, 
 Elinor leaned out of the window and looked 
 back. Heaton was still standing in the gateway, 
 bending slightly forward and gazing intently 
 after them. She waved her hand ; he answered. 
 The next instant the stage had swung around 
 the turn, out of sight. Heaton stood there for 
 a moment longer, looking at the empty land- 
 scape before him. Then he slowly drew his 
 hand across his forehead while, half uncon- 
 sciously, he repeated the words the old German 
 woman had used, the day before, 
 
 " Es ist A lies zu kurz, zu kurz" 
 
 Crossing the lawn on his way back to the camp, 
 he passed near the hammock. There on the 
 ground lay a little book which Elinor had 
 dropped, the afternoon before, and, in the even- 
 ing's excitement, she had forgotten it. Heaton 
 stooped and took it up. It was only a sum- 
 mer novel, rather shabby, with her name written 
 across the cover, and a leaf turned down to mark 
 the place where she had stopped reading. The 
 young man held it irresolutely for a moment; 
 then, with a hasty glance at the house, he 
 tucked it into the side pocket of his short gray 
 coat and walked away, whistling softly to him- 
 self. 
 
 Heaton was unusually late in going down to 
 the log cabin, at dinner time. Nearly all the 
 campers had left the tables when he appeared, 
 46
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 and he showed little disposition to enter into 
 conversation with those that were left. After- 
 wards, without going for his customary row, he 
 went directly to his hammock, where he spent 
 the greater part of the afternoon lying on his 
 back with his hands clasped under his head, 
 and staring up into the green trees above him. 
 Hour by hour, the last week passed in review 
 before his eyes ; but he dwelt longest on three 
 pictures which stood out clearly from the rest : 
 Elinor in a pink gown against a pinker sunset 
 sky ; Elinor staring at him with an eager, flushed 
 face, and dropping the letters into her lap while 
 she stretched out her hand to bind herself to 
 her agreement ; and Elinor, her hair all ruffled by 
 the storm and her face full of merriment, bend- 
 ing down beside the old German woman to 
 watch the busy wheel. 
 
 Without stirring otherwise, he put his hand 
 into his pocket, pulled out the little book, and 
 began scribbling on the flyleaf. 
 
 " None of that, old man ! You know that is 
 forbidden." 
 
 He started up abruptly, cramming the book 
 into his pocket. 
 
 " Jack? How did you get over so early? " 
 
 " Had a fit of remorse for leaving you so long, 
 so I took an earlier train than I said I should. 
 It 's as well I did, though, for I found you in 
 mischief. Give an account of yourself." 
 47
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " I'm all right. Had a good time ? " 
 
 "Don't I look so? You missed it; girls and 
 hops innumerable, and none too many men, 
 men like you and me, that is." 
 
 He was certainly an attractive specimen of 
 humanity, as he sat there on the ground beside 
 the hammock, laughing at the modesty of his 
 own assertion. For the past twenty-three years, 
 life had dealt kindly with Jack Wyckoff, and he 
 showed his appreciation of its favors by growing 
 into a handsome, hearty manhood. His blond 
 face and strong figure roused the admiration of 
 every woman he met ; every man of his acquaint- 
 ance liked him for his genial, sunny temper; 
 but Jack went on his own way, unspoiled alike 
 by admiration from women and popularity 
 among men, only intent upon having a good 
 time as he went along, and ultimately making a 
 record in his chosen profession. 
 
 "What's been going on here?" he asked. 
 " Is Napoleon still on deck at the campfire, and 
 has Kurzenbeine gone back to Chicago? It 
 looks quiet as the grave here." 
 
 "What made you hurry back?" inquired 
 Heaton, as he rose and stretched himself. 
 
 " Devotion to you, Tom, coupled with the 
 fact that the prettiest girl I met up there was 
 coming down on this train. Now I look at you, 
 though, you seem a little off. What the deuce 
 sent you to writing again? I hope you've not 
 48
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 done much of it." And Jack 's face lost some- 
 thing of its jollity. 
 
 "No; only a little, but I might as well." 
 Heaton dropped down into the hammock again, 
 and sat scowling at the ground. " I might as 
 well keep at it as long as I can, Jack. I '11 have 
 to give it up soon enough, anyway." 
 
 " I know, old fellow ; but there 's no use in 
 expediting matters. You can't hinder the 
 inevitable ; but you may help it on a good 
 deal. I 'd let the writing alone, this summer." 
 
 There was a prolonged silence. Jack was the 
 first to break it. 
 
 "I say, Tom, what's up? You're not the 
 same fellow I left." 
 
 " Nothing is up. I Ve been playing with fire, 
 that 's all." 
 
 Jack whistled softly to himself. 
 
 "That's a highly original remark, and it 
 usually portendeth a girl. Well ? " 
 
 "Well, it was that Miss Tiemann from the 
 farm. You know we had asked who she was 
 before you went away. Napoleon did the deed. 
 He introduced me to the aunt, the aunt intro- 
 duced me to the niece, the niece was an uncom- 
 monly nice girl, and I behaved as you do, as 
 I'd have done, a year ago." 
 
 "The best thing you could possibly have 
 done. Now take me over and introduce me." 
 
 " They went, to-day." 
 4 49
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Oh, and you were pondering upon past joys, 
 when I found you. I thought you looked pen- 
 sive. What's the use of taking it to heart, 
 Tom? The summer girl is omnipresent, and 
 we '11 move on in search of fresh fields. I 've 
 been through dozens of just such experiences ; 
 but they don't prey on me a little bit. We '11 
 start for the Dells to-morrow, if you say so." 
 
 Heaton made no answer. His cousin sat 
 looking up at him intently ; and, in spite of the 
 laugh on his lips, his merry blue eyes wore an 
 anxious expression. Neither of them spoke, 
 and the stillness was broken only by the ecstatic 
 cheering of the choir boys, who were playing 
 ball in a neighboring field. Then Heaton asked 
 abruptly, 
 
 " For God's sake, Jack, how long is this thing 
 to go on ? " 
 
 " On my honor, Tom, I Ve no idea." 
 
 " On your honor? Tell me, if you can; it's 
 better to know." 
 
 . " I can't tell at all. I would, if I could, old 
 man. He said it might be a month or two, it 
 might be two or three years." 
 
 Heaton's head dropped on his hands. 
 
 " I could stand all the rest well enough ; it 's 
 only the waiting and the uncertainty that are so 
 bad. Nothing seems of any use, now, for it may 
 not be finished." 
 
 Wyckoff rose. He had seen his cousin in 
 5
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 this mood before, and experience had taught 
 him that its surest cure was to be found in 
 physical exercise. 
 
 " I must row up to the village to send a 
 letter," he said, as he rested his hand on his 
 cousin's shoulder. " I wish you 'd come with 
 me, Tom. I Ve things to tell you, you know. 
 Everybody made a grand row because you 
 did n't go up, too. They wanted to wire you ; 
 but I told them you were turning hermit, and it 
 would n't do any good. Come along. Where 
 did you leave the boat?" 
 
 Half-way across the lake, Heaton rested on 
 his oars. 
 
 " You 're a good sort of fellow, Jack," he said 
 slowly ; " and I appreciate it, even if I don't say 
 much about it. But, after all, if I were a mur- 
 derer going to be hanged, though theoretically 
 I suppose I should cling to every last day of 
 my life, I 've a general notion that I should bribe 
 the Lord High Executioner to hurry up and get 
 it over with."
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 " GIVE me your blessing, Auntie, before I go." 
 
 Mrs. Mackle looked up at the girlish figure 
 standing before her in the doorway. 
 
 " Don't you really think I 'd better go with 
 you?" she asked. 
 
 " No ; I must begin to fight my own battles at 
 once. Besides, I shall do better if I am alone. 
 I can't say that I anticipate it, though. Re- 
 member, you are to meet me down town, at 
 one, so we can have lunch together before you 
 go to the train." 
 
 She crossed the room and stood for a moment 
 before the mirror, as if to assure herself that her 
 dress was in perfect order. Then, without 
 speaking, she kissed her aunt and swiftly left the 
 room. 
 
 Once out in the street, she walked rapidly to 
 the nearest elevated station. It was one of the 
 clear, bright days of late September when the 
 up-town streets of New York, though empty, yet 
 begin to take on the look of returning life. 
 People were still lingering at the mountains or 
 by the sea ; but their houses were being opened 
 
 52
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 and aired, in preparation for their coming. 
 Through the wide-open windows, Elinor could 
 see the white-capped maids flying about; but 
 the sidewalks were still deserted, save by the 
 flock of sparrows which, without troubling them- 
 selves to move out of her way, eyed her with the 
 calm assurance that city life brings to its every 
 inhabitant, bird as well as human. 
 
 Half a dozen times on her way down town, 
 Elinor looked at her watch to make sure that she 
 would be in season for her appointment ; yet, 
 when the hour struck, she was still irresolutely 
 pacing one of the streets in the neighborhood of 
 Madison Square. 
 
 " Alas, my time has come ! " she said to her- 
 self. " All I can do now is to screw my courage 
 to the sticking-place. But I won't fail. Winter- 
 baum advised me to try, and I 'm determined to 
 succeed. Sooner or later I will sing." 
 
 There was a bright scarlet spot in the middle 
 of each cheek, and she shut her teeth hard upon 
 her lower lip to steady it. Then she turned 
 into one of the tall buildings, and, too nervous to 
 think of the elevator, she hurried up four or 
 five flights of stairs and paused, breathless, 
 before a door which bore in staring black letters 
 the sign : 
 
 MANUEL ARTURO 
 
 ENTER WITHOUT KNOCKING 
 
 53
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Fearful lest, if she delayed, her courage would 
 forsake her, Elinor turned the knob and entered 
 the room. It was an attractive little place, as 
 befitted the outer sanctum of one of America's 
 greatest musicians ; but, as Elinor sank into 
 the nearest chair, her fear came back to her, 
 for the sounds which met her ears were not 
 reassuring. Directly opposite the corner where 
 she sat, was a doorway which evidently led 
 into the inner room where Signer Arturo was 
 giving a lesson. The door was slightly open, 
 and she could hear two voices, one a clear tenor 
 which sang a few notes, only to be interrupted 
 by an inarticulate roar from the other, followed 
 by a vigorous pounding upon one single note of 
 the piano. 
 
 "Up, I have told you! Up! Up! Put out 
 your tongue ! Carry the tone upward in the 
 mouth ! " 
 
 The tenor voice came again, wonderfully sweet 
 and true it seemed to Elinor, as she listened. 
 
 " No, that is not right at all. Why you 
 scream there ? " 
 
 " But, Signer Arturo " interposed the 
 laughing voice of the pupil, who did not appear 
 in the least discomposed by the obvious bad 
 temper of his master. 
 
 " It is no but; you must do it. I have told 
 you forty thousand times, and I tell you again, 
 you must keep the tones up. Now sing ! " 
 54
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 The other voice took up the phrase which 
 she had caught, as she entered the room. There 
 came a crash, as if two hands had suddenly des- 
 cended upon all the keys within their reach. 
 
 " Up ! Up ! Up ! Up ! Again ! You will never 
 be right to sing it as you do ; no ? Listen to 
 me." And he sang the same strain three or 
 four times over, with a delicacy of shading 
 which transformed the simple phrase into a 
 masterpiece of art. 
 
 The tenor tried to imitate him, caught the 
 first few notes, then stumbled, faltered, and 
 stopped singing. 
 
 " Oh, I say, Signor Arturo, I can't do that," 
 he said, with a jovial laugh. 
 
 " But you must. Now try. I pray you not 
 to dismay. I never dismay." 
 
 The tenor voice came again, better, this 
 time ; but, half through the phrase, Arturo in- 
 terrupted it. 
 
 " That will not do. You sing with an expres- 
 sion as if I were pinching you to sing, you know, 
 and you were angry about it. All your tones 
 are quite wrong. Next time, we shall begin 
 with that little study." 
 
 " But how about the song? " 
 
 " You shall have no more songs until you have 
 sung better. Now you must go ; your hour is 
 five minutes over." 
 
 Elinor caught her breath quickly, as she heard 
 55
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 steps coming towards the door. She looked up 
 to see two merry blue eyes staring at her, as 
 the younger man passed out through the room. 
 Then she looked down again, for Signer Arturo 
 stood before her. 
 
 " You wish me ? " he asked, in a more genial 
 tone which partially reassured her. 
 
 " I am Miss Tiemann. I wrote to make an 
 appointment with you," she answered, forcing 
 herself to meet his eyes. 
 
 She saw nothing more formidable than a stout, 
 dark little man who stood staring at her and 
 polishing his bald head with his handkerchief. 
 She was conscious of a momentary wonder how 
 so small a body could contain so great a voice ; 
 then she listened in dismay to his next words. 
 
 " You were sent by Winterbaum, my old pupil, 
 I think ; and you wish to make an appointment 
 for me to try your voice." 
 
 " Can't you do it now?" she said blankly. 
 
 " Certainly not. My time is full, each day ; 
 and the next pupil will be here at once. Give 
 me your address, please." And he took a little 
 memorandum book from his pocket. 
 
 " Oh, I can't wait," she exclaimed. " I must 
 know, to-day." 
 
 His face grew grim. He was not accustomed 
 to having his pupils assert themselves in this 
 fashion. 
 
 " Not if it is a question of studying with me. 
 56
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Winterbaum should have told you that. I can 
 give you the time on Thursday, the tenth." 
 
 "Not till then? That is two weeks off." 
 
 He shook his head and tapped his book 
 impatiently. 
 
 " It must be that, or nothing." 
 
 " I '11 take it, then ; but I hoped " 
 
 " What is your voice ? " 
 
 " Soprano." 
 
 " And the course of study you wish to take ? " 
 
 " Herr Winterbaum said he thought I was 
 best fitted for oratorio," she faltered. 
 
 "And your address?" 
 
 She gave it; then, too much astonished to 
 rebel, she obeyed his gesture of dismissal. 
 
 Outside the door, she stopped short and stared 
 at the panels for a moment. 
 
 " Oh, the little monster ! " she said slowly. 
 
 From the end of the hallway, she heard a low, 
 irrepressible laugh. Turning suddenly, she saw 
 the young man who had left the room just ahead 
 of her, standing by the door of the elevator 
 shaft. 
 
 " Please excuse me," he said quickly, as he 
 took off his hat. " I ought n't to have laughed ; 
 but I really could n't help hearing, and I agreed 
 with you perfectly. Did you have a bad time? " 
 
 " Dreadful." 
 
 Their eyes met, and they laughed again. 
 
 "I know all about it; I've just been there. 
 57
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 But you must have had the benefit of part of 
 my lesson." 
 
 " Is he often like this ? " Elinor's tone betrayed 
 her indignation. 
 
 " No ; not often. He 's unusually tempestuous, 
 to-day. Then you don't study with him ? " 
 
 "Not yet; but I hope I am going to. He 
 has n't tried my voice yet." 
 
 " I hope you will succeed. It is n't every one 
 who does, I can tell you. I had to wait for more 
 than two years before he would even look at me. 
 Here comes the elevator, at last." And he stood 
 aside to let Elinor pass in before him. " I wish 
 you all manner of success," he said, as they 
 parted at the street door. " It is n't always an 
 unmitigated delight to be a pupil of Arturo ; 
 but, after all, you will never regret your choice 
 of teacher." And bowing again, he turned away 
 and left her. 
 
 " Isn't it discouraging?" Elinor said over her 
 bouillon, an hour later. 
 
 " I feel as if I did n't know what to do," said 
 Mrs. Mackie anxiously. " Your uncle is to meet 
 me in Cleveland, to-morrow, or I should n't 
 think of leaving you. As it is " 
 
 "As it is, you will go," interrupted Elinor. 
 " There is no use in your waiting here with me. 
 If I succeed, all my arrangements are made for 
 staying ; if I fail, I can pack my trunk and take 
 the first train that leaves for the West. In either 
 58
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 case, you couldn't help me. Of course, I'd 
 rather have had the matter settled, to-day, when 
 I was nerved up to the crisis, and before my new 
 gown had lost its pristine freshness. Still, I don't 
 think he 's a man to be unduly influenced by such 
 little matters as imported gowns." 
 
 " But what will you do in the mean time ? " her 
 aunt asked doubtfully. " Till your lessons begin, 
 I mean." 
 
 " Kill time as fast as I can, Auntie. It won't 
 be pleasant ; but I can endure it, and there 's no 
 sense in your staying here, when you know 
 you hate New York. It seems years to me, 
 though, since that last recital at home, when 
 Winterbaum urged me to come on here to take 
 lessons." 
 
 The waiter drew near, just then, and Elinor 
 lost herself in study of the card. When her 
 order was given, she looked up with a little 
 laugh. 
 
 " Art is long ; is n't it, Auntie ? The only ques- 
 tion is whether I have length of days to match 
 it. It seemed to me that if once I could get 
 started, I could work, work, work forever, for 
 the sake of one little taste of success at the end ; 
 and now it is sc provoking to be met at the start 
 with this delay. Do you think there's any 
 chance ? " 
 
 Mrs. Mackie smiled at the impetuous question. 
 She glanced up at the eager face before her and 
 59
 
 EACH LIF.E UNFULFILLED 
 
 reflected how pretty her niece had grown, during 
 the past two or three years. 
 
 " The advice of a teacher like Mr. Winterbaum 
 ought to count for something," she replied. " I 
 don't worry at all about your work, Elinor ; but 
 it seems to me that you are going to be rather 
 lonely, in this new venture of yours. Your uncle 
 and I can't very well come here to live. I wish 
 you could have gone on studying at home for a 
 year longer, at least." 
 
 " If I am ever to change, this is the time," she 
 said bravely. " You need n't worry about me. 
 As soon as I get to work, I shall be all right." 
 
 " But you can't live without friends, no matter 
 how much you may bury yourself in your work. 
 I do hope Allie Amidon will remember to write 
 to her cousin about you. If she calls and is nice 
 to you, that may be better than nothing." 
 
 Elinor pushed aside her plate. 
 
 " Poor dear little Auntie ! You are deter- 
 mined that I shall have a very bad time of it. 
 You forget that I'm willing to give up some 
 other things for the sake of my voice. If I 
 can't sing, and Arturo says so, I promise to 
 come directly home and spend the rest of my 
 days there." 
 
 " Yes ; but," and Mrs. Mackie gave utterance 
 
 to the thought which had been slowly growing 
 
 up in her mind during the week that she had 
 
 spent in settling her niece in the New York 
 
 60
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 boarding-house ; " the fact is, you .are entirely 
 too young and too pretty to be left alone in 
 a city like this." 
 
 The girl laughed outright. 
 
 " I 'm much obliged for the compliment, and I 
 wish you did n't grudge it so. But I 'm only a 
 working girl here, working on my voice instead 
 of plain sewing. I shall be quite safe. However, 
 if danger threatens, I will promise to flee to 
 Allie's Mrs. Emerson, without even waiting for 
 an introduction." 
 
 She turned to pick up her gloves and, as she 
 did so, she glanced into one of the mirrors which 
 lined the wall. Her face brightened, as she bent 
 forward across the table. 
 
 " Auntie," she said in a low voice ; " is n't it 
 odd? Do you remember that Mr. Heaton we 
 met at Idlewilde, two years ago ? He 's here." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Don't look. He is staring straight at us. 
 He is right behind me, at the table in the left- 
 hand corner, there with that yellow-headed boy. 
 I did n't see him come in ; but he must have 
 seen us. I wonder why he did n't come over to 
 speak to us." 
 
 As she rose to leave the table, Mrs. Mackie 
 turned to look in the direction which Elinor 
 had pointed out. There at the corner table sat 
 Heaton, leaning back in his chair as if waiting 
 to be served, and listening to the animated talk 
 61
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 of his boy companion. There was no doubt of 
 his being their old acquaintance; yet, even in 
 her swift glance, Mrs. Mackie was conscious 
 that he was much altered. He was older and 
 thinner and graver than he had been, and his 
 brown hair was slightly streaked with gray. 
 Still, it was Heaton who sat before them, and 
 she felt a keen sense of pleasure as she moved 
 towards him, waiting to catch some look of 
 recognition. 
 
 In going out of the room, it was necessary to 
 pass close to the table where he was sitting. 
 Elinor, who led the way, was watching him ex- 
 pectantly, ready to greet her old friend, if he 
 looked towards them. He did look up, just as 
 they were beside him ; and both women bowed 
 in the cordial, friendly manner which was a 
 natural result of their acquaintance, two years 
 before. The next moment, Elinor turned white, 
 and, raising her head haughtily, she swept on 
 out of the room. Their old friend had looked 
 her full in the face ; then he had turned his eyes 
 away again indifferently, without giving any sign 
 that he had ever seen her before. 
 
 62
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 " Miss TIEMANN?" said a voice at her door. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " There 's some one to see you, down-stairs. 
 She is waiting in the little parlor." 
 
 Elinor crossed the room and took the card 
 which the maid was holding out to her on the 
 tray. 
 
 " Mrs. Edwin Emerson," she read. " That is 
 Allie Amidon's cousin. Tell her I '11 be down 
 directly," she added to the maid. 
 
 She was undeniably pleased at the thought of 
 meeting her caller, for the two weeks since her 
 aunt had gone away had been long and lonely 
 ones to the young girl. It was one thing to 
 come to New York to throw herself heart and 
 soul into her chosen work ; it was quite another 
 matter to spend long, idle hours alone in her 
 room, impatiently waiting for her work to begin, 
 uncertain even whether it could begin at all. She 
 could not read all the time, and she had never 
 been an enthusiastic needlewoman ; neither did 
 she care to spend all of her hours out of doors. 
 Exploring a city in which she saw no familiar 
 face had palled upon her by this time, and she 
 63
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 had begun to long for congenial companionship. 
 She went through it bravely ; but this first 
 experience of homesickness had cost her many 
 bitter tears. However, they were shed in the 
 privacy of her room and in the darkness of the 
 night. By day, as she went about among the 
 people in the boarding-house, she still main- 
 tained the gay, resolute manner she had always 
 worn. 
 
 Since the day that her aunt had left her, she 
 had never seen Heaton. In fact, she had little 
 desire to meet him again. He had refused in 
 the most direct and unequivocal manner to 
 recognize the fact of their former acquaintance, 
 although there could have been no doubt what- 
 ever of his having known either herself or her 
 aunt. Ponder upon the subject as she would, 
 Elinor could see no reason for this unexpected 
 slight. At Idlewilde, he had not only shown 
 himself friendly ; day by day he had sought her 
 society with eagerness, and he had parted from 
 her with evident regret. During the days 
 which followed their unexpected meeting, Eli- 
 nor went over all the details of their acquaint- 
 ance ; but she could find no clue to the mystery. 
 For one moment, she had wondered whether 
 Heaton were the gentleman he had seemed. 
 Then she scornfully dismissed the suspicion. 
 It was impossible to doubt his honor, however 
 much one might doubt his manners. 
 64
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " It 's simply because he thinks I am a raw 
 Westerner, and he doesn't care to know me, 
 here in New York," she said to herself, one day, 
 while she stood before her mirror. Then she 
 made a scornful grimace at the face looking 
 back at her, and resolved to content herself 
 with that explanation and dismiss the matter 
 from her mind. 
 
 Nevertheless, as he was the only person in the 
 city whom she had ever seen before, it was im- 
 possible for her to forget his existence, and she 
 found herself giving much more thought to her 
 former acquaintance than she cared to do. She 
 wondered whether he were finding the law as 
 uncongenial a profession as he had seemed to 
 expect. She wondered whether he had entirely 
 foresworn his writing. She even wondered if 
 he were still as intimate with Jack, that much- 
 talked-of cousin whom she had never seen, of 
 whose other name, even, she was ignorant. 
 She half wished that she might meet him, some 
 day. Perhaps he might explain to her his 
 cousin's unwillingness to acknowledge her as an 
 acquaintance. 
 
 She made a hasty toilet and went running 
 down-stairs to meet her guest. In this city of 
 strangers, the fact that Mrs. Emerson was a 
 cousin of her own cousin, Allie Amidon, made 
 her seem like a close relative ; and Elinor felt 
 that her anticipations were realized when she saw 
 5 65
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the attractive little woman who rose to meet her. 
 In the stir of greeting, of rapid interchange of 
 question and answer which followed their com- 
 ing together, there was no opportunity for 
 Elinor to analyze her impressions. Afterwards, 
 when she was alone in her room once more, she 
 realized that she had been spending an hour in 
 the society of a thorough woman of the world, a 
 woman whose position was so assured that she 
 could dismiss the consideration of it from her 
 thoughts and devote herself to her domestic 
 affairs, secure in the knowledge that her place in 
 society was awaiting her, whenever she might 
 choose to assume it. 
 
 Without being in the least degree handsome, 
 Mrs. Emerson seemed to Elinor one of the most 
 beautiful women she had ever met. Moreover, 
 she was blest with that gift, so rare among 
 American women, a low, musical voice, and her 
 manners were indescribably winning. But this 
 lay upon the surface and was seen at a glance. 
 Beyond and beneath it, there was an innate 
 womanliness, a quick sympathy with every one 
 with whom she came in contact. It was this 
 which had won for Bertha Emerson a popularity 
 which was entirely independent of the fact that 
 she was mistress of a beautiful home, and one of 
 the best hostesses in all the society-loving city. 
 
 " So you see that I am Allie's own cousin, 
 and almost related to you, even if we never have 
 66
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 met," Mrs. Emerson said at length, as they were 
 sitting together in the stiff little parlor. " Now 
 tell me all about yourself. You are here to 
 study music, I think." 
 
 Elinor laughed a little. 
 
 "I had hoped so; but there appears to be 
 some question about it. I came on, intending to 
 study with Arturo." 
 
 "Arturo? My cousin, Mr. Wyckoff, has 
 been studying with him for a year, and he thinks 
 he is wonderful. How do you like him? " 
 
 " I fear I 'm not in a mood to answer that 
 question fairly, Mrs. Emerson. I had a very 
 bad time with him, to-day." 
 
 " My cousin says that he rages at times. I 
 trust you did n't find him in one of his savage 
 moods." 
 
 Elinor shook her head. 
 
 "If I didn't, I shudder to think what his 
 savage moods may be." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson bent over and laid her hand on 
 that of her hostess. 
 
 "Tell me all about it, dear. I know it was 
 something uncomfortable, for you look worried, 
 and he has the reputation of being a bear." 
 
 Elinor bit her lower lip for a moment. It was 
 so good to be spoken to in this sympathetic 
 tone, after living alone for two long weeks. 
 
 " It 's nothing," she said bravely. " I Ve no 
 right to trouble you with my worries. Besides, 
 67
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 it was all funny, very funny, only I was feeling 
 blue, and I could n't see it in a proper light. 
 Have you ever seen Arturo?" 
 
 " Never. From what I know, I think I don't 
 care to meet him." 
 
 " He is a tiny little man, very bald, and with a 
 voice like Niagara. He talks a mixture of all 
 the languages known at Babel." 
 
 " It 's the same man," Mrs. Emerson inter- 
 posed. " I recognize my cousin's description of 
 him." 
 
 " I had an appointment with him, this morn- 
 ing, to have him try my voice," Elinor continued, 
 laughing in spite of herself at the recollection. 
 " My watch was fast, and, for five or ten minutes, 
 I had the pleasure of hearing him scold the 
 pupil before me. That did n't tend to put me at 
 my ease, and when my turn did come, I could n't 
 sing at all. My voice was perfectly unmanage- 
 able. He kept scowling more and more darkly, 
 till at last he brought both fists down on the 
 keys with a crash, and turned around to face 
 me. 'You are not good, signorina/ he said. 
 ' I cannot make a voice out of nothing. You 
 would better buy a music box to play with.' " 
 
 " Oh, you poor child ! " And Mrs. Emerson 
 laughed. 
 
 "That was nothing to what followed. He 
 told me that I had no voice and no ear, that 
 nothing could tempt him to teach me. He 
 68
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 * 
 
 advised me to study the piano, or harmony, or 
 even the banjo ; but I politely assured him that 
 I only cared to sing, that I fully intended to 
 learn, and that I preferred to have him for my 
 teacher. Then he lost his temper, and I sus- 
 pect that he swore at me a little. Unfortunately 
 I don't understand Italian, so it was quite 
 thrown away. Then we began again at the 
 very beginning and argued it all out, inch by 
 inch, neither of us yielding in the least." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson laughed again in mingled 
 horror and amusement. 
 
 " If only I could have seen you ! It must 
 have been something new for Arturo to have 
 anybody defy his will, for his word is law in the 
 musical world." 
 
 " He ought to be grateful to me, then, for 
 giving him the new experience. But it was an 
 important matter to me. I felt as if I could n't 
 give up and go back home, when all my 
 arrangements were made to stay here." 
 
 " It would have been ignominious. But go 
 on. I must hear the rest." 
 
 " The rest was a fitting climax. After we had 
 talked for nearly half an hour, he struck another 
 discordant chord and said sulkily, ' I have told 
 you that it is not of the least of use, for you 
 never can be taught to sing. However, you 
 may try again, if you wish to be quite sure ; but 
 it will do you no good ! ' " 
 69
 
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 " Encouraging ! " 
 
 " Was n't it? But my temper had come, and 
 I was too angry to be afraid of him, so I did a 
 little better. But even that did n't suit him. 
 He jerked himself around and said viciously, 
 "Diavolo, signorina, if you can do that now, 
 why did n't you say so in the first moment and 
 not waste all my time, which is very costly ? You 
 are not good for anything now, for Winterbaum 
 has taught you quite wrong ; but come to me in 
 a week from to-day, and I will see what I can do. 
 Now go.' And I went. Do you wonder that I 
 did n't know whether to laugh or to cry, nor 
 which of us had come off conqueror? " 
 
 " You have, I know. But I wish I had heard 
 the interview. Do you mind if I tell my cousin ? 
 He will be so amused." 
 
 " You may tell any one you choose," Elinor 
 answered, laughing. "This has made me abso- 
 lutely brazen, and I glory in my combativeness." 
 
 " I shall be eager to know the result of your 
 next contest," Mrs. Emerson said, as she rose to 
 take leave ; " so you must come to see me soon 
 and tell me about it Tuesday is my day ; but I 
 wish you would feel free to drop in upon me at 
 any time. I am at home a great deal. Both Mr. 
 Emerson and my brother are home-abiding 
 people, and we have a cat-like affection for our 
 own chimney corner." 
 
 "You have no children?" Elinor asked. 
 70
 
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 "Yes, two, Ned and baby Ruth, the family 
 tyrant. But come to see me, and I will intro- 
 duce you to my great boy and my small girl. 
 You know we are cousins, through Allie, and I 
 shall expect you to behave in true cousinly 
 fashion." 
 
 Elinor stood at the window, looking after her 
 guest, as she went down the steps. All at once, 
 her horizon seemed to have grown brighter, 
 and New York appeared to her a much more 
 attractive place than it had done, an hour be- 
 fore. And yet even she had no foreshadowing of 
 the important part which the Emerson house- 
 hold was destined to play in her life. 
 
