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 In Which a Woman Tells the 
 Truth About Herself
 
 I 
 
 In Which a Woman Tells the 
 Truth About Herself 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 1904
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1904, BT 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 Published, March, 1904
 
 Is it possible for a woman to write the truth about 
 herself? It has been attempted often, perhaps not 
 often with success. In the belief that it can be done, 
 I have set myself to write what follows ; to write the 
 bare truth as far as it is known to me without flinch- 
 ing. It is not the portrait of an ideal woman which 
 results, but of a woman of the world, not quite the 
 basest of her kind but farther yet from the best. Let 
 those who read, discern, and let those who are without 
 sin first cast a stone. 
 
 2136892
 
 " If it be indiscretion so to publish one's errors, yet there is no great danger 
 that it pass into example and custom." Cotton' t Montaigne. 
 
 I WAS eighteen and still a child in emotions 
 and perceptions although clever at books, when 
 I first realized that my mother was dissatisfied 
 with me and why. I had, the week before, been 
 graduated from High School with my class, 
 which was composed of boys and girls in nearly 
 equal numbers. They were all my good friends, 
 but better than any of them I liked my neighbor, 
 Irving Lloyd, returned from college a Senior. 
 We had played together when we were chil- 
 dren, studied together through the years that 
 followed and remained good comrades and in- 
 timate friends without a trace on the part of 
 either one of us of sentiment or self-conscious- 
 ness in our relations. 
 
 I had been half reclining in a hammock all 
 the afternoon of that June day, idling away the
 
 CHAP. I [ 2 ] 
 
 warm hours as I felt that I had a right to do 
 after the serious work in school which had pre- 
 ceded graduation. The hammock hung on the 
 secluded west veranda, overlooking our tangled 
 and neglected old garden. Irving had spent an 
 hour or more on the steps near me, pretending 
 to read " Adonais " aloud, but in reality doing 
 nothing most of the time. 
 
 My mother came to the French window of 
 the little library and stood looking at us. Irv- 
 ing spoke to her, then presently rose, picked up 
 his student's cap from the step beside him and 
 with a careless good-by walked away down the 
 grass-grown brick walk to the gap in the hedge 
 through which he could enter his own garden. 
 I put up my hand in a careless attempt to con- 
 ceal a yawn as he retreated. Then I saw that 
 my mother was watching me intently and there 
 was a shade of annoyance on her face. She 
 was a beautiful woman even then, at forty. 
 
 " I wish you would pay a little more atten- 
 tion to your appearance, Sidney," she said with 
 unusual emphasis. " I have never seen a girl
 
 [ 3 ] CHAP. I 
 
 of eighteen who was so utterly indifferent to 
 her looks. Your attitude as you lounge in that 
 hammock is unpardonable, and would be even 
 if you had pretty feet. You have not changed 
 your gown since morning. It is tumbled and 
 untidy, and so is your hair. You simply can 
 not afford to let yourself go after this fashion." 
 
 My mother was even-tempered, languid 
 rather than incisive in her usual speech, but 
 some latent feeling I could detect, was gather- 
 ing in cumulative effect as she went on speak- 
 ing. I had risen from the hammock and stood 
 facing her, respectfully I believe, but by no 
 means penitently. Something in my attitude or 
 expression, not defiance, but ill-concealed indif- 
 ference, stung her to sudden sharpness. 
 
 " Sidney, I must tell you plainly that a girl 
 who is not pretty must take more pains for that 
 very reason to make herself attractive." 
 
 She flushed as she spoke and I saw that the 
 words hurt her far more than they did me. 
 
 " But why should I care particularly to make 
 myself attractive, mother? " I asked with per-
 
 CHAP. I [ 4 ] 
 
 feet straightforwardness. " The people I like 
 like me as I am. This gown is really not so 
 bad. See, it is perfectly clean." 
 
 A strange look passed over her face, and she 
 sighed impatiently. 
 
 " There is no reason, I guess," she said 
 under her breath. " Every other girl has by in- 
 stinct the little graces and niceties of the toilet 
 those things which make up for so much " 
 here she broke off and returned to her work in 
 the library. 
 
 I pitied my mother, for I saw that she was 
 grievously disappointed in me and keenly stung 
 by my deficiencies. It did not occur to me to 
 pity myself. I was a happy, homely, whole- 
 hearted, healthy young thing who had thus far 
 never waked up to consciousness of the losses 
 and crosses which a homely woman has to 
 bear. 
 
 I went slowly up to my room, bent on dress- 
 ing myself with care to please my mother. 
 First of all I had a wild rummage through the 
 chaos of my upper bureau-drawer to find some
 
 [ 5 ] CHAP. I 
 
 of " the little graces and niceties of the toilet " 
 which might redeem me in her eyes. I remem- 
 ber finding a tumbled lawn fichu which I drew 
 with some care about my throat and shoulders 
 over the blue muslin dress which I had pro- 
 ceeded to put on. I fastened the fichu with a 
 small pin in which I clasped a pink rose with 
 considerable care and some pride in the effect. 
 Then I surveyed myself anxiously. When a 
 girl's mother tells her in good set terms that 
 she is not pretty she has reason to believe in 
 the sincerity of the utterance. So far as I can 
 remember this was the first time I had ever 
 given any serious consideration to my looks, 
 and now it was for my mother's sake, not for 
 my own, that I narrowly scanned the face and 
 figure in my glass. I felt with a genuine pang 
 that she suffered because I was not pretty and 
 piquant and pleasing like other girls. It was 
 a shame, when she was so beautiful herself. 
 Why could I not have looked like her instead 
 of like my father's family? It was from them 
 that I inherited my big frame, my freckles and
 
 CHAP. I [ 6 ] 
 
 dull yellow hair, my whitish eyelashes and long 
 nose. 
 
 When I came down-stairs I went and stood 
 by my mother's work-table with my hands be- 
 hind me as I had done when I was a child to 
 have her pronounce judgment as to whether I 
 had washed my face successfully. 
 
 " Do you like me now ? " I asked rather 
 humbly. 
 
 She looked up and then broke into uncon- 
 trollable laughter, but I could see that there 
 were tears in her eyes while she laughed. 
 
 " Oh, Sidney, you are impossible ! " she cried. 
 " That prim little rosebud, that tired old fichu, 
 that conscientious, anxious look! Never mind, 
 dear, be good and let who will be pretty ! " 
 
 " But mother, I want you to look at my neck 
 and see if it isn't rather good." I had turned 
 my gown away at the throat. " See, it is quite 
 white it seems to me, and you know, when I 
 looked in the glass just now it struck me that 
 my mouth and chin were just a little like yours." 
 I added this timidly.
 
 [ 7 ] CHAP. I 
 
 She smiled at me tenderly and looked with 
 a certain amused incredulity at the lower part 
 of my face. 
 
 " You are a dear child," she said, " but 
 plainly Heaven meant you for a boy."
 
 n 
 
 I HAVE concluded, in looking back, that the 
 little incident which I have just related had a 
 certain importance in the story of my life. It 
 is my conviction that my mother definitely con- 
 cluded at that time that I was not made for 
 love and leisure, for social success, even of a 
 very modest sort, or for early marriage. She 
 therefore decided to have me go in for whatever 
 distinction I could win as an intellectual girl, 
 and accordingly in the fall I went to college. I 
 perfectly understood that my mother would have 
 preferred to have me take the other line. Her 
 ideal daughter would have loved to embroider, 
 to practise duets and read poetry or novels with 
 her, would have made charming gowns for her- 
 self in the long quiet mornings which she would
 
 [ 9 ] CHAP. II 
 
 have worn with telling effect in the evenings, 
 with several interesting affairs of the heart al- 
 ways pending, as a result. The quiet old house 
 with its good mahogany furniture and my fath- 
 er's paintings, would have made a perfect set- 
 ting for all that kind of thing, and my mother 
 would well have fitted her role of matron, still 
 young and beautiful, with an equally charm- 
 ing daughter to administer. I remember I did 
 try conscientiously to sew and embroider, but 
 I had no knack at either. I hated piano prac- 
 tise and modern novels equally, and upon poetry 
 my mother and I never could agree. 
 
 As for affairs of the heart I had less knack 
 at them than at embroidery. Irving Lloyd 
 hung around as he always had, ready to take 
 me to ball games and tennis tournaments, but 
 neither of us developed any sentiment beyond 
 our established comradeship, and beside him no 
 man came my way. I remember sometimes 
 wishing that the youths who clustered around 
 the other girls like bees around clover, would 
 sometimes cluster around me because I knew in
 
 CHAP. II [ 1O ] 
 
 my inmost heart that this would be highly 
 pleasing to my mother. But they failed to clus- 
 ter. In September I went to college. 
 
 At the end of my Freshman year I brought 
 a classmate home with me to spend a month, 
 a girl whom I ardently admired. She was a 
 Southern girl, Clarice, and I had written reams 
 of description of her qualities to my mother, my 
 girl friends and to Irving with whom I corre- 
 sponded steadily. 
 
 The night of our arrival I had a curious 
 sense in my mother's first glance from Clarice 
 to me and back again, that she thought my valor 
 greater than my discretion in bringing home 
 this delightful creature to whom I must inevi- 
 tably act as a foil. My own feeling was that 
 my mother would understand better when she 
 knew Clarice, how noble and true-hearted and 
 altogether admirable she was. I was full of 
 chivalrous devotion to my new friend and sure 
 that every honor paid to her could give me noth- 
 ing but the keenest satisfaction. 
 
 Only a few days passed in quiet summer
 
 [ 11 ] CHAP. II 
 
 idleness at home before the young set in our 
 little town awoke to the discovery of the rare 
 and radiant stranger. Clarice was not only ex- 
 tremely pretty but she had marked facility in 
 adapting herself to her environment, and, like 
 most Southerners, she was very versatile. Her 
 voice in singing was not extraordinary, but she 
 could use it to extraordinary effect, and in con- 
 versation her Southern accent was declared irre- 
 sistible. So also were her eyes, her gay abandon, 
 her multitudinous pretty costumes. In fine, she 
 carried everything before her and there was no 
 longer any lack of men clustering around our 
 house. My mother was often silently beaten off 
 the scene before the throng of Clarice's ad- 
 mirers, who presented themselves at all times 
 of day and evening. 
 
 My part, that of the plain, loyal, serviceable 
 friend who must furnish the platform and stage 
 properties for the little summer comedy, was 
 clearly indicated. I threw myself into it with 
 tireless enthusiasm, dressed Clarice for all the 
 parties where she was the belle and I the wall-
 
 CHAP. II [ 12 ] 
 
 flower; prepared dainty lunches and suppers 
 for her adorers, kept out of the way at the right 
 time, drew off the tiresome people who came at 
 the wrong time, and kept up a kind of Greek 
 chorus of praise of my friend throughout the 
 performance. That is, for the first two weeks 
 and a little more. 
 
 I do not think I was an especially unselfish 
 girl, but I was very ardent in my friendships 
 and I see now that I must have had a somewhat 
 unusual capacity for self-devotion. I was so 
 very proud of Clarice, and so confident that no 
 one could admire her more than she deserved. 
 All the while my right hand was Irving Lloyd, 
 the same true, trusty, non-emotional good friend 
 to me as ever. He gathered the people together 
 for picnics, and worked up all the necessary and 
 tiresome details of our various festivities, seek- 
 ing nothing for himself but the satisfaction of 
 helping me to carry out my desire of entertain- 
 ing Clarice worthily. Indeed once or twice a 
 spark of something akin to sentiment was struck 
 out between us as we worked together for this
 
 [ 13 ] CHAP. II 
 
 same end, his efforts being, as it seemed to me, 
 based primarily upon his desire to give me 
 pleasure. 
 
 I had never seen Irving alone with Clarice 
 for a moment nor had he even sought to con- 
 verse with her as all the other men vied with 
 each other in doing, until on a Saturday even- 
 ing out at Mallard Lake. We had been having 
 a gipsy camp-fire and as the evening wore away 
 and I was collecting wraps and baskets for the 
 return, I noticed Clarice standing on the narrow 
 strip of pebbly beach under the shade of a great 
 tree. Irving was leaning over the stern of a 
 skiff drawn half out of the water, with his face 
 upturned to hers. His eyes were full of ardor 
 and appeal, such a look as I had never seen in 
 them, nor supposed the fellow capable of. It 
 gave me a strange physical sensation, almost 
 akin to faintness as I drew hastily back unseen 
 by either of them. In a moment more Clarice 
 sprang into the carriage which was waiting for 
 us, half a dozen hands outstretched to help her. 
 I had taken my seat already, unnoticed and un-
 
 CHAP. II [ 14 ] 
 
 assisted. Irving returned with a different com- 
 pany, and I did not see him again. 
 
 Always before I had gone to Clarice's room 
 after the evening's gaiety and helped her with 
 her toilet, while she recounted her various ex- 
 periences, small triumphs, quarrels and senti- 
 mental interchanges, and we laughed over them 
 in girlish fashion together. To-night I bade her 
 good-night at my door, pleading fatigue. It 
 was my heart that was tired, and less with any- 
 thing which had happened than with a heavy 
 and painful premonition. And yet, why did I 
 care? Irving was simply my good comrade, 
 nothing more. 
 
 I had put on a thin dressing-gown and 
 was combing my hair before my very plainly 
 equipped bureau, when I heard a step on the 
 porch at the front of the house, just below my 
 window and immediately there was a rustle by 
 my door of flowing drapery. I knew on the in- 
 stant it was Clarice in the sumptuous silk negli- 
 gee in which she luxuriated on occasion. My 
 door was opened softly then and Clarice whis-
 
 [ 15 ] CHAP. II 
 
 pered, " Sidney, darling, I left my cape in the 
 other carriage and some of them said they would 
 bring it over. I will run down for a moment. 
 Go right to bed. I will be sure the door is locked 
 all right." 
 
 I suppose I knew instinctively what Irving 
 would do, for I paid no attention to what hap- 
 pened at the front door, but instantly I hastened 
 to the open window in the hall overlooking the 
 box-bordered garden at the rear of the house 
 where the ranks of tall white lilies showed spec- 
 tral now in the gloom. I crouched on the floor 
 in the window niche, behind the curtains and 
 in a moment I heard the steps I expected, com- 
 ing very quietly around the house, and saw 
 Clarice, the trail of her long robe caught up 
 over one arm, as she passed down the walk with 
 Irving beside her. For half an hour I knelt 
 there while they passed slowly backward and 
 forward, her figure graceful, flowing, seductive 
 in every line; his instinct with masculine vigor 
 tense with attention. At last they stopped on 
 the veranda steps, out of my sight but not out 
 of my hearing.
 
 CHAP. II [ 16 ] 
 
 " Why must I go I You let other men stay 
 far later," I heard Irving' s voice; then heard 
 my name murmured by Clarice. 
 
 Then he spoke again, very slowly, his voice 
 low but strangely distinct. 
 
 " You know perfectly well that there is noth- 
 ing, could be nothing, between Sidney and me 
 but friendship. She is a very good friend. 
 She was made for friendship, but you were 
 made for " 
 
 " Hush," she interrupted. I had before this 
 learned Clarice's Southern art of leading a man 
 to the verge and then stopping him ; I was learn- 
 ing now her prime social axiom, to sacrifice 
 every woman to any man. " I can not let you 
 speak like this, but I am glad to know that you 
 care a little. I never dreamed of it, you see. 
 I supposed you wholly devoted to Sidney or 
 this could not " and here her voice seemed to 
 falter and I heard them pass around the house. 
 
 In another moment the front door opened 
 and before it closed I was back in my own room 
 with my door locked.
 
 [ 17 ] CHAP. II 
 
 That night I did not sleep at all. It was 
 the night when in some sense at least the child 
 in me died and the woman was born in pangs of 
 anguish and torment. And yet no element of 
 tragedy was present save of a commonplace 
 sort. Irving was in no way pledged to me nor 
 was Clarice pledged not to allure him. Not one 
 word they had said was distinctly treacherous. 
 The very innermost sting lay in the fact that 
 it was all distinctly true truest of all that I 
 was made for friendship while Clarice was made 
 for love. Yes, what awoke in me that night 
 was not the prime passion of a great love, the 
 supreme energy of a woman, but the instinct of 
 wounded pride, the passion for the power to 
 awaken admiration, the desire not so much to 
 love as to be loved. But this passion, noble or 
 ignoble, sprang " full-statured in an hour," and 
 with a power which carried all before it. Hatred 
 and anger awoke in me where love and trust 
 had been hatred for Clarice and a furious an- 
 ger for Irving. I did not know whether both 
 or either had meant to trick and to betray 
 
 2
 
 CHAP. II [ 18 ] 
 
 me. I knew it was done. I looked back upon 
 my devotion to Clarice, my self-effacement for 
 her sake, with a sick loathing, suddenly seeing 
 the selfishness which had been content to re- 
 ceive and absorb all. The thought of the time 
 that remained of her visit stretched before me 
 as an impossible penance before which my very 
 soul fainted. Daylight filled my room and I 
 started mechanically upon the day's duties full 
 of inner chaos, confusion and blinding pain.
 
 HI 
 
 I SPENT the week which followed in a kind 
 of frozen fury. Clarice felt the change in tem- 
 perature instantly and responded by flinging off 
 all further disguise and permitting Irving to 
 burn incense at her shrine freely and with no 
 attempt at concealment. 
 
 " Irving has now gone over to the majority," 
 I said with bitterness to my mother after two 
 days had passed. 
 
 " He went over long ago the very first day," 
 she replied, " but you did not see it, dear. Be 
 careful not to show your feelings too plainly. 
 What has happened is only what was inevitable." 
 
 In spite of this admonition, I could not for 
 the time conceal entirely the spasms of jealous 
 pain under which my soul was writhing. Had 
 not Clarice enough in the homage and flattery 
 of all the rest? Could she not have spared me
 
 CHAP. Ill [ 2O ] 
 
 my one good friend and comrade? Was there 
 no such thing as faith or fealty? Did a pretty 
 face, a gay voice, a dainty foot, a laughing eye 
 suffice to break down the friendship of years? 
 For our friendship, Irving's and mine, was 
 broken to pieces hopelessly. I had flashed out 
 on the Sunday evening a few scornful words 
 which had met with a chilling rebuke from him. 
 From that hour every word and glance of his 
 seemed to reveal to me how unlovely and unat- 
 tractive I made myself in his sight by my dis- 
 play of injured feeling. This was powerless, 
 however, to subdue or allay my agitation which 
 I have no doubt was visible to every one in our 
 little circle through all that wretched week. 
 Then, of a sudden, my pride came to my res- 
 cue, touched to life by a pitying word and glance 
 from one of the girls. I had borne much, how- 
 ever ill, but to be an object of general pity was 
 more than could be borne. I remember going 
 to my room and locking myself in and having it 
 out with myself. I saw plainly what a cheap, 
 pitiable, spiritless role I had been playing, and
 
 [ 31 ] CHAP. Ill 
 
 decided that from that moment no one should 
 detect in me a trace of my burning wound. I 
 had worn my heart upon my sleeve long enough 
 for daws to peck at. I remember that I rose 
 and stretched out both hands, clasped tight to- 
 gether. I stood at my dressing-table confront- 
 ing myself in the glass, but seeing nothing, and 
 said audibly, so that my own nerves vibrated 
 with the sound in the silent room, " I will grasp 
 the situation with both hands and I will control 
 it. They shall learn that I am above them both." 
 With the last words the tension relaxed and 
 I perceived my own reflection. My eyes were 
 shining with a light they had never had before, 
 my cheeks were flushed, my mouth had a new 
 expression, proud, severe and yet passionate, 
 which I saw with surprise gave me something 
 akin to beauty for the moment. My unconscious 
 pose was full of fire and energy. My hands 
 dropped and I stood long studying myself in 
 the glass, thinking hard. I saw that, for all my 
 acknowledged plainness, I had dramatic possi- 
 bilities of which until now I had never dreamed.
 
 CHAP. Ill [ 22 ] 
 
 My skin had the transparent quality which is 
 capable of sudden illumination, my figure had 
 a certain expressive power, my hands, the sin- 
 gular, subtle sensitiveness of form and touch 
 that my mother's had. All these things I reck- 
 oned rapidly, with the artist eye which was mine 
 as the birthright of my father's daughter, but 
 which I had never before turned upon myself. 
 I saw that although not conventionally hand- 
 some, and farther yet from prettiness, I was by 
 no means insignificant and for a moment I even 
 dared to dream that it was in me to attain a 
 higher attractive power than that exercised by 
 Clarice. What I had theretofore lacked more 
 than beauty or any other thing, was self-con- 
 sciousness, say, rather, sex-consciousness. Al- 
 lurement is preceded between men and women 
 by the desire to allure. This desire had hereto- 
 fore slept in me. Now it was awake. 
 
 My first instinct, however, was rather fine. 
 It was not to seek satisfaction or amends by 
 stimulating such possible personal resources as 
 were mine. I scorned the idea of resorting to
 
 [ 23 ] CHAP. Ill 
 
 such means indeed, and sought the higher moral 
 satisfaction of putting myself in the right where 
 hitherto I had been in the wrong. I would seek 
 the strong position rather than grovel longer in 
 the weak one. In my heart I believed myself 
 a greater person than either Clarice or Irving, 
 and the sum of my long deliberation was a repe- 
 tition of the utterance with which I began : " I 
 will show myself superior to them both." 
 
 I came down from my height and from my 
 seclusion to find Clarice entering the library 
 where Irving Lloyd sat in neighborly familiar- 
 ity reading a magazine. She wore a fresh white 
 gown, produced from her armory for the first 
 time, and she was as dainty and pretty in it as 
 a rose. Instead of following the line (adopted 
 since that crucial night) of chilling indifference, 
 I met Clarice with an affectionate caress and 
 the exclamation, " How utterly charming ! How 
 is it Clare, you manage always to look prettiest 
 in the last new thing you put on? Such a dar- 
 ling dress! Isn't it, Irving?" 
 
 My friend had risen and stood gazing a lit-
 
 CHAP. Ill [ 24 ] 
 
 tie wide of my eyes, in obvious embarrassment. 
 He murmured an inarticulate response while 
 Clarice blushed and her expression betrayed in 
 her first surprise quite as much annoyance as 
 pleasure. I discerned at once, with my quick- 
 ened instinct, that she had been on the whole 
 rather enjoying my unlovely display of jealous 
 and wounded feeling. I knew as well at that 
 moment as if I had actually heard her, how she 
 would have deplored to Irving that poor Sidney 
 had such a dreadful disposition, so impossible 
 to get along with no matter how hard she tried 
 to please her Could he understand what could 
 be the matter? etc. Stimulated by this percep- 
 tion I continued in the same cordial, free-hearted 
 tone, "Irving, why don't you take Clarice up 
 on the hill this afternoon for that view? The 
 air is so very clear as I noticed just now, and 
 you have plenty of time. We can have tea a 
 half-hour later as well as not." 
 
 They looked at each other in a way which I 
 interpreted to mean that something of the kind 
 had been their intention, but had been thrown
 
 [ 25 ] CHAP. Ill 
 
 into uncertainty by my inopportune appear- 
 ance. 
 
 " It would be a good time for that walk, 
 wouldn't it? " responded Irving slowly, with a 
 very poor attempt at spontaneity. " But you 
 must go with us, you know, Sidney." 
 
 I bit back a little smile of bitterness with 
 the thought that he was at least as sincere as I. 
 
 " How I wish I could, Irving ! " I exclaimed, 
 " but I absolutely must go down to a committee 
 meeting at the Library at four. You and Cla- 
 rice will have to try and endure each other un- 
 assisted. Of course it will be dreadfully hard 
 for you both! Poor things! But go now let 
 me see you start ! " and I laughed gaily with a 
 little playful gesture of driving them forth. 
 
 They started immediately, but their blank 
 and puzzled faces as they turned down the street 
 struck me as indicating a situation so inexpres- 
 sibly ridiculous that I fled into the dining-room 
 laughing excitedly. 
 
 My mother sat there alone. She had estab- 
 lished her work-table there of late since Clarice
 
 CHAP. Ill [ 26 ] 
 
 and her retinue laid the rest of the house under 
 requisition. 
 
 " My dear ! " she murmured, a little frown of 
 disapproval on her face. 
 
 " Have you been here all the time 1 ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then do give me your opinion. How did 
 I do my new part? " 
 
 " I thought you overdid it," she said quietly. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " I cried ruefully. " I thought as 
 a hypocrite I was making a huge hit. But no 
 matter, I shall get it down fine after a while. 
 Now if they only come back engaged ! I having 
 clearly sent them forth for the not-to-be-dodged- 
 nor-avoided purpose then " 
 
 " Then what will you do? " 
 
 " Say ' Bless you, my children ! ' of course, 
 and live happy forever after ! " 
 
 My mother looked at me with a long ponder- 
 ing look.
 
 IV 
 
 THE following week Clarice departed. Just 
 before she left the house, when no unpleasant 
 consequences could reach her, she confided to me 
 that she and Irving were engaged. " And it is 
 all your doing, Sidney, you wonderful, noble, 
 unselfish, old darling." Then with apparent sin- 
 cerity she began to cry. " You have simply been 
 our good angel," she sobbed ; " and some way I 
 have such a guilty feeling." 
 
 I assuaged this contrition with gratifying 
 success, for the sun came out again as the car- 
 riage drove off and Irving appeared as escort 
 to the train. 
 
 Clarice did not return to college. Being en- 
 gaged was an occupation in itself. However I 
 heard repeatedly of the very gay life she was 
 leading in Baltimore that winter, and just after 
 my return to college after the holidays, a short
 
 CHAP. IV [ 38 ] 
 
 note from Irving told me that his engagement 
 was broken and he was about starting for Ger- 
 many, there to finish his preparation for his 
 profession. He was to be an architect. His 
 only comment on the situation was, " The thing 
 was wrong in the beginning and has been wrong 
 all the way through." 
 
 That year, the second of my college life, I 
 developed rapidly in some respects. Always 
 given to athletic exercise I gained some little 
 prominence for my proficiency in running 
 games, in skating and swimming, and, after a 
 period of determined effort, I achieved distinc- 
 tion as a dancer. These various exercises added 
 to the power and to the expressiveness, flexibil- 
 ity and grace of my body. I had ceased grow- 
 ing tall ; my bony structure, I thanked Heaven, 
 seemed at last completed, and the mysterious 
 glands and things which carry on that part of 
 the process took their turn and rounded out my 
 proportions hitherto so angular. 
 
 The girls suddenly discovered that I ought 
 to wear decollete dress, that " I had a neck." I
 
 [ 29 ] CHAP. IV 
 
 had always thought so myself and was highly 
 gratified that my points were at last discovered 
 by others. 
 
 In my Junior year I was invited to spend 
 the Christmas holidays at the house of a class- 
 mate whose father had a magnificent " place " 
 twenty miles from New York. My mother had 
 awakened with a species of incredulous delight 
 to a perception that her Ugly Duckling was not 
 quite hopeless. She now spent much time and 
 thought on a series of costumes for this event. 
 The example of the excellent effect of these 
 weapons in Clarice's case had not been lost upon 
 either of us. And still I was a long way from 
 being a Clarice. I was still undeniably in the 
 ranks of the homely girls ; but it is a wise man 
 who told the world some time ago that the 
 homely woman is the formidable woman after 
 all. 
 
 The first night that I appeared at dinner at 
 the house of my friend in decollete dress (a 
 small dance was to follow), I felt a curiously 
 mingled sense of diffidence and power. I be-
 
 CHAP. IV [ 3O ] 
 
 lieved myself at the moment to be, actually and 
 visibly, ineffective, but potentially a person to 
 be reckoned with. I believe the expression 
 which my eyes sought with only partial success 
 to conceal as I met the world that night, was 
 challenge. I stood, as it were, with lance in rest, 
 armed, tense, ready for action. However, to all 
 appearance I was just a tall, demi-blonde girl 
 in a white gown with a figure which would be 
 better when it was more filled out, a fair skin 
 with a few freckles, a long nose, a rather pleas- 
 ant mouth with perfect teeth, and a really good 
 chin and neck. Nothing remarkable any way, 
 you see, and yet to myself every inch of my per- 
 son under my white gown and my white skin 
 was so remarkable, so vitally individual, so full 
 of a tingling sense of young, pulsating life ! I 
 loved my hands because they were so fine of 
 touch and tint, and my long, firm, untired limbs, 
 which could dance all night and hardly know it ; 
 in fine, I loved the body of me with a hearty, 
 animal relish and yet I was not strongly sensu- 
 ous. The exposure of my person that night for
 
 [ 31 ] CHAP. IV 
 
 the first time in my life gave me a distinctly 
 painful shock. I suppose no woman ever thus 
 reveals herself to the eyes of strangers without 
 first trampling upon the primitive instincts of 
 modesty and reserve which must be slain before 
 one enters the great world. 
 
 This was in effect my first passage at arms 
 with men since I had put on my armor. How 
 would I come off 1 
 
 I have no social triumphs to chronicle. No 
 man surrendered to my charms in any alarming 
 manner that night or throughout my visit; but 
 I was satisfied. I found that, in spite of the 
 fact that I was no beauty, I could draw out as 
 much attention and admiration from men as I 
 knew what to do with. I think in fact a slight 
 contempt arose within me as I first found what 
 an easy prey they were. Birth and breeding, 
 together with my dancing, my gaiety, my high 
 spirits, and the refinement of person and speech 
 which were my heritage, seemed sufficient. I 
 found how very different, moreover, playing 
 guest was from playing host. It was the part
 
 CHAP. IV [ 32 ] 
 
 of the men I met to find me charming, and of 
 my friend to make my path easy. I looked back 
 at the reverse of the present situation, at the 
 summer when Clarice (now married) was my 
 guest, and realized how very transient and mean- 
 ingless a large part of the devotion to her had 
 been. I received as much now myself, and I 
 saw through it as I had failed to do then. 
 
 However, dating from the time of that visit, 
 I can see that self- and sex-consciousness be- 
 came fully awakened in me, and the craving for 
 the admiration of men grew by what it fed on. 
 I began to perceive that the one unpardonable 
 fault in a woman, to the adolescent masculine 
 mind, is indifference to masculine attention. 
 The girl who cares impartially and invariably 
 for the devotion of men, who brightens under it 
 and pales without it, who seeks it and schemes 
 for it and runs to meet it, is the girl who re- 
 ceives it in any great extent or marked degree. 
 A natural concomitant this, I suppose, of pair- 
 ing time. 
 
 I now looked back upon the girl who lounged
 
 [ 33 ] CHAP. IV 
 
 in a hammock that June day, careless of her 
 dress and attitude, yawning palpably in the 
 face of a perfectly desirable and eligible cava- 
 lier, as no more my real self than the Sphinx 
 was myself. I understood one as little as the 
 other. Still less did I understand my present 
 self, however, and the line on which I was de- 
 veloping. The truth was this I was not pretty 
 enough to draw to myself the men I met with- 
 out an effort; therefore I made the effort and 
 with constantly increasing address and skill. 
 But I was no uncouth, country hoyden running 
 after the male of her species. On the whole, as 
 I look back, I see that at twenty-two I was al- 
 ready a subtle and skilful coquette of a particu- 
 larly refined sort.
 
 IRVING LLOYD was now established as an 
 architect in Boston. He seldom came back to 
 his old home, and when he came it was for very 
 brief visits. At these times he occasionally paid 
 us a formal call, but more than that we never 
 saw him. He was on the road to success, we 
 heard, in his profession, and was counted a 
 social success already, even in Boston. He had 
 acquired a polished and distingue manner, a 
 rather melancholy, impenetrable reserve, and 
 marked elegance of person. He had always 
 been a handsome fellow I saw when I came to 
 think of it, and he was handsomer at twenty- 
 six than at twenty. This was noticeable in him : 
 he always did the correct thing and never over- 
 did it. He was, as I naturally knew very well, 
 disappointed in love. I knew further from his 
 mother, who was our very good neighbor, that
 
 [ 35 ] CHAP. V 
 
 he would never marry, that side of life being 
 cut off to him by his unhappy affair with Cla- 
 rice. This fact gave perfectly good ground for 
 the slight tinge of melancholy in his expression 
 and for his reserve, but these peculiarities were 
 only indicated, if I might so say never empha- 
 sized. In his relation to me there dwelt a pos- 
 sible awkwardness, a sense of disadvantage and 
 embarrassment in view of our early intimacy 
 and the break which had come about later. And 
 then I was still, nominally, the friend of Clarice. 
 He managed this, however, admirably. He bore 
 himself toward me whenever we met with a 
 peculiar gravity and deference, a very marked 
 seriousness of courtesy, but with a certain un- 
 derlying distance which it seemed from his 
 point of view, we must both find impassable. 
 To touch upon his broken engagement in words 
 was wholly out of the question. In fact we 
 never in his rare visits, alluded to any event of 
 that summer, occupying ourselves in our casual 
 conversations with the more remote past or the 
 more inviting future.
 
 CHAP. V [ 36 ] 
 
 The spring before my college graduation 
 Irving had a long run of fever. His mother 
 told me that as soon as he was sufficiently con- 
 valescent she should remove him from the Bos- 
 ton hospital and bring him home to remain the 
 entire summer. Before I went back to college 
 that year I interested my mother in having 
 some improvements made in our tangled old 
 garden. She promised me to carry out my wish 
 to place beds of mignonette and nasturtiums 
 beside the brick walk, and especially to have 
 a row of sweet peas planted just inside the 
 boundary hedge at the foot of the garden. It 
 was our practise to spend July and August in 
 the mountains, but we should gain some good 
 of these friendly flowers both early and late. 
 
 When I returned home in June with my 
 diploma and my modest portion of class honors 
 and decorations, I was overjoyed to find that 
 my mother had far outrun my simple ideas. 
 The forlorn old wilderness had been wholly 
 transformed. It was now a charming version 
 of the old-fashioned flower-garden, the thick,
 
 [ 37 ] CHAP. V 
 
 somber lines of box dividing broad, brilliant 
 beds of poppies, larkspur and marigolds, while 
 hollyhocks, sweet peas and sunflowers stood tall 
 and gay against the ragged untrimmed hedge. 
 
 My mother had spent the preceding two 
 weeks at college, sharing in all the festivities 
 and delighting in all the honors and attentions 
 which came my way. She brought me word 
 that Irving Lloyd was still in Boston, but con- 
 valescent now. His mother had gone to him. 
 