 7 r
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 A FEW weeks later, as Elinor dressed for her 
 first dinner party of the season, she was quite 
 ready to deny that she had ever been homesick. 
 Her work had at last begun in earnest, and each 
 day was busier and happier than the one before 
 it had been. The second test of her voice had 
 proved more satisfactory, and Arturo, as if 
 moved to admiration of this tempestuous young 
 woman, the first of all his pupils who had dared 
 to assert herself in opposition to his opinions, 
 had not only consented to give her two lessons 
 a week, but was treating her with a certain 
 courtesy which her dauntless courage would 
 naturally arouse. 
 
 She had not seen Mrs. Emerson since the 
 day of their first meeting. They had exchanged 
 two or three calls in the mean time, without find- 
 ing each other at home ; and Elinor had begun 
 to fear that their acquaintance was doomed to 
 die a natural death, when she received a cordial, 
 informal note, asking her to dinner, " not a cere- 
 monious affair, just ourselves and half a dozen 
 friends," ran the invitation; "so we shall expect 
 you to be quite informal." 
 72
 
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 However, informality in New York and infor- 
 mality at Idlewilde, for instance, were quite dif- 
 ferent matters, Elinor reflected ; and she chose 
 her most becoming gown for the occasion. She 
 was glad that she had done so, for, when she 
 entered Mrs. Emerson's pleasant drawing-room, 
 the other guests were assembled and were 
 clothed in the conventional purple and fine linen 
 of the day. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson greeted her with the same cor- 
 diality she had shown before, and introduced 
 her husband, a jovial, prosperous lawyer. Then 
 she brought up a much-bestarched little man 
 who had been assigned to Elinor as a table com- 
 panion. As they stepped slightly to one side, 
 and entered into the aimless conversation which 
 precedes dinner, Elinor glanced up and down 
 the room at the people to whom she had just 
 been introduced. There was nothing especially 
 striking about them, and her eyes wandered 
 over them indifferently enough, till all at once 
 she started slightly and the color came into her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Who is that?" she asked, interrupting her 
 companion in the midst of a dissertation upon 
 the approaching horse show. 
 
 "Which?" he inquired, turning his head as 
 far as the painful proportions of his collar would 
 allow him to do. 
 
 " That tall, dark man who just came in. He 
 73
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 looks like somebody I used to know," she said 
 carelessly. 
 
 "That? That's Tom Heaton. Don't you 
 know him ? " 
 
 " Tom Heaton ? " she echoed. 
 
 " Yes, he 's Mrs. Emerson's brother, and lives 
 with her. You Ve probably met him here be- 
 fore. He used to be something of a lion, a year 
 or so ago." 
 
 " How do you mean?" she asked, while her 
 thoughts were busy with the man to whom she 
 had so promptly turned her back. Strange that 
 he should be the brother of her hostess ! How 
 tiny the world was ! The situation was not 
 exactly agreeable. Here in his sister's house, 
 he would be forced to recognize her existence, 
 although he had shown quite plainly, only a few 
 weeks before, that he had no wish to keep up 
 the acquaintance. 
 
 " Oh, he was a genius, you know, a fellow 
 who wrote things that people raved over. I 
 never could see much in them, myself; but I 
 always liked Tom, he was such a good fellow, 
 and I was awfully sorry for him, when he went 
 blind, last winter." 
 
 Elinor caught her breath sharply and clutched 
 the chair before her for support. The room 
 seemed to be whirling about her, and the voice 
 of her companion sounded remote and hollow. 
 Heaton blind ! She could not believe it. He 
 74
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 had come walking into the room and paused to 
 speak to his sister, with nothing in his manner 
 to distinguish him from the other guests. There 
 must be some mistake. It could not be the 
 same Heaton with whom she had walked and 
 rowed at Idlewilde. 
 
 Suddenly it came over her that this, beyond 
 a doubt, was the explanation of everything 
 which had puzzled her before. This was the 
 reason that he must give up his writing; this 
 was the secret of his frequent bitter reference 
 to the future. And finally, this was the cause 
 of his apparent slight of her, six weeks before. 
 He had not spoken to her, for the simple reason 
 that he had not been able to see her, though 
 she had passed so near him that she could have 
 touched him on the shoulder as he sat there. 
 This, too, explained countless peculiarities of 
 his manner, oddities which had been unnoticed 
 at the time, but which came back to her now, 
 in the light of this sudden revelation. Mr. 
 Heaton, strong, active, and in the prime of his 
 manhood, delighting in out-of-door life and all 
 that pertained to it, to be stricken with blind- 
 ness and shut out from all that he so enjoyed ! 
 She rallied with an effort. The brain works 
 swiftly at such times, and when she regained 
 her self-control, her companion was still dwell- 
 ing upon the same topic. She was glad of that; 
 it saved her asking any question. 
 75
 
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 "Twas hard luck, you know. For a year 
 or so, he had been having the world at his feet, 
 for he was always a great man in society, and 
 then his writing helped him on. It was sudden, 
 too, and took us all by surprise ; but they say 
 he had known it was coming." 
 
 " What was the cause of it?" she asked, turn- 
 ing towards her old friend slowly, as if she 
 dreaded the moment when she must look him 
 in the face. 
 
 " Some kind of a strain, I don't know just 
 what. I was abroad all that year, and he and 
 Wyckoffwent off together somewhere, just after 
 the trouble developed, so I never knew exactly 
 how it was. Did you say you knew him?" 
 
 " I met him a few times, two or three years 
 ago ; but I had heard nothing about him since, 
 nor about this." 
 
 As she spoke, she raised her eyes and looked 
 at him. He was standing directly opposite her, 
 talking with the same boy whom she had seen 
 lunching with him. One or two men stood hear 
 him, taking an occasional part in the conversa- 
 tion ; and, as his face became animated, some- 
 thing in his expression reminded her of the day 
 in the cottage, when he had laughed at her 
 German. It was the same genial, kindly smile 
 she had known ; but it vanished more quickly, 
 and at rest his face was very sad. 
 
 " That 's Ned Emerson with him," her com- 
 76
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 panion explained. "They are great friends, 
 and Heaton is as proud of the boy as if he were 
 his own son. If you like, I '11 bring him over 
 to you after dinner, that is," he added, as 
 there came a general move towards the dining- 
 room. 
 
 A glance over her shoulder had told Elinor 
 that Heaton and the boy were the last ones to 
 leave the drawing-room. As she settled herself 
 in her place at the table, she bent over to catch 
 the remark of her talkative little neighbor ; and, 
 in doing so, she discovered that Heaton was 
 seated at her other hand. For a moment, she 
 was silent, not knowing how to address him, not 
 daring to speak to her other neighbor, for fear 
 that Heaton might recognize her voice. He 
 must know she was there, she reflected, and she 
 wished that he would take the initiative. It 
 was impossible for her to talk to him as she 
 would have done to the Heaton she used to 
 know. This was to all intents and purposes 
 another man. She felt a sudden awe creeping 
 over her, as she stole an appealing glance up at 
 him, in the vain hope that he would speak. But 
 Heaton remained obstinately silent, with an odd 
 little smile on his lips, half bored, half amused. 
 It was the first time she had seen him in even- 
 ing dress. She studied the careless ease with 
 which he wore it, and she made a mental com- 
 parison which was not entirely flattering to her 
 77
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 little companion, who was chattering volubly in 
 a futile attempt to hold her wandering atten- 
 tion. All at once, he wound up with, 
 
 "But what do you think about it, Miss 
 Tiemann ? " 
 
 Elinor started and blushed guiltily. 
 
 " I 'm I 'm sure I don't know what to 
 think," she faltered. Then abruptly she turned 
 to Heaton. " Mr. Heaton, I wonder if you 
 have forgotten Idlewilde?" she asked, in a voice 
 which seemed to her to proceed from the roof 
 of her mouth. 
 
 Instantly his face changed. 
 
 " It really is the same Miss Tiemann? Bertha 
 spoke of you often, and I have wondered if it 
 could be my old acquaintance." 
 
 " The very one," she said. " Fate has cast 
 me at your door, just as it cast Miss Winnie at 
 our door, two years ago. Do you remember 
 that night?" 
 
 " Do you think I could ever forget my strug- 
 gles with Dexter?" he answered, with a smile. 
 "No; my memory is a good one, and I think 
 I could give you a fairly accurate history of 
 that week. How long have you been in New 
 York?" 
 
 He was obliged to wait for his reply, for 
 
 Elinor's other neighbor was claiming his share 
 
 of attention, and she had turned back to him. 
 
 Now that the ice was broken, she would gladly 
 
 78
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 have given her time entirely to Heaton ; but, as 
 the conversation became more general, it was 
 impossible for them to exchange more than 
 an occasional word or two. She watched him 
 closely, however, and, as her eyes rested on his 
 face, she was always conscious of that same feel- 
 ing of mingled awe and pity, the same desire to 
 avoid his sightless stare. He was glad to meet 
 her again, it was evident; but she could read 
 his embarrassment by countless signs which 
 told her he was ill at ease and trying to conceal 
 it all underneath that brave little smile. As she 
 left the table, she turned to him. 
 
 " Come and talk to me as soon as you are at 
 liberty," she said in a low voice. " I am long- 
 ing to gossip with you about Idlewilde." 
 
 Before the other men had left the table, 
 Heaton excused himself and went back to the 
 drawing-room. Mrs. Emerson was sitting with 
 Elinor, a little at one side of the room ; and, 
 as her brother came slowly towards them, she 
 called him to her. 
 
 " Miss Tiemann has been telling me that you 
 are old friends, Tom," she said, as she rose ; 
 " and you must have ever so much to talk over. 
 Take my place, and excuse me for a while. 
 I must go and speak to Mrs. Bennett." 
 
 There was a long pause after she went away. 
 Heaton had stretched out his hand to feel for 
 the back of the chair, and then, seating himself, 
 79
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 he had turned towards Elinor. Something in 
 the gesture sent a chill through her. It seemed 
 to intensify the impression made by the brown 
 eyes which met hers so squarely and so uncon- 
 sciously; and yet it was impossible for her to 
 realize that he could not see her, as she sat 
 there in her pretty evening gown, playing ner- 
 vously with one long-stemmed pink rose. If 
 he would only turn his eyes away, it would not 
 be so bad. Perhaps then she could think of 
 something to say. She looked helplessly up 
 and down the room in search of some subject 
 of conversation. The pause grew more and 
 more strained, and she felt that she must 
 break it. 
 
 "What an early winter we are having," she 
 said at length. 
 
 Heaton smiled a little tired, sad smile. He had 
 never been slow to read people ; and, during 
 the past year, as if to balance his loss of sight, 
 his other senses had become more acute. He 
 could fancy just how she was sitting there, 
 blushing and frowning a little in her effort to 
 appear at ease ; but, oddly enough, in the pic- 
 ture which came before him, she was sitting in 
 the stern of a boat, and the lap of her blue 
 cheviot gown was strewn with unopened letters. 
 
 " Yes," he assented quietly ; " and if you 
 are n't used to them, you will find our east winds 
 very trying. How long since you came? " 
 80
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Only six weeks," she answered, giving an 
 impatient gesture which snapped off the stem of 
 the heavy rose in her hand. " It seems longer, 
 for it was so long before I went to work." 
 
 " You have been successful since I saw you," 
 he went on, as if anxious to avoid another 
 pause. 
 
 He was still sitting with his face turned to- 
 wards her, and to avoid his eyes Elinor kept her 
 own eyes obstinately fixed on the floor. In a way, 
 it helped on the illusion that she was talking to 
 the man she had formerly known. His voice 
 was the same ; she recalled all its little intona- 
 tions and turns of expression, its peculiar low 
 distinctness. 
 
 "That depends on what you call success," 
 she answered, with an effort at lightness. " All 
 I have done yet is to prove my right to go on ; 
 it remains to be seen how far I go." 
 
 "Were you at Idlewilde, last year?" 
 
 " Of course, and this summer, too. The old 
 place is unchanged." 
 
 " Even Napoleon ? " he asked, while his face 
 lighted with a sudden flash of fun. 
 
 " I see that you have a good memory," she 
 replied, conscious that her words had a flat, 
 conventional sound, yet unable to speak in her 
 usual tone. "Yes, Napoleon was there, in a 
 brand-new suit, and your German friend came 
 up for a week. I saw him once or twice, and 
 6 81
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 he was still mourning for you. Likewise I saw 
 Miss Winnie." 
 
 " Then she recovered ? " 
 
 " She certainly did. But tell me, how long 
 did you stay after we left?" 
 
 " Only three days," he answered. " Life was 
 very uneventful after your departure. We ex- 
 perienced neither hops nor runaways, and even 
 Napoleon palled upon us in time." 
 
 " Oh, I say, Heaton," remarked Elinor's com- 
 panion at dinner, as he strolled up to them ; 
 " where 's Wyckoff, these days ? I have n't 
 seen him anywhere for weeks, and I thought 
 surely he 'd be here, to-night." 
 
 Before Heaton could answer, Mr. Emerson 
 had swept down upon Elinor and carried her 
 off to look at his Japanese bronzes. She did 
 not see Heaton again until just as she was taking 
 leave of her hostess. He stood at the farther 
 end of the room, listless and alone. Elinor 
 looked towards him and hesitated. Then she 
 crossed the room to his side. 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Heaton. It has been good 
 to see you again," she said, with something of 
 her old cordial manner. 
 
 He held out his hand. 
 
 " Good night," he answered. " I was just 
 wondering if you had gone. Edwin carried 
 you off too soon. May I call on you sometime 
 with my sister ? " 
 
 82
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Do, please. I Ve dozens of things to talk 
 over with you. I 'm nearly always in, on Tues- 
 days and Fridays ; but I shall feel as if I ought 
 to receive you out of doors, for the sake of 
 tradition."
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 IT was late, that night, when Elinor fell asleep. 
 When she reached her room, she dropped into 
 the nearest chair, and sat there motionless for 
 a long hour. She felt that her much-anticipated 
 evening had been a dismal failure, and her short 
 conversation with Heaton had been the worst 
 part of it all. Instead of meeting him frankly 
 upon the old ground, regardless of any change 
 in him, she had been stiff and constrained and 
 awkward, until he, too, had been uncomfortable 
 and embarrassed. 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, she would have 
 been glad to see him again, for that far-off week 
 at Idlewilde had always remained a pleasant 
 memory ; but now she wished that their path- 
 ways had never crossed. After once seeing 
 him, that night, so altered and so shut out from 
 the pretty, gay world around him, it had been 
 impossible for her to forget that he was in the 
 room. She had been restless and absent-minded 
 when she was not with him ; but as soon as they 
 were left alone together, she had felt a childish 
 desire to run away and leave him to himself 
 84
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 once more. It was provoking, she reflected 
 petulantly, to find him in the home of her new 
 friends, where she could not fail to see him 
 often. Mrs. Emerson had urged her to drop in 
 there at any time. It would have been a charm- 
 ing social opportunity for her, had it not been 
 for the probability of her constantly meeting 
 Heaton and being confronted with his steady, 
 unseeing gaze. 
 
 Then a gentler mood came to her, as she 
 thought of him, of what he must have suffered. 
 The blow was fresh upon him when they had 
 first met. She could see its effect now in num- 
 berless little ways, and she marvelled to herself 
 that he had refrained from speaking of the 
 horror which was pursuing him and hanging 
 over him. She wondered how it would feel to 
 be blind. Rising, she closed her eyes and walked 
 up and down the room ; but, shut her eyes as 
 closely as she might, she could still feel the 
 light, and she knew that she could see it again 
 whenever she chose. He was in the dark, the 
 thick, black dark, and it would last forever and 
 ever and ever. 
 
 Something rose up in her throat and choked 
 her, as she sprang forward impatiently and 
 lighted the two remaining gas jets. It was un- 
 thinkable for her, this absolute darkness, and 
 yet the thought of it terrified her. And Heaton 
 was living like that! He had endured it for a 
 85
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 year, and he must endure it for years to come. 
 There was nothing left for him to do but to en- 
 dure, and meet people, and talk, and smile that 
 queer little smile of his, and make no sign. 
 Worst of all, when she had met him, she had 
 talked about the weather, though she knew he 
 was watching for one accent of womanly pity. 
 If only the evening could be lived over again, 
 she would speak such kind, friendly words. 
 
 She went back to Idlewilde and reviewed 
 their life there. If he remembered it at all, he 
 must have carried away some mental picture of 
 her. She wondered whether he still retained it, 
 and whether he would always think of her 
 cheeks as smarting under their coat of sunburn 
 and her hair roughened with the lake winds. 
 As the thought crossed her mind, she glanced 
 into the mirror before her, and wished that she 
 could substitute her present self, in all the splen- 
 dor of her rustling silk gown. She rose wearily 
 and began to take off her finery. The party 
 was over, and her lesson came early in the 
 morning. Work was work, and she must be 
 ready for it. Arturo insisted upon regular hours, 
 and it was Arturo who was ruling her life now, 
 not Tom Heaton. 
 
 A week later, she called upon Mrs. Emerson; 
 
 but neither at that time nor during her two 
 
 succeeding calls did she see Heaton, nor did 
 
 his sister make any but the most passing refer- 
 
 86
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 ence to him. It was evident that Mrs. Emerson 
 had taken a fancy to the young girl, and their 
 intimacy grew rapidly. The older woman had 
 a fashion of stopping her carriage at the door of 
 the boarding-house, and carrying Elinor off for 
 long drives or shopping tours ; and before the 
 Christmas holidays had come, she was " Elinor " 
 to both Mrs. Emerson and her husband. 
 
 The friendly, informal intercourse was the best 
 thing possible for Elinor. She was too busy to go 
 much into society, and this was the one home in 
 the city where she felt free to drop in at any hour 
 without ceremony. It was impossible for her 
 to doubt the hospitality of these new friends, 
 and their pleasant rooms soon became nearly as 
 familiar to her as her own more modest quarters 
 at the boarding-house. She met Heaton there 
 frequently. As a rule, at the advent of callers 
 he retreated to his own den up-stairs ; but his 
 sister usually sent for him whenever Elinor 
 appeared. 
 
 "Tom sees so few people now," she said a 
 little apologetically, one day ; " that I like to 
 coax him down to take a cup of tea with us as 
 often as I can." 
 
 That was the nearest she had ever come to 
 making any reference to her brother's infirmity ; 
 and Elinor respected her silence, the more so as 
 she soon discovered that, whenever Heaton was 
 present, his sister never lost consciousness of 
 87
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 him, but was always on the alert to keep him 
 an interested sharer in the conversation. 
 
 Between Elinor and Heaton, the constraint 
 had never entirely worn off. He was always 
 conscious of her discomfort in his society; and 
 Elinor, on the other hand, carried her apparent 
 unconsciousness to the point of indifference. 
 Once or twice, even, she had blundered into 
 little cutting remarks which she had not realized 
 at all until, too late, she had seen Heaton wince 
 under them as if they had caused him physical 
 pain. 
 
 She was sitting alone in her room, one day in 
 December, resting after an unusually exciting 
 hour with Arturo, when the maid brought her 
 Heaton's card. 
 
 " There was a boy came with him," the girl 
 explained ; " but when I said you were in, the 
 boy just came into the house with him, and 
 went right off again and left him sitting there 
 alone." 
 
 Heaton rose, as Elinor entered the room. 
 
 " Don't be too much surprised to see me," he 
 said, smiling. " As a rule, I don't make calls ; 
 but I thought you 'd let me drop in here, on the 
 ground of old acquaintance, so I asked Ned to 
 come with me." 
 
 " And where is Ned ? " Elinor asked, as she 
 drew a chair forward and sat down near her 
 guest. 
 
 88
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " He wanted to see a friend in the next block. 
 The two boys are going away to school together, 
 after the holidays, and they have a great many 
 plans to make. He will be back here in half an 
 hour ; in the mean time, you will have to let me 
 stay." 
 
 " It 's good to have you here," she said cor- 
 dially. " I was just indulging in a fit of the 
 blues. Do you ever have them?" 
 
 " Frequently, especially of late. What was 
 the matter; Arturo?" 
 
 " Yes, he was in a temper, to-day, and I had a 
 bad time with him." 
 
 There was a pause. Then Heaton said sud- 
 denly, 
 
 " I had an especial reason for coming, to-day. 
 I wanted to be egotistic and claim the 'good 
 boy ' reward. I Ve been writing again, this last 
 week." 
 
 " I 'm so glad. Tell me about it. I have won- 
 dered whether you had done anything of the 
 kind since you were at Idlewilde." 
 
 There was another pause. Heaton leaned for- 
 ward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees, 
 his face turned towards the floor. 
 
 " The fact is, Miss Tiemann," he said at length ; 
 " I wanted to see you by yourself for a while. 
 What 's the use of playing at cross purposes as 
 we do, and talking on the surface of things? 
 When we are together, we are both of us think- 
 89
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 ing of this." He raised his head and turned 
 his eyes'towards her, as if to illustrate his mean- 
 ing. " We may as well speak of it first as last. 
 I know I 'm not the fellow I was when you knew 
 me at Idlewilde, and there 's no use trying to hide 
 the fact." 
 
 His voice was quiet and steady, as if he had 
 put himself under a severe strain ; but his hands 
 gripped each other nervously. Elinor was silent, 
 and he went on, 
 
 " Don't think I am given to talking about it. 
 As a rule, I let it alone ; but it 's a little differ- 
 ent with you. People here got used to it by 
 degrees ; but, that first night, I knew you were 
 taken by surprise. It's horrible to be saying 
 this, only can't you see? the only way to 
 get round it was to walk straight into the 
 middle of it, for it kept standing in the way 
 and spoiling all our talks." 
 
 It was painful to watch him and listen to him. 
 Elinor felt that she could bear no more. 
 
 " Please, don't, Mr. Heaton," she said, starting 
 up from her chair and moving a step or two away 
 from him. " I wish you would n't say this." 
 
 He looked hurt. 
 
 " Forgive me," he said slowly. " It 's an un- 
 usual thing to do, I know. *> Perhaps I 'd better 
 not have spoken about it, only I thought it 
 might make it easier for you." 
 
 " It is n't that," she said half impatiently. 
 90
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Don't you know what I have wanted to say : 
 that I am so sorry for you, so sorry for what 
 you must have suffered, and that I wish I could 
 do something to make it less unbearable? I 
 wanted to tell you so ; but I was afraid." 
 
 His color came. 
 
 "Am I so changed, then? You would have 
 said it at Idlewilde." 
 
 She dared not tell him that his blindness made 
 the difference, that she shrank from meeting his 
 eyes, now that the life had gone out from them. 
 She stood looking down at him for a moment, 
 wishing that he could read her unspoken pity 
 and not force her to seek the right words to 
 say. Her instinct seemed to have failed her. 
 Under the quiet endurance to which he had 
 trained himself, she could see that he was as 
 sensitive as a man could be. In the coming 
 days she would be glad that he had spoken of 
 his trouble ; but the present moment was a try- 
 ing one, and it needed all her tact to meet him 
 on his own ground. With a great effort at self- 
 mastery, she seated herself again and said, with 
 something of her old friendly manner, 
 
 " It is better that we have spoken about it, 
 even if I can't do anything but say I am sorry. 
 I wish you would tell me all about it, all that has 
 happened since I saw you." 
 
 " If you care to know. It 's such an old story 
 here that it seems as if every one I met had 
 9 1
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 been told. It was overwork, in the first place. 
 I had just been to an oculist when I met you, 
 and he had told me what must come, but he 
 could n't tell me when. I did n't feel like seeing 
 people I knew, that summer, so Jack and I went 
 West. Then we came home, and I waited for 
 fourteen months. Heaven only knows how I 
 should have gone through it, if it had n't been 
 for Jack and my sister. They carried me along 
 in some way ; but it was a relief when it came. 
 The waiting from one week to another, not dar- 
 ing to make so much as a dinner engagement 
 without a mental reservation, was n't a pretty 
 thing to do. Since then, I have jogged on 
 through life at about Dexter's old pace, and 
 found my main employment in learning to 
 grin and bear it." 
 
 Elinor bit her lip nervously for a moment. 
 
 " How do you bear it? " she burst out. " It 
 shuts you off from everything and leaves you 
 alone, in spite of anything we can do. And all 
 those days at Idlewilde you knew it was com- 
 ing, and you never told us, nor let us suspect it 
 at all." 
 
 " I never could have spoken of it," he 
 answered steadily. " At that time, I did n't 
 dare to think of it, even. It used to stop my 
 breath, sometimes, and all I could do was to try 
 to forget it. That was where you helped me so 
 much." 
 
 92
 
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 " I wish I could help you now," she said 
 impetuously. 
 
 " You have helped me more than you know. 
 My meeting you has seemed like a link with the 
 old days when I really lived, and it has given 
 me pluck to go on. Besides, it has set me to 
 writing again, and I have just finished the story 
 I began at Idlewilde, two years ago." 
 
 " You can write, then? I 'm so glad." 
 
 " After a fashion, with Bertha to help me. It 
 makes work for her ; but she is always so good 
 to help me along. She has n't been away from 
 me since last December, and Jack is like my 
 other self." 
 
 There was another pause. With an effort, 
 Elinor raised her eyes and looked steadily into 
 the brown ones before her. They were a little 
 expressionless and stolid ; otherwise there was 
 nothing to show that their work was done. 
 She found it impossible to realize that Heaton 
 was sitting there in the darkness ; yet the 
 strange, overmastering fear came back to her 
 as she looked at him. It was as if another and 
 a different atmosphere surrounded him, and she 
 were powerless to enter it. 
 
 " I wish," she said slowly ; " don't misunder- 
 stand me, for I mean it so truly ; I wish I could 
 do something for you. I am at your sister's so 
 much of the time, and she never treats me like 
 a stranger. Why could n't I " 
 93
 
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 " It is n't anything that you can do," he re- 
 plied, as he rose and, feeling for the mantel 
 beside him, stood leaning against it. " I have 
 been so frank that I might as well go on and 
 tell you what I thought when I came here. If 
 you can make up your mind to take things as 
 they are, and not feel all the time as if you were 
 fencing with something that you could never 
 touch, we both shall find it easier. It is only 
 the old problem once more : given, fate ; 
 required, the best of things." 
 
 Ned's step was heard in the hall. Elinor rose 
 and stood beside her guest. 
 
 " I am glad that we have talked it out, Mr. 
 Heaton," she said. " Next time we meet, it will 
 be at the precise point where we separated at 
 Idlewilde, and I shall expect you to give me 
 tidings of Miss Winnie." 
 
 She followed them to the door, and stood 
 looking after them, while Ned carefully led his 
 companion down the strange flight of steps. 
 Then she shut the door abruptly and, hurrying 
 away to her room, she locked herself in and 
 flung herself, face downward, upon the bed. 
 
 94
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 THE season was nearing an end and Lent was 
 at hand. In some way or other the months had 
 flown past, and Elinor's first year of work was 
 more than half over. In spite of slow, monoto- 
 nous toil, in spite of days of discouragement 
 when Arturo scolded her and her voice seemed 
 to fail her entirely, she had gone on untiringly. 
 Since the time, more than two years before, 
 when she had laughingly announced her inten- 
 tion of trying what good might be in her voice, 
 she had never turned aside from her purpose. 
 She rarely spoke of what that purpose might 
 be ; but, deep down in her heart, there was the 
 dogged determination to become a singer who 
 should deserve the name. Unfortunately for 
 her ambition, she had long since proved that 
 opera and its vocal pyrotechnics were out of the 
 question for her. Whatever talent she might 
 have, lay in other directions, and she could 
 only hope to succeed in the field of oratorio or 
 concert work. 
 
 At times even that seemed doubtful. It is 
 no light matter to be the owner of a possible 
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 voice, and Arturo was a notorious tyrant, in so 
 far as his pupils were concerned. They dieted, 
 they exercised at stated intervals, they slept at 
 regular hours ; otherwise, they went in search 
 of another teacher. To all these things Elinor 
 gave herself up unhesitatingly. Her one choice 
 had been made when she selected her master; 
 now she was ready to rely upon his judgment 
 and experience, to obey his commands to the 
 letter. To one less enthusiastic, it would have 
 been a tedious time ; and there were moments 
 when Elinor, even, was half inclined to abandon 
 her undertaking. 
 
 She had never supposed that one could have 
 as many faults as she suddenly had appeared to 
 develop. Her voice was improperly placed; 
 her breathing was bad, and her tongue was 
 always going astray. There are few experiences 
 more humiliating than to practise, day after day, 
 with one's eyes fixed upon a mirror set up to 
 serve as a detective, so far as one's faults are 
 concerned. One loses mental perspective, and 
 the tongue becomes hideously prominent. 
 However, Elinor toiled on, rewarded by an 
 occasional nod of approval from her teacher, 
 and she soon learned that his gruff " Go on " 
 was the highest praise for which she could 
 hope. 
 
 " Still," he remarked, one day, resting his 
 elbows on the piano, and screwing himself 
 96
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 around to look at her ; " you are better than I 
 had thought, signorina. You were very bad 
 indeed for a long time. Do not think you are 
 good now," he added hastily. " There is much 
 for you to unlearn yet, but there is a certain 
 purity of tone which says to me that I must not 
 dismay. Time will do much, and patience will 
 do more. No?" 
 
 "But when can I begin to sing?" she asked 
 a little wearily. " It seems to me that I have 
 done nothing yet." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 " Ah, you are tired. You must not be. I am 
 never, never tired and I am but one, while there 
 are many of you. You cannot make a singer in 
 a day, and you can never make a singer unless 
 you have the three gifts : the voice, the ear, and 
 the musical passion. You have the ear, and I 
 shall try to make the voice ; but the musical pas- 
 sion must come of itself. You sing now as if you 
 were made of bones, not blood. To sing, you 
 must have lived. And even that is not enough ; 
 you must have lived outside of your own life. 
 A music box is very soothing ; but it can never 
 stir us till the tears fall. That is what a singer 
 must do, signorina. To sing, that is to have a 
 mission, and you must undertake it with con- 
 viction and, above all, with reverence." 
 
 His little dark eyes were not fixed upon her ; 
 but were gazing thoughtfully beyond, as if 
 7 97
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 towards the far-away source of all music. For 
 the moment, his round, chubby face was trans- 
 figured ; then abruptly he returned to the 
 present time and place. 
 
 " Now, once again ! " he exclaimed. " Now ! 
 Bourn, bourn, ta ta ta ta ta to, turn, pom, pa-a-am! 
 Ah, you are too late ! Here am I singing all 
 the brasses and everything, and when I get 
 there, you don't do anything, you know. You 
 should feel the music, and then you would be 
 ready. Let us don't lose any more time, and 
 remember to pray very sweetly, to get what you 
 want. Open the mouth wide, so that the sound 
 can come forth. Ah-h-h-h ! You are forget- 
 ting the tongue." 
 
 " To think," Elinor said to Heaton, that 
 night ; " that singing like this depends upon 
 such details ! Fancy Elsa being scolded about 
 her tongue, and practising her high notes in 
 front of a mirror ! I suppose that is what they 
 all have to go through ; but we don't realize it." 
 
 " Shakespeare had to learn to spell," he was 
 beginning, with a smile, when Elinor interrupted 
 him. 
 
 " No, he did n't ; at least, not very thoroughly, 
 and that Ortrud didn't learn to sing. Still, 
 exceptions appear to prove the rule, and we 
 belong to the unhappy majority who have to 
 learn the A, B, C, of our trade. But tell me, are 
 you still writing?" 
 