 The evening of our return, the late dinner 
 over, I went out on the west veranda and stood 
 leaning over the rail, looking down into the 
 garden. From the boundary hedge the smooth 
 lawn of the Lloyd premises sloped gradually up 
 to the terrace below their dining-room windows. 
 Benches always stood on this terrace under some 
 slender birch-trees. As my eyes left the bounds 
 of my own garden, a dusky, fragrant maze now 
 in the twilight, they discerned a masculine fig- 
 ure under the distant birch-trees, and a fra- 
 grance all unlike that of mignonette and sweet 
 peas was wafted faintly over to me. A pleasant
 
 CHAP. V [ 38 ] 
 
 sensation ran along the course of my veins. 
 Plainly, Irving Lloyd was at home again. It 
 might not be best to go to the mountains this 
 year before August. 
 
 For forty-eight hours I remained invisible. 
 Our veranda was as deserted as before our re- 
 turn, and only an occasional light in a window 
 gave token of our presence to any eye which 
 might have been watching or expectant. Those 
 two days I spent deliciously in my own white 
 bed, in the wide, cool north bed-room which my 
 mother had refurnished for my return with 
 charming taste. I had learned by this time a 
 lot of fine lady ways. I was still athletic, and 
 never I think effeminate or precisely voluptu- 
 ous, but I went in for all things fragrant, dainty 
 and alluring about my personal belongings. I 
 detested strong perfumes, directly and obviously 
 applied, but I considered scented baths a neces- 
 sity. My wardrobe was never extravagant or 
 over-fashionable, but I cared much for the lux- 
 ury of underclothing of silk, or of cotton of 
 cobweb fineness of texture and perfection of
 
 [ 39 ] CHAP. V 
 
 handiwork; I delighted in sumptuous and deli- 
 cate negligee. On my dressing-table I never 
 could endure the heavy tinny wares of the 
 silversmith. All my brushes and boxes were 
 of smoothest ivory, carved only with my 
 monogram. 
 
 I mention these habits of fastidious luxury 
 because they have an important relation to the 
 personality of a woman. The influence of un- 
 seen private, personal elegance, beauty and lux- 
 ury is as positive in her body and bearing as it 
 is indefinable. I had come a long way from 
 the boyish meagerness and hardihood of my 
 early years. My mother encouraged the change, 
 and gratified my wishes, which were not in ex- 
 cess of her resources, but I think there were 
 times when I puzzled her. She was a fine lady, 
 too, but with a difference. 
 
 The third day after my return home, it was 
 evening rather (we had just finished dinner), 
 I strolled down to the foot of the garden 
 with a watering-pot, a shallow basket and a pair 
 of flower-scissors. The evening was very warm.
 
 CHAP. V [ 4O ] 
 
 I wore a thin white dress which left neck and 
 arms exposed. My throat was as firm and fine 
 as ivory, and my hair behind my ears and at 
 the nape had, I knew, a delightful ripple. My 
 arms were white and round and strong. I felt 
 like a young Amazon, sallying forth to combat. 
 I had been worn, nervous, uncertain of myself 
 at first on my return, being extremely tired. 
 My eyes had looked burned out with excitement, 
 my cheeks hollow. Now I was rested, and as 
 fresh, as vigorous and elastic as a sapling. I 
 liked myself particularly well that evening. I 
 knew I was in good looks, and that the radiance 
 of perfect health was almost beauty. 
 
 I passed along the rows of sweet peas just 
 within the sparse screen of the hedge, now wa- 
 tering them, now snipping off a spray or two 
 of the more striking blossoms for my basket. I 
 hummed a little tune as I went, but very low, 
 because I knew I might get off the key, having 
 no ear for music. The effect of the little tune 
 was designed for no one but myself ; it gave me 
 a certain air of careless, light-hearted preoccu-
 
 [ 41 ] CHAP. V 
 
 pation. That was the air I wanted. Presently 
 I found that the aromatic odor for which I was 
 on the alert was perceptible. I strolled on to 
 the opening in the hedge, the one through which 
 Irving Lloyd used to go back and forth in our 
 school-days. It was almost grown together now, 
 but not completely. There I paused, swinging 
 my basket and looking ingenuously up the 
 grassy slope to the birch-trees on the terrace. 
 As it was still early twilight I could plainly see 
 my neighbor seated on the bench, a languor in 
 his attitude noticeable even from the distance. 
 
 I hastened with frank and sincere concern 
 up the lawn, dropping my basket when I reached 
 him. Words of neighborly greeting were on my 
 lips and I held out both hands. Irving rose 
 and gave me his, looking with much kindliness 
 into my eyes. I had not for a moment pictured 
 to myself the ravages of a fever such as he had 
 suffered. The sunken eyes, haggard cheeks, 
 pale lips, the chill, nerveless hands which mine 
 held produced upon me a sharp and sudden im- 
 pression. All my old habit of genuine friend-
 
 CHAP. V [ 42 ] 
 
 ship asserted itself with force and sincerity. I 
 burst into tears and exclaimed, " Oh, Irving ! 
 I did not realize how ill you have been. I am 
 so sorry so glad " and I broke off because I 
 could say not another word. 
 
 " Sit down here with me, Sidney," he said 
 in his quiet way. " The sight of you as you 
 look to-night is enough to make a sick man 
 well." As I obeyed I caught a gleam in his 
 eyes as of tears, and a sudden flush of color 
 also betrayed the keen emotion which this sim- 
 ple revelation of heartfelt concern produced in 
 him, after the many years of coldness and en- 
 forced distance. Neither of us needed to put 
 on airs any more. It was enough to be our- 
 selves, a practise almost forgotten in our inter- 
 course together. The coldness and strangeness 
 of years were annihilated. 
 
 When I left, in a few moments, for I feared 
 to tire him, Irving came slowly with me down 
 the lawn. At the foot of it he detained me to 
 say, smiling half sadly, 
 
 "You have broken the path again to-night,
 
 [ 43 ] CHAP. V 
 
 Sidney, through the old hedge. It is a symbol. 
 Do you know that for years I have gone around 
 the street-corner and up the front steps and 
 rung your bell like a stranger? " 
 
 " And that was a symbol, too. You won't 
 do it any more, will you? " I said, and lifted my 
 eyes, which were still wet with tears, frankly 
 and yet timidly to his face. It wore a look I 
 recalled having seen in it once before, on the 
 pebbly beach at Mallard Lake. It was a look 
 which quickened the beating of my heart. Cer- 
 tainly he was very distinguished looking, most 
 interesting, and his dark, close-clipped beard 
 made him seem almost a stranger, after all. 
 
 My eyes fell beneath his glance. I could see 
 my breast rise and fall tumultuously with my 
 rapid breath. 
 
 "It shall be as you say, dearest Sidney," 
 Irving said very gently, and then he bent and 
 kissed my hand. 
 
 When I walked back alone up the uneven 
 brick walk between the box borders, I knew that 
 I should be asked to marry Irving Lloyd. I
 
 CHAP. V [ 44 ] 
 
 felt a deep tenderness in my heart and a touch" 
 of solemnity, but below and above all a profound 
 satisfaction. The old and hidden wound would 
 be healed at last. 
 
 What was it that had been wounded!
 
 VI 
 
 WE did not go to the mountains at all that 
 summer. There was a spell upon us too beau- 
 tiful to break. 
 
 One July morning stands out now with per- 
 fect clearness in my mind from all the rest. It 
 was a backward eddy on the rippling stream of 
 my content. 
 
 I had had my roll and chocolate in bed, as 
 was my custom when at home. Then had fol- 
 lowed the elaborate rites of washing my hair 
 and of my bath in a tub as polished and flawless 
 as a French china cup the water, violet-scented, 
 clear as crystal, first warm and relaxing, then a 
 keen, cold shower to finish, turning my flesh 
 pink and my muscles hard again. This accom- 
 plished, I had dressed carefully, but instead of 
 putting on a dress had slipped into an apple-
 
 CHAP. VI [ 46 ] 
 
 green silk lounging robe, as the process of dry- 
 ing my hair was now to follow. 
 
 When I came down-stairs and stopped for a 
 little talk with my mother in the library, she told 
 me I looked like a July lily just bursting from 
 its calyx. I liked the notion. I had brought 
 from my room my white ivory comb and hand- 
 glass; I passed out now to the west veranda, 
 taking with me also an enormous Pompeian 
 pink pillow from the library sofa. 
 
 The morning was warm but not oppressive, 
 and the sunshine on my cold, wet hair gave me 
 an agreeable sensation. I soon made myself 
 very comfortable in the wide hammock, my 
 head propped high on the pink pillow, the loose 
 sleeves of my negligee falling back above the 
 elbow, my feet, in gold-embroidered Turkish 
 slippers, just showing below the billowy folds 
 of my green drapery. My hair I shook out 
 over the edge of the hammock and it fell to the 
 floor in dank strands but soon began to change 
 and grow bright and living and lustrous in the 
 sun.
 
 [ 47 ] CHAP. VI 
 
 Then Irving came and found me wholly 
 charming (as I knew he would), and kissed me 
 on arms and throat as well as on lips and fore- 
 head, and sat down in the low armchair drawn 
 near for him by my side. He had been my de- 
 clared lover for almost a month. The old wound 
 was healed. The affair with Clarice, I was 
 assured, had never been more than a super- 
 ficial infatuation, as fleeting on his part as on 
 hers. 
 
 I noticed with anxiety that Irving was look- 
 ing badly that morning, something of bluish 
 pallor about his skin augmenting the general 
 weakness of aspect which he had not yet shaken 
 off since his fever. It was a slow convalescence. 
 We knew that he could hardly be perfectly re- 
 covered within a year, but of late his mother 
 had been alarmed at a suggestion of cardiac 
 weakness, a complication most to be dreaded. 
 
 " Oh ! how I wish I could give you some of 
 my superfluous vitality," I said, holding his 
 cold hand in my warm vigorous grasp. 
 
 He smiled and pressed my hand to his lips,
 
 CHAP. VI [ 48 ] 
 
 but I saw the smile was forced, and was pain- 
 fully struck by the weakness of his motions. 
 
 " Irving, won't you let that doctor from Bos- 
 ton come?" I said imploringly. "He under- 
 stands your case so perfectly, and then he is 
 your friend besides. Your mother thinks him 
 the most scientific and skilful physician she 
 knows. Do let her send for him ! It worries me 
 so that you do not get strong faster." 
 
 " How nice to think I can make a goddess 
 worry," he said playfully. " But you can rest 
 now. Mother has had her way and sent for Dr. 
 Kirke already. She wired him last night." I 
 gave a joyous exclamation the rather to conceal 
 my instinctive dismay that such a measure had 
 really been thought necessary. 
 
 " When will he come T " 
 
 " I have no idea. He is the busiest man I 
 know. It is unpardonable to make him come at 
 all, and I'll wager he will be furious when he 
 gets here and finds there is absolutely no cause 
 for sending for him. Please, Sidney," very 
 meekly, "may I comb your hair?"
 
 [49] CHAP. VI 
 
 For answer I placed the comb in his hand 
 and as he leaned forward and began to draw it 
 slowly and solemnly through the long locks 
 which were beginning to grow buoyant and 
 fluffy, I said, 
 
 " How horrid of him to be furious ! I should 
 hate him if he was. Is he bad-tempered then? " 
 
 " Rather a grampus, I have to allow ; but a 
 royal old rock of a fellow after all. You 
 wouldn't like him, though." 
 
 "Why not!" 
 
 " Well, for one thing, he is a Methodist." 
 
 " Oh dear me, Irving ! That is enough, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "I thought it would strike you so. But I 
 don't think women do usually like him." 
 
 " Not even Methodist women? " 
 
 " No. You see he has no conversation, no 
 manners, except of a professional sort, no time 
 for the society of women, and, what is worse, 
 no taste." 
 
 "What does he go in for? " 
 
 " Hard work and golf, and no petticoats on 
 
 4
 
 CHAP. VI [ 5O ] 
 
 the golf-links either, if he can help it. Sidney, 
 you have the loveliest hair! Look, how long 
 it is!" 
 
 " Isn't it a pretty color there where the sun 
 strikes it?" I returned impartially. "But do 
 give me the comb, Irving, you go at it in such 
 a reverent spirit that it makes me wild. I want 
 to give a good tug at these snarls down here," 
 and I took the comb again from his hand. 
 
 He sat back regarding me with love-lit ardor 
 of admiration as I leaned on one elbow and 
 drew the comb steadily through the spun-silk 
 mass, so lifting it to fall screen-like against the 
 sun which streamed, dull gold, through its glint- 
 ing, tangled meshes. 
 
 " What is it you are like ! " he exclaimed, his 
 eyes dark and bright with a sort of rapture, for 
 the artist in him was strong. 
 
 Suddenly, almost at the foot of the steps, an 
 unfamiliar muffled voice pronounced as in ex- 
 clamation a single word, a word which neither 
 of us distinguished. We both started to see 
 that, unknown to us, a man had come down the
 
 [ 51 ] CHAP. VI 
 
 garden walk and had apparently heard what 
 Irving said. 
 
 Even as I sprang from my reclining posi- 
 tion, and sat erect against the cushions, twist- 
 ing my hair with a single swift motion behind 
 my head, Irving had run down the steps and 
 grasped the stranger by the hand, his cheeks 
 flushed slightly with surprise and evidently also 
 with pleasure. 
 
 "It is Dr. Kirke, Sidney," he explained, 
 looking back at me, with comical confusion. 
 " What shall I do 1 May I bring him up ? How 
 on earth did you manage to get here so soon, 
 Doctor?" 
 
 " By the Albany midnight express. Not a 
 complicated process, I assure you," and without 
 waiting to see whether I invited him to do so 
 or not, Dr. Kirke came up the veranda steps 
 and gave me an abrupt and yet ceremonious 
 hand-shake, Irving introducing us a little awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 It was perfectly natural that I should ex- 
 perience some small confusion on being intro-
 
 CHAP. VI [ 52 ] 
 
 duced to a distinguished Boston physician, the 
 friend of my fiance in the bargain, in such 
 dishabille. However, I knew the dishabille was 
 becoming, as was also the blush which I felt 
 springing to my cheeks, and as I drew myself 
 to a seat on the hammock's edge, my green 
 drapery flowing about me and settling into a 
 shimmering pool on the veranda floor, my hair 
 falling below my waist in a shining rope, my 
 throat and arms modestly concealed, I should 
 not have found the situation particularly un- 
 pleasing, had the man who had so abruptly 
 intruded upon us done his part acceptably. I 
 should not have demanded allusions to nymphs 
 of either sea or wood. It would have been sat- 
 isfactory if he had looked a reverent, unspoken 
 admiration, a chivalrous, apologetic deference 
 to my maiden alarm and confusion, but he did 
 nothing of the kind. He looked at me indeed 
 longer than I thought nice or necessary, but it 
 was with a singularly cold, measuring glance, 
 as if he were making a businesslike estimate of 
 my character and person from an absolutely
 
 [ 53 ] CHAP. VI 
 
 impersonal point of view. It was an unmerciful 
 look to the woman's vanity of me. It seemed 
 to say : " I see through all your little shams and 
 wiles. Keep them for your lover and any one 
 else who likes them. They are lost upon me. 
 You are simply a rather homely woman work- 
 ing a fine skin, a white arm and a lot of rather 
 good hair for all they are worth and perhaps a 
 little more." 
 
 Decidedly Dr. Kirke was neither artist, ideal- 
 ist, courtier nor gentleman I was ready just 
 then to say, being more disconcerted by that 
 look of his and its stark indifference than I re- 
 member ever being before in my life. Meta- 
 phorically I nailed a small flag of distress to 
 my mast, wrapped myself in reserve as in a veil 
 and so speedily rid myself of both men. As 
 they passed down the walk of my garden to- 
 gether I pleased myself with registering a good, 
 round opinion of Dr. Kirke's undeniably heavily 
 built figure and homely face, but I found myself 
 again and again seeking to determine what had 
 been that one word he had growled rather than
 
 CHAP. VI [ 54 ] 
 
 spoken, at the foot of the steps, before we were 
 aware of his proximity. Had it been a sort of 
 response to Irving's impassioned exclamation, 
 " What is it you are like ? " or had it been some 
 foreign phrase of apology or greeting? For- 
 eign it had certainly sounded to my ear, and yet 
 not unfamiliar. My mother had compared me to 
 a lily within the hour. Dr. Kirke's exclamation 
 seemed to bear a faint, uncertain semblance of 
 that word and yet I knew it was not the same. 
 Whatever it was I was convinced that it was 
 of a savage nature and that he had had no busi- 
 ness to speak at all. My dislike of the man 
 was fixed from that hour.
 
 VII 
 
 WE were married in January. Irving was 
 then fully restored to health; his profession 
 produced sufficient income for us to live on with 
 economy; we were both old enough to marry; 
 we knew each other from the associations of a 
 lifetime. There was nothing to wait for. 
 