 98
 
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 "Now and then a little. It's much harder 
 work now, you know; and it isn't often I'm 
 feeling like it. My Idlewilde story will be out, 
 next week. May I send it to you ? " 
 
 " Of course. I always like to see what my 
 friends are doing, and this is peculiarly my 
 story, you know, as long as I prompted you to 
 finish it. Why not read it to me, some day, 
 before it comes out?" 
 
 She had made the remark carelessly, for her 
 attention had been distracted for the moment. 
 Too late she saw her mistake, as Heaton 
 answered briefly, 
 
 "You are demanding the impossible, Miss 
 Tiemann. I can type my stories with the aver- 
 age amount of correctness ; but then I have to 
 wait for some one to read them over to me, on 
 approval." 
 
 " I wish I could be the some one," she an- 
 swered gently. " It must be a treat to read a 
 new story before the author himself has done it. 
 Most of us have to wait until the freshness is 
 quite worn off. There goes the curtain." 
 
 She had found a note awaiting her, on her 
 return from her lesson, saying that Mr. Emer- 
 son had had the offer of a box at the opera, that 
 night, and asking her to dine and go with them. 
 Elinor had promptly accepted the invitation, 
 and she had so much enjoyed the cosy little 
 dinner alone with the Emersons and Heaton 
 99
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 that she had been almost sorry when the car- 
 riage was announced. 
 
 At the close of the first act, she had risen, and, 
 leaving the Emersons who were busy in recog- 
 nizing their friends scattered through the house, 
 she had moved to the back of the box where 
 Heaton had been sitting alone. 
 
 " Is it satisfactory?" he asked, as she sat 
 down at his side. 
 
 " Perfect," she answered, with a sigh of con- 
 tent. " You know I Ve never heard ' Lohengrin ' 
 before. I have been brought up on Italian 
 opera, and this is a revelation to me." 
 
 " How is the setting? Good? " 
 
 " Beyond criticism ; or, at least, I 'm not in a 
 critical mood. If you could only see it all, and 
 "enjoy it with us ! It makes me feel deplorably 
 selfish to have so much more than my share." 
 
 " What 's the use ? " he asked. " At least, I 
 can hear it, and that is something to be thankful 
 for. Some day, I hope I am going to hear 
 you. I never heard you sing but once, that 
 night in the boat. Do you remember? " 
 
 Elinor nodded. Then, recollecting herself, 
 she said, 
 
 " I remember. T was the night we went to 
 the hop; wasn't it? I sang the little Kiicken 
 ' Schlummerlied.' I hope I can do better than 
 that now, though Arturo might tell a different 
 story, I am afraid." 
 
 100
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " By the way, have you ever run across Jack, 
 there at the studio?" 
 
 " Mr. Wyckoff ? No. Is he a fellow-sufferer 
 there?" 
 
 " Did n't you know it? He has a good voice, 
 and he has studied with Arturo for a long time." 
 
 "Remember that Jack, as you call him, is 
 still a myth to me. I have never seen him, in 
 spite of the numberless times we have just 
 missed each other, and I begin to have serious 
 doubts of his existence. What is he like, any- 
 way?" 
 
 " He used to be a wonderfully handsome 
 fellow, and they say he has n't changed much. 
 I always think of him as he looked, the last 
 time he dined here before my eyes gave out. 
 He was in full panoply, for he was going on to 
 some other places. I never saw him brighter 
 nor more stunning, and I never saw him again. 
 He came to see me, two days later ; but it was 
 too late." 
 
 "Was it as sudden as that?" Elinor asked in 
 a lower voice. 
 
 " Yes ; it does n't take long, under some cir- 
 cumstances. I read the ' Rubaiyat,' that morn- 
 ing. I used to live on it, in those days. But 
 this is a very inappropriate subject, Miss Tie- 
 mann. You were asking about Jack. He is a 
 fellow that everybody likes ; there probably 
 is n't a more popular man in the city. He is a 
 101
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 sort of a hero of mine, in a way, for he is suc- 
 ceeding in ail the things that I used to try for. 
 I don't envy him, though ; he deserves his luck, 
 if only for the way he has stood by me. I want 
 you to meet him, and I wonder that you have n't 
 done it, long ago. He is at the house, almost 
 every day." 
 
 The curtain rose just then, and, with a word 
 of apology, Elinor left him and moved forward 
 to join the others. 
 
 Later on in the evening, several friends of the 
 Emersons had dropped in to see them, and the 
 talk had been the impersonal gossip of the hour 
 and the place. In the interval before the last 
 act, however, Mrs. Emerson had joined her 
 brother at the back of the box, leaving Mr. 
 Emerson to entertain their guest. Suddenly 
 Elinor turned to her companion. 
 
 " Do you know," she said abruptly ; " how 
 Mr. Heaton's blindness changes things ? " 
 
 " How do you mean ? " Mr. Emerson asked. 
 " I don't quite understand." 
 
 " I don't, myself," she answered, while a little 
 troubled look came into her eyes. " Even in 
 the little time we used to know each other, we 
 were such good friends ; and now I seem to say 
 the wrong thing to him so often. I 'm so sorry 
 for him, and I like him so much ; but I am con- 
 tinually making mistakes when I am with him. 
 I don't realize where I am going until the mis- 
 102
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 chief is done, and then it 's too late, for I can't 
 apologize. I wish we could get back on the 
 old ground ; but it appears to be impossible." 
 
 " Poor Tom ! " said Mr. Emerson gravely. 
 " I know how it is with you. He generally 
 shuts his teeth and goes through his bad times 
 by himself; but it has been a terrible blow to 
 him, this giving up all his plans, and it has left 
 him sensitive and sore all over. Bertha and 
 Wyckoff are the only ones who know just how 
 to manage him, and they never make mistakes. 
 There 's Wyckoff now," he added, as the door 
 of the box opened. 
 
 Elinor turned around, curious to see the 
 cousin of whom she had heard so much. He 
 was bending over the sofa on which the brother 
 and sister were lounging, and something in his 
 bright blue eyes and his tall figure struck her as 
 being familiar ; but she studied him in vain, at 
 a loss to discover the secret of the puzzling re- 
 semblance. He glanced once or twice at Elinor ; 
 but he lingered at Heaton's side, laughing and 
 talking with his cousins. It was impossible for 
 Elinor to overhear their conversation; but, as 
 she stealthily watched them, she was astonished 
 at the change in Heaton's face and manner. 
 For the moment he had lost his older, saddened 
 look, and his face was bright and boyish again 
 as she had not seen it since they parted, three 
 years before. 
 
 103
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Wyckoff remained at his side until the curtain 
 rose for the last time. Then, arm in arm, they 
 came forward. A moment later, he had been 
 introduced to Elinor and had dropped into the 
 chair between herself and Heaton. In the inter- 
 est of the climax of the opera, conversation was 
 abandoned, and it was not until the curtain fell 
 that Elinor had the opportunity to exchange 
 more than an occasional word with him. As 
 they left the box, however, on their way to the 
 carriage, he placed himself at her side. 
 
 " I am beginning to feel slightly hurt, Miss 
 Tiemann," he said laughingly, while he threw 
 her cloak about her shoulders. " We have met 
 before, and yet you obstinately refuse to accept 
 me as an old acquaintance." 
 
 " But I 'm sure we did n't meet," she answered. 
 " You had left Idlewilde before I knew Mr. Hea- 
 ton, and we had gone before you came back. 
 You may have seen me there ; but I know we 
 have never spoken to each other till to-night." 
 
 " Alas for your memory ! " he said. " I was 
 under the distinct impression that I had not only 
 talked with you, but that I had taken a short 
 ride with you, once upon a time." 
 
 She looked up at him incredulously. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " Here in New York." 
 
 " I know you are mistaken, Mr. Wyckoff. I 
 wonder whom you have mixed up with me. I 
 104
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 assure you, it 's not at all flattering to my van- 
 ity to have you so uncertain about your 
 companions." 
 
 " Nor to mine to have you forget me so com- 
 pletely," he replied. " I do remember seeing 
 you at Idlewilde, before I went away; but you 
 appear to have forgotten the day you called 
 Arturo a little monster." 
 
 She laughed aloud, such a gay little laugh, 
 that Heaton, just behind, raised his head to 
 listen. 
 
 " Are you the unhappy man who was taking 
 a lesson? I was sorry for you then, even if I 
 did n't say so. Experience has only served to 
 increase my sympathy for you. But what was 
 the ride?" 
 
 " In the elevator, of course. I can't say that 
 I enjoyed it, for you did n't appear to be in a 
 happy frame of mind, and you scowled at me 
 as darkly as if I had been Arturo himself. You 
 are really studying with him, then?" 
 
 " Yes ; at least, I spend two hours a week in 
 being maltreated by him. I knew that you 
 were one of his pupils. Mr. Heaton was just 
 speaking of it ; but I never thought to connect 
 you with the tenor I heard, that first day. You 
 see, you were nothing but a voice then, a mere 
 abstraction." 
 
 " Let us hope that, in time, I may become 
 something more concrete," he returned gayly, 
 105
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 as he put her into the carriage. " I say, Tom," 
 he added, while he helped his cousin to his 
 seat ; " I 'm coming up, to-morrow, to get you 
 to go down to the Philharmonic with me. Per- 
 haps, if I am very good, Miss Tiemann will let 
 you take me to call on her, some day. Good 
 night." He raised his hat, and was lost in the 
 crowd. 
 
 106
 
 CHAPTER ELEVEN 
 
 BY the middle of May, the Emersons were 
 settled in their summer home, in one of the 
 suburban towns overlooking the Sound. For 
 the past year or two, they had gone out of town 
 earlier than usual, partly for the sake of baby 
 Ruth, who was never as well in the city, partly 
 on Heaton's account. Since his blindness, the 
 social life of the town had become painful to 
 him, although it had been impossible for him 
 to escape from it entirely. He had never been 
 a society man, in the fullest sense of the term, 
 and he had submitted rather impatiently to the 
 efforts of his friends to make a lion of him. It 
 was as Elinor had said, three years before. His 
 cousin and his sister drew him into their round 
 of gayety ; but he had been best content when 
 he could step aside and watch the procession as 
 it swept past him. He had been looked up to 
 and admired ; he had been a popular man in a 
 way, but it was a popularity mingled with a little 
 feeling of awe, and not at all like that inspired 
 by his more approachable cousin. 
 
 Then his blindness had come and put an end 
 to it all. Until then, Heaton had never realized 
 107
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 how much he had enjoyed his social success. 
 It had been easy to disdain it; but when he 
 was forced to step to one side and become a 
 passive listener, it suddenly grew desirable again. 
 Left to himself, he would have shut himself 
 away from the world ; but his sister was too wise 
 to allow that, and she usually succeeded in coax- 
 ing him to put in a tardy appearance at most 
 of the dinners and receptions which she gave. 
 More than that she could not do. Heaton quietly 
 declined to go out with her, and she was forced 
 to content herself with this compromise. 
 
 Strange to say, he had found that his mascu- 
 line friends had been more loyal to him than 
 the women by whom he had formerly been so 
 graciously received. In his more bitter moods, 
 he attributed this to the fact of his uselessness 
 from a social point of view. The man who 
 could neither act as escort, dance, nor forage 
 at a crowded table, he reasoned, had no right to 
 exist. He should move to one side, to make 
 room for his more utilitarian brethren. The 
 fact was, however, that the cause lay in the iso- 
 lation of his blindness, in the vague discomfort 
 which it roused in the people before him. The 
 women he had known earlier in his life, who 
 had danced with him and talked to him in dimly- 
 lighted conservatories, now stood aloof and 
 watched him in silent pity, powerless to think 
 of a word to say to him. 
 108
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "There's poor Tom Heaton, sitting alone 
 over there in the corner," they were accustomed 
 to whisper to each other. " I wonder if he 'd 
 be hurt, if I offered to sit out a dance with him." 
 
 But they never did sit out a dance with him ; 
 and little by little their acquaintance with him 
 had almost come to an end. It was better that 
 it should, Heaton felt. In their occasional 
 conversations, he had been quick to realize the 
 embarrassment of which he was the cause, and 
 it had rendered their intercourse a painful ordeal 
 on both sides. 
 
 That was during the first winter, when his 
 trouble was fresh upon him, while, quite as fresh 
 in all their minds, there was the recollection of 
 what he formerly had been. By the second 
 season, it had come to be a recognized fact that 
 he should lurk in the background, and find his 
 sole variety in the companionship of his men 
 friends, who rarely failed to seek him out for a 
 few moments before the evening was over. 
 
 In all this experience, Elinor had been the 
 one exception. In spite of her first evening of 
 discomfort with him, in spite of the fact that 
 she too shared the general feeling of awe which 
 he called up, she had proved a loyal friend. 
 Her position as a privileged guest of the house 
 had made her able to disregard the conventional 
 prejudice which forbade her companions to go 
 to the man who could not go to them. She 
 109
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 had gone to his side repeatedly, when she had 
 seen him deserted, and she had never failed to 
 find a welcome. To be sure, the conversation 
 had frequently languished, and they both had 
 been conscious of points of danger which had 
 been avoided only with difficulty; but, after all, 
 Heaton had come to rely upon her companion- 
 ship for at least a part of every evening they 
 were together, and he quickly learned to antici- 
 pate her bright chatter, which formed an enjoy- 
 able contrast to the more ponderous conversation 
 of the men. 
 
 Long before the season was ended, their com- 
 panionship had ripened into a sort of intimacy. 
 They had liked each other from the first moment 
 of their meeting; their tastes were allied, for 
 music and literature must always go hand in 
 hand. Even the little feeling of remoteness 
 between them was fast dying away. For this, 
 Heaton was largely responsible. Since the day 
 of his first mentioning his blindness to Elinor, 
 he had never avoided the subject; but he had 
 alluded to it in a matter-of-course tone which 
 had restored much of their old friendly freedom. 
 When the subject had to be mentioned, they 
 accepted it as a fact, and spoke of it without 
 reserve ; otherwise they disregarded it entirely, 
 as being an insignificant detail which in no way 
 affected their friendly relations. All this was 
 inexpressibly comforting to Heaton. As a rule, 
 no
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 he was constantly annoyed by the cold neglect 
 or the elaborate attentions of his companions; 
 and Elinor's off-hand way of looking out for 
 his comfort was as soothing as it was unusual. 
 
 Arturo had been called to Boston, for a week 
 at Easter, and Elinor had taken advantage of the 
 temporary break in her work, to spend the time 
 with the Emersons. There she and Heaton had 
 been continually together, often alone, for Mrs. 
 Emerson was a mother of the old-fashioned 
 type, and gave several hours of each day to 
 little Ruth. Under these circumstances, their 
 friendship ripened rapidly. Elinor had been 
 tireless in her attentions to Heaton, singing and 
 reading aloud to him, or discussing his work with 
 him, all in a careless, good-natured way which 
 made it impossible for him to feel any lasting 
 sense of indebtedness. 
 
 She had no wish that he should feel it. She 
 liked Heaton sincerely, and she always enjoyed 
 meeting him and talking with him. In her New 
 York life, she had found no one who was more 
 congenial to her ; and yet, strange to say, in all 
 this increasing intimacy, she had never thought 
 of him as anything but a friend. If she had 
 stopped to analyze her impressions, she would 
 have told herself that it was impossible for him 
 to be anything else. Other men she could meet 
 and contemplate, in time, as possible lovers ; but 
 Heaton seemed to her to be shut off from all
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 that side of life. His blindness had ended that 
 for him. He was as far removed from all ques- 
 tions of love as he was from reading the daily 
 papers to her. For this reason, there was 
 nothing unconventional, to her mind, in their 
 friendship. It was just friendship, nothing 
 more ; and it was as such that she enjoyed it. 
 
 She was sitting on the Emersons' piazza., one 
 night in June, watching the twilight creep over 
 the lawn and over the blue Sound which stretched 
 away beyond. Since they had left the city for 
 the season, she had seen her friends much less 
 often. It had been impossible for her to take 
 the time from her work to run out of town for 
 the frequent calls which she had been accus- 
 tomed to make, when they were within a few 
 blocks of her. She had missed them constantly, 
 and the warm days of early summer were begin- 
 ning to wear upon her. She was tired of the 
 noise and hurry of the city ; she was sick of 
 the glare of the baked pavements and of the 
 smell of the dusty streets. It had been a 
 relief to turn her back upon them, even for a 
 few hours, and to enjoy the quiet country home 
 and the congenial atmosphere of the dinner- 
 table. 
 
 After dinner, Mr. Emerson had gone to his 
 
 evening paper and his evening cigar, and Mrs. 
 
 Emerson had excused herself for a few moments, 
 
 to give some necessary orders to her maids. 
 
 112
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Elinor sat quiet for a little while after she went 
 away. Then she started up. 
 
 " Mr. Heaton, I must go out on the lawn. It 
 is so long since I have walked on any grass that 
 I want to see how it feels. Don't come with me 
 unless you like ; but I really can't sit still any 
 longer." 
 
 He had already risen, and he fell into step at 
 her side, as she moved off across the lawn which 
 sloped gently down to the water's edge. Inside 
 the house, his step was firmer ; but here it was a 
 little uncertain. Elinor hesitated for a moment ; 
 then she tucked her hand through his arm. 
 
 " It makes it easier to keep in step," she said 
 apologetically. " But you don't know how good 
 it is to feel the country around me again. I 
 begin to rejoice that I am going home in ten 
 days." 
 
 " So soon as that? " 
 
 She was surprised at the note of regret in his 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, I shall be through with my lessons on 
 the twentieth, and I shall start for home, the 
 next day." 
 
 "But you are coming back?" 
 
 " I 'm not sure. It all depends on Arturo. If 
 he is no more encouraging than he has been for 
 the last month, I may give up. But I want to 
 tell you ; I read your ' Wheels within Wheels,' 
 the other day." 
 
 8 113
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " How did you like it? " he asked quickly, for 
 he had come to depend upon talking over his 
 work with her. 
 
 " It is your best work yet," she said, with a 
 frankness which bore no taint of flattery. " It 
 is more logical ; but it is so pitiless. I confess 
 to a few tears over the ending, even if it was the 
 one inevitable result." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " I think I must have rather a genius for the 
 pathetic. I don't start for it at all ; but my 
 characters always come to some untimely end, 
 instead of rioting properly." 
 
 " Are you doing anything now? " she asked, as 
 they paused at the water's edge, and stood listen- 
 ing to the little waves that crawled up across the 
 sand. 
 
 " No ; I mean to rest and do nothing, all sum- 
 mer long. It 's warm work, wallowing in woe, 
 with the thermometer in the nineties. Besides, 
 there 's Bertha, you know. I don't like to make 
 her work so much." 
 
 "Does she do much of it?" Elinor asked. 
 "Forgive me if I seem inquisitive ; but I Ve often 
 wondered how much you can do, yourself." 
 
 " Only a little. One of the first things I did, 
 after I knew my eyes were going to give out, 
 was to learn to use a typewriter. I can do 
 that fairly well ; but of course I can't read over 
 what I have written, and I get into a hopeless 
 114
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 tangle, every now and then. My manuscripts 
 are strange-looking things when they go into 
 Bertha 's hands ; but she generally contrives to 
 puzzle them out and put them in order." 
 
 " Is n't there some other kind of a way you 
 could write ? " she said slowly. It was a ques- 
 tion she had often longed to put, yet now she 
 shrank from it. 
 
 " How do you mean?" 
 
 " I thought there was an alphabet you could 
 learn to write and then to read over what you had 
 written. Would n't it be a help ? " she asked 
 bravely, though her hand shook a little, as it 
 rested on his arm. 
 
 The idea seemed to please him. 
 
 "I remember now, Braille, isn't it? I 
 remember hearing something about it, years 
 ago, before I ever thought I could have any 
 personal interest in it. I 'm glad you spoke 
 of it. There must be places in town where 
 they teach it, and I '11 take it up, in the fall. 
 It 's only a question of my touch. That is n't 
 acute at all, you see, and even my typewriter 
 troubles me sometimes. I suppose it is one 
 of the disadvantages of growing blind so late 
 in life." 
 
 "Your touch can be trained; can't it?" she 
 
 said. "I we all want you to do everything 
 
 that makes it easier for you to write, for we 
 
 must have your stories, no matter how much 
 
 "5
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 work they make for you. And you enjoy it, 
 yourself, don't you ? " 
 
 "Yes," he replied thoughtfully; "and no. 
 When I am writing and it all goes well, I think 
 there 's nothing better ; but when the mood 
 passes, I am always disgusted to find that it 
 really amounts to so little." 
 
 " I suppose that is the fate of us all," Elinor 
 responded, and there was a little tone of despond- 
 ency in her words. " Even perfect success has 
 its disappointments. My own dream never will 
 be fulfilled ; but, even if it were, I should pro- 
 bably find it no more satisfactory than any other 
 air-castle." 
 
 "What is the dream?" he asked curiously. 
 "Or don't you like to tell it?" 
 
 " To sing," she answered earnestly ; " to sing 
 just once in public, to satisfy myself. I'd work, 
 and slave, and starve, even, for the sake of ac- 
 complishing it. But Arturo says it's no use, 
 that I have n't the ability, and that I am too 
 cold to be an artist, a real musician. I am 
 afraid he is right ; but still I keep on hoping 
 and working. I try to believe your old creed 
 you quoted at Idlewilde; but I am afraid my 
 only satisfaction will have to come from my 
 work, not from the success that ought to 
 follow." 
 
 " Let the success take care of itself," he said 
 gravely. " The work is all that counts for much, 
 116
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 and there 's nothing better, after all. Work 
 for work's sake is the real thing. When your 
 reputation is an established fact, you will look 
 back to this very year, and think that you had the 
 best of life then, and that the best day of the 
 year was the day you were working hardest to 
 get to the ideal before you." 
 
 There was a short silence. Then Elinor turned 
 to him impulsively. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Heaton ; I believe you are 
 right. This is n't the first time that you have 
 given me the courage to go on with my work. I 
 only wish I could help you as much." 
 
 " You have," he answered humbly ; " more 
 than you will ever know. " 
 
 117
 
 CHAPTER TWELVE 
 
 IT was the evening of the fourth of July, 
 nearly a month after Elinor's last call at the 
 Emersons'. Heaton was lying in the hammock 
 at the end of the piazza, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Emerson were sitting on the steps, watching the 
 rockets as they shot up from the distant city. 
 A strong south wind was blowing up from the 
 water, and across the lawn they could hear the 
 regular beating of the waves upon the sand, 
 while, far away to the south, a faint line of 
 light showed the rising moon. 
 
 At length, Mr. Emerson broke the silence. 
 
 " I had a letter from Gray, this morning, and 
 it is all settled that we are to have the cottage 
 by the first of August. Can you be ready?" 
 
 " Of course. I '11 be ready at a day's notice," 
 Mrs. Emerson replied promptly. " Which cot- 
 tage is it?" 
 
 " The furnished one up by the hotel. Mrs. 
 Gray wants us to let her maids stay there while 
 she is at the shore, so all you will have to do 
 will be to make out a list of the provisions you 
 need to have ordered, and to pack our trunks." 
 118
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "Jack is talking of spending a week at the 
 hotel while we are there," Mrs. Emerson said, 
 as she made room for her son to seat himself 
 on the step below her. " I tried to make him 
 think that it would be pleasanter for him at the 
 cottage; but he insisted that he wanted the 
 freedom of hotel life. How much room is there 
 in the cottage ? " 
 
 "All we need, and more too," answered her 
 husband, as he lighted his cigar. " Let 's have 
 somebody to stay with us. We may as well fill 
 the house." 
 
 " I was thinking of that. What do you say 
 to my writing to ask Elinor Tiemann to come 
 to us? I think she has no settled plans for 
 August, and she always seems to fit into the 
 family as if she belonged there. What do you 
 think about it, Tom?" 
 
 "What's that?" he asked, rolling himself 
 out of the hammock and going to join the 
 group on the steps. 
 
 " Of my asking Elinor to spend August with 
 us," she repeated. " Edwin has heard that we 
 can have the Grays' cottage, and now we want 
 somebody to fill it." 
 
 " You know I always like Miss Tiemann," he 
 answered. " Have you heard from her, since 
 she went away ? " 
 
 "Only once, the letter I read you. I was 
 a little surprised at her going away without 
 119
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 coming out here again to say good-by. I saw 
 her in town, one morning, and told her to be 
 sure to come out and lunch with us." 
 
 " Miss Tiemann always does have a winsome 
 fashion of suiting her own convenience, first of 
 all," Ned remarked, with the little tone of con- 
 scious superiority which six months of boarding- 
 school life can develop in the least conceited 
 of boys. 
 
 His uncle laughed. 
 
 " On what do you base your theory, Ned ? " 
 he inquired. "You had seen her just twice 
 when you went away ; and I think you have n't 
 seen her at all since you came home again." 
 
 " I don't know," the boy answered, as he 
 leaned back and rested his arm across his 
 uncle's knee. " She seems kind of slippery, 
 somehow, and I think she '11 be no addition to 
 our fun at the lake. If Cousin Jack goes up, 
 she '11 take all of his time, see if she does n't ; 
 and I sha'n't be in it at all." 
 
 A slight expression of annoyance crossed 
 Heaton's face. Till that moment, he had not 
 realized that his cousin was to be within reach 
 of the cottage. He had been counting upon 
 having Elinor's society for himself, upon drop- 
 ping back into the old life they had known at 
 Idlewilde. 
 
 " I think I rather agree with Ned," Mr. Em- 
 erson said thoughtfully. "Elinor is amazingly
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 superficial, and I think it would be impossible 
 for her to feel anything very deeply. She is a 
 child in character. Still, she is a bright, attrac- 
 tive little thing, and always good company, and 
 there 's nobody I would like better to have stay- 
 ing with us, Bertha. Is she coming back to 
 New York, next year?" 
 
 "I think so. Arturo advises it; but he re- 
 fuses to promise anything for her future. She 
 is n't a child in the determination she has shown 
 about her singing. Even you must admit that, 
 Edwin." 
 
 " I do admit it, my dear," he said, as he rose ; 
 " and she certainly deserves to succeed. I 'm 
 not slandering Elinor; I am only making a 
 critical analysis of her character. She 's all 
 there, only she needs something to develop 
 her. She may find it, this very summer. 
 Come, my scholastic son, come out and take 
 your old father rowing, and leave your mother 
 to write to Miss Tiemann. Tell her to be 
 there by the third, Bertha. Then, if she comes 
 back for another year, we can all come down 
 together." 
 
 " I think Edwin does n't quite do Elinor 
 justice," Mrs. Emerson said, after her husband 
 had left them. " She 's only an undeveloped 
 child ; but I am very fond of her, and I think 
 she is good for us all." 
 
 " She certainly is good to me," Heaton said 
 
 121
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 thoughtfully. " She is the only woman left 
 now, except you, that ever has a word to say 
 to me." 
 
 " I 'm glad you enjoy her, Tom. I think that 
 she is fond of you, too. Not that she 's in love 
 with you," she added, with a little laugh. " Eli- 
 nor is n't given to sentiment ; but I know she 
 always enjoys seeing you and talking things 
 over with you." 
 
 The moon had come up above the horizon, 
 and its pale light lay across the water and the 
 lawn, and fell full upon Heaton's face. At her 
 last words, Mrs. Emerson could see a sudden 
 compression of her brother's lips. Then he 
 said briefly, 
 
 " She must. I only hope she appreciates the 
 privilege. But I want to go up to finish my 
 story." And he rose. 
 
 " Oh, don't, Tom," his sister urged, surprised 
 at his sudden change of tone. " It 's too late to 
 work, to-night, and I am all alone here. Stay 
 with me." 
 
 " I can't, Bertha," he replied more gently. 
 "I'm in the mood for working now, and I'd 
 better try it." 
 
 Unable to read his mood, and only seeing 
 that something had hurt him more than she had 
 at first realized, she stretched out her hand to 
 his for a moment. Then she said brightly, 
 
 " Go, then, and inspiration be on your pen !
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 I will write a note to Elinor. Have you any 
 message?" 
 
 " No ; I think not. No ; not any," he said, 
 as he turned away. 
 
 His face was in shadow now, and his sister 
 could not see the little quiver of his lip. She 
 followed him into the house and up to his den, 
 to assure herself that everything was in order 
 for his work. As she went down-stairs to her 
 own desk, she heard the door close behind 
 her. 
 
 The room was flooded with the silvery light 
 which came in at the two open windows, stole 
 across the floor, and rested upon the great writ- 
 ing-table covered with papers and the appli- 
 ances for his work. Heaton took one or two 
 quick turns up and down the room. Then, 
 instead of sitting down at his table and going on 
 with his half-finished story, he threw himself on 
 the broad couch by the window and buried his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 In spite of his determination to do no work 
 through the summer, for days his new story had 
 been absorbing all his interest. He had felt 
 sure that this was to be his best effort, and he 
 had worked at it with an almost feverish inten- 
 sity of purpose. Now, all at once, he saw that 
 it was only a string of empty words in compar- 
 ison with the real story in the midst of which he 
 was living. 
 
 * "3
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 At his sister's careless words, the truth had 
 burst upon him in an instant, though he knew 
 now that it had been coming to him for weeks 
 and months, and that unconsciously he had put 
 it away from him, as something in which he 
 could have no share. For the past three or 
 four years, ever since his blindness had first 
 threatened him, he had been trying to reconcile 
 himself to the thought that love must never 
 enter into his life, that he had no right to offer 
 a woman what, at best, could be only a partial 
 gift. He had supposed he had learned his 
 lesson. He had supposed that ne was enjoying 
 Elinor only as her own brother might have 
 done. Now, all at once and too late, he 
 recognized his mistake. 
 
 And this, then, was love ! His lip curled 
 scornfully, as he recalled the day when, beside 
 the brook, he had told Elinor that he lacked the 
 necessary experience to write a novel. The 
 experience had come to him now, and in all its 
 bitterness, for he could never tell her his love 
 and ask her to share his imperfect life. How 
 long had he loved her? Did she care for him? 
 He must think it all out. 
 
 His brain was throbbing. His hands, clasped 
 over his eyes, could feel the jar of the blood 
 pulsing across his temples. The room seemed 
 suffocating to him; and he started up and 
 began to pace the floor again. Then he dropped 
 124 *
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 into a chair by the open window, and rested his 
 face against the cool wood of the casing. 
 
 It had been going on for weeks and weeks, 
 during all that winter of frequent and informal 
 meetings. He recalled a thousand and one 
 little circumstances of their acquaintance, of 
 the days they had spent at Idlewilde, of his 
 first call upon her in New York, of their count- 
 less friendly talks. She had been so thoughtful 
 of his comfort, had shown such tact in her little 
 womanly attentions. His sister, even, had not 
 been kinder to him. And yet she had hurt him 
 often with the inconsiderate words which had 
 stung him to the quick. Still, from her they 
 had not caused him half the pain they would 
 have done from the lips of another woman ; and 
 now, in the days that had followed her going 
 away, he would have been glad of even the 
 hurt. The loneliness was the hardest of it all 
 to bear. 
 
 For one moment, he half resolved to write to 
 her, to tell her the whole story and try to win 
 her love, as another man would have done in 
 his place. Then his whole nature recoiled from 
 the temptation. He could offer her a home 
 and all the luxuries which money could buy; 
 he could offer her all the love which a man 
 could bestow upon a woman ; but it would be 
 coupled with a demand for constant care and 
 attention which would burden her young woman- 
 I2 5
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 hood and darken her whole life. She could 
 only marry him out of pity, and he would 
 never consent to ask for and accept so great a 
 sacrifice. No ; he must go through it alone 
 and make no sign. 
 
 That would be the hardest part of it all, to be 
 thrown with her constantly, to have to keep up 
 the same old relations of pleasant friendship, 
 and never allow her to read the secret of his 
 love. If he had been the hero of one of his 
 own stories, he could have cried for his own 
 sorrow. As it was, he could only summon all 
 his manliness and grind his teeth together, to 
 make no sound which could tell of his pain. 
 With a dull feeling of pity for himself, his mind 
 went back to the early days of his blindness. 
 He had always supposed that life could offer 
 him no more bitter sorrow than he had known 
 at that time ; but it was so slight, in comparison 
 with the present. He had been able almost to 
 forget his blindness, when he was with Elinor. 
 If only they could have spent their lives together, 
 the rest would have made little difference. 
 
 All at once, he raised his head abruptly. 
 What was the use of cringing like a beaten 
 hound? Life was before him, teaching him 
 one of the hardest of its lessons. He was no 
 coward ; he must learn it like a man. He would 
 never throw himself upon the generosity of a 
 young girl, and spoil the brilliant career for 
 126
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 which she was working. Let him think what 
 to do first. 
 
 After all, there was nothing to do. That 
 was the worst of it. He must go on in precisely 
 the old way, hiding his secret from them all. 
 Next month, they would be together again. 
 He tried to think of some excuse which he 
 could offer for his absence ; but he knew that 
 it would only break up the plan. It was on his 
 account that the Emersons had chosen the quiet 
 little mountain lake where he could have more 
 freedom than at a larger resort. He must go 
 with them, at whatever cost to himself. In the 
 mean time, he could be teaching himself to for- 
 get. Perhaps he could even find out his mis- 
 take, and learn that this, after all, was not love. 
 
 But, down in his secret heart, he knew that 
 it was all true, that he loved Elinor Tiemann as 
 only a strong man can love the one woman of 
 his choice, and that, for her sake, he must con- 
 quer his love. His head fell forward again 
 upon his clasped hands, and he remained there 
 motionless while the moon rode up across the 
 cloudless sky, until it left him sitting in deep 
 shadow. 
 
 At last, he rose with an effort, crossed the 
 room to the table, and took up the finished 
 sheets of his story. Impatiently he tore them 
 across and began a new page. Great drops of 
 moisture gathered on his face, for the room was 
 127
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 warm, and he was exhausted with his struggle ; 
 but his one chance of forgetfulness lay in his 
 work, and he turned to it, as by instinct. Hour 
 after hour he wrote on, regardless of the striking 
 of the little clock by his side ; and the first light 
 of the new day found him still at his self- 
 appointed task. 
 
 128
 
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 
 
 THE first week in August saw Elinor established 
 in the Emersons' cottage at the lake. She 
 had needed little urging to make her consent 
 to the plan. Mrs. Mackie was going abroad 
 with her husband, and their usual month at the 
 mountains had been given up on that account. 
 Elinor had been trying to resign herself to a 
 prolonged summer at Idlewilde, when Mrs. 
 Emerson's letter had reached her. 
 
 She had been warmly welcomed, when she 
 had reached the cottage, tired and dusty from 
 her three days' ride. Ned himself forgot his 
 prejudice when she came down to supper, that 
 night, for a long nap and a fresh white gown 
 had worked a wonderful change in her appear- 
 ance, and even a critical youth of sixteen is not 
 proof against the charms of a pretty woman. 
 
 Heaton had been invisible until they met at 
 the door of the dining-room. As Elinor stepped 
 forward to greet him, she was struck by the 
 change in his face. 
 
 " Have you been ill, Mr. Heaton? " she asked, 
 as she took his hand. 
 
 9 129
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " 111? Oh, no," he answered quickly. " What 
 should make you think so ? " 
 
 " I thought you did n't look quite as well as 
 when I saw you last," she returned. " You have 
 probably been overworking, instead of taking 
 the rest you promised yourself. What 's the 
 story?" 
 
 " I am afraid my last story would n't prove 
 interesting to you. It has been taking all my 
 time lately to work it out, and now it 's not 
 likely to be a pleasant one for anybody." 
 
 " I don't believe it," she answered, as she 
 seated herself in her usual place beside him at 
 the table. " Anyway, you have done your last 
 work for a month to come. We are all going to 
 live out of doors here and be lazy ; are n't we, 
 Bertha? You see if it doesn't carry you back 
 to the old days at Idlewilde, Mr. Heaton. I 
 have several messages to you from the natives. 
 Nobody there appears to regard it as at all 
 strange that we have met. They look at New 
 York from the point of view of Idlewilde, and 
 Mrs. Rose is quite disappointed that I don't 
 know her aunt, Mrs. Smith, who lives some- 
 where near Broadway." 
 
 The days that followed were far too short 
 for their enjoyment. Elinor and Wyckoff were 
 often together, for Jack had taken up his abode 
 at the hotel, on the day after her coming to the 
 cottage. While the others went around and 
 130
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 around the lake in the little steamers, they 
 used to step into one of the small boats at 
 the landing and row away across the water to 
 the fishing grounds at the east side of the lake. 
 Ned was usually with them. He preferred the 
 smaller boat and the chance of an occasional 
 fish, and he took infinite satisfaction in the 
 deferential way in which Elinor consulted his 
 opinion and allowed him to carry her sun 
 umbrella. 
 
 Then there were the merry evenings on the 
 piazza, or an occasional stroll over to the hotel 
 to call on their new friends. Still more rarely 
 there was a long rainy day when they remained 
 housed, idly talking, or reading aloud, or watch- 
 ing the flurries of wind sweep over the lake and 
 the floating clouds rise and fall over Mount 
 Kearsarge and the more distant blue peaks 
 beyond. 
 
 To Heaton alone the days were not all 
 pleasant. He kept his secret well, and did his 
 best to appear his usual self. For the most 
 part, he succeeded. They all wondered a little 
 at the occasional irritability from which he had 
 always before been so free ; but they only attri- 
 buted it to his sensitiveness in meeting so many 
 strangers, and they were quick to pardon it, 
 though without a thought of the constant strain 
 to which he was subjecting himself. 
 
 He was only human, and often, in spite of his
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 resolutions, he gave himself up unreservedly to 
 the delight of his long hours with Elinor. She 
 had never been brighter nor more agreeable 
 than during those days at the cottage. She 
 was more considerate of him, too, for down in 
 her secret heart she reproached herself for the 
 constant contrast she was mentally making 
 between him and Wyckoff, whose never-failing 
 activity and exuberant spirits rendered him a 
 most enjoyable companion for her. She was 
 unremitting in all her little attentions to Heaton ; 
 but, strange to say, for the first time in their 
 intercourse it hurt him to receive these atten- 
 tions. They only seemed to him to emphazise 
 the gulf between them, the hopelessness of his 
 hopes. 
 
 Often, when he was left alone, he went back 
 to the memory of that other lake where he and 
 Elinor had met, three years before. In a way 
 they were repeating their old experience, in this 
 lazy summer life ; yet for him it was all so 
 changed. At Idlewilde he had been the leader, 
 the one to take the initiative, as a man should 
 do ; here he could only follow the others. 
 There he had so often rowed Elinor back and 
 forth across the lake ; here he was only so much 
 useless ballast, and, when they went out to- 
 gether, it was Elinor who did the rowing. The 
 parallelism quickly ceased; but nevertheless it 
 was there, and it hurt him. 
 132
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Elinor never realized the envy with which 
 Heaton stood by, while she started off with his 
 cousin for their daily walk or row; but some- 
 thing in her mood, when she returned, led her 
 to devote the remaining hours of the day to 
 him. It was not that she was entirely unselfish 
 in the matter, either. The two men were so 
 perfectly contrasted, that, after an hour or two 
 of Wyckoff's quick, flashing talk, there was a 
 certain restfulness in escaping to Heaton once 
 more. With Jack she was merely the light, 
 bright summer girl with scarcely a thought 
 beyond the present hour; but when she left him 
 for Heaton, life became more earnest, her hopes 
 and purposes stronger. 
 
 Wyckoff's week had gradually lengthened into 
 two, and the last Saturday evening of his stay 
 had come. It had been a stormy day; but 
 towards night it had cleared, and he had walked 
 over to the cottage in company with a pretty 
 Miss Whitney who had met Elinor, a few years 
 before, and who had lost no opportunity of 
 renewing the acquaintance. 
 
 " What a glorious evening ! " Elinor said, as 
 they sat on the broad piazza overlooking the 
 lake. " This is Mr. Wyckoff's last available night 
 here, we're all to go to the hotel, to-morrow 
 night, so why not go out for one last row 
 together? You can take Mr. Heaton and me, 
 Ned; and Mr. Wyckoff can row Bertha and 
 133
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Miss Whitney," she added, with a naughty 
 satisfaction in Jack's energetic demonstrations of 
 dissent. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later, they were gliding away 
 across the lake. It was not in vain that Wyckoff 
 had been stroke on his college crew, and his boat 
 soon shot far ahead of the other and was lost in 
 the shadows of the southern shore. Elinor and 
 Ned rowed lazily out into the middle of the 
 lake ; then Elinor dropped her oars. 
 
 " Let 's lie here and rock, for a few minutes," 
 she said. " The others don't seem to be socially 
 inclined, and these little waves in the moonlight 
 are too pretty to leave. Or do you prefer to 
 keep moving, Mr. Heaton? " 
 
 " As you like," he answered, while he pocketed 
 his little cloth cap and folded his hands at the 
 back of his head. 
 
 From the clear sky above the heights of 
 Mount Eyrie, the moon was shining directly 
 down upon his face, upturned as if he could 
 feel its radiance ; and his expression appeared 
 to have caught something of its serenity. For 
 the moment, he was quite content. He could 
 feel the quiet beauty of the night about him ; 
 he could hear the distant cries of the night birds 
 along the shore, and the dreamy plash of the 
 water as it lapped the sides of the boat. Ned, 
 lounging in the bow, was forgotten, and the rest 
 of the world were far away. Only he and 
 '34
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Elinor were there, just as they had been upon 
 that other night. Even now he could see the 
 low hills about them, the rosy glow in the west. 
 If it all had only come earlier, when he had the 
 right to love her, and to tell her of his love ! 
 No matter then if blindness had followed, as 
 long as she was already his. Now the insur- 
 mountable barrier had risen up between them. 
 He could only stand aside and leave her with 
 his cousin. 
 
 But to-night even his cousin was not there ; 
 just they two, rocking on the lake. He could 
 feel the folds of her skirt as they fell across his 
 foot ; and once, when she bent forward to dip 
 her fingers in the cool water, the wind blew a 
 stray lock of her hair across his fingers as they 
 lay on the edge of the boat. The touch seemed 
 to run up his arm in little pricking lines, and 
 he longed just once to lay his hand on her soft, 
 fluffy hair. But he clasped his hands at the 
 back of his head once more and turned away, 
 although he felt sure that she was watching him, 
 startled at his quick change of position. 
 
 " I am afraid you are tired," she said. " I 
 forgot that you can't enjoy it as I do." 
 
 Involuntarily he bit his lip and gave his mus- 
 tache a little impatient jerk. At least, there 
 was no need to remind him of the fact. If he 
 could forget and be so contented, why could 
 she not let him have his one short hour?
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "Perhaps I may enjoy it more than you 
 know," he said curtly. " However, don't let 
 me keep you, if you are anxious to get back to 
 the others and Jack," he longed to add ; but 
 he was too much the gentleman for that. 
 
 It was the first time he had used this tone to 
 her, and Elinor was more hurt than she cared 
 to admit. She merely nodded to Ned, and took 
 up her own oars again ; but she scarcely spoke 
 while they were rowing back to the shore. At 
 the landing, they were overtaken by the other 
 boat; and, as they stepped up on the little pier, 
 she abruptly walked away with Jack and Miss 
 Whitney, leaving the others to follow as they 
 would. Later, when they were all on the steps 
 of the cottage, saying good night, there was a 
 slight additional cordiality in her manner to his 
 cousin, which Heaton was quick to feel as an 
 intentional reproach to himself. 
 
 The next evening, according to their promise, 
 they all went over to the hotel. For an hour they 
 sat outside, watching the twilight darken over 
 the lake. Then some one had suggested music, 
 and they had gone to the parlor, which quickly 
 filled with the idlers whom the fact of its being 
 Sunday night had debarred from more excit- 
 ing pleasures. There were a few feeble choruses ; 
 then, after the capabilities of " Coronation " and 
 " How Can I Bear to Leave Thee " had been ex- 
 hausted, the amateurs had preferred to lapse
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 into silence, and Elinor and Wyckoffwere left 
 to sing some of Mendelssohn's familiar duets. 
 During the past few weeks they had often sung 
 together, and their voices Blended well, Jack's 
 making up in expression for Elinor's greater 
 power and brilliancy. Each time they paused, 
 there was an instant demand for another song; 
 so they had gone on, giving one old favorite 
 after another, as they were called for. At length 
 Elinor turned and looked about the room. 
 
 Little by little, the groups scattered around 
 the parlor had drawn nearer the piano. All of 
 them were watching her, eager for her to sing 
 again, while her eyes moved up and down the 
 room, enjoying her first little triumph. Wyckoff 
 was murmuring half-mocking compliments in 
 her ear ; but she turned away from him, and 
 unconsciously her eyes sought his cousin, to 
 see if he were aware of her success. At first 
 she looked for him in vain ; but at length she 
 saw him sitting quite aloae at the far end of the 
 room, with his head resting on his hand, which 
 shaded his face. Then her conscience smote 
 her, for, angry at his tone the night before, she 
 had purposely avoided him, all that day. It 
 was plain that he was unhappy now, whether or 
 not from her studied neglect, she could not tell. 
 
 " Please sing just once more, Miss Tiemann," 
 Wyckoff was urging her. " Sing alone now, 
 just this once."
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Her voice is glorious," an old lady from 
 Boston was saying behind her fan ; " and her 
 method is going to be perfect. I can't tell what 
 it is ; and yet, after all, her singing is unsatis- 
 factory. Down underneath it all, there 's a little 
 coldness, as if she never quite read the com- 
 'poser's real thought." 
 
 Elinor stood hesitating for a moment, still 
 with her eyes fixed upon the lonely figure far 
 across the room. She had never been more 
 beautiful than she was then, in her simple white 
 gown, and with the brilliant flush on her cheeks, 
 the dark glow of excitement in her eyes. All at 
 once she turned to the piano, and, with a whis- 
 pered word, to Miss Whitney, took her place 
 and began the accompaniment to the little old 
 " Schlummerlied " she had sung at Idlewilde, 
 three years before. 
 
 No coldness was in her voice now. She was 
 singing for one hearer alone, and half uncon- 
 sciously asking for his pardon. There was a 
 little unsteady note in her voice at the close ; 
 then came a hush, followed by a quick murmur 
 of applause. 
 
 Refusing all their entreaties to sing again, she 
 rose and crossed the room to Heaton's side. 
 
 " I have sung till I am tired," she said. " Won't 
 you please take me out on the piazza, for a little 
 air?" 
 
 And they went away together. 
 138
 
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 
 ONE morning, less than a week after her re- 
 turn to the city, Elinor was walking up Fifth 
 Avenue. She had been down town for her first 
 lesson of the season, and Arturo had warmly 
 welcomed her back to his studio. She had 
 lingered a little after her lesson, to talk over 
 her plans for the coming winter. Then, tempted 
 by the clear, breezy morning, she had resolved 
 to walk up town again, while she thought over 
 at her leisure the recent conversation. 
 
 It had needed little consideration to decide 
 Elinor to return to New York for at least one 
 more year with Signer Arturo. Her year's train- 
 ing had done so much for her that her friends 
 were unanimous in their advice to her to go on 
 with her study ; and she was more than ready to 
 be influenced by their opinion. She had worked 
 with a will, and, notwithstanding Arturo's lectures, 
 he was not a little proud of his pupil. And 
 Elinor, in spite of her frequent discouragements, 
 felt that she was slowly working towards the reali- 
 zation of her dreams. 
 
 They might never come true ; but, as time 
 went on, her hopes were not limited so entirely
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 to the public appearance which should be the 
 grand climax of her career. She was slowly 
 learning to love her work for its own sake, 
 not for the personal triumph which it might 
 one day bring her. It was as Heaton had 
 predicted: the more she gained this unselfish 
 interest in her voice and her art, the nearer 
 she was coming to the fulfilment of her former 
 hopes, and day after day the prospect was 
 brightening before her. 
 
 She had not seen the Emersons since the 
 night of their return. The past few days had 
 been busy ones for her, and she knew that Mrs. 
 Emerson would be occupied in setting the wheels 
 of her domestic machinery once more in motion. 
 Now she resolved to see her before the day was 
 over. There were many things to be talked over 
 together. After a month of daily intercourse, it 
 is hard to drop back all at once into the occa- 
 sional meetings of ordinary friendship. 
 
 If Elinor had but known it, the last thought in- 
 cluded Mrs. Emerson's brother much more than 
 it did Mrs. Emerson herself. Far more than she 
 had realized it at the time, she had enjoyed her 
 close companionship with Heaton, and she found 
 that she missed him to a most unreasonable 
 extent. Day after day throughout that long 
 month, he had been at hand whenever she 
 wanted him, always interested and sympathetic, 
 whatever her mood might be, and never obtrud- 
 140
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 ing himself at the wrong time. It was given to 
 few women, she thought to herself, to have such 
 a friend. A year ago, even, she would have said 
 it belonged to the class of impossible situations 
 evolved by the novelist. It was a great gift, this 
 frank, unreserved friendship of a broad-minded 
 man, and she was glad that fate had thrown it in 
 her way. The thought had never once crossed 
 her mind that, to the man himself, this friend- 
 ship might have quite another signification. 
 Heaton's self-control, during those trying days 
 at the lake, had been all that he had desired ; 
 in the girl's eyes they were friends, simply 
 friends and nothing more. 
 
 She had crossed over to Fifth Avenue, and 
 was strolling up the shady side of the street, 
 opposite the wall of the reservoir. So absorbed 
 was she in her reverie that she had not noticed 
 the carriage which drew up at the curbstone, 
 and she started violently when Mrs. Emerson's 
 voice fell upon her ears. 
 
 " Elinor ! And is it thus that you disdain us ? " 
 
 Laughing and blushing at her own absent- 
 mindedness, the girl came forward to the 
 carriage. 
 
 " Bertha, how you startled me ! I was just 
 pondering upon a question of vast importance : 
 whether, if I called on you, this afternoon, you 
 would ask me to stay to dinner. I Ve the 
 accumulated events of a week to talk over with 
 141
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 your brother," she added gayly, as she leaned 
 across Mrs. Emerson to take Heaton's out- 
 stretched hand. 
 
 " We '11 put an extra bone in the soup, and 
 hang out the latchstring," he answered, with 
 one of his rare sunny smiles. He looked tired, 
 that morning, and his eyes had dark shadows 
 underneath them, like the eyes of a man who had 
 been passing through some great nervous strain. 
 However, there was no mistaking the pleasure he 
 felt at their meeting, and Elinor felt an answer- 
 ing thrill of pleasure as she watched him. 
 
 "Get in and let us take you home," Mrs. Emer- 
 son suggested hospitably. " We are going within 
 a block of your house, so it will be no trouble. 
 I Ve an engagement, this noon, or I should insist 
 upon your going back to lunch with us now. I 
 had to bring my little brother home from his 
 kindergarten," she went on, as Elinor stepped 
 into the carriage and, with a quick motion, 
 anticipated Heaton, who was rising to give her 
 his seat at Mrs. Emerson's side. 
 
 " Don't move," she said hastily. " Truly, I like 
 this place better ; I can talk to you both at the 
 same time if I sit facing you, and that is always 
 an object to me, you know. But what about the 
 kindergarten ? Is it a joke ? " 
 
 The life died out of Heaton's face. He looked 
 suddenly older and graver and less strong, as he 
 answered, 
 
 142
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " It 's not in the least a joke, Miss Tiemann. 
 I 'm trying to make the best of things, as you 
 suggested, last June. I have left my lofty soli- 
 tude, and joined the ranks of the professional 
 'blind. In other words, I have gone into the 
 school for the blind, over here, and have set 
 to work to study Braille, side by side with the 
 babes of the institution. In time it may be a 
 benefit to me ; but the process is rather painful." 
 
 He threw out the last words defiantly ; then 
 he sat silent, with his teeth shut hard upon his 
 lower lip, which, after all, was not quite steady. 
 The past two hours had been an unexpectedly 
 bitter experience for him. It had been hard for 
 the sensitive, self-contained man to leave his 
 sheltered surroundings and feel himself one of a 
 vast class of afflicted humanity for whom institu- 
 tions had been mercifully provided. His nerves 
 were quivering, and he felt his self-control fast 
 giving way. And yet, strange to say, it was a 
 relief to speak of it to Elinor. He had an 
 instinctive feeling that she would understand. 
 
 At his unexpected change of tone, the girl 
 experienced a slight shock. For an instant, she 
 hesitated and glanced appealingly at his sister 
 who did not meet her eyes, but sat with her own 
 fixed on the old gray wall of the reservoir. 
 Between friends, the most eloquent expression 
 of sympathy is often given without a spoken 
 word, but Elinor suddenly realized that in that
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 way she was powerless to reach the man before 
 her. Never before had the barrier of his blind- 
 ness seemed to rise up so impenetrably between 
 them. 
 
 " I was afraid it would be hard for you," she 
 said at last, and her voice was very gentle and 
 pitiful ; " but I had no idea what it really must 
 be. I can see now, and I wish I had never 
 spoken of it." 
 
 " It 's better that you did," he answered, 
 while his fingers closed nervously on the knob 
 of her parasol beside him. " It will be a good 
 thing for me, when once I learn their writing, for 
 then I can correct my own work and save 
 Bertha all but the copy. It will be a relief to be 
 more independent, and to be able to go back 
 over my work and see what I am doing. But 
 this is only my first day, you know " He 
 paused abruptly. 
 
 " And the work is harder than you thought it 
 would be?" Elinor asked, as again she tried to 
 catch Mrs. Emerson's eye. From the first, she 
 had found it hard to meet the glance of his 
 sister, whenever Heaton was speaking of him- 
 self. It was as if Mrs. Emerson felt that there 
 was a certain disloyalty in thus taking advantage 
 of his blindness. 
 
 " It 's not the work," he said, with an accent 
 of utter dreariness which Elinor had never heard 
 from him before. " I can work as well as any of 
 144
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 them ; but I 've been alone too long. Living, as 
 I do, in the midst of people who can see and 
 who have some notion of what tact means, I 
 regard my case as being unique and myself as 
 being almost as good as any of you. And then 
 to be suddenly dropped into a roomful of just 
 such people, to know that, to all eternity, you 
 can't see them, nor they you, that you can't 
 have any notion of each other except by the 
 voice, or when they accidentally joggle against 
 you " He paused, with a sudden catch in his 
 breath. His face was white and his lips were 
 dry and rigid. Then his grasp on the knob 
 beside him grew tighter, while he went on 
 slowly ; " I think I am beginning to see what it 
 all means. Not to myself; God knows I found 
 that out, several months ago ; but to you all. I 
 had never realized till to-day how I must seem to 
 you, and how apart from you my life must be." 
 
 The next moment, he felt Elinor's little 
 gloved hand rest on his, where it clutched the 
 porcelain ball. 
 
 " Mr. Heaton," she said steadily ; " if your 
 life is apart from ours, it is only because the 
 grandness of your courage has put you on a 
 plane we can never reach. We can't know what 
 it is to be blind and to drop out of active life, as 
 you have done ; but at least we can know what 
 it is to have met an unselfish, heroic man, and, 
 for my part, I thank you for the lesson." 
 10 MS
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Fearful of having said too much, she broke 
 off, and for the next three or four blocks, no 
 word was spoken. It was Heaton who finally 
 broke the silence. In quite his usual tone, he 
 asked about Arturo and the morning's lesson, 
 and they were still talking about matters musical 
 when the carriage stopped at Elinor's door. 
 
 Late the same afternoon, Heaton and Elinor 
 were left alone for a few moments in the Emer- 
 sons' library. All at once, Heaton recurred to 
 the subject of the morning's talk. 
 
 " I 'm not always such a coward," he said 
 briefly ; " but the hurt was fresh at the time, 
 and I wanted to make a public demand upon 
 your sympathy. I'm sorry to have made a 
 scene ; but the conditions were new, and I 
 had n't adjusted myself to them yet. There are 
 days when I feel as if the darkness must break 
 for just an hour or two, to let me catch my 
 breath and pull my courage together once more. 
 I shall get my mental balance again before 
 long. Till then, you must either cut my 
 acquaintance, or be patient with me." 
 
 As he spoke, he drew his hand across his 
 face, while his mouth, under his little brown 
 mustache, worked nervously. He was silent for 
 a moment ; then he broke out again, 
 
 " Really, Miss Tiemann, I 'm not as much of a 
 coward as I seem. You don't know what it is. 
 Nobody does, who has never been blind. When 
 146
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the oculist told me I was going blind, I sup- 
 posed I understood what he meant, that it was 
 going to be a species of perpetual night. It 
 isn't that at all. I used to lie awake, nights, 
 and think about it, and watch the grayish out- 
 lines of the windows, and I fancied I knew all 
 about it. Then, one day, without any warning 
 at all, I found that I knew absolutely nothing. 
 It presses in on me so, and chokes me, and 
 weighs me down. And then the hardest thing 
 of all has been to get used to the endlessness of 
 it. Even now there are times when I feel as if 
 it could n't last, and I begin to plan what I will 
 do when I can see again. But that doesn't 
 stay long, and the blackness settles down tight 
 around me till I can hardly breathe, and I feel as 
 if I must either shriek, or go mad. Do you 
 wonder I 'm half afraid, and want to hold on to 
 somebody? It isn't enough to hear; I must 
 touch people, to make sure I 'm not all alone in 
 the dark." 
 
 He had been pacing the floor restlessly ; but 
 now he came forward to the fire and groped 
 about for his usual seat, which had been pushed 
 away to the farther side of the room. Elinor 
 felt that she could bear no more. All his proud 
 self-control and courage appeared to have 
 broken down, and it was as if, for the hour, he 
 were making an open avowal of his weakness. 
 As he stood there in the gathering dusk and
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 shut within his own greater darkness, her 
 thoughts flashed back to that other Heaton she 
 had known in the old days. Only three years 
 had passed ; but now it was all so changed. 
 
 Rising, she crossed the room and brought his 
 chair forward to the fire. 
 
 " Here it is," she said. " It was moved away." 
 
 He stretched out his hand, touched it, and 
 slowly seated himself. There was no gratitude 
 in his face, nothing but infinite sadness, as he 
 asked, 
 
 " Miss Tiemann, do you ever remember 
 Idlewilde?" 
 
 " Don't," she said brokenly. " Perhaps it 
 will be easier in time." 
 
 148
 
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 
 
 " I HAD a perfect orgy with Arturo, to-day," 
 Elinor said, as she bent over the fire to pick up 
 a burning brand fallen on the tiles. 
 
 Heaton laughed. 
 
 " The old story. What was it, this time ? Or 
 was it sacred to the deities of music, and not to 
 be repeated to profane ears?" 
 
 " It was profane, if that 's what you mean," 
 she retorted. " I can't imagine how a man who 
 knows so little English has ever contrived to 
 gain such perfect command of our expletives. 
 His praise is slow and halting ; but he swears 
 fluently. This time, I brought it upon myself. 
 I had ventured to apply for admission to the 
 Oratorio Society without asking his consent." 
 
 "The Oratorio Society?" said Mrs. Emerson. 
 " Jack is in it again, this year ; is n't he, Tom? " 
 
 " He is one of the shining lights among their 
 tenors," her brother responded. 
 
 Elinor looked slightly annoyed. 
 
 " I did n't know that," she said. 
 
 " Yes, .he has sung there for years, and he 
 talks as if the fate of the whole musical world 
 were hanging upon the performances of that 
 149
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 one organization. Every year, he threatens to 
 get out of it, and every year finds him firm at 
 his post. But what was Arturo's objection to 
 your going into it?" 
 
 " ' Because it will serve to make your voice so 
 very promiscuous,' " returned Elinor, dropping 
 into her teacher's voice and manner. " I can't 
 find that it . is likely to do me any other harm. 
 I have been so anxious to study one of the 
 great oratorios, and as long as I am not likely 
 to be asked to pose as soloist, my solitary 
 chance lies in turning promiscuous and joining 
 the ranks. I have only rehearsed with them 
 once ; but it was much finer than I had 
 supposed." 
 
 " And did you feel properly promiscuous ? " 
 Heaton asked teasingly. 
 
 " I most certainly did. They have put me 
 on the end of the sopranos, and that leaves me 
 sandwiched in between an Irish lady in a pink 
 silk waist, and a lean little tenor who can't go 
 above F sharp. He stops and coughs behind 
 his hand, every time the others soar above him. 
 I suppose it is intended as an apology to me 
 for his flatting ; but he might allow once telling 
 me to answer for every time. There 's not a 
 single person in sight whom I ever saw before, 
 and I am forlorn as can be during the intermis- 
 sion ; but when the music starts up again, I am 
 content." 
 
 150
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " I will tell Jack to hunt you up," Mrs. Emer- 
 son said. " What about the Saturday Club ? 
 You know you promised to sing for us, this fall." 
 
 " If you dare trust me," she replied, laughing. 
 " I am getting to doubt my ability to do any- 
 thing but chirp a little. Arturo does n't increase 
 one's courage, and I may break down, at the 
 last moment." 
 
 " Arturo is a beast," Heaton observed. 
 
 " No ; he 's not," Elinor answered quickly. 
 " I am giving you an absolutely wrong impres- 
 sion of him. He is glorious, simply glorious ; 
 and it is an inspiration to work with such a man. 
 Even if I never amount to anything, I shall 
 always be glad I came to him, for he makes 
 music so much broader and deeper than other 
 men. I used to suppose i 4 : was something to 
 play with ; now I believe it is something to live 
 for." 
 
 Heaton's face lighted. 
 
 "You'll get there, Miss Tiemann, if you 
 keep on. It 's the working for something, after 
 all, that counts for more than the something 
 attained." 
 
 But Elinor had digressed again. It was 
 characteristic of her to speak seriously for only 
 a moment at a time, and then to drop back into 
 a lighter mood. 
 
 " He is a tyrant, though," she remarked 
 thoughtfully ; "a tyrant of the worst kind. I
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 have learned to obey him in all things, to avoid 
 Huyler, and overshoes, and light songs, to keep 
 my tongue under strict control, and to sound 
 my final consonants ; but, alas ! I have n't 
 learned not to sing off the key occasionally, 
 when my feelings are too many for me. He 
 says it is a crying shame, and, do you know, he 
 hasn't the least suspicion that therein lurks a 
 pun. He worships key, anyway. I believe he 
 keeps one hanging in his room, to pray to, o' 
 nights; and his whole future happiness would 
 be lost to him, if his golden harp should happen 
 to be a little flat on one of the strings. Your 
 absolutely accurate people are always a trifle 
 disagreeable, anyway." 
 