 Nevertheless, in my secret heart I should 
 have preferred to extend the period of betrothal 
 indefinitely. I had a talent for the woman's side 
 in courtship. I had a strong, honest dread and 
 dislike of entering the mysteries of the married 
 state. As the time drew near, I lived in a per- 
 petual chill of physical revolt. I knew maiden- 
 hood, its sweet severity, its innocent luxury, its 
 radiant solitude. Such joys as marriage had to 
 bestow were joys for which I had no craving. 
 Irving never offended my most fastidious taste, 
 but I preferred his far-off worship to the un-
 
 CHAP. VII [ 56 ] 
 
 thinkable intimacy which he so ardently desired. 
 I used to recall with perplexity expressions I 
 had read in Clarice's letters just before her 
 wedding of her impatience for the day to come. 
 For me, I looked forward to it as a prisoner to 
 the day of execution. I was afraid I did not 
 love Irving as I should, since other girls ap- 
 proached marriage with such different feelings. 
 But I certainly found his devotion and worship 
 indispensable, and I knew I could not trifle with 
 a passion like his. Hence I made no outward 
 protest and only strove to hide my dismay as 
 the day hurried on by throwing myself gaily 
 into the myriad details of preparation. It was 
 a brilliant wedding, but my husband found a 
 bride, affectionate, but stone-cold. Still we won 
 our way fairly well through the ordeal of the 
 honeymoon, Irving's delicacy of feeling, his 
 rapture of admiration and homage reconciling 
 me to my new condition. I believe my unspoken 
 motto for the new life was : To be loved is ter- 
 rible, but not to be loved would be much more 
 terrible. This I am sure was not formulated or
 
 [ 57 ] CHAP. VII 
 
 defined, but was my very simple and sufficient 
 philosophy. 
 
 We began our new home life in a small but 
 charming house, an old house remodeled, in a 
 fashionable location of C , a half-hour's dis- 
 tance on the cars from Irving's office. My 
 mother had been at work for many weeks there 
 in preparation for our coming. She had de- 
 spoiled her own house of its finest furniture, 
 and even of its best pictures for our benefit. 
 The old home was to be closed for an indefinite 
 period, for my mother would go to England now 
 to be with her sister, who was the wife of a 
 prominent country gentleman and M. P. She 
 desired the change greatly for her own sake, and 
 she also held it particularly desirable for mine. 
 
 " A girl never stands upon her own powers 
 and uses her real resources in her married life, 
 if her mother and her mother's home are con- 
 stantly at her disposal. I have given Sidney 
 twenty-three years of unceasing care, sympathy, 
 instruction, training. Now let her put the re- 
 sults to the touch and show herself a woman.
 
 CHAP. VII [ 58 ] 
 
 It is not fair for a mother at forty-five to live 
 only in her child's life. She has still a life of 
 her own to live. If I remain within easy reach 
 and call I shall be an adjunct, an accessory of 
 Sidney's establishment. That would be good 
 for neither of us. We are two strongly indi- 
 vidual women in the prime of our love of life 
 and our capacity for enjoyment. It is best that 
 for a time we shall strike out our own separate 
 paths. By and by life will call us together 
 again by its sorrows or its joys its ebb or its 
 flood of experience." 
 
 Something like this was my mother's mani- 
 festo when she left me, but life never called us 
 together again. I never saw her after she left 
 for England. She died after a short illness, in 
 the Riviera, whither she had gone with my aunt, 
 two years after my marriage. 
 
 She was a beautiful woman. I have recorded 
 that before; a woman of exquisite refinement 
 and of much poise and dignity. I think she was 
 very slightly endowed with spiritual perception 
 or genius. Both had been strong, I have learned
 
 [ 59 ] CHAP. VII 
 
 from others, in my father, but strangely tangled 
 up with the esthetic and sensuous faculties which 
 made him, while still young, a brilliant and suc- 
 cessful artist. 
 
 I think what I have written sounds cold and 
 thankless. I loved my mother more selflessly 
 than I have ever loved any person, and I also 
 admired her with enthusiasm. We were neither 
 of us, I think, women of great emotional ten- 
 derness. 
 
 In a few months after our marriage Irving 
 and I had already achieved a rather enviable 
 social popularity. I think we were regarded as 
 an altogether companionable pair of people by 
 a somewhat exclusive and fashionable set of 
 people in C , mostly young lawyers and busi- 
 ness men, with a university instructor or two 
 and one already distinguished artist. 
 
 As the months passed our unpretending 
 house, with its one servant and half a dozen 
 rooms, became in some sort a social center for 
 the people we knew. Our table was always be- 
 yond question in the immaculate character of
 
 CHAP. VII [ 6O ] 
 
 linen, silver and china, the freshness of its flow- 
 ers, the nicety of the cooking. If we had been 
 rich we should have had things in no better 
 taste, no more essentially elegant. For this rea- 
 son Irving always felt the way open to invite 
 his friends to his home without warning, and a 
 large amount of free, informal visiting resulted. 
 There was much of bright and really good talk 
 in our circle, clever, bold and daring sometimes. 
 In this my husband participated but slightly. 
 He was a silent man and while appreciative was 
 neither witty nor original in thought himself. 
 I became aware of this as I saw him with other 
 men of the world. But the men who frequented 
 the house all thought him a thoroughly fine fel- 
 low ; praised his cigars, liked to sit by his fires, 
 eat his dinners and talk with his wife. Plenty 
 of women came too, but I made no intimate or 
 confidential friends and the habitues of our 
 house, as it happened, were men. 
 
 There was one friend of my husband's who 
 never appeared at his table or fireside, in part 
 because he had no time, but chiefly because he
 
 [ 61 ] CHAP. VII 
 
 was never invited. I had exacted a promise 
 from Irving before our marriage that he would 
 never invite Dr. Kirke to the house except in 
 case of urgent professional need. I told him 
 that I considered him unpardonably rude, and 
 therefore not entitled to an entree to our home 
 on a social basis. Irving demurred seriously, 
 but finally consented, doubtless perceiving that 
 the doctor would have no more inclination to 
 come than I had to receive him. 
 
 Without doubt our house, though small, was 
 peculiarly artistic and effective. The rooms 
 were low-ceiled, with heavy beams and wain- 
 scots in time-darkened oak, and in the hall a 
 quaint staircase with a very fine stained win- 
 dow; there were odd bits of coloring, curious 
 but quiet draperies, and some very good Ori- 
 ental faience. The house had expression, people 
 said, individuality, charm. 
 
 I kept my house with a passion for perfec- 
 tion, and as a reward received a perpetual cloud 
 of incense rising before me from the groans and 
 self-pityings of my married friends whose brass
 
 CHAP. VII [ 62 ] 
 
 and silver and plate-glass never shone like mine 
 (they said) ; whose flowers were never so effec- 
 tive ; whose floors never took the dark gleam of 
 polish; whose rugs never possessed the same 
 deep, dim richness, even though they cost much 
 more. 
 
 My house was my stage, and I could not 
 afford to have one of its properties neglected 
 or ineffective. Each season brought its own 
 fresh material. How well I remember that first 
 spring when the earliest hyacinths appeared in 
 the greenhouses. Their delicious perfume, with 
 its undertouch of bitterness, always exerted a 
 peculiar influence upon my sense. I had placed 
 a great glass sphere of them, creamy white and 
 pink, on a tabouret against the dark wainscot at 
 the foot of the stairs; they were reflected in an 
 old oval gilt-framed mirror with brass sconces, 
 in which wax candles were burning. Having 
 heard Irving's key in the door I hastened down 
 to meet him. I wore a lusterless white gown 
 with bright green ribbons at the waist, trailing 
 down the skirt. My arms were bare to the
 
 [ 63 ] CHAP. VII 
 
 shoulder, but my gown high at the throat with 
 a touch of green to accent the whiteness, and 
 my hair piled high and bright on the very 
 crown of my head. 
 
 What did it matter then, a voice in me cried 
 in inward exultation, that I was not beautiful? 
 I knew that I produced the effect of beauty. 
 The dominion and the power of it were mine. 
 
 My husband, coming in just as I reached the 
 lowest stair, spoke out in very ecstasy of artis- 
 tic delight, crossed the hall to drop on his knee 
 in joyous gallantry, kissed the hem of my gown 
 and called me the Genius of Spring. 
 
 A simple, little homespun triumph, it may 
 sound, but I knew it was less simple than it 
 seemed. The homage in Irving's eyes was too 
 often reflected in the eyes of other men for me 
 to doubt it.
 
 VIII 
 
 THOSE hyacinths were still in their place, so 
 that it must have been the day following, that 
 a great March storm of snow and wind shut me 
 in all day to their company. Growing very 
 tired of it by four o'clock, I determined to face 
 the blast, have a quick walk down to the little 
 suburban station and meet Irving, who was in 
 the habit of coming by the four-thirty train. I 
 started out cheerily in fur jacket and cap, but 
 before I reached the station the wind fairly 
 lifted me from my feet and threw me with stun- 
 ning force into a snow-drift. I sprang up and 
 turned about, forthwith giving up the attempt 
 to reach the station. It was clear that no train 
 would come through on time in such a storm. 
 I struggled back to my own door breathless and 
 panting. The house was dark already and 
 darker to my snow-blinded eyes than it was in
 
 [ 65 ] CHAP. VIII 
 
 reality. As I stamped the snow from my shoes 
 and shook off my whitened jacket I caught 
 sight of a narrow visiting-card lying on the 
 bronze tray near the door a gentleman's card. 
 I bent to glance at it hastily but failed to dis- 
 tinguish the name, and in the same instant be- 
 came aware that a tall man who seemed to have 
 been seated in Irving' s great chair by the library 
 fireplace was rising and holding himself ready 
 to meet me. The folding-doors opened wide 
 into the library. I tossed my fur gloves off on 
 the settle, shook the melting snowflakes from 
 my hair and walked promptly forward into the 
 library with my new-married air of graceful 
 dignity and not-easily-to-be-ruffled composure. 
 
 The gentleman who bowed and then extended 
 his hand with formal courtesy (not introducing 
 himself by name as my glance at his card seemed 
 to have rendered such introduction superflu- 
 ous) I saw at once was singularly handsome. 
 He apologized with winning deference for the 
 liberty he had taken in appropriating a place at 
 my fireside, unbidden. He had come to C
 
 CHAP. VIII [ 66 ] 
 
 in order to consult Mr. Lloyd on the matter of 
 a small building enterprise he had in mind and 
 being told by the maid that Mr. Lloyd was ex- 
 pected at any moment he had ventured to wait. 
 As he spoke I watched his face with interest, 
 for I felt at once that this might be a rather re- 
 markable man. His manner was so extremely, 
 even languidly, unassuming as to give color to 
 the possibility that he was somebody in par- 
 ticular. He was noticeably blonde, with a pale, 
 toneless skin, curly hair clipped very close to 
 his head, a high forehead, narrow gray eyes 
 with a keenly quizzical expression lurking some- 
 where in their corners, a small, neat nose, a firm- 
 lipped ironical mouth, the chin round and well 
 formed. He wore a fur-lined overcoat coming 
 nearly to his heels, but I could see that he was 
 a slender man with something still of youthful 
 grace in line and limb. Only about thirty-five 
 I fancied him to be. Although he looked no older 
 than my husband he wore himself with a com- 
 plete confidence, which was yet not assurance 
 and which suggested greater maturity.
 
 [ 67 ] CHAP. VIII 
 
 In another moment we were both seated by 
 the fireplace. I had removed my fur cap and 
 my unknown visitor was seriously engaged in 
 building up the dying fire with sticks from the 
 leather-covered wood-box which I had at once 
 opened. I remarked politely on his skill in this 
 performance, looking down when his head was 
 turned away at my wet-edged skirt and soaked 
 ankles. 
 
 He turned as the flames suddenly leaped out 
 and then shot roaring up the chimney, and said, 
 ," You are chilled and your dress is damp, I am 
 afraid. Pray do not let me detain you here. 
 I am simply a customer, you see, a client-to-be, 
 perhaps, of your husband. That is all. I have, 
 unfortunately, no claim upon your presence or 
 attention. And your bric-a-brac will be per- 
 fectly safe ! " 
 
 We both smiled at the last words, but my 
 smile, at least, was without mirth. He had in- 
 fused into what he had said a curious sugges- 
 tion of latent but habitual authority mingled 
 with a restrained flattery. I could not decide
 
 CHAP. VIII [ 68 ] 
 
 whether he was sarcastic or sincere. I glanced 
 across at him, a glance of cold question. I 
 sought some sign by which to determine whether 
 to act promptly upon his lead or not. He met 
 the look with an expression of sincere and cour- 
 teous solicitude. I touched the electric-bell in 
 the chimney-frame beside me and bade my maid, 
 who appeared instantly, bring in tea and light 
 the lamps. 
 
 "It is customary, I believe," I said coldly, 
 as the maid left the room, " for women to offer 
 refreshment to their husbands' clients." 
 
 "It is good business, Mrs. Lloyd," he said 
 and smiled slightly an indifference to the little 
 manifest attention which I found irritating. It 
 annoyed me that he knew and used my name 
 while I remained in ignorance of his. Who was 
 he, anyway? Was it worth while wasting time 
 and tea on him? I would have given the hat 
 I had just taken off, and it had been an expen- 
 sive one, to have one more look at that card still 
 lying on the tray, for to ask his name now 
 seemed impossibly awkward. Just then he rose,
 
 [ 69 ] CHAP. VIII 
 
 begging permission to lay aside his overcoat. 
 The clock was striking five. 
 
 " I can wait half an hour for your husband 
 to appear, if my presence is not too much of 
 an intrusion." 
 
 " By all means wait. I hope you will make 
 yourself as comfortable as you can," I said with 
 remote civility. The office of ministering to my 
 husband's clients was new and not altogether 
 pleasing to me. I took advantage of this chance 
 to rise myself, murmuring that the maid had 
 forgotten to light the hall. 
 
 As I stood by the bowl of hyacinths at the 
 foot of the stairs, having lighted the candles in 
 the mirror sconces, I looked keenly over at the 
 card on the bronze tray. Yes, the light I 
 thought would suffice for my purpose. As I re- 
 passed the spot to take my place at the tea-table 
 which Kitty was at the moment drawing up 
 before the library fire, I could make one more 
 attempt to catch the name of my perplexing 
 visitor. At the first step I glanced, however, at 
 the man himself. He had removed his great-
 
 CHAP. VIII [ 7O ] 
 
 coat and was standing just within the open door- 
 way by the piano, leaning slightly upon it, his 
 arms folded across his breast, watching me 
 steadily. His gaze was perfectly courteous and 
 even expressed respectful, well-bred admira- 
 tion, but that touch of irony about his mouth 
 was more perceptible than hitherto, as if he had 
 divined my intention and was amused by it. 
 A curious tingling sensation ran through my 
 nerves. I blushed like a schoolgirl as I hastened 
 forward, my eyes fixed upon the tea-table. But 
 my slight discomfiture vanished as soon as de- 
 clared, lost in a dominant impression of this 
 man's extraordinary grace of person and dis- 
 tinction of bearing now first fully revealed 
 to me. 
 
 " Whoever you may be," I said to myself, as 
 I took the chair he held for me at the tea-table, 
 " you are plainly a client worth winning. I will 
 play the game as well as I can with so many 
 odds against me." 
 
 But the man whom I had uneasily felt to be 
 in some sort my opponent now became my cor-
 
 [ 71 ] CHAP. VIII 
 
 dial, even enthusiastic, ally, and made me feel 
 for the moment that the odds were in my favor. 
 The disadvantage of my plain walking-suit, 
 heavy, wettish boots, reddened skin and wind- 
 blown hair, of which I had until now been dis- 
 agreeably conscious, were forgotten in short 
 order. As I made the tea the very touch of the 
 shining silver implements, of the beautiful cups, 
 thin as bubbles, seemed to be my scepter given 
 again into my hand. I was queen again of my 
 own home and my court I found strangely to 
 my mind, for Irving's possible client was now 
 at pains to lay before me the impressions 
 which our home had made upon him in the mo- 
 ments during which he had sat alone in the 
 library. 
 
 " You and your husband have achieved here, 
 Mrs. Lloyd," he said with fascinating impres- 
 siveness, " a harmony which I have hardly ever 
 seen in such degree before. Seriously, I would 
 advise Mr. Lloyd to give all his clients the entree 
 of his house. Nothing could be more convinc- 
 ing. I felt as I sat here as if I was in the temple
 
 CHAP. VIII [ 72 ] 
 
 of an ideal home, to which every field of art, 
 poetry, culture, nature, thought life in fine, had 
 brought their contribution, producing a perfect 
 whole." 
 
 " How very fine ! " I cried delightedly, think- 
 ing it might easily be that he had never seen 
 such a home as ours. 
 
 " I have observed," he went on slowly, lean- 
 ing back and enjoying the tea and thin bread 
 and butter which I was myself finding delicious 
 after my encounter with the storm, " I have ob- 
 served that in religion your tastes the tastes 
 of Mr. Lloyd and yourself are singularly 
 broad. You are fond of saints and angels " 
 
 "In art," I murmured. 
 
 "In art," he repeated, and smiled assent. 
 " Catholic saints and Protestant champions im- 
 partially, pagan gods and goddesses, Buddha, 
 Jesus, Socrates all are represented. I have 
 even dared to wonder which represented you." 
 
 "We are eclectic in religion," I said gaily. 
 " I am assured that life is simply a succession 
 of choices. Why not religion as well?"
 
 [ 73 ] CHAP. VIII 
 
 He nodded, looking at me with grave sar- 
 casm. 
 
 " That is very good. Religion is, we might 
 say, carrying the notion of choice a little far- 
 ther, elective as well as eclectic." 
 
 " Precisely," I said laughing. " I have not 
 decided myself to elect it." 
 
 " You are a member, however, of Saint 
 Christopher's Church in Boston, I believe." 
 
 How did he know this I wondered, growing 
 more and more perplexed, but hiding my per- 
 plexity skilfully. 
 
 " Oh, to be sure," I replied ; " but church 
 membership and religion, they are two different 
 things. By the way, have you heard the rector 
 of Saint Christopher's, Mr. Owen, preach?" 
 
 "Yes, often. A very good man, and a very 
 good friend of mine." 
 
 " Is he not very, very clever along esthetic 
 lines ? " I asked, trying harder than ever to 
 thread my way inwardly to the man's identity. 
 
 " I regard him as authority in all matters of 
 taste," and he was going on to say something
 
 CHAP. VIII [ 74 ] 
 
 further but Kitty came in to announce that the 
 closed sleigh he ordered was waiting to take 
 the gentleman to the station, and, if he pleased, 
 the driver said the horses would not stand, the 
 storm being so very bad just at present. 
 
 We both rose. Without haste but without 
 delay my nameless visitor took his leave, bowing 
 over my hand with graceful but not too profuse 
 thanks for my hospitality and the privilege of 
 my presence in his period of waiting. He re- 
 gretted my husband's absence, but he should see 
 him surely at his office in Boston, etc., etc. I stood 
 by the fire while he put on his overcoat and hat 
 in the hall. The door opened and closed; I 
 heard the sound of sleigh-bells muffled by the 
 snow and retreating. He was certainly gone, 
 clean gone past return, and yet I waited a full 
 minute by the clock on the mantel before I 
 stirred from the spot. I had an uncanny dread 
 that he would in some impossible way be linger- 
 ing still about the door and would again turn 
 upon my impatience that steady ironical regard. 
 
 At the beat of the sixtieth second I crossed
 
 [ 75 ] CHAP. VIII 
 
 to the card-tray in the hall and picked up the 
 card. The name was Mr. G. Ross Kimball. 
 
 My visitor, my husband's possible client, 
 accordingly was the great financier and rail- 
 road magnate. Then perhaps our fortunes 
 were made, and perhaps they were lost. I trem- 
 bled from head to foot. My first definite thought 
 was to wonder if my heavy, snow-soaked shoes 
 might possibly have escaped his notice. My 
 first action was to step to the foot of the stairs 
 and regard myself in the oval mirror. My sec- 
 ond to seat myself in the chair which my visitor 
 had occupied by my fireside, and seek to deter- 
 mine how my modest house really presented 
 itself to the eyes of the great millionaire. 
 
 On the whole its cherished effects seemed 
 to me less convincing at the moment than I had 
 supposed. Had all those pleasing phrases he 
 had used in its praise been satirical like his 
 smile?
 
 IX 
 
 IT is not strange that I was startled to find 
 that G-. Koss Kimball had been my guest, all 
 unknown, for an hour, for many reasons. He 
 was by all means the most prominent figure in 
 social and financial circles in our part of the 
 world, at the time, and furthermore the center 
 of various cherished schemes and dreams of 
 Irving's and my own. We had, to tell the truth, 
 joined Saint Christopher's Church in Boston be- 
 cause it had a wealthy constituency in part, and 
 in part because Eoss Kimball was an influential 
 and active member. It was commonly said that 
 he owned both the church and its rector, Mr. 
 Owen, a man whose fixed distaste for experi- 
 mental religion was counterbalanced by his 
 very remarkable esthetic taste and culture. Mr. 
 Owen, aristocratic by birth and breeding, in 
 turn was known to act as guide and critic to
 
 [ 77 ] CHAP. IX 
 
 the great millionaire a parvenu himself in 
 all matters of an esthetic character. For this 
 reason Irving and I had for weeks past assidu- 
 ously cultivated Mr. Owen, as our rector, sit- 
 ting at his feet, so to say, in youthful humility. 
 He had responded warmly to our attentions and 
 had become a frequent guest at our house, and 
 to me a very tiresome one. However, I did my 
 cheerful best for him, the reasoning being clear 
 and simple that Mr. Ross Kimball would be 
 sure some time to build something and that the 
 architect whom Mr. Owen might mention to him 
 would stand an excellent chance of being chosen 
 by him. If the architect succeeded in carrying 
 the idea of the millionaire to a successful finish, 
 his reputation would be made, his fortune as- 
 sured. 
 
 This man, then, upon whom our thoughts 
 and hopes had been peculiarly set, had spent an 
 hour, almost, in free and familiar conversation 
 with me in my own house, had even discussed 
 Mr. Owen, our one connecting link, and yet his 
 identity had not for an instant suggested itself
 
 CHAP. IX [ 78 ] 
 
 to me. At first thought I seemed to myself un- 
 consciously stupid, but it really was not strange. 
 I had, needless to say, never seen Ross Kimball, 
 
 who was not a resident of C ; I had always 
 
 heard him spoken of as a man of about fifty, 
 and had formed a fixed image of him as a stout, 
 pompous, red-faced parvenu. Moreover, a visit 
 from the Pope would have seemed to my imag- 
 ination as probable as a visit from this notable 
 individual. I have never quite understood what 
 led him that stormy evening to seek a personal 
 interview with us in our house. Certainly noth- 
 ing moved him again in the same direction. 
 
 He did, however, within a few days send to 
 ask Irving to call upon him in his office in Bos- 
 ton and there laid before him the matter in hand. 
 He wished him to make preliminary sketches 
 for a model rural railroad depot, a series of 
 which he contemplated building on a new sec- 
 tion of line he was about to open. 
 
 Irving's plan, on which he worked persist- 
 ently and often far into the night, was submit- 
 ted to a committee appointed for the purpose,
 
 [ 79 ] CHAP. IX 
 
 early in June. A month later it was returned 
 rejected, without explanation. 
 
 Irving's disappointment was very great and 
 even depressing, but he took it man's fashion, 
 as, after all, in the day's work, part of the for- 
 tunes of war, a thing which happened to every 
 man and could be explained and softened in a 
 dozen different ways, forgotten in a few weeks. 
 To me it was another thing. I was intensely 
 mortified, stung to the core, bitterly humiliated, 
 hotly indignant. My indignation was profess- 
 edly inspired by the railroad people, especially 
 Boss Kimball, whom I denounced as the very 
 embodiment of coldly malicious heartlessness, 
 but in reality it was directed to my husband. 
 Why had he not done a better thing a brilliant 
 thing? How could he have been so incredibly 
 weak, dull, incapable, as to let this one chance 
 for a future go by? What was the matter with 
 his plan? In what had he so conspicuously 
 failed! 
 
 For the first time I interested myself prac- 
 tically in the details of Irving's business. I
 
 CHAP. IX [ 8O ] 
 
 asked him to bring the rejected plan home to 
 me. He brought it one July night and handed 
 it to me, his face haggard and miserable. His 
 misery secretly moved me to irritation rather 
 than sympathy. I left the drawings untouched 
 until he had taken the train the next day. Then 
 I carried them to my own room and spread them 
 out upon the bed. 
 
 For an hour or more I could not make my 
 way beyond the minutiae of details with which 
 I was unfamiliar, but these once mastered, the 
 perception of the reason for the plan's rejection 
 smote upon me with sickening distinctness. 
 
 Mr. Kimball had desired a new design, 
 unique, original, bold, simple yet picturesque. 
 Irving had planned a thing carefully elaborated, 
 perfectly respectable, but destitute of imagina- 
 tion, almost timid and commonplace to a degree. 
 The thing was perfectly suitable but perfectly 
 conventional. Was this his masterpiece? I 
 lifted my eyes to my dressing-table mirror op- 
 posite and was startled at the hard contempt 
 which made my face rigid.
 
 [ 81 ] CHAP. IX 
 
 The subject was never alluded to again be- 
 tween us, but I can see, as I look back, that all 
 the small differences and uncongenialities be- 
 tween Irving and me were accentuated from 
 that time. I had suddenly become aware of his 
 limitations and alarmed at his mediocrity. Suc- 
 cess and distinction were vital elements in my 
 scheme of life. A result of this disappointment 
 was that I shortly after threw myself into the 
 study of architecture, and although a fierce 
 shame and scorn lay beneath my purpose, it was 
 carried out practically and in dead seriousness. 
 In a year I was a better artist in his profession 
 than my husband. He was the better craftsman. 
 
 Meanwhile life did not go over-joyously for 
 me. Irving had reached before our marriage 
 a respectable position professionally, and we 
 had fancied rapid advancement sure from that 
 point on. But, on the contrary, at that point he 
 stuck fast. Our income was far too small for 
 our tastes and requirements, a condition which 
 was intensified in a way after my mother's death, 
 put nearly all my inheritance from her 
 
 6
 
 CHAP. IX [ 82 ] 
 
 property into the purchase and enlargement of 
 the house, which we had hired heretofore. The 
 more elaborate establishment called for an in- 
 crease in yearly expenditure beyond our actual 
 resources, and a chronic friction and uneasiness 
 ensued. 
 
 Under this condition my husband's peculiar 
 natural caution gave rise to an almost morbid 
 anxiety regarding every line of expenditure. 
 He grew moody and despondent; he fretted 
 over petty details in the economy of the house- 
 hold in a way which grated upon me indescri- 
 bably as unmanly, small, even mean. The free- 
 hearted hospitality of our earlier married life 
 was shorn off as an extravagance and we lived, 
 especially the year after my mother's death, in 
 a narrow, monotonous and, to my thinking, sor- 
 did fashion. Always just below the surface, in 
 my own mind, lay the brooding consciousness 
 that it was Irving's incapacity which brought 
 all this about. For this reason I resented, al- 
 though silently, the yoke of petty domestic tyr- 
 anny which he pressed down, often unmerci-
 
 [ 83 ] CHAP. IX 
 
 fully I thought, upon me. I also found his fits 
 of despondency hard to bear patiently. I had 
 reasons for low spirits myself, but I did not in- 
 flict my humors upon other people. Like most 
 women I let my glooms escape with the first 
 chance for release and gaiety. Men regard 
 their dark moods, I have sometimes thought, 
 as a sacred trust, to be consistently adminis- 
 tered and not lightly interfered with. In spite 
 of these disparities, however, Irving and I con- 
 tinued good comrades, loyal to each other's 
 interests and affectionately courteous in the 
 daily interchange of home life.
 
 NEAELY three years passed before I spoke 
 with Ross Kimball again. He always saluted 
 me with ceremonious courtesy when we met at 
 church, as sometimes happened, in going out or 
 coming in. That was all. 
 
 Then there came a notable reception on New 
 
 Year's eve at the Club Rooms, given in 
 
 honor of two eminent German scientists. Dr. 
 Kirke had these celebrities largely upon his 
 hands and he had pressed Irving into service 
 to carry out their social entertainment, for 
 which he felt himself poorly equipped, above 
 all to act as master of ceremonies for the pres- 
 ent function. As Irving spoke German fluently 
 and the Frau Doctor and Frau Professor who 
 had accompanied their husbands across the 
 water spoke English not at all, he was essen- 
 tially useful. I observed with quiet pride how
 
 [ 85 ] CHAP. IX 
 
 finely my husband carried himself and how well 
 he looked a dark, slender, refined man, still 
 with a tinge of melancholy in his face and of 
 reserve in his maner, but gracious, gentle and 
 accomplished in social intercourse. I could still 
 say that he never offended my taste. That he 
 could disappoint my ambition and fall short of 
 commanding my worship that was something 
 buried as far as might be below the surface of 
 my heart and consciousness. 
 
 The beautiful rooms were thronged that 
 night and one met all sorts of unexpected peo- 
 ple, Boston's most weird, most exclusive, most 
 eccentric, most fashionable. Ross KimbalPs 
 presence I noted promptly. Dr. Kirke himself 
 was a rare guest in such places. I observed a 
 certain lack of social facility in his anxious 
 brow and abrupt movements. Still I was bound 
 to admit to myself that he looked a noteworthy 
 man, impressive, striking, even in the company 
 of these savants, for the intellectual power and 
 massive strength of his face and head. His 
 figure was thick set and ungraceful, the shoul-
 
 CHAP. X [ 86 ] 
 
 ders disproportionately broad. He was accom- 
 panied by his sister, Sarah Kirke, whom I had 
 never seen before but of whom I had heard 
 many things. The brother and sister, both un- 
 married, and both physicians, had a large old 
 
 mansion in C , with a beautiful garden. To 
 
 this home they invited from time to time such 
 of their patients as were peculiarly needy or 
 forlorn and cared for them at their own ex- 
 pense; in short, they carried on a kind of pri- 
 vate sanatorium on a benevolent basis with 
 Sarah as interne and head nurse. This Dr. 
 Kirke's practise, now chiefly that of consulting 
 physician and surgeon, enabled them to do, as 
 they had no taste for society and luxurious 
 living. 
 
 I had had some little curiosity to meet 
 Sarah Kirke, who was considered a very able 
 woman and was a marked individuality in 
 C . She was older than her brother, deci- 
 dedly clever looking I perceived, dressed pecul- 
 iarly, something after the fashion of a Method- 
 ist deaconess out on a lark, I thought, and she
 
 [ 87 ] CHAP. X 
 
 was so homely that beside her the Doctor looked 
 absolutely handsome. With the same physiog- 
 nomy, the firm, square nose, prominent brow, 
 the long upper lip and irregular jaw, Miss 
 Kirke's features were so much worse than 
 her brother's as to give him marked advantage. 
 Perhaps it was rather that the traits which in a 
 woman were harsh in a man were powerful. 
 And still there was a spiritual illumination 
 in Sarah Kirke's face which gave it remarkable 
 elevation and refinement. 
 
 I had been introduced to Miss Kirke : some 
 one had brought us ices at the moment and we 
 found seats together. The evening was half 
 over. I took advantage of the opportunity to 
 remove my long, black suede gloves. I always 
 made short work of gloves, my hands and arms 
 being perhaps my best points. I wore that night 
 (a year had passed since my mother's death, I 
 remember) a clinging black satin gown, as close- 
 fitting, as lusterless and as fine of texture as the 
 gloves I had just stripped off. The gown was 
 sleeveless and low cut, quite off the shoulder,
 
 CHAP. X [ 88 ] 
 
 and perfectly plain aside from the straps of 
 dull jet holding the bodice in place. 
 
 Miss Kirke looked at me with a peculiarly 
 meditative expression in her eyes which I have 
 since found a characteristic of her. I could not 
 decide whether she approved me and my cos- 
 tume or not. Probably not, all things consid- 
 ered. 
 
 "You are do I understand?" she asked, 
 "the wife of my brother's friend, Irving 
 Lloyd?" 
 
 " Yes," I replied, smiling, with an effort to 
 please if possible this very homely and impera- 
 tive but very eminent woman, even if she was a 
 Methodist. 
 
 " Strange," she said, " I had never heard 
 that he was married." 
 
 I experienced a distinctly unpleasant sensa- 
 tion at these words. One prefers always to 
 have one's existence admitted, even if unfavor- 
 able opinions of one's personality are probable. 
 So Dr. Kirke had never mentioned me! That 
 was a return for my ignoring of him which on
 
 [ 89 ] CHAP. X 
 
 second thought I found rather to be admired. 
 It was in good taste and not overdone. Prob- 
 ably it was the simple consequence of the fact 
 that he had never thought of me a second time 
 while I had been fighting hot battles in my heart 
 with him whenever I remembered his chilling 
 bruskness at our first meeting. We had met 
 only casually and at long intervals since then, 
 and had never got on together. 
 
 Miss Kirke's remark gave me a disagreeable 
 sensation, as I have said, but I replied with an 
 innocent unconscious remark to the effect that 
 we had in fact been married three years and 
 
 that we had a little home of our own in C , 
 
 not very far from Miss Kirke's own beautiful 
 residence. 
 
 " I have no doubt your house is very artis- 
 tic," she said, still regarding me with that air 
 of quiet, discriminating contemplation. 
 
 " Well, I think it is rather nice," I said in- 
 genuously. " My husband naturally expresses 
 his temperament and tastes, particularly in his 
 immediate surroundings."
 
 CHAP. X [ 9O ] 
 
 She interrupted me with a question as to the 
 location of our house, as if my remark were 
 something irrelevant. We talked on smoothly 
 for a few minutes, until suddenly she asked 
 with startling directness, " Mr. Lloyd is doing 
 very well in his profession, is he not? " 
 
 To my relief at that moment I saw that Ross 
 Kimball was obviously making his way in our 
 direction. I began to have a certain dread 
 of this particularly pointed method of Miss 
 Kirke's conversation, although I believed that 
 I should not dislike her. But Mr. Kimball was 
 much more to the purpose on this occasion with- 
 out doubt. He had glanced at me several times, 
 I knew perfectly, during the evening, without 
 fully recognizing me. He was looking younger 
 and more brilliantly handsome than I had seen 
 him before. Full dress suited him notably. 
 