 " What a heretic you are ! " Heaton said, 
 laughing at her sudden outburst. 
 
 There was something whimsical about her 
 conversation which suited his mood. She had 
 a fashion of talking on the surface of things, 
 with an undercurrent of deeper meaning, now 
 lending an air of mock solemnity to matters of 
 trivial import, now talking the random nonsense 
 of a little child. Then, of a sudden, she dropped 
 all these freaks and spoke with the sincerity of 
 an earnest woman. From the first of their ac- 
 quaintance, Heaton had enjoyed her conversa- 
 tion, and had delighted in drawing her on to a 
 free expression of her opinions, which were 
 always original and always daring.
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " I 'm not heretical," she said defensively. 
 " But once in a while I feel as if I were hemmed 
 in by rules and regulations, and then I rebel. I 
 want to sing De Koven, and to flat, too, if I feel 
 like it. It is hard to live up to yourself, every 
 day, just as it would be hard to stand on tiptoe 
 forever. Now and then, I want to drop back 
 to the firmer foothold of my natural depravity. 
 When I do drop back, I hate it ; but it is just as 
 attractive to look down upon. I wonder if self- 
 made people don't want to go back to their 
 original level sometimes." 
 
 " I think I don't like self-made people," 
 Heaton remarked reflectively. 
 
 "Why not? I think they are magnificent," 
 she flashed hotly. " That is the old chasm 
 between the West and the East, and we shall 
 never agree." 
 
 " I admire them, too, theoretically," he re- 
 turned ; " but, for practical acquaintance, I pre- 
 fer the born-so type. The new ones are always 
 in too much of a hurry to get themselves into 
 shape before they die. They can't spend time, 
 poor things, to get all their corners rubbed 
 down ; while the others have been being 
 polished for ever and ever so many generations. 
 You will feel it, even in singing. Other things 
 being equal, here in America you will find that 
 an Alden or an Endicott will sing better than 
 an O'Flarity."
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "I'm not so sure of it," she answered 
 thoughtfully. "But you can test your theory, 
 if I sing for the Saturday Club. I believe Miss 
 Roach is to sing, too, and she certainly is 
 virgin soil, so far as her ancestors are con- 
 cerned. Arturo claims to have discovered her 
 when she was selling flowers on one of the 
 ferries." 
 
 Already their life at the lake had faded from 
 a present interest to a past memory, and they 
 were settling down to their regular occupations 
 of the winter. To Heaton it seemed strange to 
 be in harness again. Both at home and at the 
 school, he was working hard at his Braille, and 
 the pain he had felt at the start was slowly 
 yielding to his pleasure in once more mastering 
 a difficult task. It had been real enough at 
 first, the shock of mingling with those other 
 blind people from whom he was so isolated, and 
 there were hours when the sense of their near- 
 ness made him long to rush away from them 
 and forget them. Their ways annoyed him 
 strangely. It seemed as if they were trying to 
 impress upon him that he was just like all the 
 rest of them, one of a class to be rated with 
 drunken men and paupers in the census reports. 
 He established relations with none of them, 
 but went his way, reserved and alone. Since 
 his one outburst, on that first day, he had said 
 little of his work; but he had toiled at it un-
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 ceasingly, bringing to it all the vigor of a well- 
 disciplined mind, until little by little he gained 
 skill in this new study which was destined one 
 day to be so useful to him. 
 
 He had never understood his outbreak to 
 Elinor, that day. Neither did he altogether 
 regret it. He had borne his fate in silence for 
 so long that there was a certain relief in this 
 sudden outcry for pity. If she had met him in 
 any other way, the memory would have been 
 galling to him now; but her sympathy had 
 been quick and generous, and it had left no 
 scar upon his self-respect. In the supreme mo- 
 ment of his suffering, he had called upon her 
 womanhood for help, and it had answered to 
 his call. 
 
 Since they had returned to the city, Elinor 
 had been a much less frequent guest at the Em- 
 ersons'. It was not that she was less intimate 
 with them ; but, spurred on by a rare word of 
 approval from Arturo, she was practising more 
 diligently than ever. To-day, however, drop- 
 ping in for a cup of tea, she had found Mrs. 
 Emerson and her brother sitting alone by the 
 library fire. 
 
 " Our friends have all deserted us, to-day," 
 Mrs. Emerson said, as she took forcible posses- 
 sion of Elinor's jacket ; " and you are surely 
 going to stay here to dine with us. Jack is 
 coming, toe, and we shall be as cosy as can be.
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 You must stay to wake us up, for we are de- 
 plorably dull, now that Ned has gone back to 
 school again." 
 
 Heaton had been in one of his old gay moods. 
 They came more rarely than ever, since his 
 return to the city ; but, on this particular after- 
 noon, he had been in unwonted spirits. Wyck- 
 off, when he appeared at dinner time, found 
 them in a state of wild hilarity. 
 
 " Miss Tiemann and Tom have been talking 
 over old times," Mrs. Emerson explained, as 
 she rose to meet her cousin. " I have been 
 absolutely appalled at their confessions. Tom 
 admits to countless sins, and even Miss Tie- 
 mann is trying to make him remember her say- 
 ing 'By Jiminy,' one night, when she tumbled 
 out of a wagon." 
 
 " Don't think it is my usual form of speech, 
 Mr. Wyckoff," Elinor interposed, as he seated 
 himself at her side. " I caught it from a 
 naughty little cousin, and I only use it under 
 stress of circumstances, such as going for the 
 doctor in the dead of night," she added, with a 
 merry sidelong glance at Heaton. 
 
 It was always hard for her to realize that he 
 was shut out from such byplay as this, and she 
 never failed to receive a little shock, when she 
 met his quiet, unresponsive gaze. 
 
 " I shall always feel defrauded over losing 
 that week," Wyckoff answered. " I Ve an idea 
 156
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 that Tom was far-seeing when he proposed my 
 going away." 
 
 " It was a good thing you did," Elinor replied 
 audaciously, " You would have been entirely 
 too worldly a figure, and you never would have 
 harmonized with your environment. Mr. Hea- 
 ton and I were as innocently rustic as a pair of 
 babes in the wood, and even my decorous little 
 aunt unbends, when she is in the wilderness ; but I 
 am convinced that you could never have been 
 one of us, in spite of Mr. Kurzenbeine's good 
 opinion of you." 
 
 " Kurzenbeine? I'd forgotten him." 
 
 " Another proof of what I was saying. I saw 
 him, last summer, and he was still chanting 
 your praises." 
 
 "I remember him now; he was that tall, 
 yellow-headed German of a literal turn of mind. 
 I told him, one night, that my ancestors were 
 all Russian Jews. He believed me implicitly, 
 in spite of Tom's attempts to re-establish his 
 belief in the respectable roots of our family 
 tree." 
 
 Since they had come back to the city, Wyck- 
 off had not allowed his friendship with Elinor 
 to die out. From time to time, he had met her 
 at the Emersons', and he had called upon her 
 frequently. By this time there had grown up 
 between them a free-and-easy good-fellowship ; 
 and now, as they left the dinner table, he had 
 157
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 followed Elinor back to the library, where they 
 had fallen into a long discussion of Arturo, the 
 Oratorio Society, and the dozen and one in- 
 terests which they had in common. 
 
 Heaton sat by in silence. Envious as he- 
 might be of their common interests from which 
 he was excluded, there was never any bitterness 
 in his mind, so far as his cousin was concerned. 
 In the time of his greatest need it had been 
 Jack who had come to his aid and helped him 
 through one of the hardest experiences of his 
 life. If someone else must come in between 
 himself and Elinor and monopolize her for an 
 hour, he could most willingly give place to his 
 cousin. Jack had earned the right to his good 
 times. However, it gave him a sense of isola- 
 tion to sit and listen to their talk of people and 
 places of which he was ignorant. 
 
 At length Elinor looked up and saw him. 
 He was sitting alone at the other side of the 
 broad hearth, moodily twisting his mustache 
 and frowning at the fire. . Already he was be- 
 ginning to show the effects of the strain under 
 which he had been living for the past three or 
 four months. He was thinner than of old ; new 
 lines had come into his face, and his hair had 
 grown gray about the temples ; but his expres- 
 sion had become more strong and manly, and 
 the quiet dignity which she had known at Idle- 
 wilde, the dignity of ripening manhood, had 
 '58
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 changed into that greater dignity of sorrow 
 borne in courageous silence. 
 
 " There are times," Wyckoff said to Mrs. 
 Emerson, one day, with the sudden light in 
 his blue eyes which came only when he was 
 deeply moved ; " there are times when I feel 
 like taking off my hat before Tom. He does n't 
 live like the rest of us, somehow, and we can 
 only stand and watch him, and keep still." 
 
 With some trivial excuse, Elinor rose, leaving 
 Wyckoff alone, and crossed to Heaton's side. 
 
 " I have just been reading over the story you 
 wrote, last summer," she said, as she took the 
 chair at his side ; " the one you let me read 
 when we were at the lake, you know. What 
 ever put it into your head ? " 
 
 "Why? " he asked, turning slowly to face her. 
 
 " It is so different from the others, so full of fun 
 and ridiculous situations. I kept wishing, while 
 I was reading it, that I could have looked in on 
 you when you wrote it. You must have had ever 
 so much fun out of it, all alone by yourself." 
 
 Heaton's face had grown very white. 
 
 " I don't remember enjoying myself so very 
 much, when I wrote it," he said dryly. " I am 
 afraid you will have to excuse me, Miss Tie- 
 mann. I promised Edwin I would be in the 
 smoking-room, to-night. Charlie Bennett was 
 coming over, for an hour." And he rose and 
 went away out of the room. 
 '59
 
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 
 
 WHAT a blessing it is that our minds are not 
 self-registering machines, like a phonograph ! 
 There is not one of us who would not be rather 
 appalled, if suddenly confronted with a full and 
 exact transcription of his thoughts, during any 
 given period. Fortunate it is for us that, although 
 the imprint of our thoughts is left upon us, yet 
 our mortal eyes can only see the page as a 
 whole, without being able to make out the 
 separate type. 
 
 The last two or three months had marked the 
 beginning of a new era in Heaton's life. Up to 
 this time, he had entered closely into the home 
 life about him. His writing had taken but a 
 small part of his time, and he had spent his 
 leisure moments with his sister. Now, although 
 of late he had lost interest in his work, he pre- 
 ferred to pass most of his hours in his own 
 room. 
 
 There was little variety in his employment 
 there, only the going over and over again the 
 question of his love for Elinor, now making all 
 sorts of excuses to justify himself in telling her 
 the whole story and begging her to be his wife, 
 1 60
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 if only for the sake of the luxurious life he could 
 afford to give her ; now planning how he could 
 secretly work to win her love, to enter into her 
 life and interests so closely that she would some 
 day waken to the knowledge that, without him 
 at her side, her own life would be incomplete ; 
 then spurning the whole, as unworthy of his 
 manhood, only to begin again, the next moment, 
 and go on hoping and planning and dreaming, 
 until he was called away and forced into an 
 active interest outside of himself. 
 
 Again and again he resolved to be a man, to 
 forget all but his pleasant friendship with Elinor 
 and to enjoy that, without a though^ of anything 
 beyond. The next day, the old questions would 
 come uppermost, and the If If Ifs would 
 rush through his brain in never-ending circles. 
 If he had been a man in active life, he would 
 have been despicable ; but now, shut in and 
 limited as he was, he was more to be pitied. 
 He despised himself most acutely at times, how- 
 ever. It was so beneath all his ideals of what a 
 man should feel and think. He only gained a 
 partial respect for himself when he remembered 
 that, in spite of all his temptations, he had 
 never yet betrayed his love. He hoped that 
 the secret might always remain his own ; but he 
 was proving so much weaker than he had sup- 
 posed himself to be, that he felt it was impos- 
 sible to trust himself beyond the present hour. 
 " 161
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Between his days of moody dreaming and his 
 hours of careful self-restraint when he was with 
 Elinor, his temper began to suffer. He was no 
 longer as quiet and even as before ; but often 
 his overstrained nerves sought relief in cold 
 disregard, or in an occasional cutting word. It 
 left her surprised and hurt, though she showed 
 a quick generosity in her forgiveness. Worst of 
 all, he himself realized that he was losing his 
 mental perspective, that he took himself too 
 much in earnest, and magnified trifles until they 
 assumed colossal proportions. It would have 
 been a relief if he could have seen the ridiculous 
 side of the situation. He vaguely felt that it was 
 there ; but he was unable to grasp it. 
 
 It had been arranged that Elinor was to sing 
 before the Saturday Club, that season, and the 
 promised event came off, one night in November. 
 The members of the club had been allowed to 
 invite freely for the musicale, and the Emersons' 
 large house was filled to overflowing. To Elinor, 
 sitting up-stairs and listening to the hum of 
 voices below, it promised to be something of an 
 ordeal. By a tacit consent, she had been recog- 
 nized as the star of the evening, and this was 
 her first introduction to a New York audience. 
 Strange to say, Arturo had favored her singing, 
 and, for several lessons, he had been training 
 her carefully upon the work he had chosen for 
 her. 
 
 162
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "We shall see what you can do, signorina," 
 he said, one day. " I have hopes of you, great 
 hopes, for you have the voice and you shall have 
 the method. That I shall give you. But you 
 must enter into the work con amore, con amore 
 which means with love. As yet you do not 
 seem to have the soul under beneath your sing- 
 ing which shall make all right. You can sing 
 now to be applauded; but you must sing to 
 make the tears fall in a storm. A singer must 
 feel it here, in the heart, signorina ; she is never 
 made from the head. Now when you begin to 
 sing this aria, you must believe that you are in 
 heaven, and all the people around you are 
 angels." 
 
 Elinor herself felt that this was her first great 
 opportunity, and she longed to succeed, if only 
 to justify Arturo in the encouragement he had 
 given her. But as she sat there alone, listening 
 to the murmur from below, realizing that all 
 those strange people were there to hear her 
 and to pass judgment upon her, her courage 
 suddenly failed. Many of her audience had 
 heard the world's best singers. What right had 
 she to come before them? She rose and began 
 to pace the room hastily. 
 
 Heaton's den had been set aside for her use, 
 
 that night. It was the first time she had been 
 
 there, and she found a partial distraction for her 
 
 thoughts in looking about her. The room had 
 
 163
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 been fitted up for him, long ago, and for years 
 it had remained unchanged. The mantel was 
 covered with a collection of photographs of 
 women in the dress of four or five years before. 
 Among them, she recognized many of the 
 women whom she had met at the Emersons', 
 women who now rarely spoke to the man whom 
 once they had known so well. In one corner 
 was a group of sketches of Idlewilde, arranged 
 about a central drawing of herself. She gave 
 a little smile of gratified vanity, as she saw, from 
 the initials in the corners of the sketches, that 
 they were the work of Wyckoff. She remem- 
 bered the gown so well ; it was the one she 
 had worn, the day she and Heaton had first 
 met. 
 
 Across the room was the orderly writing- 
 table, and beside it, on a little stand, was a pile 
 of books. She took them up to glance at their 
 titles. Most of them bore the imprint of the 
 year of his blindness ; but, half-way down the 
 pile, she came upon one that called forth a little 
 exclamation of surprise. It was a shabby paper- 
 covered novel, with her name written across 
 the outside. At a loss to recognize it and 
 to account for its being there, she picked it up 
 and opened it. On the flyleaf were a few lines, 
 written carelessly in pencil, rubbed and blurred 
 with time. She knew the writing by instinct, 
 although she had rarely seen it before. 
 164
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " On the window pelted the raindrops, 
 
 The storm was raging outside ; 
 Into the cottage for shelter 
 
 From our path we turned us aside. 
 And there, by the homely window, 
 
 Sat an aged, wrinkled dame, 
 While above the hum of her spindle 
 
 We heard her dull refrain, 
 ' 'S ist A Ues zu ktirz, zu kurz ! ' 
 
 " Out into the burning sunshine 
 
 We took our careless way ; 
 Naught heeded we of her murmur, 
 
 Life was so fair, that day. 
 But now that the dream has faded 
 
 And the hours have flown away, 
 Swinging alone in my hammock, 
 
 I echo the old dame's lay, 
 'S ist A lies zu kurz, zu kurz / ' " 
 
 A step was heard outside, and Heaton's voice 
 asked, 
 
 "May I come in?" 
 
 She whirled around suddenly. Her face had 
 lighted, and her eyes were shining with pleasure. 
 
 " Did you really write this, Mr. Heaton ? " she 
 asked, holding up the book. 
 
 " What do you mean? " he said, as he crossed 
 the room to her side. On the way, he collided 
 with a chair which she had pushed from its 
 usual place ; but, for the moment, she was too 
 eager to heed it. 
 
 " ' 'S ist Alles zu kurz] " she quoted. " And 
 165
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 you told me once that you had never written a 
 line of poetry." 
 
 It seemed to Heaton that his secret had been 
 shouted from the housetops. He had quite 
 forgotten the crude lines, hastily written so long 
 ago ; but, word for word, they came back to 
 him now with startling distinctness. What would 
 she think of him? He felt a sudden resentment 
 towards the girl, who had ventured to pry into 
 his papers, to ferret out the secrets of his private 
 life. He turned upon her one look of scorn. It 
 was his only way to recover his lost ground, to 
 bury again what she had brought to light. 
 
 " It could hardly be called poetry," he said 
 coldly. " It 's only the merest doggerel. Be- 
 sides, I really can't see how you chanced to find 
 it." 
 
 His accent was cutting, and the quick tears 
 sprang into Elinor's eyes. His rebuke had 
 touched her keenly, but she was too proud to 
 seek to justify herself. She turned and silently 
 put the book into his hand. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said, after a pause. " I 
 had no idea of finding it here." 
 
 Impatiently he tossed the book down on the 
 writing-table. 
 
 " It 's of no consequence, anyway," he said 
 indifferently. " You are welcome to it, if you 
 wish." 
 
 " Elinor, dear," Mrs. Emerson said from the 
 166
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 doorway; "the next number is yours, so per- 
 haps you 'd better come down." 
 
 Forcing back her tears, the girl slowly turned 
 away and crossed the room. 
 
 " I '11 do my best, Bertha," she said drearily. 
 " I am afraid I sha' n't succeed well in my 
 debut; but you must be merciful." 
 
 A moment later, she came forward on the 
 little stage which had been built out at the side 
 of the room. Her face was white and still, and, 
 of a sudden, dark lines had settled about her 
 eyes. She looked tired and discouraged, not at 
 all like her usual bright, careless self. 
 
 During the short introduction, she glanced 
 about the room. It was crowded with people, 
 many of them strangers; but she could not 
 seem to separate the faces. Here and there she 
 caught the flash of diamonds, or the shimmer of 
 some gown of unusually vivid color ; otherwise 
 the crowd before her was like a uniform mass 
 of humanity. Down in the foreground, she 
 recognized Arturo, staring intently at her and 
 beaming encouragement from every line of his 
 round face ; and, far back in a corner of the room, 
 she saw Heaton, who had just come in with 
 his cousin. His face was stern and troubled; 
 and, do what she would, she could not turn her 
 eyes from it, though she felt the lump rising in 
 her throat again and swelling until the pain of it 
 choked her. 
 
 167
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 The prelude was ended, and she began to 
 sing. She was surprised at the steadiness of 
 her voice. It was clear and firm, but so remote 
 and monotonous. It seemed to her to have no 
 connection with herself; it was as if she were 
 singing from the acquired momentum of her 
 past training, and her present will had nothing 
 to do with it. She realized that she was singing 
 coldly, mechanically ; but she was powerless, for 
 the time being, to throw herself into the spirit 
 of the composer. She could only repeat to 
 herself, 
 
 " It 's of no consequence, anyway. It 's of no 
 consequence, anyway." 
 
 She made one strong effort, as she reached 
 the closing phrase; but though she took her 
 high note perfectly, and sustained it with an 
 ease for which she had never dared to hope, she 
 left the stage amidst the coldest, most per- 
 functory applause. 
 
 Alas for the encore for which Arturo had 
 made such careful preparation ! Her possible 
 triumph had proved to be an actual failure. 
 She caught one glimpse of Arturo's disappointed 
 face, and without waiting for him to come to 
 her, she had turned away and wearily mounted 
 the stairs again. 
 
 Wyckoff and Mrs. Emerson joined her there 
 almost immediately. Her lashes were wet ; but 
 she had regained something of her usual man- 
 168
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 ner, and she laughed nervously, as she met 
 them. 
 
 " Scold me, if you like, Bertha," she said. " I 
 meant well; but I was powerless to carry out 
 my good intentions. I am sorry to have dis- 
 graced you ; but I have an idea that it is harder 
 for me than for you." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson was silent. She had over- 
 heard her brother's words to Elinor, a quarter 
 of an hour before, and her womanly intuition 
 told her the secret of the girl's absolute fail- 
 ure. But Wyckoff tried to find something to 
 say. 
 
 Elinor turned to him proudly. 
 
 " Don't try to console me, Mr. Wyckoff. We 
 all know that I sang detestably, so what is the 
 use of denying the fact? Some time or other, I 
 will sing so that you can congratulate me. Till 
 then, the less said, the better." 
 
 Late that evening, after the guests had gone 
 away, Mrs. Emerson came into the library where 
 Heaton still sat over the dying fire. 
 
 " Tom," she said gently ; " were n't you a 
 little hard on Elinor, to-night?" 
 
 He raised his head impatiently. 
 
 " How do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "When you were in your room," she an- 
 swered. " I happened to hear it, and I thought 
 you were too severe. I don't know what to 
 make of you lately, Tom ; you are so change-
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 able with Elinor. It is too bad for you to play 
 with her as you do." 
 
 " Play with her? How do I play with her?" 
 he asked, forcing his voice to be so quiet that it 
 was devoid of all expression. 
 
 "You treat her so differently at different 
 times," his sister went on, little dreaming of the 
 pain she was causing her hearer, who sat silent, 
 with his face shielded from the heat of the fire 
 and from her searching eyes. " One day, you 
 are friendly to her; the next, you are so cold. 
 Elinor is very fond of you, Tom. She has been 
 here so much that you must seem almost like a 
 brother to her, and it is too bad for you to hurt 
 her in this way." 
 
 " I am sorry," he said slowly. " I did n't 
 know I did. I won't, any more." 
 
 But after his sister had left him alone, he 
 rose and stood motionless for a long time, with 
 his arm resting against the mantel, his head on 
 his arm. 
 
 At length he broke the silence. 
 
 " Oh, God, have pity ! " he moaned. 
 
 170
 
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 
 
 "ISN'T this the ideal of luxury?" Elinor ex- 
 claimed gayly, as she came into the dining- 
 room, the next morning. 
 
 She looked a little tired and her eyes were 
 heavy, otherwise there was nothing to show that 
 she had lain awake, half the night, over her 
 failure of the previous evening. It had been a 
 severe blow to her, after all her bright anticipa- 
 tions of success; but she was at no loss to 
 account for it, and she felt that it in no way con- 
 cerned her real ability. The slightest circum- 
 stance had changed the whole result of the 
 evening, and had brought disaster and dis- 
 appointment upon herself. She could only 
 look forward to the future and hope that some- 
 time she would be asked to sing again, when she 
 could redeem her reputation. Meanwhile, she 
 was too human not to feel a deep resentment 
 towards Heaton. His rudeness to her had been 
 inexcusable. He alone had been the cause of 
 her inability to throw herself into the music, and 
 sing as she had so often dreamed of singing. 
 
 Over and over again she asked herself why 
 he was so changeable in his manner to her. 
 171
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 She could see no cause for his occasional harsh- 
 ness ; it was rude and ungentlemanly and alto- 
 gether unlike himself. Wyckoff could never 
 have been guilty. of such discourtesy; but then, 
 neither could his cousin, four years ago. That 
 was it. She must lay it all to his trouble, to the 
 disappointment in all his plans, and be as gen- 
 erous as she could be to forgive. She would 
 have felt justified in cutting the acquaintance of 
 another man upon less provocation; but with 
 Heaton it was all so different. 
 
 It had been agreed that she should not go 
 back to the boarding-house until the following 
 Monday. After she was in her room, that 
 night, Mrs. Emerson had gone to her, and she 
 had stayed for a long hour, talking over the 
 evening's events. Although neither of the 
 women had touched upon the real cause of 
 Elinor's disaster, Mrs. Emerson had left her 
 feeling in some measure comforted. At least, 
 it was a relief to find that her friends still 
 believed in her talent. It gave her new courage 
 to go on. Failure was inevitable at times; it 
 was not necessarily final. 
 
 As she met Heaton, the next morning, she 
 was struck anew by the signs of age and sadness 
 in his face. He showed that he, too, had passed 
 a sleepless night, and he greeted her with a little 
 manner of hesitation which asked for pardon 
 more eloquently than words could have done. 
 172
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "What is it?" he inquired now, as he seated 
 himself. " You are a true optimist, Miss Tie- 
 mann, and everything is rose-color to you." 
 
 " So much the better," she answered. " Rose- 
 color is becoming to most people, and I like 
 optimists. I feel like one, to-day. After my 
 experience, last night, it is good to be allowed 
 to spend the day here, just as if I had n't dis- 
 graced you all. Moreover, I have worked hard 
 enough, this last week, to make me appreciate 
 the delights of settling down here for a lazy, 
 rainy Sunday, with no one likely to interrupt 
 us." 
 
 " It had n't occurred to me to be thankful for 
 this rain," observed Mr. Emerson ; " but I sup- 
 pose I must rejoice on your account." 
 
 " Certainly," she responded promptly. " The 
 sight of you, starting off to church with mackin- 
 tosh and umbrella, will only serve to enhance 
 my appreciation of my own comfort. Even the 
 honor of being senior warden of a popular 
 church has its inherent disadvantages. Nothing 
 is perfect without a little contrast ; is it, Mr. 
 Heaton ? To make my bliss complete, I had a 
 new novel sent me, yesterday, and I was inspired 
 to bring it with me. As soon as we get rid of 
 your husband, Bertha, the rest of us will curl up 
 by the library fire and give ourselves over to that 
 most delicious of combinations, a new book and 
 a rainy day." 
 
 '73
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 An hour later, she came down the stairs, book 
 in hand. She had exchanged her close-fitting 
 gown for a waist of bright, soft silk. It was a 
 bewildering combination of frills and puffs, yet 
 it seemed to suit her rounded, girlish figure, and 
 the vivid bit of color was a relief from the dull 
 background of a stormy November day. Heaton 
 and his sister had settled themselves beside the 
 fire, which was snapping and crackling with a 
 cosy sound of comfort. Elinor curled herself 
 up in a corner of the broad couch in the midst 
 of a nest of many-colored cushions, with her 
 back to the window and her head turned so that 
 she could watch Heaton over the top of her 
 book. She had learned that his face was prompt 
 to show his enjoyment, and she liked to follow 
 the course of her story, written in his changing 
 expressions. 
 
 For two hours she read steadily, while the fire 
 crackled and the rain swept against the windows. 
 Now and then she paused, as she turned a leaf 
 or began a new chapter, to make some comment 
 upon the story. Mrs. Emerson was absorbed in 
 the book ; but Heaton, underneath his apprecia- 
 tion of the plot and its skilful development, was 
 giving himself up wholly to the enjoyment of 
 their quiet, homelike morning together. 
 
 It was a long time since they had spent a day 
 like this. Usually there was something to break 
 in upon their good time, some one to monopolize 
 74
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Elinor and keep her talking of interests in which 
 he had no part. This was like the earlier days 
 of their friendship, and it followed the excite- 
 ment of the night before, as the chorale follows 
 the fugue. For the hour, it was good to stop 
 living and merely to exist. For one moment, it 
 occurred to him how pleasant it would be to 
 spend his life in this way, to have her always 
 near him, willing to read the latest books to him 
 and to talk them over, in the domestic atmos- 
 phere of their own fireside. Then he put the 
 thought away from him impatiently. The pres- 
 ent was all that could be desired ; the future 
 must take care of itself. 
 
 Later in the morning, when Mrs. Emerson was 
 called away for a few moments, Elinor dropped 
 the book, face downward, in her lap, and leaned 
 back among her cushions. 
 
 " I wonder if it is on account of my knowing 
 you and your stories," she said musingly; " that 
 now I never read a novel without wondering how 
 the author felt and what he really meant, when 
 he wrote this or that." 
 
 " I suppose books are always something of a 
 patchwork of one's own observations and expe- 
 riences," Heaton remarked. " Mercifully for us, 
 though, most people don't read them, microscope 
 in hand, hunting for the seams." 
 
 " I never used to do it," she answered ; " but 
 lately I find myself trying to read between the
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 lines. Most of all, I wonder what sort of a per- 
 son the author has in mind, when he makes his 
 hero or heroine. I know there must always be 
 somebody in the background, even if he does n't 
 admit it to himself." 
 
 "Fancy depicting the adventures of a pure 
 abstraction ! " Heaton laughed. " I 'm afraid the 
 result would n't be very human or very sympa- 
 thetic. I confess that I used to start with the 
 skeleton of some one I had met, and then pad 
 it out to suit myself. Lately I have rather left 
 that off, though. Women are my trials. My 
 men I can work up from myself; but I have 
 to carry most women through a story on the 
 strength of gray eyes, or a dimple in one 
 cheek." 
 
 " I might keep a notebook for your use," she 
 suggested laughingly, while she twisted the little 
 bracelet on her left wrist. 
 
 " I am in earnest about it," he replied. " I find 
 that lately, as my memory grows less reliable, I 
 have to do most of my descriptive work at ran- 
 dom. It hampers me badly, and I don't want it 
 to show in my writing." 
 
 " I had n't thought of it before," Elinor said 
 gently. "Your stories don't show it yet; but, 
 if there ever should be any danger of it, could n't 
 Bertha help you, or I?" 
 
 "Thank you for thinking to offer, anyway. 
 Did I tell you that I am really getting to be 
 176
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 fairly proficient in Braille ? It 's a great help to 
 me already, for now I can read over my work 
 and have some idea of what I am doing. But 
 please don't think that I bore everybody with 
 my work as I do you, Miss Tiemann. There is 
 something about you that makes me egotistic, 
 I 'm afraid." 
 
 " It is probably contagious," she answered 
 merrily. " You ought to know by this time 
 how interested I am in it, and in the greater 
 success which you are going to have, some 
 day. Only don't forget all your old friends, 
 when you are sitting calmly perched on the 
 topmost pinnacle of fame." And she took up 
 her book again, as Mrs. Emerson came back 
 into the room. 
 
 How many people to whom we readily con- 
 fide our plans and hopes and aspirations are 
 like \h& pot-pourri jar in which the young society 
 man has been said to stow away the roses given 
 him by different maidens ! In either case, the 
 offering is willingly received, sometimes begged 
 or demanded ; but once taken in, it quickly loses 
 all individuality of being or association. Some 
 people are born to receive confidences. Their 
 sympathy and interest may be genuine while 
 they last; but they speedily die away, leaving 
 no permanent trace behind them. 
 
 " Miss Tiemann gets up a great reputation for 
 her intelligence," remarked the worldly-wise
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Ned, one day. " It 's funny that you fellows 
 don't get on to it. She pumps each one of 
 you about your pet hobby; then she passes 
 on the information to the next man, and as- 
 tonishes him with knowing so much in so 
 many lines. She's a schemer, and she has 
 learned to work it to perfection." 
 