 I replied with cordial, even enthusiastic as- 
 sent to Miss Kirke's question, gave her a little 
 terminating, apologetic word as I rose, set my 
 sherbet glass on a table behind me, gathered my 
 long gloves and black ostrich-feather fan in my
 
 [ 91 ] CHAP. X 
 
 hand and turned just at the right moment to 
 receive Ross Kimball with the proper little ac- 
 cent of surprise. He greeted me as if we were 
 particularly good friends who had parted but a 
 day before, remarking when we had shaken 
 hands that gloves were of all eccentricities of 
 the toilet the most inelegant, and quietly re- 
 moving his own. He gave me his arm then and 
 we walked on through the rooms and galleries 
 in the direction of the ballroom, he bending his 
 head at a most admirable angle to listen to my 
 remarks, and tingeing all that he said himself 
 with delicate implied compliment. Again, as 
 on the evening when he came to my house, his 
 presence sent a strange sensation like a mild 
 electric current through all my nerves. He re- 
 called with something almost approaching sen- 
 timent as we walked on, that stormy evening 
 when he had sat with me by my fireside, at my 
 tea-table, " so exquisitely appointed, and even 
 more exquisitely served." 
 
 He said, laughingly, that a woman with my 
 coloring ought always to be seen just coming in
 
 CHAP. X [ 92 ] 
 
 from a furious storm unless it were possible to 
 see her in evening dress. He made me know 
 that he knew a fine woman when he saw her, and 
 that I was at the moment marvelously to his 
 taste. Still, his flattery was refined and for- 
 bearing and did not offend. Bather, it came 
 with healing effect to the deep and always ach- 
 ing wound my pride had received in his rejec- 
 tion of Irving's work and in his failure to follow 
 up in any wise the acquaintance with myself, 
 an event which I had secretly but confidently 
 anticipated. I had then, after all, made some 
 slight impression. 
 
 We had approached the ballroom, without 
 explicit purpose or intention, drawn by the gen- 
 eral movement in that direction and by the very 
 beautiful music ; we now reached a broad land- 
 ing from which half a dozen shallow steps, 
 richly carpeted, led down to its wide-open doors. 
 We paused then, looking into the brilliant, mov- 
 ing scene below. Behind us were several deep 
 window-niches with cushioned seats. My com- 
 panion led me to one of these. " See," he said,
 
 [ 93 ] CHAP. X 
 
 "we can watch the dancing from here as well 
 and at the same time not miss the chance I have 
 so long wanted for a little conversation." 
 
 I looked up to find his eyes resting upon my 
 face, alight with a strange, cold ardor which 
 confused me and yet gave me a sense of keen 
 exultation. 
 
 "I want to talk with you about your hus- 
 band's work," he began again. I grew cold at 
 the words, and my heart sank with nameless 
 pain. He was going to tell me wherein Irving 
 had failed three years ago in those wretched 
 depot plans ; he was eager to justify himself at 
 my husband's expense. Not a difficult thing to 
 do I knew perfectly, all the same he should learn 
 that a wife does not discuss her husband's fail- 
 ings with a stranger. I lifted my eyes and head 
 with instant honest resistance, and met a fixed 
 ironical scrutiny in Ross Kimball's eyes. 
 
 "I hear," he continued gently, "that Mr. 
 Lloyd has been doing such extremely clever 
 work lately." With this my cheeks tingled and, 
 I knew, flushed deeply. " I can not tell you now
 
 CHAP. X [ 94 J 
 
 in how many different ways it has come to me. 
 
 That school building in R , you know, and 
 
 Mr. Sartorius's house are capital work, and 
 they are bringing Mr. Lloyd very generally into 
 notice, as you probably are aware." 
 
 I knew perfectly that he overstated the 
 case, and yet my whole self, body and mind, 
 thrilled with grateful surprise and a secret 
 curious mingling of pain and pleasure in the 
 knowledge that many features in the work he 
 praised were my own, not Irving's. "What would 
 come next? Something in Boss Kimball's tone 
 warned me that the climax was not yet reached 
 in this notable interview. 
 
 "Yes, I am keeping an eye on your hus- 
 band," he said after I had expressed my pleas- 
 ure as well as I could ; " possibly you have 
 heard that I am building myself at N ." 
 
 I had indeed. All our world was discussing 
 the fact of Ross Kimball's purchase of a mag- 
 nificent site in the next suburb to our own and 
 his erection of the usual American millionaire's 
 palace. It had been one of my secret sores that
 
 [ 95 ] CHAP. X 
 
 in this building scheme, in which a number of 
 architects must be employed, Irving had, of 
 course, no part or lot. Had he not already been 
 weighed in the balances and found wanting? 
 
 I looked down bewildered, dazzled with the 
 flaring up of flames from those old dead embers. 
 How strange to sit so close to this man that my 
 skirt brushed his foot, his breath my hair, to 
 feel him near, kind, companionable, apparently 
 on an equal footing, intimate almost, and to 
 know that in his hands, in his will, Irving and 
 I were lying like helpless clay which he could 
 in some sense mold or mar as he chose. A shiv- 
 ering dread came over me and I grew dizzy. 
 Just then my hand was taken in Eoss Kimball's 
 hand. 
 
 " Come," he said, rising, quite as if our con- 
 versation had been of a most indifferent sort, 
 " Auf Wiedersehen is irresistible." 
 
 Besting on his arm I passed down the broad, 
 softly carpeted steps as if I were in a dream, 
 entered the ballroom with its surge of lights, 
 sound, fragrance and color and in another mo-
 
 CHAP. X [ 96 ] 
 
 ment we were moving together in the harmony 
 of perfect rhythm and motion. 
 
 For a moment as his arm encircled my body, 
 my bare arm in its whiteness resting upon his 
 black sleeve, his eyes straying over my shoul- 
 ders, I seemed to myself to have slipped my 
 black satin sheath and to be whirling in some 
 shameless, unthinkable Walpurgis-night revel. 
 The hideous delusion passed swiftly, mysteri- 
 ously, as it came. I saw again, in my partner, 
 the courtly, correct man of the world, and in 
 myself the stainless young wife, clothed with 
 chastity in default of adequate raiment, as re- 
 quired by convention. 
 
 We danced again, and after that again and 
 all the other dancers watched us. All that Ross 
 Kimball did was of importance. When he took 
 me back to the reception-room and there left me 
 he said carelessly, 
 
 " And you must not forget to tell Mr. Lloyd 
 that I hope he will interest himself in that new 
 house of mine." 
 
 " I will try not to forget ! " I cried, flashing
 
 [ 97 ] CHAP. X 
 
 back at him with joyous daring my perception 
 that he knew perfectly the tremendous signifi- 
 cance to us of such a word from him. 
 
 I stood alone for a moment, seeing Irving 
 crossing to meet me. My heart pounded hard 
 against my side, and all my blood seemed on 
 fire; only my head was clear and cool. I felt 
 intuitively that the situation held elements of 
 danger, but the hope of swift achievement of 
 name and power for my husband was high, and 
 worth running risks for, since I firmly believed 
 in myself. Yes, I dared to play the game. 
 
 The passion of love I had come to regard as 
 a distemper which I might reasonably hope to 
 escape, having escaped it, alas ! thus far in my 
 life.
 
 XI 
 
 IRVING was retained as an architect on the 
 Eoss Kimball residence without further effort 
 or ceremony. 
 
 The part assigned him in the building ope- 
 rations was the working out of the interior 
 finish and decoration of the great west wing, 
 which for various reasons had been thus far left 
 unaccomplished. In this wing Mr. Kimball was 
 to have a large and lofty music-room, ap- 
 proached through a suite of smaller apart- 
 ments, while the wing was to terminate in a 
 massive battlemented octagonal tower. The 
 lower floor of this tower would consist entirely 
 of the owner's private library, while the upper 
 part, a smaller octagonal chamber over the li- 
 brary enclosed by a wide corridor, would be 
 left unfinished. This tower room would be used, 
 temporarily at least, as a storeroom for the re-
 
 [ 99 ] CHAP. XI 
 
 ception of cases of books, paintings and other 
 importations which Mr. Kimball was continu- 
 ally receiving from Europe and the East. Mr. 
 Owen was even then abroad, collecting for his 
 friend. 
 
 Irving had nothing to consider, at least for 
 the time, regarding the upper part of the tower. 
 His attention was to be given exclusively to the 
 library below, to the music-room and the suite 
 of small rooms adjoining, their walls, windows, 
 wainscots, floors, decorations, even their fur- 
 nishing. His plans were all subject to the ad- 
 vice and approval of the chief architect, Mr. 
 Hook. Upon him it became necessary, first of 
 all, to make a satisfactory impression as to 
 Irving's capacity to carry out so important an 
 undertaking. 
 
 This time my husband did not work alone, 
 and, hard as he worked, I worked harder yet. 
 There must be no such word as fail. Together 
 or separately we visited the show places of the 
 country, north and south, and all the great im- 
 porting and designing establishments. But this
 
 CHAP. XI [ 1OO ] 
 
 was simply preliminary. The real work for me 
 consisted in fairly steeping myself in primitive 
 and classic art, in orientalism and medievalism, 
 in the development of design and decoration, 
 wood-carving, leather-working; in knowing 
 stained and painted glass historically and tech- 
 nically, in mastering the whole range of symbolic 
 ornament. Oh how I worked, and how I loved it ! 
 Never could work have been better suited to the 
 worker. At last I seemed to find that which I 
 was fitted to do. All my inheritance of artistic 
 temperament had now free play. Then my 
 imagination and fancy suddenly sprang into 
 energy. From studying and amassing detail 
 at one certain time I awoke to the perception 
 that I could coordinate, could combine, could 
 even create. I was sitting that June morning 
 in the Public Library at a table heaped high 
 with books. The intellectual passion of that 
 moment of illumination I can never forget. 
 Laden with books and papers I walked straight 
 out of the library and down Boylston Street to 
 Irving's office. I found him alone at his desk
 
 [ 1O1 ] CHAP. XI 
 
 bending laboriously over the ground plan of 
 the Kimball house. 
 
 " Look here, Irving," I cried, " I have some- 
 thing to show you, something to give you ! Here 
 is our keynote for the whole mural decoration 
 of the west wing. It is a discovery. You will 
 see I am right. We shall modify, and improve 
 and correct, but the motif is here to be elab- 
 orated and it means success. Oh, Irving, I can 
 not be mistaken ! " 
 
 Then I sat down beside him at the desk and 
 sketched out my notion rapidly but with a sure 
 touch. 
 
 The work before us lay essentially in three 
 divisions. First as one left the central part of 
 the house came the two reception or conversa- 
 tion rooms, opening from a central hall ; second, 
 the music-room ; and, approached from that by 
 a vestibule, the great octagon library. In my 
 conception we had here a logical sequence, per- 
 fectly simple and natural; first, speech, then 
 music, lastly silence the silence of brooding 
 thought, the climax and the matrix also of both
 
 CHAP. XI [ 102 ] 
 
 the others. By another interpretation the gra- 
 dation, of thought might be described as the so- 
 cial gaiety of the Child, the poetic glory and 
 rapture of the Youth, the intellectual power and 
 mastery of the Mature Man. The beginning I 
 would have oriental vivid, brilliant, full of 
 warmth and color. The music-room I would 
 make pure Greek and fill it with esthetic joy and 
 harmony. Its walls should show in painting, 
 and also if possible in tapestry, the story of 
 Orpheus ; Apollo and Daphne ; Euterpe, Terpsi- 
 chore, Echo and Narcissus, singing dryads and 
 piping fauns. The vestibule, by which the li- 
 brary was approached, should give the note of 
 Greco-Egyptian art, as of Alexandria, in me- 
 dallions of the Ptolemies, while figures of Pom- 
 pey, Cleopatra, Caesar and Mark Antony should 
 suggest the Roman. The library itself should 
 be pure Egyptian, massive, grave, profoundly 
 intellectual in significance and symbol. Such 
 was my thought in its first inception. 
 
 For an hour I met objections. Irving al- 
 ways saw these predominant in every unfa-
 
 [ 1O3 ] CHAP. XI 
 
 miliar thing. His mind moved slowly, cau- 
 tiously, painfully even to its conclusions. My 
 joyous, triumphant excitement cooled rapidly. 
 I remained outwardly patient but inwardly I 
 was consumed with weariness and disappoint- 
 ment. It was all perfectly reasonable, inevi- 
 table as I can see more clearly now. Irving had 
 not been traveling the path by which I had 
 dashed to my discovery: he was at this time 
 absorbed in conscientiously mastering neces- 
 sary details of material and measurement. He 
 was not ready yet for this phase of the thing. 
 It was premature. I had outrun his thought. 
 He would try to meet me ; but it must be done by 
 gradual approach and careful process. His 
 mind could not leap instantly to the perception 
 of what I had done. But what I longed for then 
 was somebody who could leap to that percep- 
 tion, somebody who could exult with me in the 
 beauty and the satisfaction of the artistic in- 
 stinct which I had found. 
 
 At the end of an hour Irving leaned back in 
 his chair, and said with forbearing kindness,
 
 CHAP. XI [ 1O4 ] 
 
 " I can see that it might be really very good, 
 Sidney. You are certainly the cleverest girl! 
 How proud We shall be by-and-by when this is 
 all worked out 1 " 
 
 I rose then, gathered up my papers and went 
 to the office door. I felt my lips quiver and did 
 not try to speak. Irving had already drawn his 
 own plan back to position. 
 
 " Good-by, dearest,'* he said, not turning his 
 head ; " don't wait dinner for me to-night, I shall 
 be very late." 
 
 I came slowly down three flights of stairs to 
 avoid facing the elevator boy and to gain time 
 to win back a street countenance. When I 
 reached the street door I saw at once, across the 
 narrow sidewalk, a shining trap, with a pair of 
 blooded horses which I knew as Boss Kimball's. 
 Mr. Kimball himself then suddenly appeared ; I 
 did not see from where he came. He held out 
 his hand as if he had been watching for me and 
 looked at me with a sudden change of expres- 
 sion. 
 
 " Good morning," he said quickly, hastening
 
 [ 1O5 ] CHAP. XI 
 
 on ; then, " Come, I am sure you are tired or not 
 well. You look quite out of spirits. You need 
 a good breath of fresh air* I will take you out 
 to C and safe home." 
 
 Without waiting for me either to decline or 
 consent he immediately assisted me to a place 
 in the trap, took the seat by my side and before 
 I quite realized what had happened we were 
 spinning away at a great pace over a smooth 
 pavement. I found it vastly more stimulating 
 than the transit I had anticipated in the electric 
 car. Nothing was said until the bridge was 
 crossed. At first I am sure I could not have 
 spoken, for I had the big sob in my throat which 
 a child has when some one has hurt it and some 
 one else has been pitiful to it. Tears were near 
 the brim. 
 
 " This is better," Ross Kimball said, at last. 
 " You are getting back your color and begin to 
 look like yourself. What are you doing in these 
 days that you get so tired over? What makes 
 you stay such long hours in the library and 
 carry around with you loads of books which
 
 CHAP. XI [ 1O6 ] 
 
 ought to be borne behind you by a slave ! What- 
 ever it is I object to it! " 
 
 At this I laughed, nervously, consciously, at 
 first, and then, catching the element of pure com- 
 edy in the situation, merrily and naturally. My 
 face relaxed, I dashed off a tear or two unseen, 
 and a strong reaction of spirit came upon me. 
 In the bottom of my heart still lay the new sense 
 of joy and power which the morning's experi- 
 ence had founded there. Irving might have no 
 more perception of what I had done than that 
 wooden Indian at the tobacconist's door we were 
 just passing. But I knew I had done a good 
 thing, and I exulted in the power to do it. And 
 all unknown to him it was for this man beside 
 me I had done it, this man with the subtle beauty 
 of his face, the caressing irony in his eyes, the 
 quiet command in his ways, the man who also 
 had power and had won it himself! And he 
 watched all my motions, it seemed, and was 
 strangely acquainted with my ways. What did 
 this signify? How long we drove I do not know. 
 I think it was for hours. I knew that throughout
 
 [ 107 ] CHAP. XI 
 
 the time I was lifted altogether out of myself; 
 all my perceptions seemed strangely quickened, 
 I was bold in retort, witty in repartee, gay, au- 
 dacious yes, I was and I knew it, fascinating 
 to my very finger-tips to the man beside me. I 
 was willing to be. It was for Irving' s interest 
 that I should be, quite as much as for my own. 
 There was need enough, I told myself with an 
 involuntary curl of my lip, that one of us should 
 wake up and do something. 
 
 We drove out to the new house and stopped 
 before it for a few moments while Ross Kim- 
 ball pointed out to me the general plan. In the 
 central portion would be, besides the usual 
 rooms, the great picture and organ gallery; in 
 the east wing, he said, Mrs. Kimball would have 
 her private suite of apartments. I had never 
 heard him mention his wife before. She was 
 seldom seen, little known; but said to be exclu- 
 sive, well born and bred and an invalid. As 
 we returned homeward we passed Dr. Kirke's 
 residence and I bowed to Miss Kirke who was 
 entering the gate at the time. Ross Kimball un-
 
 CHAP. XI [ 108 ] 
 
 covered and bent forward in respectful saluta- 
 tion. 
 
 " She must be very clever," I said, " and so 
 very good." 
 
 " By Jove ! " lie cried, " she has got to be. 
 When a woman is as homely as that all she can 
 do to atone is to be both clever and good. A 
 pretty woman need not be either unless she has 
 a fancy for it. But when you find a woman who 
 has all three beauty, wit and goodness and 
 enchantment thrown in " He broke off there. 
 
 " Yes, when you do," I said carelessly ; " but 
 that happens hardly ever I should think." 
 
 " Hardly ever, indeed," he said, then added 
 under his breath, "but when it does, Heaven 
 help a man ! " 
 
 I knew his eyes were resting fully upon my 
 face. To keep my own downcast was to look 
 absurd and self-conscious. I glanced up care- 
 lessly. I was surprised at the look of profound 
 gravity, of concentration, on his face. It was 
 wholly destitute of flattery or complaisance. 
 Usually in my presence Mr. KimbalPs range of
 
 [ 1O9 ] CHAP. XI 
 
 expression, though varied, was, with rare ex- 
 ceptions, of a superficial, conventional order. 
 The look I now saw I had never seen before. It 
 impressed me, not as the look of the society 
 man, but as that of the general, the great finan- 
 cier, the man who does things. There was power 
 of some sort in it, power and mastery. The man 
 was formidable, this I felt through and through. 
 
 A few days later I received a visit from 
 Sarah Kirke, who had, it seemed, made up her 
 mind, unlike her brother, that I was not to be 
 ignored. I appreciated the honor shown me in 
 this visit from a woman so eminent and so 
 closely occupied. I found her one of those per- 
 sons who grow attractive as one grows familiar 
 with their characteristics. On this occasion her 
 face seemed to me full of expressive energy and 
 even of a sort of charm. She talked exceedingly 
 well and everything she said showed a peculiar 
 large-mindedness as well as kindliness. When 
 she rose to leave she took my hand and said, 
 
 "You are very young and you have lost 
 your mother. May I venture to say a word to
 
 CHAP. XI [ 11O ] 
 
 you which you are clever enough not to exag- 
 gerate or misunderstand? " 
 
 "Indeed," I replied, "I should be most 
 grateful, Miss Kirke." 
 
 " Do not accept many favors or attentions 
 from Mr. Ross Kimball. So far as I have ever 
 heard or wish to hear he is as virtuous as An- 
 thony the Eremite, and it may be as severely 
 tempted, but he is a man of the world and enor- 
 mously rich. This means that he expects to 
 command what he desires. I read his face that 
 night when I was beside you at the reception 
 better than you could, perhaps. That is all," 
 and she said good-by and left without waiting 
 for me to explain or promise or proceed further 
 with the subject. 
 
 I was sorry not to be able to tell her that 
 whatever attention I received from the great 
 financier was purely in my husband's interests, 
 and, in fact, a business measure. 
 
 During the month which followed I drove 
 frequently with Boss Kimball.
 
 XII 
 
 IT was not far into September, late one 
 afternoon, that Dr. Kirke brought Irving home 
 in his carriage, and told me that he must be put 
 to bed and looked after. 
 
 " It is a very slight feverish attack," he ex- 
 plained, " a matter of a week at most I hope. I 
 advise you to have a nurse, however." 
 
 It was arranged between us that he should 
 send a nurse to the house during the evening 
 and with that he hurried off. 
 
 "I am the lucky dog," said Irving, turning 
 the piteous eyes of a man in a chill up to me, 
 with a pale smile, " to have Kirke look after me 
 when I have nothing the matter with me worth 
 bothering an apothecary about. Short of ap- 
 pendicitis or a compound fracture I should 
 never have dared invoke aid so august as his."
 
 CHAP. XII [ 
 
 "How did it happen?" I asked, bending 
 over to bathe his temples. 
 
 " He came upon me at Taylor's, and saw I 
 was a little off and bore me home in his chariot. 
 I know you can't stand him, Sidney, but do treat 
 him decently for my sake. He's a mighty good 
 friend to have, I tell you ; never lets me pay him 
 a cent, you know." 
 
 " I will be angelic to him if he will take care 
 of you, love," I said, " you may be sure of that. 
 You need me though, and rest, more than doc- 
 tors and nurses. You are all tired out, Irving. 
 How hard my poor boy has worked ! " 
 
 "Just a little tired, Sidney," he murmured 
 drowsily, and straightway fell asleep. 
 
 It was but two days before that Irving had 
 submitted the first tentative sketches of a 
 scheme for his part in the Ross Kimball resi- 
 dence to Mr. Hook for his consideration and 
 criticism. We both felt that a keen crisis was 
 on and the strain of suspense was great for both 
 of us. Irving had in good time accepted cor- 
 dially my general conception for the mural
 
 [ 113 ] CHAP. XII 
 
 decoration of the reception and music rooms 
 and library and it had been sketched out and 
 incorporated among the other drawings and 
 specifications with the request that if tapestries 
 were decided upon, Mr. Kingman Knox should 
 at once be engaged to produce the suggested 
 cartoons. I carefully avoided now all reference 
 to these matters, but they were inevitably fore- 
 most in our thoughts, and I plainly saw as the 
 days passed how much Irving's restlessness 
 and general malaise were increased by this sus- 
 pense. 
 
 The nurse, Miss Webster, proved to be a 
 sensible, satisfactory young woman who re- 
 lieved Irving's physical discomforts immensely 
 with her strong, steady tending. Dr. Kirke came 
 every day and stayed sometimes ten or fifteen 
 minutes with Irving, always imparting to him 
 fresh vigor as well as repose. I sometimes saw 
 him myself, but oftener not. He gave his very 
 simple directions to the nurse and had plainly 
 no time or taste for chatter or for private disr 
 cussion of his patient. The house door was al- 
 
 8
 
 CHAP. XII [ 114 ] 
 
 ways left ready for him to open without stop- 
 ping to ring and he would often run upstairs, 
 see Irving and be off again before I knew of his 
 presence in the house. He had a singularly 
 light and rapid .step for a man so bulky and un- 
 elastic. His care of Irving gave me a sense of 
 absolute rest and assurance, and I ceased to dis- 
 like him actively. He now seemed to me like 
 some silent, but potent natural force which it 
 was good to have on one's side important, but 
 to me, impersonal. 
 
 Nearly a week had passed thus when having 
 heard Dr. Kirke go out unusually early in the 
 morning I went to the library window and 
 watched him as he entered his brougham with a 
 quick word to the coachman and drov6 off. Ir- 
 ving was so much brighter that morning that I 
 did not regret especially having no chance to 
 ask the Doctor how he found him. Before I 
 turned from the window I saw the postman 
 coming and ran to the door to take the letters. 
 I glanced over them with the feverish haste now 
 habitual to me, for any word or sign to show
 
 [ 115 ] CHAP. XII 
 
 how our plans had been received. My eye at 
 once caught a pale-blue envelope addressed in 
 typewriting to Irving. I saw my fingers trem- 
 ble as they tore the envelope open, for I had a 
 sense that this must be the word that I was 
 watching for. The letter was signed by a name 
 unknown to me and consisted of but four lines, 
 which said : Mr. G. Ross Kimball had instructed 
 the writer (plainly his private treasurer or sec- 
 retary) to remit the enclosed check to Mr. Lloyd 
 as an initial fee for plans and drawings recently 
 submitted to Mr. Hook. 
 
 My heart throbbed wildly with excitement. 
 I longed for more than this cold, business state- 
 ment, however. This might mean only that Mr. 
 Kimball recognized that Irving had tried his 
 best, but the best not being good enough he 
 would pay him off and get rid of him as easily 
 as possible. I went slowly into the library and 
 sat down by the very scanty open fire; wood 
 was too expensive to burn freely for my comfort 
 alone at that early hour. Then it occurred to 
 me to look at the check. To my incredulous
 
 CHAP. XII [ 116 ] 
 
 amazement it seemed to have been drawn to the 
 amount of five thousand dollars. Of course it 
 was one cipher too much, added accidentally! 
 No, I found it again plainly written out ; it was 
 uniformly five thousand. " Great Heavens ! " I 
 cried aloud, " what a miracle ! what a fortune ! 
 I helieve I will put on another stick of wood to 
 celebrate," for I was shaking, not with cold, but 
 with excitement. This, then, was the way rail- 
 road kings did business ! 
 
 I started to run up-stairs and tell Irving the 
 wonderful news, but recalled the fact that the 
 nurse was giving him his alcohol bath now, 
 which must not be interrupted. I stood at the 
 foot of the stairs, my brain whirling, letter and 
 check crushed hard in my hand. I caught my 
 reflection in the oval mirror and saw that my 
 eyes were dancing with wonder and triumph, 
 then scanned the wall beside the mirror with the 
 sudden practical calculation that I could now 
 afford to have that faded paper taken off, and 
 perhaps even have the costly decoration I had 
 so long desired in its place, and then the door- 
 bell rang.
 
 [ 117 ] CHAP. XII 
 
 I thrust the letter and check into my pocket, 
 crossed the hall and opened the door. Boss 
 Kimball himself stood there. 
 
 " Mr. Lloyd is better," he said, the good- 
 mornings over ; " I know that from your face. 
 I have come to take you out for an hour. The 
 morning is glorious, perfect summer still and 
 you haven't been out, I'll venture to say, in a 
 week. Come, don't stop for anything but your 
 jacket and hat. I'll wait for you in the cart," 
 and with the words he ran down the steps. 
 There was nothing to do but obey him, and in- 
 deed no reason why I should not. Irving could 
 not see me, were I at home, for an hour, and I 
 longed to carry my excitement out into the air 
 and see how the world looked to such a new- 
 born capitalist as I felt myself. 
 
 The footman had held the reins while Mr. 
 Kimball had stood at the door, I remembered, 
 but when I went out to the cart he was no longer 
 there. For the first time we were to have a 
 solitary drive then. Had it all been planned 
 the reception of the check at this hour, and this
 
 CHAP. XII [ 118 ] 
 
 so soon to follow? I was beginning to learn 
 that there were no accidents with Boss Kimball. 
 Everything was the product of fine calculation 
 and strategic forethought. But what did it mat- 
 ter? Irving was better; the morning was ex- 
 quisite with luminous light and mist and the air 
 filled with the sweet pungent smell of falling 
 leaves ; the superb horse, in his shining harness, 
 was fairly quivering with spirit and life; the 
 cart was the perfection of ease and fashionable 
 elegance; the man who held the reins could 
 manipulate world-wide interests no less easily, 
 and in my pocket was my fortune, Irving' s and 
 mine, which I had helped to win. Great ele- 
 ments for my delight, taken altogether, and I 
 drank the draught with a will and found it de- 
 licious. I vaguely hoped, however, that I might 
 not meet any of Irving's friends or my own, and 
 somewhere down out of sight within me was one 
 fixed condition: I would drink the draught but 
 never should it intoxicate. 
 
 " I can only drive for half an hour," I said. 
 
 "Very well," Mr. Kimball returned care-
 
 [ 119 ] CHAP. XII 
 
 lessly. "You look like some Greek goddess, 
 Mrs. Lloyd, masquerading as a college boy, in 
 that cap and coat." 
 
 " What has that to do with it? You are not 
 in a logical vein this morning." 
 
 " No, why should I be 1 ? What is your vein, 
 I should be pleased to ask? There is enough 
 electricity about you this morning to illuminate 
 all Boston." 
 
 " I am delirious," I said under my breath. 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 I was about to say "You know," but I 
 could not for some reason come so near the 
 great event in words. I glanced up into his 
 face and found his half -quizzical smile resting 
 upon me like a caress. The blood rushed into 
 my cheeks and stung them. 
 
 " I have reason to believe that I am the best 
 pleased man in the State this morning," he said 
 quietly, overriding the little access of conscious- 
 ness between us in time, as he always knew how 
 to do. " Mr. Hook has been showing me some 
 plans and drawings and so forth for my west
 
 CHAP. XII [ 13O ] 
 
 wing which strike me, as they do him, as some- 
 thing singularly fine." 
 
 Then I looked up unabashed. Dr. Kirke's 
 brougham passed us at the moment, but I was 
 sure I did not care. 
 
 tl Yes/' said Mr. Kimball, with a nod and a 
 little smile at my eager face, " I must ask you 
 to congratulate Mr. Lloyd on his exceedingly 
 clever work. Mr. Hook is enthusiastic, which is 
 an event, as you know. More than that, he is 
 positively envious, and will probably set to 
 work how to undermine your husband's influ- 
 ence with me." 
 
 " How lovely 1 " and we both laughed. 
 
 "Yes, Hook says there is something more 
 than ability in that work. There is a touch of 
 genius extremely subtle and delicate in the 
 scheme of decoration for the walls for in- 
 stance/' 
 
 At that sudden tears of acute feeling pricked 
 my eyes. There was a moment of silence. 
 
 " How much of it is your work? " Eoss Kim- 
 ball asked then coolly.
 
 ] CHAP. XII 
 
 " A little." 
 
 " Don't lie about it, please. It is unneces- 
 , sary. Do you think I can not see where plod- 
 ding stops and flight begins! Do you think I 
 fail to understand who my architect is? She 
 suits me very well, for I have not often been 
 able to employ genius j I have decided to retain 
 her." 
 
 At this I turned severe, although inwardly 
 aflame, and began to delineate Irving's especial 
 excellencies in his profession. Mr. Kimball lis- 
 tened with great courtesy and this line of con- 
 versation lasted until we reached home. Just 
 as he drew up before the house he said, 
 
 " Mr. Knox has agreed to work out the four 
 cartoons for the tapestries, those Greek sub- 
 jects, at once. Hook will send them over to 
 France to the tapestry works as soon as they 
 are completed. We have cabled the order al- 
 ready." 
 
 " You mean for the panels not the bor- 
 ders?" 
 
 "Yes, they will put their people right to
 
 CHAP. XII [ 
 
 work on the borders from their own designs, 
 and we hope to get the panels and all complete 
 in the spring. It will be necessary for you to 
 go over then with Mr. Lloyd and me and see 
 about alterations and all that." 
 
 " For me f " He was helping me out of the 
 cart at the moment and my hand was in his as 
 I spoke. 
 
 "Certainly. Please tell Mr. Lloyd that I wish 
 he would, if possible, plan his work so as to get 
 off in March for six or eight weeks. I shall 
 need my architect over there, you can see for 
 yourself both of him ! Good morning." 
 
 I flew up-stairs without pausing to take 
 breath and listened a moment at Irving's door. 
 To my joy the nurse was not there and he was 
 lying on the sofa, partly dressed and looking 
 quite himself. 
 
 I ran and knelt at his side, brought out his 
 letter and check and placed them in his hand, 
 watched while his eyes flashed across both, and 
 then poured out all the praise which Boss Kim- 
 ball had given the work save that peculiarly my
 
 [ 123 ] CHAP. XII 
 
 own the trip to Paris in prospect and all my 
 joy and exultation. 
 
 Irving sat up with sudden vigor, and re- 
 sponded with undisguised relief and gratifica- 
 tion. For a moment we talked rapidly, eagerly, 
 with vivid elation. Then suddenly his color 
 changed to a bluish pallor, and he dropped back 
 on his pillows gasping for breath. 
 
 I called the nurse and we used all the means 
 at hand, but in spite of all he grew rigid, his 
 lips and finger-tips turned purple and his eyes 
 set. The nurse and I were both outwardly com- 
 posed, but I could see that she was frightened 
 and at the end of her resources. 
 
 " It is his heart," she said in a low voice to 
 me aside. I darted to the telephone in the hall, 
 noting that it was nearly one o'clock lunch 
 hour. I might hope then to catch Dr. Kirke at 
 home. He responded himself, and in five min- 
 utes, I am sure it was no more, he entered the 
 room where we were still working over Irving 
 in silent desperation. 
 
 I am sure I had never in my life been so glad
 
 CHAP. XII [ 124 ] 
 
 to see a human being. This man's presence 
 meant more than comfort or hope it meant 
 life. Nobody spoke, but a few things were in- 
 stantly done with a precision and a power which 
 seemed to make all that had been done before 
 clumsy and futile. In two minutes Irving' s eye- 
 lids fluttered and the terrible hue of his lips 
 showed a change. He moved his head, and evi- 
 dently perceived the Doctor as he bent over him. 
 In a paroxysm of tenderness I drew one poor, 
 limp hand into my bosom and covered it with 
 kisses and with tears. 
 
 After that everything went forward pros- 
 perously. In fifteen minutes the Doctor came 
 down-stairs, where I was waiting for him. I 
 was no longer careless as to his coming and 
 going. His dictum was more vital to me than 
 any other earthly thing. He strode through 
 my little hall and had reached the door before I 
 could intercept him. He stopped, the knob in 
 his hand, glanced at me and dropped his head 
 slightly forward an attitude common to him. 
 
 " Tell me, Dr. Kirke," I said urgently, my
 
 [ 135 ] CHAP. XII 
 
 voice trembling, "is it dangerous? Is it his 
 heart? Oh, what is it? " 
 
 He looked at me as if slightly surprised. 
 
 " You have no occasion to be alarmed," he 
 said briefly ; " syncope is very common at the 
 turn of fever. Perfect quiet is all that is nec- 
 essary. Still I wish your husband had a 
 stronger heart." 
 
 Then he bowed and the house door closed 
 upon him. 
 
 While waiting in the library I had deliberate- 
 ly made up my mind to explain to Dr. Kirke in 
 a few telling words the circumstances which had 
 led to my drive with Boss Kimball in the morn- 
 ing, since I felt that it needed explanation and 
 I was confident that he had observed it. At this 
 moment nothing could have seemed more irrele- 
 vant, more superfluous by reason of his abso- 
 lute lack of interest in me, my actions or my pur- 
 poses. 
 
 It was but a week after this that Irving was 
 able to return to his office, and a winter of ab- 
 sorbing activity, rich in promise, opened be- 
 fore us.
 