 However, there was no insincerity underlying 
 Elinor's apparent interest in Heaton's work. 
 Her quick, restless mind loved to wander from 
 one subject to another, and she entered into 
 this hobby and that of her different friends with 
 an interest which was as real as it was swift and 
 changing. She talked politics and theology 
 with elderly men just as eagerly as she dis- 
 cussed literature with Heaton, music with 
 WyckofT, or athletics with Ned; and uncon- 
 sciously she impressed upon each in turn that 
 this was her one especial interest. Small won- 
 der that her companion of the moment found 
 himself pouring all his pet theories into her 
 sympathetic ear ! 
 
 It was late, that evening, when the book was 
 finished and they were ready to separate for 
 the night. Heaton went immediately to his 
 room and locked the door, before throwing him- 
 self down upon the sofa. That night, in the 
 midst of Elinor's reading, a new and daring idea 
 had suggested itself to him ; and he wanted to 
 be quiet and alone, to think it out at his leisure. 
 178
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 For weeks, he had been too much absorbed 
 in himself to be in the spirit of work ; but all at 
 once the mood for writing had come back. 
 Why not begin a novel, at last, and make a 
 study of Elinor for his heroine? If he failed, 
 what then ? It would be a constant delight to 
 write of her, even in the disguise of the con- 
 ventional heroine, to fancy what she would say, 
 or think, or do under all sorts of imaginary cir- 
 cumstances. No matter what was the result, 
 there would be pleasure enough in the work 
 itself. And if he should succeed? His brain 
 throbbed at the thought. 
 
 Success would be sweet to him, as to any 
 other young writer ; but, beyond all that, there 
 was the knowledge that he might put into the 
 story some hint of his love which she could not 
 fail to understand. He would change all the 
 surroundings and conditions, he would make it 
 too vague for others to realize ; she surely could 
 not resent it. And if she did read it and respond 
 to it, there could have been nothing ungenerous 
 in this method of telling her his love. That was 
 the main point, and of that he felt sure, view the 
 matter in whatsoever light he would. On the 
 other hand, if she read his unspoken message 
 and was unable to answer it, she would scarcely 
 realize how deliberately he had tried to write it 
 there. She would only smile a little over the ab- 
 surdity, and then forget all about it once more. 
 179
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 All sorts of vague notions of a plot were rush- 
 ing through his brain, and scenes and characters 
 danced about in the darkness, dim and confused 
 at first, then clearer and more orderly, until, in 
 one supreme moment of clairvoyance, the whole 
 idea, complete and entire, stood revealed to him. 
 He started up and crossed the room to the 
 table, to make a few notes, at least, before the 
 inspiration should leave him. 
 
 For the second time in his life, the dawn 
 found him still bending above his table, with a 
 pile of finished sheets by his side. Before, he 
 wrote to deaden his pain ; this time, his destiny 
 was in his work, and it was hurrying him on and 
 yet on towards its fulfilment. 
 
 1 80
 
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 
 
 DURING the next few weeks, Heaton gave him- 
 self unremittingly to his chosen task. Often his 
 heart failed him and he despaired of success, 
 often he was interrupted ; but still he toiled on, 
 for he felt that this was the opportunity of his 
 life. If he failed, it should be his final attempt. 
 If success awaited him, it might bring him so 
 much in its train. 
 
 He realized all the difficulty of his plot, all 
 the obstacles which stood in the way of his 
 writing a story on so much broader lines than 
 anything he had attempted before. And yet, 
 .in all his days of discouragement, he never 
 swerved from his original plan. He felt some- 
 times that his real life was in the people of his 
 story, and, as the days went on, even Elinor 
 grew to seem less lifelike to him, and her 
 picture in the pages before him took on all the 
 semblance of vitality. It was not only when he 
 was writing that he carried with him the con- 
 sciousness of his story. He lived and moved in 
 an atmosphere of his own, rousing himself at 
 times to meet the friends outside, then falling 
 181
 
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 back again into the silent inner life which to 
 him was eloquent with the voices of his own 
 people, the friends of his own creation. 
 
 Few men have worked under greater disad- 
 vantages. Again and again he looked back 
 with gratitude to the night when Elinor had 
 first suggested to him the use of the relief 
 writing of the blind. The need for it was 
 imperative now. Until the whole should be 
 finished, the secret of the story must remain all 
 his own, and it was necessary for him to go 
 over his work again and again. The process 
 was slow and tiresome. His touch lacked the 
 acuteness of those who are born blind, and his 
 time of study had been too short to develop it, 
 or to perfect his knowledge of the arbitrary 
 characters he must use. There were days when 
 his fingers failed him altogether, when his brain 
 refused to give any coherent response to the 
 confused jumble of dots under his hand. And 
 yet, all in all, it was a help to him. It might 
 take him four hours to accomplish what a seeing 
 man could have done in one ; but nevertheless 
 it was rendering the impossibility possible, and 
 he was thankful for so much. To his mind, there 
 was a certain fitness in it that Elinor's chance 
 suggestion, made so long ago, should find its 
 first real outcome in this work which he vaguely 
 hoped might bring them together. He used to 
 smile happily to himself, in his more coura- 
 182
 
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 geous moods, as he pictured the day when he 
 could tell her the whole story and show her how 
 great was his indebtedness to her. 
 
 Day by day his work went on more surely 
 than even he realized. There were hours when 
 his characters appeared to take the story into 
 their own hands, and to say and do all sorts 
 of unaccountable words and deeds. There were 
 hours when he sat motionless, with his face 
 resting upon his clasped fingers, trying in vain 
 to get the clue which he had lost at the sound 
 of the summons to lunch, or of Ruth's voice out- 
 side ; and there were moments when the words 
 and sentences crowded into his brain faster than 
 he could record them. 
 
 Now and then he stopped and deliberately 
 read over his work from the beginning. It 
 always caused him a mingled pain and pleasure, 
 for while he groaned in spirit over its crudeness, 
 its overdrawn scenes and characters, he yet was 
 forced to admit to himself that its pages were 
 keenly alive and human. Why should they not 
 be? Ail-unconsciously he had placed there, 
 not a picture of Elinor Tiemann, as he had in- 
 tended, but of himself, Tom Heaton, in all his 
 weakness and all his strength. 
 
 " You are always so busy now," Elinor said 
 regretfully, one day. " I scarcely see you when 
 I come here. You must be writing a three- 
 volume novel, at the very least." 
 183
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Heaton laughed uneasily. 
 
 " I am," he answered ; " only it is to be in 
 fifteen volumes, after Dumas." 
 
 " How delightful ! Do put me in as heroine 
 of a few of them. You promised to do it, you 
 know, when we first met at Idlewilde." 
 
 " I am afraid I could never do you justice," 
 he replied. " Please remember that I only deal 
 with old women and sinful small boys." 
 
 " You might at least give me a namesake," 
 she suggested, laughing. " That would be still 
 better. I might not be able to recognize myself 
 in the guise of a heroine ; but my name would 
 be unmistakable." 
 
 "Very well; how do you spell it?" he 
 asked, entering into her mood with unexpected 
 readiness. 
 
 "E-l-i, of course. Didn't you know that? 
 I have had a prejudice against the other spell- 
 ing, ever since I was a child. I used to accent 
 it on the second syllable, and I always supposed 
 it had some connection with emaciated people. 
 But I did n't come here to talk about your work ; 
 I 'm much more interested in my own. We are 
 going to have our final ' Elijah ' rehearsal, Friday 
 night, with the full orchestra, and Herr Sig- 
 maringen for his solos. Don't you and Bertha 
 want to come down; or is it too trite? But 
 perhaps you are too busy." 
 
 " I 'm never too busy for music," he answered. 
 184
 
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 " I always write better after I have heard some- 
 thing good, as if there were an inspiration in it. 
 Besides, I am half ashamed to confess it ; but I 
 have never happened to hear ' Elijah.' " 
 
 " It is high time you had," she said, as she 
 rose to go. " I shall look for you, and I only 
 hope you will enjoy it as much as I always do." 
 
 Friday evening came, one of the clear Decem- 
 ber nights when the stars seem to stab the cold, 
 still air with their sharp brilliancy. Inside the 
 hall, the rehearsal was half over. The walls 
 had just echoed with the wild chorus at the 
 close of the first part of the oratorio, when the 
 wind and the rain and the storm of human 
 voices appear to vie with one another in the 
 triumphal shout of Thanks. In the sudden 
 hush of the intermission, Elinor, with Wyckoff 
 at her side, made her way to her guests. Her 
 face was pale, and her eyes shone like the stars 
 outside. 
 
 " Is n't it glorious ? " she exclaimed breath- 
 lessly. " I never go through that Rain Chorus 
 without being completely carried away by its 
 power. It does n't seem to make any difference 
 how often I sing it. There is something grand 
 in feeling that you are even a thousandth part 
 of such music. I believe that it is more of an 
 experience to sing in one's first oratorio than to 
 write one's first novel." 
 
 "You'll have to ask Tom about that, Miss 
 '85
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Tiemann," interposed Wyckoff. " I am getting 
 a little used to her fine frenzy," he went on. 
 " At first, I was afraid of insanity ; but now that 
 I find it is only chronic hysteria, I no longer 
 worry. I have given up trying to get a word 
 out of her, when once the music begins." 
 
 " Mr. Wyckoff has benevolently changed 
 places with my flatting neighbor," Elinor ex- 
 plained. " But truly, don't you envy me ? " she 
 asked, turning again to Heaton, whose nerves 
 were still quivering with the excitement of the 
 stormy scenes on Carmel, heard for the first 
 time. 
 
 " There 's a chance for you to make a grace- 
 ful speech, Tom," his cousin suggested. " Why 
 not say that you envy me for my position in the 
 chorus? Bertha, I shall be thankful when this 
 thing is over. If it were to continue very long, 
 Miss Tiemann's nervous system would be com- 
 pletely shattered." 
 
 " It is too bad to laugh at me," she protested. 
 " Remember that I am a crude Westerner, 
 unused to this sort of thing. I shall take it 
 more calmly, another time ; though I doubt if 
 any other oratorio can ever be as enjoyable to 
 me as this one." 
 
 "Wait till you sing as soloist in one," said 
 Wyckoff teasingly. 
 
 " Hush," she said, as her color came. " Arturo 
 is over there in the corner, and I don't want him 
 186
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 to hear you. He has absolutely no sense of 
 humor, and he would think I was really aiming 
 at that eminence. He was politely sarcastic, at 
 my last lesson, and he told me that I would 
 have a very pretty little voice in time, if I were 
 careful of it. He is glaring at me now, and I 
 must bow to him. Behold my meekness ! " 
 And she gave a deprecating salute in his 
 direction. 
 
 " Elinor, I am positively ashamed of your 
 lack of spirit," said Mrs. Emerson, laughing. 
 " The idea of being afraid of such a pigmy ! " 
 
 " Though he be but little, he is fierce," re- 
 sponded Elinor, as the baton sounded and she 
 turned to go back to her place. " He never 
 grew up to fit his temper, and it has become 
 wrinkled from being packed into such small 
 compass." 
 
 Perhaps the second part of the " Elijah " is not 
 quite so powerful as the first; perhaps, after 
 his long day's work, Heaton was a little tired of 
 listening. In any case, he found it impossible 
 to lose himself in the music so completely as 
 he had done before the intermission. He was 
 only conscious that, sitting somewhere in the 
 great chorus before him, Elinor and Jack were 
 side by side and carried along in the same tide 
 of musical excitement, enjoying the composer's 
 masterpiece as only those can do who have a 
 share, however slight, in its interpretation. It 
 187
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 was only at the very last, when the orchestra 
 changed to the final maestoso, and the chorus 
 took up the stately movement of " Then shall 
 your Light Break forth as the Light of Morning 
 Breaketh," that once more the rest of the world 
 stood remote. Then once again he sat, as if 
 alone, enjoying the great volume of harmony 
 which rose and swelled around and above him 
 into the grand resonance of the final Amen. 
 
 All that night, the sound was in his ears. 
 Long years before, at Idlewilde, he had lain in 
 his hammock under the trees and listened to 
 the choir boys, up in the cabin on the hill. 
 They had been singing that same grand chorus. 
 He had not known it then; now he recalled 
 it so vividly. He could not sleep ; he was 
 content to lie passive and listen to that prom- 
 ise of light. It was as if past and present 
 had met, and were sending him the same mes- 
 sage. Involuntarily he connected it with his 
 half-finished novel, and he fell asleep at last, 
 resting in the hope that his light would come to 
 him through his work, that his new day would 
 break when once his story could be placed in 
 Elinor's hands. 
 
 The hope remained with him all the next 
 day, and increased until it amounted to a super- 
 stition. As he bent over his table, the words 
 were still ringing in his ears, and inspiring him 
 to renewed efforts. There was a sparkle and 
 1 88
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 life in his work, that morning, which he had 
 never gained before. He could scarcely believe 
 his ears, when he heard little Ruth come toiling 
 up the stairs to call him to lunch. 
 
 " You look tired, Tom," urged Mrs. Emerson, 
 as she saw him make a move towards the stairs, 
 an hour later. " Why do you work any longer, 
 to-day?" 
 
 " I am feeling just like it," he answered. 
 "Let me have two or three hours more to 
 myself. Then I will be more sociable." 
 
 " Who ever expected to see you so absorbed 
 again?" she said, as she stood looking up at 
 him. " You were so long without writing that I 
 was afraid you would never touch it any more." 
 
 " No danger of that," he replied, laughing. 
 " A longing for literary success is like malaria ; 
 once get it thoroughly into your system, and 
 there is no getting it out again. I shall prob- 
 ably go on writing till the end of the chapter 
 which will be at about five o'clock." 
 
 But at half-past four, he was roused by hear- 
 ing Elinor's voice, down-stairs. 
 
 "Yes, it was too fine a day to stay in the 
 house, so I thought I would run over to spend 
 an hour and drink a social cup of tea with you. 
 How did you and Mr. Heaton enjoy yourselves, 
 last night?" 
 
 He had been on the point of making one of 
 the most carefully studied effects of his story; 
 189
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 but, at the sound of her voice, it fled from his 
 mind. He waited in vain for a moment or two, 
 hoping that it would come back to him. Then 
 he rose impatiently and went down to the 
 library. 
 
 Elinor was chattering to Mrs. Emerson about 
 some plan she was making for the holidays. 
 As Heaton came into the room, she instantly 
 rose to meet him, with the little air of cordiality 
 which invariably marked her treatment of him, 
 as differing from her manner to other men. 
 Then the talk went rambling on to one subject 
 after another, while the tray was brought in, 
 and Mrs. Emerson made the tea which always 
 adds a flavor of sociability to the most formal of 
 conversations. 
 
 At length Elinor left them. Heaton, eager 
 for his work again, turned away and went up to 
 his room. As he felt for the knob of the door, 
 to his surprise he found that the door was wide 
 open. A moment later, a childish voice fell on 
 his ears, 
 
 " Hullo, Uncle Tom ! I corned up here to 
 see you, and I fought you would n't ever come 
 back. I wanted you to tell me a story. And 
 I 'm so sorry ; but I tipped over all that great pile 
 of papers on your desk. I put it back ; but I 
 should n't wonder if 'twas some mixed up." 
 
 Heaton crossed the room and put out his 
 hand in search of the orderly pile of manuscript 
 190
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 he had left when he went down-stairs. In its 
 place, he found a rough, untidy heap of paper, 
 piled in confusion across the whole end of the 
 table. Ruth watched him intently. 
 
 " Uncle Tom, are you cross to me ? " she 
 asked, after the silence had lasted for a minute. 
 
 " Cross, baby? No; I hope not. Why?" 
 
 " 'Cause I mixed it all up," she said peni- 
 tently. 
 
 " No, baby." And there was in his tone an 
 utter weariness which even her young ears 
 could realize. "Uncle is used to having things 
 mixed up ; but perhaps, if he tries very hard, 
 he can straighten them out a little. We can 
 only wait to see." 
 
 191
 
 CHAPTER NINETEEN 
 
 " MY aunt, Mrs. Mackie, has just dropped down 
 upon me very unexpectedly," Elinor wrote. 
 " She is only to be here for a day or two ; but 
 I want you and your brother to meet her. If 
 you have no other engagement, go with us to 
 Mr. Oertzen's recital, this afternoon, and then 
 dine with us afterwards." 
 
 " You see," she explained to her aunt, after 
 she had dispatched a messenger with her note ; 
 " I am serving a double purpose in this invita- 
 tion. I want you to meet Bertha, of course, 
 and I suppose you will enjoy seeing Mr. Heaton 
 again. Moreover, I have accepted so much 
 from them, socially speaking, that it is a positive 
 relief to be able to entertain them under proper 
 chaperonage. It seems very good to be con- 
 ventional and have a duenna once more." 
 
 Mrs. Mackie smiled, as she sat looking up at 
 her pretty niece. She had studied the girl 
 closely, since her arrival, the night before ; and 
 the result of her scrutiny was satisfactory. Elinor 
 was well, happy in her work, and developing 
 beyond her highest aspirations. It had not 
 193
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 been altogether with the approval of Mrs. Mackie 
 that Elinor had taken up this life of homeless 
 study in New York. A thoroughly domestic 
 existence would have been more her choice for 
 her niece than a possible musical career, how- 
 ever brilliant. Nevertheless, she had watched 
 Elinor from her childhood, and she had seen 
 the slow, steady growth of her talent and with 
 it the restless longing for a broader training than 
 their little western town could give. With a 
 certain reluctance, she had consented to Elinor's 
 coming to New York, and she had missed the 
 bright companionship which had transformed 
 her childless home. Now, however, she acknowl- 
 edged to herself that the experiment had been 
 an undoubted success. 
 
 It was the morning for Elinor's lesson, and 
 the girl insisted that Mrs. Mackie should go 
 with her. On their return, they found awaiting 
 them a note from Mrs. Emerson to say that her 
 carriage would take them all down town to- 
 gether. 
 
 " I shall be glad to meet Mrs. Emerson, 
 Elinor," Mrs. Mackie said, as she took off her 
 bonnet. " Your letters are full of her, and I 
 feel rather as if she were temporarily matroniz- 
 ing you." 
 
 " What about Mr. Heaton ? " Elinor inquired. 
 " Don't you want to meet him again, Auntie ? " 
 
 " I 'm not sure." 
 
 13 193
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "What do you mean?" Elinor turned to her 
 a little sharply. "I thought you always liked 
 him." 
 
 Mrs. Mackie raised her eyebrows at her own 
 reflection in the mirror. 
 
 " I did like him, and all the more I dislike to 
 see him now. He was such an alert, independent 
 man that I half dread to see the change in him. 
 You wrote me you felt something the same thing, 
 yourself, Elinor, when you first came here." 
 
 "Yes," answered the girl thoughtfully; "I 
 know ; but that was long ago, before I was used 
 to him. Now I find it hard to realize that he 
 was ever like the rest of us. I think you '11 
 see what I mean. Bertha wants us to dine 
 with her, to-morrow night, and meet Mr. Wyck- 
 off," she added. 
 
 Mrs. Mackie waited with some impatience for 
 the afternoon. It was not easy for her to under- 
 stand the precise relation between her niece and 
 Heaton. Elinor's frequent mention of him in 
 her letters could not fail to make her uneasy. 
 Three years before, she would have consented 
 gladly to Heaton as a prospective nephew; 
 but she could hardly be expected to approve 
 of Elinor's falling in love with a blind man, 
 however fine his character might be. Study as 
 she would, she could not quite read Elinor's 
 mind in regard to him. She must wait to see 
 them together. 
 
 194
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 She met with a distinct shock, when the car- 
 riage stopped at the door and she stepped into 
 it. Was this Heaton, this saddened, worn- 
 looking man, with the hai^ grown white about 
 his thin face, and the slow, uncertain motions? 
 He met her cordially, and as his face lighted, 
 she could see something that reminded her of 
 their old companion of a summer day; but the 
 likeness was faint and blurred. She watched 
 the off-hand way in which Elinor greeted him and 
 dropped into the seat at his side. There was no 
 trace of self-consciousness in the girl's manner, 
 and Mrs. Mackie's fears were somewhat allayed. 
 
 As they left the carriage and were crossing 
 the pavement, Mrs. Mackie stopped abruptly. 
 
 " I have left my fan in the carriage," she said. 
 " I am sorry to keep you waiting, but I shall be 
 so much more comfortable if I have it." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson turned back with her, and 
 Elinor and Heaton were left standing alone at 
 the entrance to the hall. They were just in the 
 path of the people who were passing in, and one 
 or two of them jostled against Heaton. Elinor 
 laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Come," she said ; " we '11 go inside the door- 
 way and wait for them there." 
 
 The steps were strange to him, and Heaton 
 went up them slowly, feeling his way with his 
 feet. Inside the doorway, they halted to wait 
 for the others. 
 
 '95
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " I feel as if I had gone backward, a few 
 years," Heaton said, breaking the pause. " Your 
 aunt is so exactly as she used to be that I can't 
 realize it is more than three years since I saw 
 her." 
 
 "Auntie doesn't change at all," Elinor an- 
 swered, as she bowed to a passing acquaintance. 
 " She 's a little grayer, that is all. You don't 
 know how astonished I was when she descended 
 upon me, last night." 
 
 " You did n't know she was coming? " 
 
 " Not in the least. I think she took me by 
 surprise, to see if she could catch me in mis- 
 chief. She has never really approved of my 
 studying music, you know ; she always has felt 
 that it was incompatible with my becoming a 
 good housekeeper." 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 " Of course not. I don't see why a woman 
 can't bake bread and brew beer successfully, 
 even if she is an artist. Not that I ever expect 
 to be one. Fate was good to me, last night, 
 though." 
 
 " You were n't in mischief, then ? " Heaton 
 queried absently. 
 
 " I * was a picture of domestic quiet. My 
 piano was closed, my music put away, and I 
 was darning stockings. I could n't have ar- 
 ranged it better, if I had known what was in 
 store for me. Even Auntie had to admit that 
 196 

 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the demoralizations of city life had left me 
 unscathed. Here they come at last," she added, 
 as Mrs. Mackie appeared at the foot of the steps. 
 
 Then she hesitated. When they left the car- 
 riage, Mrs. Emerson had taken her brother's 
 arm to guide him into the strange hall. Now, 
 as they stood together, it was natural for Elinor 
 and Heaton to lead the way, and she was at a 
 loss what to do. Unused as she was to leading 
 him, she felt the embarrassment of the situation, 
 and she shrank from the task ; yet she feared 
 that it would be too open a reminder of his 
 helplessness if she deliberately waited for his 
 sister to come to him. She stood for a moment, 
 irresolute. Then, as she raised her eyes, she 
 saw the color coming and going in his cheeks. 
 Evidently he realized the position and found it 
 a galling one. Her own color came, as she 
 took his arm with a little air of decision. 
 
 " They are just behind us," she said. " What 
 if we lead the way ? " 
 
 It seemed to her that the aisle was endless, as 
 she followed the usher to their seats ; but there 
 was no trace of hesitation in her manner when 
 she took her place, drew Heaton down beside 
 her, and then turned to speak to the friend she 
 had chanced to find at her other hand. Mrs. 
 Mackie and Heaton were talking together, and 
 it left her a moment to recover herself. It had 
 not been an easy thing for her to do. She had 
 197
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 many acquaintances scattered through the audi- 
 ence who could not have failed to notice her 
 when she came in ; but she was willing to have 
 braved their gaze, as she saw the relief on 
 Heaton's face when once he was seated. It had 
 needed all his sister's urging to make him con- 
 sent to accept Elinor's invitation, and the slight 
 uncertainty at the door had been a painful 
 ordeal to him. It was the first time that any 
 one but his sister and Jack had led him into 
 unfamiliar places ; and it was at once a pleasure 
 and a pain to receive such service from Elinor. 
 
 " It is such a good programme," she said at 
 length, as she turned back to him ; " German 
 songs, to start with. I always love Schumann ; 
 don't you?" 
 
 " I was telling Mr. Heaton my great piece of 
 Idlewilde news," Mrs. Mackie said, as she leaned 
 forward to speak to her niece. " I had a letter 
 from Mrs. Rose, last week, and she says it is 
 rumored that Napoleon is to be married. Can 
 you fancy such a thing?" 
 
 " It is a little incongruous," Heaton observed, 
 with a smile. " I shall never forget the day the 
 man dawned upon me. It seemed to me there 
 was more unconscious humor about him than 
 any one I had ever met before." 
 
 " I prefer Arturo, myself," Elinor remarked, 
 in a low voice. " He is only three seats in 
 front of me, and I am in momentary terror of 
 198
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 his seeing me. He was in a detestable mood, 
 this morning, just when I wished him to show 
 off well. But here comes Mr. Oertzen." 
 
 There was the little stir of a large audience 
 which is settling itself to listen to a favorite 
 singer; there was the quick burst of applause 
 that greeted him. Then the stillness dropped 
 down about Heaton until it seemed to him that 
 he could hear his pulses throbbing aloud. He 
 never forgot the hour that followed. Sitting 
 there, under the spell of that wonderful voice, 
 a voice which sways one to tears at its will, he 
 was only conscious that Elinor was beside him, 
 sharing his mood, heedful of his comfort. Other 
 people were present, of course ; but for him 
 they had no existence. He and Elinor were 
 there together, and the songs were intended for 
 their ears alone. 
 
 Involuntarily and without losing a note of the 
 programme, his brain was occupying itself with 
 the questions which, day by day, were absorb- 
 ing more and more of his thoughts. She had 
 been quick, when they stood together at the 
 door, to read his mood and to see the passing 
 annoyance of his helplessness. Could she have 
 been so prompt to understand him, if she were 
 altogether indifferent to his love? He could 
 still feel the firm, quiet pressure of her hand 
 upon his arm. Was her gracious act one of 
 mere friendship alone? Had there not been 
 199
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 some deeper feeling which helped her to inter- 
 pret his thought so readily? A burst of applause 
 roused him, as the singer left the stage for the 
 intermission. 
 
 " No need to ask if you are enjoying it," 
 Elinor said lightly, under cover of the murmur 
 which sprang up about them. "I've been 
 watching your face, and I know you like him. 
 I 'm so glad, for he is one of my favorite tenors." 
 
 " You have an unfair advantage of me," he 
 answered a little sadly. " I shall have to assume 
 a look of stolid unconcern. What comes next? " 
 
 "A suite by MacCunn." 
 
 " I don't know him." 
 
 " He is a new man on the programmes, and I 
 don't know these songs at all. He is sure to be 
 interesting, though, and with such a voice I 
 could enjoy even Claribel," Elinor answered. 
 
 Heaton smiled at her enthusiasm. 
 
 " I had a friend," he remarked ; " who went to 
 sleep and snored audibly in ' Die Meistersinger.' 
 It is n't safe to predict what one will enjoy. 
 There is one thing I like about this man ; he 
 pronounces his words clearly enough so that I 
 don't need a libretto. That makes a difference 
 to me, nowadays," he added, as a slight sensa- 
 tion around him warned him that the singer had 
 come forward once more. 
 
 With barely an introductory chord, he began 
 to sing, and both Heaton and Elinor started 
 200
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 into quick attention at the dainty little song 
 which followed. Changing from key to key, 
 varying its time and its rhythm, it was impossible 
 to separate the words and the melody, so closely 
 were they blended. Softly and sadly the words 
 fell on their ears, and all at once Heaton stirred 
 uneasily. 
 
 " That the gloomy form of a cruel fate 
 Passed scathless through the guard, 
 And shadowed all the orient sky, 
 And smote the spring with a bitter cry." 
 
 It was like the echo of his own thoughts, 
 which had been busy, during all the early part 
 of the programme, with the barrier which had 
 risen between Elinor and himself. 
 
 " I prayed in tears, ' O, my Love, remain, 
 My Love, my Life, my Light ! ' 
 Through tears she said, ' I will come again 
 When again the skies are bright.' " 
 
 He moved impatiently, and drew his hand 
 across his mustache. He wondered what was 
 the use of singing such stuff. In spite of his 
 expressive voice, the fellow could have no 
 notion of what it really meant. It was all train- 
 ing, that was all. He was foolish to have it 
 affect him so. 
 
 " Did n't I tell you it would be good ? " 
 Elinor's voice said in his ear, at the end of 
 the next number. " It is so unusual, and so 
 powerful." 
 
 201
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 What did she know about it? But he steadied 
 himself to listen again, determined to hold him- 
 self aloof from the spell the singer was throwing 
 about him. 
 
 After the quiet happiness of the second num- 
 ber, he was little prepared for the passionate 
 outburst that followed. It was as if the poet 
 and composer had looked deep into his heart of 
 hearts and had written it all down, all the dis- 
 appointment and unrest, all the throbbing pas- 
 sion of the man, and now he must sit there, 
 motionless and calm, with Elinor at his side, and 
 listen to it, and make no sign that he was writh- 
 ing with the pain of it all. 
 
 " I cry over lands and the sea, 
 ' Slow the hours pass on,' 
 The hours that divide me from thee. 
 Will they never be gone ? 
 O pitiful Fates, let the night 
 To the day give place, 
 And the sun shine forth with the light 
 Of my Love's dear face." 
 
 He drew in his breath hard, and shut his 
 teeth together to steady his lips, while his fin- 
 gers clutched the useless programme which the 
 usher had thrust into his hand. He forced him- 
 self to think of something else, of anything 
 which could break the strain. He tried to 
 fancy just how sleek and smiling the singer 
 probably looked, how well his coat fitted him.
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 It was of no use. The haunting, plaintive 
 melody was all about him, and he was powerless 
 to disregard it. 
 
 Then he had a moment's respite. The motive 
 changed, and the pleading, restless theme died 
 away, to be followed by a strain of utter sadness 
 which held the audience spellbound, yet had no 
 power over him. He breathed freer. The next 
 moment, the words forced themselves upon his 
 attention again, relentless and piercing : 
 
 " In vain my strained sight 
 Doth search a ray of light, 
 And now I sit in gloom appalling, 
 With lessening hope for comfort calling, 
 While on my heart despair is falling 
 Like a winter's night." 
 
 It was like the requiem of his hopes. He felt 
 as if Elinor were slipping away from him, out 
 into the measureless, unbroken dark, and he were 
 powerless to grasp her. He heard nothing of 
 the outburst of jubilant happiness that followed. 
 White to the lips and with quivering nerves, he 
 sat motionless, trying to conceal the pain which 
 was overpowering him. It was cruel, cruel to 
 bring him here to have his thoughts laid bare in 
 any such way as this. He was roused by hear- 
 ing his sister's laughing voice. 
 
 " Come, Tom, are you in a trance ? I think it 
 is time we were moving." 
 
 Elinor's face was rapt with her enjoyment. 
 203
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Was n't it wonderful? " she said. " I never 
 heard him sing better." 
 
 Heaton's lip curved. 
 
 " His Schumann was good ; but I did n't see 
 anything wonderful in that last suite," he said 
 coldly. " It seemed to me sentimental and over- 
 strained ; but perhaps it did n't suit my mood, 
 to-day." 
 
 But he turned away his face to escape her 
 disappointed eyes. 
 
 204
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY 
 
 AT last it was done. The holidays had come 
 and gone, and Easter was close ^t hand. All 
 through the long winter, Heaton had worked on 
 amid alternations of gloomy despair and fierce 
 hope. The last light of a stormy March day 
 was fading from his room as he wrote the 
 final words. Then he bowed his head on his 
 hands and sat motionless, how long he never 
 knew. 
 
 At length he started up again, smoothed the 
 pile of manuscript on the table before him, and 
 locked it away in a drawer, safe from prying eyes. 
 He let it lie there for a month. Now that the 
 strain of writing it was over, he distrusted his 
 efforts. His sense of the ridiculous was begin- 
 ning to assert itself once more, and he almost 
 feared to read over what he had written, lest he 
 should find it beneath contempt. 
 
 Night after night, he resolved to take it out 
 and read it, before another day was ended ; 
 night after night, he went to bed, leaving it still 
 untouched. Unknown to himself, he was ex- 
 hausted by the long task, and physically and 
 205
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 mentally unable to judge of the quality of his 
 work. He was content to drift on from hour 
 to hour, enjoying his old quiet life by the fire- 
 side. He had not seen Elinor since the book 
 was completed ; and, for the time being, he had 
 almost ceased to think of her. It was a relief to 
 forget her, for a while ; but this could not last. 
 The old struggle and the old hope were bound 
 to reassert themselves. 
 
 Elinor came to dinner, one day in late April. 
 She had never seemed brighter nor more 
 attractive to them all. The past winter appeared 
 to have ripened her character from a girl to that 
 of a woman, and her beauty was keeping pace 
 with it. Mr. Emerson and his wife felt the 
 change as well as Heaton, and, like him, they 
 were at a loss to understand it. It was still 
 early when she went away ; and Heaton, after 
 lingering irresolutely in the hall for a moment, 
 went slowly up to his room and unlocked the 
 drawer where his manuscript lay. 
 
 It was long past midnight when he finished 
 reading. Even then, he made no motion to 
 rise from the table. As if the story had 
 been the work of another man, he had been 
 held and carried along by its power, and its 
 spell was still upon him. It was crude and 
 overdrawn in places ; in places it rose to great- 
 ness. All in all he told himself that it was 
 good, far better than he had supposed. It 
 206
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 should try its fate. He would go back to his 
 old typewriter, make the best copy of the manu- 
 script that he could, and then put it into his 
 sister's hands for the final revision. 
 
 It was strange that, from the first, he had 
 thought of no public save the publisher who 
 should accept it, and Elinor who should read 
 it. It would have to come under the eyes of 
 others, of course ; but its message was for her 
 alone. What mattered the opinion of any one 
 else? 
 
 For the next three or four weeks, he worked 
 unceasingly, pruning here, revising there, always 
 with the old enthusiasm, always with the bright 
 hope dancing before him, leading him on to 
 more earnest endeavor. She could not fail, he 
 told himself, to read between the lines and 
 understand his appeal. Perhaps, too, if it 
 should succeed, the little addition to his reputa- 
 tion might help him to win her. He did not 
 reason about it. He trusted to his instinct, which 
 told him that this was his one chance. Success 
 must follow such long and persistent effort. 
 How else did men gain their desires? Occa- 
 sionally, in the intervals of his toil, he tried to 
 bring himself to feel that, in spite of everything, 
 disappointment might be awaiting him ; but it 
 was to no purpose. He could only wait and 
 work and hope. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson had been out making calls, one 
 207
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 afternoon in May. As she came in and went up 
 to her room, her brother met her at the head of 
 the stairs. 
 
 " I will be down, in a minute," she said, as 
 she stood aside to let him pass. " Are you 
 really going to give me an hour of your com- 
 pany again ? " 
 
 " More than that," he said, with a smile. 
 " My work is done, ready to go into your hands, 
 and I can rest." 
 
 Something in the suppressed exultation ot 
 his tone struck her ear. 
 
 "What is it, Tom?" she asked. 
 
 " I have finished my story," he repeated. 
 "Come into my room, and I will show it to you. 
 I 'm afraid it will take you a good while to copy 
 it, though, for it is longer than the others, a 
 whole book." 
 
 " At last ! " she exclaimed. " I am so glad 
 that you have tried it, for I have been sure you 
 could do something beyond short stories, and I 
 have longed to have you attempt it." 
 
 " Here it is," he said briefly, as he led the 
 way to his room and placed the manuscript in 
 her hands. " If you feel as if you could copy 
 it, I would rather have you do it than send it 
 into the clutches of a stranger. There is no use 
 in our talking over its merits. I 'm blest with a 
 rather keen sense of the ridiculous, and I am 
 painfully conscious of its absurdity. It is 
 208
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 absurd; but it may have lucid intervals." He 
 forced himself to speak quietly, though his heart 
 was beating fast, as he put his work into his 
 sister's hands. " Just copy it, and say nothing 
 to anybody," he added. " When it is done, you 
 can send it down to Lockwood and Elmore, and 
 let them see what it is good for. Most likely it 
 will come back to me by return express ; but, 
 till then, please don't talk about it." 
 
 With a word of congratulation, Mrs. Emerson 
 left him and hurried away to her own room, 
 eager to begin her task. She looked at her 
 watch. Two hours before dinner. Ruth was 
 busy in the nursery, taking care of a large 
 family of dolls who were passing through an 
 epidemic of measles, and Mr. Emerson would 
 not be at home until late. She drew a chair for- 
 ward to the window and sat down to read. 
 
 In her long experience as her brother's secre- 
 tary, she had become familiar with his style ; 
 but, from the first page of this new story, she 
 saw that he had entered an entirely different 
 field, and that he had proved himself its master. 
 Where had he learned to read character so 
 acutely? How had the quiet, self-contained 
 man in his narrowing life contrived to penetrate 
 so deeply into the mysteries of human life and 
 thought? How, with a few swift strokes of his 
 pen, had he thrown his characters into such 
 bold relief? 
 
 14 209
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 For several chapters she read on, held by the 
 interest of the story, yet with no idea whither 
 it was leading her. The plot was a simple one, 
 only the old, hackneyed study of growing love 
 between man and maid ; but invested with a 
 new fire and intensity from its method of treat- 
 ment. Where had he gained the idea for this 
 vain, self-absorbed woman, this grandly heroic 
 man? 
 
 At length she reached the crowning chapter 
 of the story, when the man, in spite of his love 
 and for the sake of it, determined to leave the 
 woman of his choice, rather than stand in the 
 way of her future career. As she followed him 
 through the supreme struggle, as she saw him 
 again and again yielding to the old temptation, 
 the old love, only to conquer it at the last and 
 say farewell with a smile upon his lips, she gave 
 a low cry of pain and let the loose sheets fall 
 from her hands. She realized it all now. 
 
 For some moments, she sat there motionless, 
 as if stupefied by her discovery. She was over- 
 come with pity for her brother, with shame and 
 remorse for herself. Stupid and blind as she 
 was, why had she never foreseen the danger 
 which must inevitably come to one or the other 
 of them from their constant intercourse? In- 
 stead of that, she had only helped it on. She 
 had encouraged Elinor's visits, and had done 
 her best to throw her into the society of her
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 brother. It was so plain now that, in looking 
 back over the past year, she wondered how she 
 could have been so unconscious of it all, so at a 
 loss to explain Heaton's moodiness, his varying 
 manner towards Elinor. Even then, had she 
 realized it, she might have done much to set 
 right the wrong. As it was, she had tried to 
 bring them into closer companionship , she had 
 even reproached her brother for his occasional 
 sharpness. She knew now that it was the one 
 relief for his exhausted endurance. 
 
 And Elinor? For the moment, she hated the 
 girl. Why had she come there to wreck her 
 brother's happiness? Could she not content 
 herself to have Wyckoff at her feet, without 
 seeking to show her power over Heaton? 
 Then Mrs. Emerson's sense of justice reas- 
 serted itself. As she looked back over the 
 past, she could never remember a time when 
 Elinor had seemed to trifle with Heaton, or to 
 treat him otherwise than she would have done 
 a brother or an intimate cousin. Women are 
 quick to appreciate these distinctions, and 
 Mrs. Emerson admitted to herself that Elinor 
 had been above reproach. No; the girl was 
 blameless. 
 
 At first she determined to go to her brother, 
 to tell him she knew his secret at last, and to 
 make what amends she could for her past neg- 
 lect. Then she felt that she had no right to
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 speak. Heaton was probably unaware how 
 much of himself he had put into his story, 
 still less aware that there was danger of her 
 understanding the source of his inspiration. 
 He had asked her to say nothing of the book, 
 even to him. If she had unwittingly intruded 
 upon his secret, at least he should never know 
 it. Of the future of his story she could feel no 
 doubt. For the rest, who could tell? Elinor 
 was young and susceptible to all sorts of new 
 influences ; she might be moved by this appeal. 
 Moreover, Heaton was rich and would one day 
 be famous, while no woman could demand a 
 truer, manlier husband. Perhaps all would yet 
 be well. 
 
 Slowly the days passed away. The Em- 
 ersons had gone to their country home, where 
 May daisies were fading and the roses of June 
 were showing their pink petals through the 
 vivid green of the calyx. Over the household 
 there seemed to be a little tension, as if they 
 were waiting restlessly on the eve of some 
 great crisis. Mr. Emerson was ignorant of the 
 existence of the novel ; Mrs. Emerson and 
 Heaton never once alluded to it. It had been 
 copied and sent to the publishers, who had ac- 
 knowledged its receipt in a short, but courteous 
 note. Now there was nothing to do but to 
 wait. 
 
 Morning after morning, as the postman left
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the letters, Mrs. Emerson hastily ran them over, 
 in search of one which should bear the well- 
 known imprint. It came at last; and, dis- 
 regarding her other mail, she seized it and 
 hurried away to find her brother. 
 
 "It has come ! " she said breathlessly, as she 
 entered the library where he was sitting. 
 
 " Read it, please." 
 
 For once, Mrs. Emerson lost her wonted 
 quiet, as she tore the letter open and glanced 
 at its contents. 
 
 " How good ! Listen ! " And she read the 
 note aloud. 
 
 It was short and incisive, as a busy publisher's 
 letters must be ; but there was an underlying 
 spirit of kindliness which was far better than 
 many words. For the rest, it accepted the 
 novel, added a few words of congratulation 
 upon such a brilliant piece of work, and then 
 passed on to the details of the contract, to 
 which now they paid scant heed. 
 
 If Mrs. Emerson had expected that her 
 brother would be dazzled by his success, or 
 would make any demonstration of his joy, she 
 was mistaken. He only drew a long breath, 
 rose and took a few turns up and down the 
 room ; then he said quietly, 
 
 " It is settled, then. I am glad." 
 
 " But hear what he says," urged his sister. 
 " ' It is a novel of remarkable promise, and can- 
 213
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 not fail to attract attention.' Do you realize 
 what that is, coming from the publisher him- 
 self? " 
 
 " I do realize it," he said. " I am glad, Bertha, 
 more glad than you can know ; but even now it 
 may not amount to anything." 
 
 He had no suspicion that she was reading his 
 inner thought. For the hour, she had forgotten 
 everything but her brother's brilliant success; 
 his last words reminded her how much was still 
 at stake. She crossed over to his side and laid 
 her head against his shoulder. 
 
 " Tom, dear," she said earnestly ; " to-day is a 
 fitting climax to all my pride in you. Remem- 
 ber, whatever comes, even if you have the world 
 at your feet, your success and happiness mean 
 more to me than to all the rest, and your disap- 
 pointment, to-day, would have been almost as 
 hard for me to bear as for you." 
 
 He bent down and rested his cheek against 
 her hair. 
 
 " Whatever comes, Bertha, I know you '11 never 
 fail me." 
 
 She went away to write a note to Elinor, ask- 
 ing her to come out to dine with them, the 
 following day. 
 
 It seemed to her that the next day was end- 
 less; but at last she saw Elinor crossing the 
 lawn. She met her at the door. The girl was 
 looking unusually bright and happy, she thought. 
 214
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Could she have met Mr. Emerson in town, and 
 had he told her the great news? Mrs. Emer- 
 son led her guest to the library; then, after a 
 moment, she excused herself and went up-stairs 
 to her brother's door. 
 
 " Come," he said, in answer to her knock. 
 
 " Elinor is here, Tom," she said, as she entered. 
 " She has come out to dinner. Can you go down 
 to entertain her, for a few minutes? I have to 
 give Mary some orders." 
 
 A moment later, Heaton entered the room. 
 As Elinor rose to meet him, she was struck with 
 the new light in his face, the new energy and 
 alertness of his whole manner. 
 
 " You look as if you had heard some good 
 news lately," she said, as she took his hand. 
 
 " I have," he answered gravely, yet with an 
 eagerness which he could not entirely control. 
 " May I tell you ; or don't you care about my 
 work, when you are so busy?" 
 
 " Of course I always care," she replied heartily. 
 " I am not so selfish as that, I hope, and I like to 
 be told happy secrets." 
 
 " This can't be a secret much longer," he said, 
 struck by the womanly sympathy of her tone. 
 How quick she was to feel and share his happi- 
 ness ! " I wanted to tell you, myself, before you 
 heard of it, outside. The fact is, I 've a novel 
 just accepted by Lockwood and Elmore, and 
 they say it is likely to prove a success." 
 215
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Heaton, I am so glad ! Is it really 
 true? How proud of you we all are! " There 
 was no mistaking the joy in her voice. " Tell 
 me all about it," she went on. " I want to know 
 so many things : when you wrote it, and how, and 
 all the rest of it." 
 
 And Heaton told, simply and frankly as a 
 child, only suppressing all the part which re- 
 lated to herself. She listened intently, making 
 little delighted comments from time to time. 
 Then, when at length he paused, she said 
 slowly, 
 
 " I do congratulate you, Mr. Heaton, and I 
 shall always be so glad I knew you, all the 
 time you were writing it. Perhaps even, a little 
 bit of me may have strayed into it, without your 
 knowing it. I can hardly wait to see it. And 
 now that you have told me your secret, I think 
 I shall tell you mine, though I did n't mean to 
 speak of it yet. I am very happy, too, for I " 
 she faltered a little, as if embarrassed ; then she 
 went on more steadily, " I am engaged to Mr. 
 Wyckoff." 
 
 216
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 
 
 JACK must never know. 
 
 Over and over again he found himself repeat- 
 ing these words, even before he grasped their 
 full meaning. Afterwards he had never known 
 just how he spent that evening. He had forced 
 himself to appear as usual, to laugh and talk with 
 the rest ; but, underneath it all, he had constantly 
 recurred to the one thought: Jack must never 
 know. 
 
 Swiftly and unexpectedly the blow had fallen. 
 He had never thought of Jack. Strange to say, 
 it hurt him much more than if it had been another 
 man ; and yet he felt no bitterness towards his 
 cousin. Jack had always proved his most loyal 
 friend ; now was his own time to return that 
 loyalty. For the sake of all that his cousin had 
 been to him, he must hide his trouble under a 
 smiling face, and go forward and make no sign. 
 
 We rarely realize the intensity of our hopes 
 until, of a sudden, their futility is proved. It 
 seems quite possible to bear the disappointment, 
 until the disappointment comes. Then we find 
 that we have never really admitted the possibil- 
 217
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 ity of anything but success, and the blow falls 
 heavily, its crushing weight all unbroken. 
 
 After any mental crisis, there comes the inter- 
 val of quiet exhaustion and of passive endur- 
 ance. Then follows the time of reconstruction. 
 To go from hope to hopelessness is one thing ; 
 to accept that hopelessness and mould it to the 
 fashion of our future hopes is quite another 
 matter. 
 
 When the first sharp pain was over, then 
 came Heaton's hardest time. He knew that he 
 loved Elinor as tenderly as ever; but that, in 
 loyalty to Jack, he must try to kill out his love. 
 It was a hard task, for it was like trying to tear 
 away the very roots of his manhood. For more 
 than a year, this love had been the central point, 
 the focus of his life, and it would have been 
 almost as easy to destroy life itself. 
 
 The time had come for his manhood to assert 
 itself, and he showed himself strong now. If 
 he had been weak before, in allowing himself to 
 drift into a relation which his destiny had for- 
 bidden him to enjoy, the temptation had come 
 so slowly and gradually that he had not seen 
 whither he was going, until the mischief was 
 done. Now that his dream was ended, he 
 roused himself to the new duty and steadfastly 
 set his face towards the future, with a quiet 
 endurance which left little mark upon his outer 
 life. 
 
 218
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 It had been hard for Mrs. Emerson to lay 
 aside her own little dream, and to congratulate 
 Elinor upon her engagement. Yet she admitted 
 to herself that no two people could be better 
 suited to each other than were Jack and Elinor ; 
 that, if it had not been for her brother, she would 
 have rejoiced to know they had come together. 
 Often as she longed to do so, she never once 
 hinted to Heaton that she had known of his 
 love. He gave her no opportunity for it ; and, 
 as the days went on, she resolved that it was 
 better to keep the silence unbroken. 
 
 The summer seemed unending to Heaton, 
 that year. Elinor came out often in June, 
 sometimes alone, sometimes with Jack, but 
 always radiant with her new happiness, always 
 full of her new plans. She was to spend the 
 summer with her aunt; then, in the early fall, 
 she was to go abroad for two or three years of 
 study. Jack had been too generous in his love 
 to ask her to give up her work for his sake. 
 He was secure in his joy, and he could afford to 
 wait. 
 
 Heaton always saw her when she came. There 
 was no change in his outward manner to her, 
 save for a new gentleness which had replaced 
 his old moods of sharpness. He sat, by the 
 hour, listening to the details of her doings and 
 her future plans, from time to time throwing in 
 a word of comment or suggestion, as she turned 
 219
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 to him for sympathy. She had given him her 
 friendship frankly and sincerely, and he deter- 
 mined to accept so much and ask for no more. 
 It hurt him sharply now; but the time might 
 come when he would be grateful for it, glad 
 that he had not rejected it. Accordingly, he 
 forced himself to meet her in exactly the old 
 way. She was conscious of no change in him ; 
 but often, after she had gone away, he went to 
 his room, threw himself down on the familiar 
 couch, and, burying his face in the pillows, 
 fought the battle once more, bitterly and long, 
 but always bravely in the end. 
 
 Then came the weary days of correcting 
 proof, when his sister went over the novel with 
 him, line by line, letter by letter, both of them 
 realizing all its hidden meaning, neither of 
 them giving a sign of the pain it was causing 
 them. What a mockery it seemed, now that the 
 fire had burnt itself out, and left only dull, 
 gray ashes ! They grew to hate the story, and, 
 in spite of the kindly, hopeful letters from the 
 publishers, they rejoiced when they could turn 
 away from their completed task and try to 
 forget it. 
 
 They spent August at the Shoals, that year. 
 The Grays had written to offer them their 
 cottage ; but, to Mr. Emerson's surprise, neither 
 his wife nor Heaton felt any wish to return to 
 the lake, so they went to Appledore instead.
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Heaton's fame had gone before him, for already 
 his novel was widely heralded, and he found 
 himself everywhere received with a cordial 
 admiration which, at any other time, must have 
 been pleasant to him. 
 
 Now, however, he dreaded the very mention 
 of his book, for a new fear had come to him. 
 What if, as he once had hoped, Elinor should 
 read all he had written there, recognize the 
 attempted portrait of herself, and understand his 
 love? She must either receive it with indigna- 
 tion, or laugh him to scorn that he had been so 
 dull, so absorbed in himself as not to see whither 
 she was so plainly tending. As he had listened 
 to it, that last time, he had studied it closely, to 
 see whether he only imagined its fervor. It 
 was all alive and on fire with his love, and it 
 seemed to him that no true woman could be 
 unconscious of his meaning. He writhed in 
 spirit, as he fancied the little contemptuous 
 smile with which she would toss aside the 
 book. 
 
 At last it came. One day in early October, 
 the English and American papers announced the 
 publication of " The Unfolded Roll of Fate " by 
 Thomas Murray Heaton; and the busy world 
 paused long enough to take up and read the 
 promised novel. From the first, its success 
 was assured, and for weeks Mrs. Emerson was 
 kept busy, replying to the congratulations of
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the countless friends who suddenly discovered 
 that they always had predicted a brilliant future 
 for the author. Heaton smiled quietly over 
 the notes, listened to the press notices with 
 open scorn, and took his new honors so calmly 
 as to surprise every one but his sister, who knew 
 that he was waiting to hear from Elinor, before 
 he could rest. 
 
 He had promised to send her a copy of the 
 book, as soon as it should be in his hands ; and, 
 much as he shrank from her criticism, he had 
 faithfully kept his word. Day by day, his 
 thoughts followed the little package across the 
 Atlantic and on to Berlin, where she was to 
 spend the winter studying with an old colleague 
 of Arturo. He had allowed so many days for 
 the book to reach her, so many for her to read 
 it, he could fancy just how she would cut the 
 string, tear away the paper, and turn over the 
 leaves to read a line here and there, before 
 settling down to the opening chapter, and so 
 many more before her answer could reach him. 
 The time had not nearly passed, when Mrs. 
 Emerson came into the library, one morning, 
 with some letters in her hand. 
 
 " Such a good mail ! " she said. " Here 's a 
 letter from Elinor." 
 
 " From Miss Tiemann ? " His color came and 
 went quickly. 
 
 " Yes, a long one. Let me see what she 
 222
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 says." And she tore the envelope open and 
 glanced at the closely-written pages. " It 's all 
 about her music and her voyage over. I '11 read 
 it to you as soon as I can make it all out. Oh, 
 here is a letter from her to you," she added. 
 "Shall I read it first?" 
 
 " Please do," he answered briefly. 
 
 "My DEAR MR. HEATON, 
 
 " Your book is here ; it came 
 
 just as I was finishing my letter to Bertha, and I left 
 everything, to read it at once. It is so late now that I 
 must hurry to catch the mail for the next steamer ; 
 but I have just finished reading it, and I promised to 
 tell you what I thought of it. 
 
 " It is very different from any of your other work and 
 far beyond anything else you have ever done, stronger 
 and better sustained, and ever so much more original in 
 its treatment. Did n't I always say you could write a 
 good novel ? Your dialogue is capital, and you have n't 
 written a page where the interest drags ; but of course 
 everything centres in your two characters. Where 
 did you get your ideas for them? They both are very 
 much alive. I can't quite read the woman, but she 
 seems to me detestably selfish. The man is grand ; 
 he reminds me a little of Jack. 
 
 " Of course, this is only hasty criticism. I shall 
 write you again by the next steamer, after I have had 
 time to read the book more carefully. I am too ex- 
 cited now to write clearly, for the end of your story 
 has quite demoralized me. I don't often cry over a 
 223
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 book ; but this was too much for me. That stupid, 
 stupid girl ! Why could n't she know ? 
 " Cordially yours, 
 
 " ELINOR TIEMANN." 
 
 His efforts had been crowned with success; 
 but not the success for which he had striven 
 and longed. His secret was still his own. 
 
 224
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 
 
 " AND how do I really look, Jack? " 
 
 " Altogether charming, madame. Do you 
 begin to feel the spasms of stage-fright?" 
 
 " Hush ! " she commanded. " This is even 
 worse than Berlin. There were n't a dozen 
 people there that I knew, and here there are so 
 many. I only hope I sha'n't happen to look at 
 any of them. I know I should break down, if I 
 were to meet Arturo's gaze." 
 
 " Look up at the chandelier over the stage, 
 then," counselled her husband. " It will give 
 you just the expression that ought to go with 
 some of your Priestess solos. But do you 
 honestly feel shaky? Can't you have something 
 to steady you?" 
 
 " No ; I shall be all right, as soon as I hear 
 the orchestra. How strange it seems ! " She 
 fanned herself nervously. 
 
 " You are sure you 're all here ? " asked her 
 husband anxiously. " Score and cloak and all ? 
 You want to be sure about the cloak, for that 
 stage is horribly draughty. I remember it of 
 old, when I was only a chorus tenor, not the 
 husband of the star." 
 
 15 225
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 She smiled faintly. 
 
 "Don't be too sure that I'm not a setting 
 star. This is my first real test, for, after all, 
 Berlin did n't seem to me to count for half so 
 much. There I was only somebody's pupil; 
 here I must stand on my own merits." 
 
 "And your cloak? I'll risk the merits; but 
 you must n't take cold." 
 
 " Bettina has it. Is n't it all strange, Jack? " 
 
 " As to which?" 
 
 " That my cherished dream should come true, 
 and at last I should be singing here in New 
 York; strangest of all that it should be with 
 this very chorus where we used to sing to- 
 gether." 
 
 " I wish that the ' Elijah ' had come first," her 
 husband said, while he paced restlessly up and 
 down the room. 
 
 " Oh, Jack, why? This is so much more of a 
 part. ' Arminius ' is my best work." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; only ' Elijah ' was our first ora- 
 torio together, little woman. I 'd have liked 
 your debut to have been in that, and leave this 
 over till Thursday night." 
 
 She smiled up into his happy, handsome 
 face. 
 
 " What a sentimental boy you are, Jack ! At 
 least, the fiery horses can't drag us apart now." 
 
 " I wish we had some of their caloric here, 
 to toast you up a little," he answered, as he 
 226
 
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 took her hands into his. " This dressing-room 
 is no place for you. I wonder if that confounded 
 chorus will never get fixed." 
 
 Suddenly she started up. 
 
 " Listen, Jack ! There go the violins ! " 
 
 "And, by Jove, here 's Edwin ! I thought he 
 would n't miss coming in to see you, after the 
 note I sent him." 
 
 Three years and more had passed away since 
 Elinor had left New York; and now at last, 
 as she had said, her dream had come true. She 
 was to make her first public appearance in 
 America upon the same stage and with the 
 same chorus where she and her husband had 
 sung together, in the early days of their ac- 
 quaintance. The years had ripened the girl 
 into the perfection of womanly beauty, until 
 now, at twenty-seven, Elinor Wyckoff had more 
 than fulfilled the promise of her maidenhood. 
 
 For two years, she had worked on alone in 
 the busy solitude of the great foreign city, man- 
 fully fighting her way onward through drudgery 
 and discouragement, cheered and strengthened 
 by Jack's frequent letters, his unswerving faith 
 in her future, and his generous patience in 
 waiting until her work was done. From the 
 time of her going abroad, there had seemed to 
 be little question of her final success. Even 
 Arturo had said that her voice and method 
 would be perfect ; and at length she was gain- 
 227
 
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 ing something of that sympathetic quality which 
 she had always lacked before. Perhaps it was 
 coming with her natural growth towards wo- 
 manhood ; perhaps it came from the love that 
 had filled her soul with a happiness of which she 
 had never dreamed till then. 
 
 At the end of the second year, Wyckoff could 
 wait no longer. 
 
 " Come home for the summer," he wrote. 
 " Then, if you really must go back, we will be 
 married in September, and I '11 go over and 
 spend the year with you. My practice can 
 stand being left ; and, even if it could n't, better 
 lose a little, now and then, than have to spend 
 the best years of my life away from you. Come 
 home, dear, and let me go back with you." 
 
 And Elinor came. 
 
 The summer had been too short for the 
 accomplishment of her many plans ; but, before 
 they sailed from New York, she and Jack spent 
 a few days with the Emersons. Their pleasant 
 home seemed quite unchanged to her, as she 
 sat by the familiar fire, the night of her arrival. 
 Mrs. Emerson had grown a little more matronly, 
 as befitted the mother of a Harvard junior, 
 and Ruth had left her babyhood far behind. 
 Mr. Emerson was quite his old self, and Heaton 
 greeted her with the brotherly cordiality which 
 she had known so well in former days. He too 
 appeared unchanged ; his hair was a little whiter, 
 228
 
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 perhaps, and he was more quiet; but that was 
 all. 
 
 Of his work he inclined to say but little, and 
 it was not until she was alone with Mrs. Emer- 
 son, after dinner, that Elinor learned the glory 
 which had come to her old friend. " The Un- 
 folded Roll of Fate " had made his reputation ; 
 but the novel that followed it had won him a 
 place in the hearts of the people such as is 
 granted to but few writers. The reading world 
 was ready to lie at his feet ; but he turned aside 
 and went quietly on his way, unspoiled by 
 flattery and adulation, as he had been by wait- 
 ing and by bitter disappointment. There had 
 been no constraint in his meeting with Elinor. 
 On her side, there could be none ; and he had 
 forced himself to put away the memory of the 
 last year they had spent together, and to give 
 her the blithe greeting which befitted her bride- 
 hood. 
 
 Then the Wyckoffs had sailed away again, 
 and, for one more year, Elinor had worked on 
 towards the fulfilment of all her hopes. But now 
 the years of study were ended, and at length 
 she was to taste the sweetness of success. There 
 had been one small recital in Berlin when a 
 few critics had gone away enthusiastic over the 
 young American; there had been one concert 
 when the opera house had rung with wild 
 applause. Then she and her proud husband 
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 had sailed for America. New York was to have 
 a festival of oratorio ; and there, in her favorite 
 part of the Priestess in " Arminius," Elinor was to 
 make her American de"but, through the influence 
 of Arturo, who had never lost interest in his 
 old-time pupil. 
 
 It had seemed so strange to her to be wait- 
 ing in the state dressing-room, that night, while 
 her old friends of the chorus slowly filed on to 
 the stage and took their seats, that she was 
 relieved when Mr. Emerson's genial face ap- 
 peared at the door. 
 
 "May I come in and make my best bow?" 
 he asked, as he crossed the threshold. Then he 
 fell back and struck an attitude of awe. " Ye 
 immortal gods and the nine muses ! Can this 
 resplendent mortal be my little Cousin Elinor?" 
 
 " The very one," she answered, holding out 
 her hand. " I 'm still the same old girl, in spite 
 of. my fine feathers, and I am delighted to see 
 my dear old cousin." 
 
 " And your dear old cousin returns the com- 
 pliment," he responded, as he stared approv- 
 ingly at her trailing white silk gown and the 
 close circlet of diamonds that blazed at her 
 throat. " You are certainly good to look at, 
 Elinor; and they say you are good to hear. 
 Best of all, I can't see why you are n't the same 
 Elinor, in spite of all the nonsensical raving 
 about you in the papers." 
 230
 
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 She laughed a little nervously. 
 
 " Yes, I 'm the same Elinor Wyckoff, though 
 they did try to have me take an Italian name. 
 I only hope I can sing so that I sha'n't disgrace 
 you all, as I did at your house, long ago. I 
 must go on, in a minute ; but I shall see you 
 again. Did you get the box I ordered for 
 you ? " 
 
 " Yes. Bertha and Tom are there now, with 
 the Mackies; but I wanted to see you first. 
 You 're both of you coming to lunch, to-morrow, 
 Bertha says." 
 
 " Jack thinks he must keep a business engage- 
 ment ; but I shall be there. Tell Bertha I shall 
 look for her in the box," she added, as a knock 
 on the dressing-room door warned her that her 
 hour had come. 
 
 She hurriedly took leave of Mr. Emerson. 
 Then, as he left them alone, she turned impul- 
 sively to her husband. 
 
 " I am going on now, Jack," she said, looking 
 up into his eyes. " I will do the best that is in 
 me, for your sake." 
 
 Her heart beat fast as she walked slowly across 
 the front of the stage and took her seat, under 
 the gaze of hundreds of opera glasses and thou- 
 sands of pairs of human eyes. She was dimly 
 conscious of the close ranks of the chorus back 
 of her, of the great sea of faces before her. She 
 knew that the tenor had bent forward to make 
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 some whispered comment in her ear, and she 
 tried to answer him coherently. For a moment, 
 everything turned dark before her eyes, while 
 she heard the loud, abrupt chords of the orches- 
 tra and the first low tones of the chorus. The 
 familiar strains brought back something of her 
 self-control, and she turned a little in her chair. 
 As she did so, her glance fell upon her husband, 
 who stood at the side of the stage, watching her 
 intently. Their eyes met, and his smile gave her 
 courage. 
 
 The chorus was singing gloriously, and the 
 orchestra seemed inspired. The music, rugged 
 as the warring tribes themselves, was throwing 
 its spell over her and filling her whole being. 
 The crowded hall, and New York, and the 
 modern world had fled from her, and she stood, 
 the Priestess in the sacred grove, listening to the 
 mighty song of the free-born sons of Wodan, 
 watching the ruthless on-coming of the Roman 
 legion. She knew that the moment for her first 
 solo was at hand ; but she had ceased to dread 
 it. 
 
 As she rose, she gave one quick glance towards 
 the middle box, where her friends sat waiting to 
 hear her voice. She could see them plainly, her 
 aunt and uncle with the Emersons in the fore- 
 ground, Heaton a little farther back. He was 
 bending forward in his chair, with his face 
 turned expectantly towards the stage, and some- 
 232
 
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 thing in the intensity of his expression caught 
 and held her wandering gaze. During the long 
 introduction, she stood motionless; then, with 
 her eyes still fixed upon him, she began to 
 sing, 
 
 " Through the grove a sound of warning 
 Stirs the mystic boughs." 
 
 Low and monotonous as were the notes, a 
 quick thrill of pleasure passed throughout the 
 audience. Rich and full and velvet-like, the 
 voice held them under its sway. Then it rose 
 to a clearer, higher note, 
 
 " Peace on you, oh, faithful sons of Wodan ; 
 Give your mourning people peace, 
 Lightning-crowned God ! 
 Wodan, humbly we adore thee, 
 We wait for a sign from thee, 
 I, thy Priestess, call thee ! " 
 
 Not a motion broke the utter stillness of the 
 vast audience, as the voice, prayerful, powerful, 
 reverent, died away, and the chorus, almost in 
 whispers, took up the theme ; but Elinor's eyes 
 were still upon Heaton, and she had seen his 
 hands stiffen as they clutched his programme, 
 his chest rise and fall sharply while he listened 
 to her prayer. 
 
 Jack seized her hand, as she left the stage for 
 the intermission which followed the second part 
 of the oratorio. 
 
 233
 
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 " By Jove, Elinor, you never did anything to 
 equal that consecration scene ! " he exclaimed 
 breathlessly. " Your aria was fine ; but the 
 prayer was beyond it all." 
 
 " Was it good ? " she asked, dropping into a 
 chair, while Bettina wrapped her cloak around 
 her. 
 
 " Good ! Did n't you hear them? " 
 
 "N-no; not really. I was watching Tom 
 Heaton, and wondering what he thought of it." 
 
 " Poor old Tom ! I wish he could see you, to- 
 night, Elinor." And Jack's face softened, as it 
 always did at the mention of his cousin. 
 
 " He can hear me," she said a little wearily. 
 
 " That 's true, and it counts for more, to-night, 
 than ever before. You've scored a complete 
 success, Elinor ; and the audience is all for you. 
 I was afraid at first that it was going to be cold ; 
 but you can do whatever you like with it now." 
 
 She turned to look at him as he tramped up 
 and down the little room, his face beaming with 
 his pride in her. 
 
 "If you are only satisfied, Jack! You and 
 Arturo are my most dreaded critics. But wait 
 till my Battle Aria. That will make or mar my 
 success." 
 
 A hearty burst of applause met her when she 
 
 went out to take her place on the stage once 
 
 more. During the intermission, there had been 
 
 but one theme on everybody's lips, the new star 
 
 234
 
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 that had swept above the musical horizon. Critics 
 were exchanging golden opinions, and Arturo 
 was surrounded with newspaper men, all clamor- 
 ing for some verdict from the old-time teacher 
 of Elinor Wyckoff. Up in the middle box 
 above, four eager, excited people were all talk- 
 ing at once, while Heaton sat alone in a corner, 
 his head resting on his hand and his lower lip 
 caught between his teeth. For the moment, no 
 one thought of him, and he was glad that it was 
 so. It gave him time to steady himself, to think 
 of the meeting on the morrow, and of the many, 
 many meetings of former years. 
 
 Motionless, he sat there during all the next 
 part of the oratorio. He heard vaguely and as 
 in a dream the grand bass obligato, the call to 
 arms ; but he never stirred until Elinor's voice 
 once more fell upon his ears. Then he raised 
 his head, held it higher and higher as she passed 
 from her broken recitative to the full power of 
 her great aria, 
 
 " Wodan ! Mighty one, Lord of battles ! 
 From the sacred recess of thy shrine 
 Guide thou the snow-white steeds, the boders of 
 
 vict'ry ! 
 Haste, oh, haste thee to bring thy children succor ! " 
 
 Swiftly breathless, imperious yet beseeching, 
 
 the voice rang out till the air around him vibrated 
 
 with its throbbing passion. It was Elinor's voice, 
 
 the voice he had formerly known so well. Under 
 
 235
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 its spell, he forgot his weakness, his blindness, 
 even ; its warlike fervor possessed him, and ail- 
 unconsciously he threw back his shoulders and 
 filled his chest with the deep, full breath of a 
 strong man who knew not the fear of darkness. 
 It was Elinor, Elinor Tiemann before him, call- 
 ing on him to rise up and conquer the Romans, 
 and the world, and fate itself. The very air was 
 electric with the resonance of her voice, the dra- 
 matic fire of her personality. He could feel it 
 thrilling through and through the huge audience 
 before him, and his nerves were tingling with its 
 power. 
 
 " Wodan ! Mighty one, Lord of battles ! 
 Haste, oh haste, mighty Wodan, bring us succor ! " 
 
 In vain the chorus and the orchestra went 
 crashing into the mighty war song that fol- 
 lowed. No one heeded them, and they could 
 only stop short and join in the general tumult. 
 It came in waves, rising and falling, now jarring 
 the very walls, now dying down, only to swell 
 out louder than before, while the air was filled 
 with fluttering handkerchiefs and falling rose- 
 leaves. The de*but of Elinor Wyckoff was an as- 
 sured success, and her husband's heart throbbed 
 with pleasure as he watched her. 
 
 But when the storm had spent itself, and the 
 leader of the chorus had once more raised his 
 baton, she turned to look up into the middle 
 236
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 box. Heaton had come forward into the light, 
 and, as he impatiently drew his fingers across 
 his lashes, she saw upon them something that 
 glittered as sharply as the diamonds at her own 
 throat. 
 
 237
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 
 
 QUITE regardless of the fact that " Arminius" was 
 only the opening concert of a four-days festival, 
 the critics of the morning papers lavished upon 
 Elinor Wyckoff all the adjectives of their own 
 language and even dropped into French in their 
 fervor. Late on the morning after the oratorio, 
 she came into their private breakfast-room, to 
 find her husband in a sea of papers, with a pile 
 of long clippings laid ready beside her plate. 
 He looked up, as she entered. 
 
 "The birds are all piping in unison, this 
 morning, madame. There appear to have 
 been neither chorus, nor orchestra, nor any 
 other soloists, last night; nothing but a new 
 singer, named Wyckoff. Such notices used to 
 make me furious, when I was one of the ignored 
 chorus; but now I don't seem to care." 
 
 She laughed, as she bent over to give him 
 his good-morning kiss ; then she sat down and 
 gathered the clippings into her lap. 
 
 " How silly they are, Jack ! There 's not a 
 
 word of real criticism in them. They lost their 
 
 heads entirely ; and I 'd rather have one word 
 
 from Arturo than all this nonsense. I like the 
 
 238
 
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 part, and I like to sing it ; but that 's no reason 
 they should go mad over me." 
 
 "It was more maddening than you know, 
 Elinor," he answered gravely. " I have heard 
 you sing often enough ; but you fairly swept me 
 off my feet, last night. I Ve seen New York 
 audiences go crazy before ; but I never saw 
 anything to equal this." 
 
 "I wonder what Arturo thought," she said 
 musingly. 
 
 " He was parading around the wings, smiling 
 his broadest and polishing the top of his head 
 till it shone. I tried to get him to go in to see 
 you; but he said he would wait till you were 
 rested." 
 
 The waiter came into the room, just then, 
 laden with a crowded tray. Behind him, a 
 bell-boy brought a handful of notes and a 
 dozen florist's boxes. 
 
 "The lion-hunters are beginning in good 
 season," Wyckoff said, as he took them. 
 "Isn't this from Arturo, Elinor?" 
 
 " Yes." And she tore it open. Her face 
 flushed and the tears started into her eyes, as 
 she read the few lines written there. "Listen, 
 Jack ! It 's like a benediction on my work. 
 
 " MY DEAR MRS. WYCKOFF, 
 
 " There was something very big 
 and beautiful in your singing, last night, and it filled 
 239
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 my heart full of emotion. Your success was grand ; 
 and it pleased me much, for it was like the success 
 of one of my own children. After all my years of 
 teaching, years of weary work when I have too often 
 dismayed, this has given me courage to go on. I 
 am not a young man, and my life has not been an 
 easy one ; but it is reward enough to have helped 
 to give the world one such voice as yours. In the 
 name of our common art, I pray you to work always 
 to the highest limits of your soul. 
 
 " Your old master, 
 
 "MANUEL ARTURO." 
 
 Wyckoff left the room, while Elinor was still 
 lingering over the table. He came hurrying back 
 again, his blue eyes shining with merriment. 
 
 " Fly, Elinor, while there is time ! The clerk 
 just asked me to let him know when you were 
 at leisure, for five reporters have been in the 
 office, ever since six o'clock, waiting to interview 
 you. I assured him that you were still fast 
 asleep, and I gave the waiter an extra tip, to 
 keep him quiet." 
 
 " What a nuisance ! " 
 
 " It 's one of the trials of greatness, madame. 
 You will get used to it in time. But what will 
 you do? See them?" 
 
 " Of course not. What time is it? Ten o'clock? 
 
 Call a carriage, Jack. I '11 go to Bertha's, early 
 
 as it is. She will take me in, I know ; and, when 
 
 I am safely out of the way, you can call them in 
 
 240
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 to eat up the crumbs of the breakfast. You 're 
 to call for me, this afternoon, you know." 
 
 Wyckoff looked after her approvingly, as she 
 went away. There was no suggestion of stagi- 
 ness in her simple tailor-made gown and her 
 blithe manner. In spite of her dazzling success 
 of the previous night, she was apparently as free 
 from self-consciousness as she had been on the 
 day of their first meeting. Proud as he was of 
 her, his pride was nothing in comparison with 
 his love, and he found it good that she was still 
 the same Elinor, wife as well as artist. Life 
 was kind to him, he told himself, and he put 
 her into the carriage with a boyish tenderness 
 which had its origin in their little talk over the 
 breakfast table far more than in all the glory of 
 the night before. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson had not expected her guest so 
 early, and Elinor was met at the door with the 
 assurance that she need not look for her hostess 
 for at least another hour, as she had gone to 
 take Mrs. Mackie for a drive. 
 
 " It 's no matter," she said gayly to the maid 
 who admitted her. " I am very early, I know ; 
 but it was more convenient for me to come now. 
 Take my hat and coat, please ; and I '11 go into 
 the library and wait. I can find something to 
 read, and I don't mind being alone for a while." 
 
 She gave a little sigh of relief, as she entered 
 the familiar room. In spite of herself, she felt 
 16 241
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 dazed by the ovation she had received, the night 
 before. It was as if she had entered into a new 
 existence, the intensity of which she had never 
 imagined, even in her wildest dreams. For the 
 moment, it was good to drop out of it, into the 
 old life of three or four years ago. How natural 
 the room looked ! The very chairs seemed to 
 be offering her a silent welcome from their 
 accustomed corners. There was Mrs. Emerson's 
 seat near the light, and Heaton's beside the fire, 
 with her own little one opposite it. 
 
 She moved about the room, for a few minutes, 
 studying all the little homelike details which 
 she remembered so distinctly. Some of the 
 happiest hours of her life had been spent in 
 that room. Brilliant as was the promise of her 
 maturity, she was yet conscious of a vague, 
 formless regret for her careless girlhood. She 
 had paused, with her elbow resting on the back 
 of Heaton's chair, and her eyes fixed upon the 
 photographs on the mantel. Jack's latest one 
 was there, and her own, and an old one of 
 Heaton which she found it hard to recognize, 
 so unlike it was to his present self. She roused 
 herself from her reverie, drew a chair nearer 
 the table, and took up the newest of the maga- 
 zines that lay there. 
 
 She chanced to open to an essay which inter- 
 ested her ; and, within a few moments, she had 
 lost all thought of past or present. So absorbed 
 242
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 was she that she did not hear Heaton's slow, 
 quiet step, as he entered the room and came 
 forward to her side. His face showed that he 
 had not slept. Dark lines were under his eyes, 
 and his lips were white and dry. He was thinner 
 than of old, and he was beginning to stoop 
 slightly, while his hair showed scarcely anything 
 of its old bright brown. Clear as ever, in spite 
 of their unchanging stolidity, his brown eyes 
 were turned directly towards her while he ad- 
 vanced, with his hand outstretched, as if in 
 greeting. The next instant, he stopped abruptly. 
 Instead of the chairback for which he was grop- 
 ing, his fingers lay across Elinor's brow and 
 cheek. 
 
 For a minute, his whole frame grew tense, 
 and he made no effort to take away his hand. 
 It seemed to him that his breath burned his 
 throat, as he stood there motionless, waiting. 
 He could feel the firm, warm flesh under his 
 fingers, the curve of her cheek, the sweep of 
 her lashes against the palm of his hand. For 
 years, his only knowledge of her had been in 
 the sound of her voice, the rustle of her clothing, 
 and, now and then, the touch of her cool little 
 fingers ; yet he recognized her now by instinct. 
 For years, he had longed to touch her face, just 
 to freshen the dimming outlines of the old pic- 
 ture he had carried so long. Now at last it lay 
 under his hand. 
 
 243
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Elinor ! " he said huskily, and his hand 
 dropped to his side. 
 
 In a moment it had ended. Elinor sprang 
 up, tossed aside her magazine, and seized his 
 hand. 
 
 " Tom ! How you surprised me ! How good 
 to see you ! And to have you drop formality 
 and call me by a cousinly name at last ! " 
 
 " I had no idea of rinding you here," he said 
 slowly, as he moved across to the fire. 
 
 " And I nearly made you fall over me. Here 's 
 your chair. You don't know how glad I am to 
 see you again," she said, laughing a little in her 
 frank pleasure. " I saw you there, last night, 
 and I sang right straight at you. I was ever so 
 much more interested in watching you to see 
 how you took it than in listening to the applause 
 from the gallery." 
 
 Heaton still stood facing her, and he shivered 
 like a man in a chill. She saw it, and she was 
 startled by it and by the ashy pallor of his face. 
 
 " Oh, you are ill," she exclaimed pitifully, as 
 she drew nearer his side. 
 
 With an effort he regained control of himself. 
 
 " No ; only a little tired from the excitement 
 of last night. You have no idea how I enjoyed 
 it all. Your dream has been fulfilled at last." 
 
 Her face lighted again, as she heard the old 
 friendly note in his voice. 
 
 " Yes, it was more than I ever dared hope 
 244
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 for; but I can't make it seem real. I feel 
 more as if I were in the dream, to-day, and I 
 should wake up to find myself once more study- 
 ing with Arturo and pouring all my ambitions 
 into your patient ears. Those were good 
 old days, after all." Her tone was happily 
 reminiscent. 
 
 Heaton sat with his face turned to the fire, 
 and his slender fingers pulling at his mustache. 
 During the silence that followed, Elinor watched 
 him thoughtfully, studying the change which 
 the year had wrought in him. 
 
 " I wonder," she said abruptly, after the 
 silence had lasted for some minutes ; " I wonder 
 if you ever remember a talk we had, one day at 
 Idlewilde, up in the woods by the brook, when 
 you theorized about your work." 
 
 Under his mustache, his lips straightened to 
 a narrow line. 
 
 " Remember it? Of course. Why?" 
 
 " I appear to be in a retrospective mood, 
 to-day," she said lightly. " I was thinking of 
 the changes time had brought to us ; that 's 
 all." 
 
 " Is n't that enough? " he asked. " The con- 
 trast is sharp, surely." 
 
 Utterly absorbed in her own idea, she went on 
 contentedly, 
 
 " Time has been good to us both, in some 
 ways. Seven years ago, you were only starting 
 245
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 in your work ; I had done nothing at all. We 
 both have been successful, you even more than 
 I." 
 
 Her voice was low and glad. It was as if she 
 were talking half to him, half to herself, and 
 girlishly rejoicing in her new-found happiness. 
 Suddenly she rose and stood looking down at 
 him. 
 
 " Life is good to us both, is n't it? We both 
 of us have been through our dark places, now 
 and then ; but they did n't last long, and we 
 have come through them, so they only make 
 to-day seem all the brighter in comparison. I 
 believe I am glad, though, that I could n't look 
 ahead. Are n't you ? " 
 
 He felt that her eyes were upon him, and he 
 forced himself to face her with a smile. 
 
 " It 's never well to see the future too plainly," 
 he answered. " It is likely to prove either 
 dazzling or depressing, and both effects are 
 demoralizing to one's work. You never would 
 have gone through your drudgery half so 
 steadily, if you could have seen last night's 
 triumph." 
 
 " Nor you all the work on your first novel," 
 she retorted ; " if you had known just how it 
 would end. You 'd have slurred over some of 
 the most telling details. After all, though," she 
 added more gently ; " my work has been easy 
 in comparison with yours." 
 246
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 Heaton's face had turned back again towards 
 the fire. 
 
 " Yes," he said slowly ; " and your success 
 far greater." 
 
 The silence fell again. So long it was un- 
 broken, so motionless was the man before her, 
 that Elinor felt a nervous tension which she was 
 at a loss to explain. For a time, she stood 
 there waiting for him to speak. Then, obeying 
 some sudden impulse, she stole away out of the 
 room. A moment later, Heaton sprang to his 
 feet and stood straining his ears to listen. 
 
 From the music-room, far at the other end of 
 the large house, there came a strain, distant, yet 
 distinct and vibrant with feeling. Elinor was 
 singing the simple little " Schlummerlied " she 
 had sung so long ago. Laden with memories, it 
 came floating to him through the silent house, 
 the same song, word for word, note by note, that 
 he remembered so well ; but now it was a great 
 artist whose voice he heard, and the voice was 
 full of the happiness of a realized golden dream. 
 
 Till the last note died away, he stood erect, 
 with his head raised to listen. Then his 
 shoulders shrank together and he turned away. 
 
 That night, the Wyckoffs dined with Mrs. 
 Mackie. It was the first time for a year that 
 Elinor had been alone with her aunt ; and the 
 two women had much to talk over, before their 
 husbands joined them, after dinner. For a time, 
 247
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the conversation turned upon the events of the 
 last few months. Then insensibly it drifted 
 backwards, until they fell to talking of the old 
 days at Idlewilde. 
 
 " Elinor," Mrs. Mackie said thoughtfully, as 
 she sat watching her niece ; " did you ever 
 know how sure I was that you and Mr. Heaton 
 would fall in love with each other ? " 
 
 Half-hidden in the depths of her great chair, 
 Elinor laughed lightly to herself. 
 
 " Why, Auntie, what an absurd idea ! There 
 was always Jack, you know." 
 
 " Yes ; but before you knew Jack, all that first 
 winter you were in New York. You were such 
 good friends, and your letters were so full of 
 him that I used to wonder sometimes " 
 Her sentence ended vaguely. 
 
 Elinor rose and stood with one slender foot 
 resting on the fender, and her head turned 
 towards her aunt. Her face was very grave ; 
 but there was no self-consciousness in her voice 
 or manner, as she said earnestly, 
 
 " No, Auntie ; it was never like that at all. I 
 liked him better than any man I have ever seen, 
 except Jack ; and he liked me. We were good 
 friends ; he has been the truest friend to me that 
 a woman could have had; but that was all. 
 Tom Heaton never had any more idea of loving 
 me than I did of loving him. There was never 
 anybody but Jack." 
 
 248
 
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 
 
 " No ; I really don't dread it at all. Anybody 
 can sing ' Elijah/ you know." 
 
 " No ; it is not so at all, signora. Anybody 
 can vocalize it; to sing it, that is quite another 
 matter. I have heard great singers fail utterly 
 with it. On the contrary, I have heard singers 
 with very defectuous voices, sing it to make the 
 tears start." 
 
 " But it is so much simpler than ' Arminius,' 
 so much more commonplace," she urged. 
 
 "I know; but there lies the danger. Did I 
 not tell you many thousand times in the old 
 days, signora, that it is far more easy to sing the 
 great things than the small? The Priestess is 
 broad and free and dramatic. It thrills one 
 with its passion, and makes one feel all fire and 
 hot blood. But to sing the little duetto of the 
 Widow and Elijah, that is far different. You 
 must feel the mother love stirring in your 
 breast as you sing. There should be no thought 
 of the intervals nor of the expression, only of 
 the mother love and the mother sorrow." 
 
 It was not an impressive figure who stood 
 before her. Scarcely taller than herself, with 
 249
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 his smooth bald head shining in the glare of 
 the electric lights and his brows drawn together 
 in pain at the thought of that sorrowing mother 
 of old, Arturo stood facing his former pupil 
 in the dressing-room, on the night which was 
 to mark her second triumph. 
 
 Regardless of the awe which should have sur- 
 rounded the idol of the hour, he had come to 
 give her the little encouragement and admoni- 
 tion which he felt sure ought to help her to win 
 another ovation. To his manifest disapproval, 
 he had found her quite unafraid at the thought 
 of the evening's ordeal. 
 
 " Can you not see the difference?" he went 
 on a little impatiently. " You say the other is 
 broader. So it may be. A priestess is greater 
 than a homely widow; but though you may 
 rouse the whole house to cheers with the one, 
 with the other you can touch the heart of every 
 single person who hears you. We may marvel 
 at the Priestess; but we all have suffered pain 
 as the Widow has suffered it, and as you must 
 have suffered it, too, to sing it from the heart." 
 
 Flushed with excitement and anticipation, 
 radiant in her happiness, Elinor took the hand 
 of her old teacher. 
 
 " Signor Arturo," she said earnestly ; " I be- 
 lieve you, and it is my one wish to sing so that 
 you may be satisfied." 
 
 His face fell, and he shook his head. 
 250
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "It is not that, my dear signora. Oh, why 
 can you not see it so ? You should not stop to 
 think whether you are pleasing me, or the 
 critics, or the man who plays the trombone, any 
 more than you should stop to think whether it 
 is an F or an A flat that you are taking. To 
 sing well, you must live. You must pour into 
 your singing all the thoughts and deeds and 
 hopes of your lifetime, whether of joy or sorrow 
 or of pain. In that way, if your life grows 
 richer, so will your singing grow richer, too, 
 and no matter how thin and worn your voice 
 may become, there will always follow you a 
 great, vast audience of people who are strug- 
 gling and hoping, just as you yourself have 
 struggled and hoped. It is with singing as 
 with all art. Only by living outside your own 
 life can you make your voice ring true." 
 
 He paused, and stood rubbing his head with 
 his handkerchief. Then he laid his hand upon 
 her shoulder, and looked straight into her eyes. 
 
 " They are waiting for you, signora," he said. 
 "Go on now, and sing with all the depths of 
 your being. I shall hear you; but you must 
 not think of me, nor of yourself, nor of your 
 husband, only of the music and what it speaks 
 to your heart. Your success will be great to 
 me, for have I not helped to make it, my 
 child?" 
 
 Swayed by the fire of his words, she followed 
 
 25 1
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 him to the wings, walking like one in a dream. 
 Wyckoff was in the box with his cousins, that 
 night, and it was Arturo who led her to the stage 
 door. As soon as she had crossed the thres- 
 hold and come into the glare of the footlights, 
 she was greeted with deafening applause which 
 sent the blood leaping through her veins. Her 
 husband's face was glowing with pride, as he 
 watched her move slowly forward, bowing this 
 way and that in answer to the welcoming 
 plaudits. 
 
 There was little nervousness in her manner as 
 she took her seat, while the conductor raised 
 his baton and the solemn chords gave prelude 
 to Elijah's prophecy. She heard the overture 
 ringing out with more fire and intensity as it 
 went on, until the coldest one in the audience 
 caught his breath while he listened. She heard 
 the chorus, full and glorious, rising even above 
 the orchestra, then dying away again into broken 
 plaint. With her eyes fixed on her score, she 
 sat listening, enjoying it all with a curious feel- 
 ing of aloofness, of irresponsibility. The audi- 
 ence was sympathetic from the start, she felt, 
 yet it was as if they were holding themselves in 
 check, waiting to reserve their fullest enthusiasm 
 for something that was to come later. 
 
 Then the key changed, and she knew that the 
 moment of her solo was near. As she rose, she 
 gave one swift glance towards her husband ; but 
 252
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 her eyes drooped again while she waited for the 
 few notes of the introduction. Then, in the midst 
 of a deep, expectant hush, she began to sing the 
 Widow's wonderful prayer for help. 
 
 " Help me, man of God ! My son is sick. 
 I go mourning all the day long, 
 I lie down and weep at night." 
 
 Clear and sweet and true, her voice filled the 
 house, rising fuller and stronger as it reached 
 the last glad note of exultation, 
 
 " The soul of my son reviveth ! " 
 
 The solo was ended, and the short duet which 
 followed. There came a silence so short as to 
 be scarcely perceptible ; then a quick burst of 
 applause, punctiliously cordial, but so cold that 
 it cut to her heart like a steel knife. Up in 
 the middle box, Jack's cheeks had turned gray- 
 ish white ; but, out in the wings, Arturo had 
 dropped into a chair and buried his round face 
 in his hands. 
 
 " Ah, not yet, not yet ! " he groaned. " She 
 has not yet lived to learn what it is to suffer." 
 
 They none of them knew how the evening 
 ended ; but at last it was over, and Jack put his 
 wife into the carriage with a gentleness which 
 brought the quick tears to her eyes, though he 
 spoke no word of what had passed until they 
 were alone in their room together. Then he 
 only said, 
 
 253
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 "Never mind, little woman. It will come, 
 some day." 
 
 "No, Jack," she said sadly; "I am afraid it 
 never will." 
 
 All the next morning, she shut herself into 
 her room. Her husband had reluctantly gone 
 away to keep an engagement, and she denied 
 herself to every caller. Late in the morning, 
 however, Heaton's card was brought to her 
 door. 
 
 " Who is with him ? " she asked the boy. 
 " Nobody, ma'am." 
 She hesitated. Then she said, 
 "Very well. Tell him I will come, in a 
 minute." 
 
 As she entered the great, barren parlor of 
 the hotel, she rejoiced that he could not see 
 the marks of the tears on her face; but her 
 voice betrayed her, even in her few words of 
 welcome. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," she said swiftly, as if 
 she dared not trust her voice too far. " I have 
 refused to see any one else; but I knew you 
 would understand. Do you mind coming into 
 our own sitting-room ? We shall be more free 
 from interruption there." 
 
 Arm in arm, they passed through the hall 
 in silence. Once in her private sitting-room, 
 Elinor led Heaton to a chair, then stood before 
 him, waiting for him to speak. 
 254
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 " Did I do wrong to come ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, oh, no ; I hoped you would. I knew 
 you understood it all, last night, and I wanted to 
 see you then. If you had n't come, to-day, I 
 should have sent Jack for you. It was so much 
 for you to come here alone. I do appreciate 
 it" 
 
 " If I could be of any use " he began 
 slowly. 
 
 She interrupted him wildly. 
 
 " Was n't it all cruel ? I don't know why I 
 failed. I felt it was such an utter failure ; they 
 all did, even if they are polite enough to pretend 
 that I sang well. It is no use for me to say that 
 I don't care, for I do. What was it? It must 
 have been something that I could n't do, for I 
 did all I could." 
 
 Until now, she had not given voice to her 
 emotion. Not even to her husband had she 
 been able to speak out ; but with Heaton she let 
 her sorrow have its way. His friendship had 
 never failed her before ; in all her girlish doubts 
 and triumphs it had strengthened and helped 
 her. Now was the first time in her life that she 
 had lost confidence in her final success; and 
 now instinctively, in her deep trouble, she 
 turned to Heaton for sympathy. She checked 
 herself abruptly. 
 
 " I must seem weak and childish to you," she 
 said, with a pitiful effort at composure. " It is 
 255
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 the first I have spoken to any one about it ; but 
 it is so hard to get used to my limitations, just 
 when I thought I had the world at my feet. You 
 went through it, years ago, that summer at Idle- 
 wilde, and you have lived to go on with your 
 work, in spite of everything, and to win all you 
 ever hoped for and dreamed of. You can help 
 me, for you have been through it all, yourself, 
 and come out of it, a contented, happy man." 
 
 He winced at her words. Then he rose and 
 stood facing her. 
 
 " Elinor," he said slowly, as he drew himself 
 to his full height ; " we all of us must learn the 
 same lesson. It is n't a question of success or 
 failure for any of us. All we can do is to make 
 the very most of what fate sends us, and never 
 whine or draw back under the sharpest blows. 
 It 's a hard lesson, and we never really get to the 
 end of it; but we have to keep on trying to 
 work over our failures into successes, not for our 
 own sakes, but on account of the people around 
 us." 
 
 " Show me how, then," she said impetuously. 
 " You have helped me before, again and again. 
 Help me once more. I can't have Jack dis- 
 appointed in me. I must succeed, after all I 
 have worked and longed for it. Tell me how to 
 conquer, as you did, and make something of 
 myself, after all for Jack's sake." 
 
 For a moment, he stood silent, his shoulders 
 256
 
 EACH LIFE UNFULFILLED 
 
 thrown back, his head raised and his face lighted 
 with an expression which she had never seen 
 there before, which she was at a loss to inter- 
 pret. Then he said simply, 
 
 " I will try for Jack's sake." 
 
 It was Elinor herself who led him to his car- 
 riage and stood looking after it, as it drove 
 away. Already her thoughts were busy with 
 new purposes, with the new courage and hope 
 which Heaton had aroused within her. 
 
 But Heaton, driving away through the lonely 
 darkness, had bowed his head on his clasped 
 hands. 
 
 " Her dream has been fulfilled, and her suc- 
 cess has proved to be no more perfect than my 
 own," he muttered to himself. " And I thought 
 I had forgotten; but My God, how I love 
 that woman ! " 
 
 THE END 
 
 17 2 57
 
 fiction 
 
 ing's fieticbman. A Chronicle of the Sixteenth 
 Century. Brought to light and edited by WILLIAM 
 HENRY JOHNSON. i2mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top. $1.50. 
 
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 Mr. Johnson has caught the spirit of the period, and has painted in Henry 
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 "Che Count's Snuff-Box. A Romance of Washington 
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