 XIII 
 
 THE following March we were in Paris, Ir- 
 ving and I, in company with Koss Kimball, who 
 had with him besides his private secretary, a 
 general utility man named Lit, a French Swiss 
 who spoke three languages perfectly. He acted 
 as courier, interpreter and confidential valet. 
 In Paris, Mr. Owen, the Rector of St. Christo- 
 pher's, had joined our party with his wife. 
 They had been abroad for some months, travel- 
 ing in the East as well as Europe, chiefly en- 
 gaged in collecting rugs, pictures, bronzes and 
 curios of many kinds for Mr. Kimball. 
 
 We had crossed on a French steamer, on 
 which Irving and I received our first initiation 
 into the life and habits of a " railroad king." 
 This was the favorite newspaper epithet for 
 Ross Kimball. 
 
 ,We enjoyed the attendance and luxury
 
 [ 127 ] CHAP. XIII 
 
 which cost us nothing with almost childish rel- 
 ish, and again in Paris we found it not at all a 
 slow or difficult process to become inured to 
 magnificence. Mr. Kimball rented a very beau- 
 tiful furnished villa near the Pare Monceau 
 with full quota of servants and well-filled sta- 
 bles. The perfection of service, the unstinted 
 but refined luxury, the exquisite taste of all the 
 material details of living which surrounded us 
 there, were to me a revelation, and our home life 
 as I looked back upon it with its homely econo- 
 mies and cares seemed crude and, bourgeois to 
 a degree, as it was intended it should. That is, 
 there were times when this was the case, and 
 other times when I felt as if enervated by such 
 boundless sense gratification, smothered by the 
 lavishness of delight, and I would long for a 
 tonic March blast of Boston weather, and a 
 chance to tie an apron round my waist and go 
 into my own little kitchen to " stir up a cake for 
 supper." 
 
 But instead of such a chance I had a box at 
 the Opera House every night, horses at my dis-
 
 CHAP. XIII [ 128 ] 
 
 posal at every hour, art and music in glorious 
 abundance and a chance to shop to my heart's 
 content. 
 
 Mr. Kimball having taken care that no wish 
 of the ladies of his party should be left ungrati- 
 fied, was seldom in our company through the 
 day. Alone I never saw him. We met him at 
 dinner, a ceremonious performance superbly 
 rendered, and afterward he occasionally accom- 
 panied us to the opera. But it was distinctly 
 evident that he had no mind to exact personal 
 response or attention from any of us as compen- 
 sation for his hospitality. He had many inter- 
 views and engagements with titled and official 
 personages whom we met rarely or not at all. 
 The provision for. his house decoration, which 
 now seemed to have sunk into a concern of 
 minor importance, he left indeed largely to Mr. 
 Owen and Irving. He was always gracious, un- 
 assuming, gratified at our enjoyment of the 
 pleasures he put in our way, and yet at this time 
 I found him more of the grand seigneur than 
 ever before. He was less approachable than in
 
 [ 129 ] CHAP. XIII 
 
 the easy, democratic conditions in which I had 
 hitherto known him, more exclusive, more im- 
 posing, more imperative. I have seen since how 
 infallibly this change added to his charm and to 
 his power over my imagination. His person 
 and presence and the taste which he displayed 
 in his whole establishment were greatly ad- 
 mired in Paris, where he was called " Le milord 
 Americain." 
 
 The last week in March was as warm as June 
 in Paris and the charming sunken garden of our 
 villa was already gay with spring flowers scat- 
 tered in a profusion like Botticelli's Spring 
 through the fresh and fragrant grass. 
 
 Mrs. Owen and I had remained in that Tues- 
 day morning to receive the American mail, 
 which was always heavy on that day, and now 
 it had come and we had gone out on the terrace 
 where deep wicker easy-chairs were placed. 
 We were engrossed in our letters when Mr. 
 Kimball himself came out from the house and 
 took a chair beside the low table on whose 
 gleaming damask cloth a servant had just 
 
 9
 
 CHAP. XIII [ ISO ] 
 
 placed iced wine and browned almond wafers. 
 We looked up and greeted him, unf eignedly sur- 
 prised to see him at this hour. He had brought 
 flowers to us both. Mine were hyacinths, which 
 he had told me always stood for me in his fancy. 
 Their fragrance had been, in my own house, the 
 first token and prophecy to him of my personal- 
 ity. Mrs. Owen poured a glass of wine for him 
 and as he sipped it slowly he said to her, 
 
 " That matter of Carlier you know? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mr. Kimball," she responded 
 with peculiar empressement and significance, I 
 thought. 
 
 " I think some one from there will call upon 
 you this morning perhaps. Would you be at 
 liberty? If not, they can come at another time." 
 
 "Indeed I am at liberty," she replied with 
 an enthusiastic emphasis which indicated that 
 the subject of their conversation aroused the 
 liveliest interest. 
 
 Feeling myself outside the conversation en- 
 tirely, knowing only that Carlier was the most 
 fashionable of Paris modistes, I returned to my
 
 [ 131 ] CHAP. XIII 
 
 letters and read on while they talked in some- 
 what lower voices. It was not long before a 
 servant approached with a card on a tray for 
 Mrs. Owen. She looked at it, and, throwing an 
 expressive glance at Mr. Kimball, rose, swept 
 him a courtesy with some grace of arch humility 
 and went into the house. I watched her as she 
 went, noting that the very way she carried her- 
 self indicated that something of peculiarly 
 pleasing importance was on hand. I let my let- 
 ters fall into my lap and held myself in my chair 
 in an attitude of courteous but slightly formal 
 attention, awaiting whatever my host might 
 have to say to me. As I glanced up I found him 
 watching me with the old ironical musing smile. 
 It was long since I had seen it. 
 
 " Well," he said abruptly, " I suppose you 
 will want a gown too." 
 
 " I do not understand, Mr. Kimball," I re- 
 plied with a shade of coldness. 
 
 " Oh then Mrs. Owen has not told you of my 
 little scheme?" 
 
 I shook my head.
 
 CHAP. XIII [ 133 ] 
 
 " It is simply that I have a fancy for having 
 my house-warming next October signalized by 
 two Carlier gowns. These to be kindly worn as 
 a favor to me by the ladies who have contributed 
 so much of their consideration and their taste to 
 my home in many other ways." 
 
 I bit my lip, half in doubt whether I was 
 elated or embarrassed. 
 
 " My rector's wife," Eoss Kimball went on 
 quietly, " has been so good as to allow me the 
 pleasure of making her this little gift, which is 
 abominably selfish, I admit, in its ulterior aim, 
 and I trust my architect my architect's wife 
 will be equally indulgent of my whim." 
 
 I leaned back in my chair with a luxurious 
 little sigh. 
 
 "What can one say?" I murmured under 
 my breath. 
 
 " Simply that you will make use of the carte- 
 blanche to your credit chez Carlier and have 
 yourself dressed for once to please me." 
 
 He looked at me as he said these words with 
 a curiously cold authority which yet seemed to
 
 [ 133 ] CHAP. XIII 
 
 cover a suddenly suppressed fire of passion. A 
 tremor ran through my body under his look and 
 tone. 
 
 " Do you wish me also to see this person 
 then, who is calling upon Mrs. Owen? " I asked 
 half timidly. 
 
 " To-morrow will do as well," was the care- 
 less answer. " You might stay where you are 
 now. It is the first time I have seen you since 
 we left the steamer, and I only spoke to you 
 three or four times, if I remember, on shipboard. 
 Let's go back to Boston." 
 
 I laughed at his absurdity of overstatement, 
 but he knew that I did not miss its significance. 
 Something in his tone made me vaguely uneasy, 
 but resistance or resentment had been fore- 
 stalled by his long aloofness and apparent in- 
 difference. We talked on until interrupted by 
 Mrs. Owen's return. 
 
 A few days afterward I visited the Carlier 
 establishment by appointment. Here, as al- 
 ways in Paris, I flatly refused to speak French, 
 which I understood perfectly but used atro-
 
 CHAP. XIII [ 134 ] 
 
 ciously, and an interpreter was called into requi- 
 sition. I was surprised to find that some un- 
 derstanding regarding my projected gown had 
 already been reached. Monsieur, that very very 
 superb Americain, had given certain orders. 
 He wished it of a fineness, oh bien extraordi- 
 naire, but simple, oh yes, yes, yes, quite of the 
 jeune fille order tout a fait different from that 
 robe-of-the-matron of Madame the friend of 
 Mademoiselle. 
 
 I listened to the patter, not deigning to ex- 
 plain that I was also a matron what odds did 
 it make? I confessed myself surprised that di- 
 rections had already been given without my 
 knowledge, but was glad the gown was to be ex- 
 tremely simple. This being repeated to the 
 modiste she gave the Frenchwoman's lift of 
 brow and shoulder. The directions were noth- 
 ing further than that Mademoiselle was to be 
 perfectly suited. How would a very modest 
 garniture of eglantine on the hem and corsage 
 answer? So chaste, so elegant, above all so 
 simple ! While I expressed acquiescence through
 
 [ 135 ] CHAP. XIII 
 
 the interpreter I heard the words spoken rap- 
 idly and low in French behind me, 
 
 " La favorite . . . de cet Milord Ameri- 
 cain, qui etait ici." 
 
 I felt my color change but I did not turn my 
 head. Two demure, respectful French girls in 
 black silk gowns came forward. One of them 
 carried a slip of white silk for me to try on. It 
 would be fitted and form the foundation of the 
 gown, which itself would not require fitting. It 
 could not be completed under a month. Mon- 
 sieur had said c'etait 'egal. It would be sent 
 quite safely and well packed in une tres grande 
 boite to Boston direct, as would also the robe 
 of Madame Owen. 
 
 All this explanation was given as I removed 
 my dress. The slip was then put on and skil- 
 fully fastened, a running fire of low-voiced ex- 
 clamation in French the while. What superb 
 lines ! A torso for a sculptor, n'est ce pas ? It 
 was not often one had the joy to work on such a 
 figure. Then the corsage was swiftly cut in a 
 curve around the shoulder line with scissors like
 
 CHAP. XIII [ 136 ] 
 
 a lancet for sharpness. I stood before a cheval- 
 glass. As the severed strip of silk rippled down 
 to the carpet I exclaimed with a frown that Ma- 
 dame had made the neck quite too low. I had 
 never worn a gown like that. The modiste noted 
 my frown and with lifted head listened to the 
 interpreter. She smiled indulgently and shook 
 her head. I heard her nrarnmr to her assistant 
 in French, rapidly, under breath, 
 
 " With a bust divine which it were a crime 
 to conceal, and yet a little prude ! " 
 
 To the interpreter she said with dignity that 
 the dress would be made to suit Mademoiselle 
 in every particular. I knew perfectly that in 
 this particular it would be made to suit Madame 
 Carlier and the prevailing mode, and came 
 away helpless and with some inner excitement. 
 
 The next day our sojourn in Paris was 
 drawing to a close we all went to visit the 
 tapestry manufactory and see the panels and 
 borders which had been ordered there for the 
 music-room in the west wing of Mr. Kimball's 
 new residence.
 
 [ 137 ] CHAP. XIII 
 
 On our arrival at the factory we were re- 
 ceived with marked and deferential courtesy 
 and put in charge of a very intelligent and gen- 
 tlemanly Frenchman. He first conducted us 
 through a number of workrooms where we saw 
 most admirable products of the low-warp looms, 
 and several pieces for our own order still in 
 process of making. At length we entered a 
 large, empty apartment and an attendant was 
 found in waiting, with several completed 
 squares of tapestry on the table before him 
 which he proceeded to throw over frames for 
 us to view. 
 
 Here at last I was able to catch a foreshad- 
 owing of the practical embodiment of this part 
 of my own initial conception. That conception 
 had, to be sure, been passed through the cruci- 
 bles of stronger and more skilful minds, refined, 
 balanced, elaborated, strengthened and yet the 
 origin, the root of it all, was in my own rapt and 
 eager thought. It was naturally with breath- 
 less interest that I followed the exhibition of 
 the panel sequences for the music-room, marvels
 
 CHAP. XIII [ 138 ] 
 
 of line and color, clear, light and limpid, or 
 steeped in lustrous gold. 
 
 From a chest behind him, the attendant, near 
 whom Mr. Kimball and I happened at the mo- 
 ment to be standing, presently drew into sight 
 a cluster of squares, not less than six feet in 
 size, lightly tacked together and wholly differ- 
 ent from those thus far shown. 
 
 " Ici est quelque chose tres elegant," he be- 
 gan with a dramatic smile and gesture which 
 called our attention to the series. " Monsieur 
 has not ordered these, but purchased them out- 
 right. They were designed for royalty." He 
 threw the upper panel open, face outward. I 
 caught a glimpse of a marvel of shining silken 
 whiteness, shot here and there with rose, when, 
 instantly, before I knew what I saw, the whole 
 set was caught from the man's hand, folded to- 
 gether and dashed down upon the table. 
 
 I looked around. The action, almost violent 
 in its imperative swiftness, came from Ross 
 Kimball, and with it the words in a quick, curt 
 undertone, in imperfect French,
 
 [ 139 ] CHAP. XIII 
 
 "What has that to do here? Obey orders, 
 if you please." 
 
 His face was slightly flushed and he gnawed 
 his under lip for a minute ominously. Plainly 
 he was furiously angry. The Frenchman began 
 to make profuse and incoherent apologies which 
 Mr. Kimball cut short by a peremptory word, 
 asking him to finish the business for which we 
 were there. Fairly trembling with terror, the 
 fellow thrust the condemned tapestry hastily 
 out of sight into the chest, and proceeded with 
 the display of those which had gone before, his 
 fluency and confidence markedly checked. 
 
 Half an hour later we came out of the fac- 
 tory, Irving and I together, talking eagerly of 
 the tapestries and the delight of seeing such 
 magnificent fulfilment of our own conceptions. 
 I asked him if he had observed Mr. Kimball's 
 strange interruption, his evident irritation. 
 Yes, he too had been puzzled and surprised. 
 
 " The panels seem to have been for the house 
 also. Do you not think so 1 " I asked. 
 
 " Why, evidently. At least I suppose so."
 
 CHAP. XIII [ 14O ] 
 
 "Did you catch a glimpse of the inner 
 side?" 
 
 " No, not at all ; I was looking at our own 
 things until I heard Mr. Kimball speak in that 
 unusual tone." 
 
 " Irving, they were the loveliest things I 
 ever saw that is, it seemed so to me in that one 
 flash. White like a pearl in the sun the ground 
 you see, and this -shower of soft pink blossoms ! 
 I was fairly aching to see more of them. Where 
 do you suppose he is going to use them? Prob- 
 ably in Mrs. KimbalPs apartments." 
 
 " I am sure I have no idea," my husband re- 
 plied indifferently ; " Mr. Kimball doesn't tell 
 me all he means to do." 
 
 The following day, the first of April, Mr. 
 Kimball left Paris for Mentone, taking Lit and 
 the secretary with him and we saw him no more. 
 He was to sail a few days later from Genoa. 
 We remained in the Paris villa a little longer 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Owen.
 
 xrv 
 
 IKVING and I reached London, I remember, on 
 May Day. The grim old walls were dashed with 
 patches of color by the marvelous opulence of 
 blossoms in all the parks and squares. The 
 gold lace of the laburnum fretted the blue sky 
 and the pink-tipped daisies dotted the green 
 grass, and gorgeous toilets gleamed between the 
 dark tree boles as the carriages rolled through 
 the gardens. It was May in Mayfair. 
 
 We went to the gray Guildhall for a loan ex- 
 hibition of paintings the second day. Leaving 
 Irving after a time to undisturbed contempla- 
 tion of Whistler's portrait of Carlyle, which 
 chanced to be among the paintings and which 
 hung in the large gallery, I moved on alone to 
 the smaller room. I had left the catalogue in 
 Irving's hand and had no particular objective,
 
 CHAP. XIV [ 143 ] 
 
 but my eyes were speedily drawn to a canvas 
 which magnetized me even from the distance by 
 its sumptuous color and the startling splendor 
 of its sole figure. Crossing quickly I saw before 
 me the first original Eossetti my eyes had ever 
 rested upon. Against a background consisting 
 in part of a dense mass of roses, was seated a 
 fair, large-limbed woman with pale golden hair, 
 whose filaments were slowly drawn out and held 
 upward by a comb in her right hand ; the brow 
 and eyes clear, haughty; the mouth sensuous, 
 . lovely yet cruel, the naked throat and shoulders 
 magnificent, the pose voluptuous. The mystical, 
 compelling enchantment of the thing the im- 
 pression of genius displayed in a surpassing de- 
 gree, almost took my breath, but left me troub- 
 led and perplexed. It was a study of " passion 
 without love, and languor without satiety! en- 
 ergy without heart ; beauty without tenderness." 
 What did it signify ! Who was this woman with 
 her irresistible sinister witchery? A moment 
 later I looked down at an inscription on the 
 frame and read the name "Lilith" and below
 
 [ 143 ] CHAP. XIV 
 
 the famous, though to me then unfamiliar, son- 
 net, 
 
 " And still she sits, young while the earth is old, 
 And, subtly of herself contemplative, 
 Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave, 
 Till heart and body and life are in its hold. 
 
 The rose and poppy are her flowers ; for where 
 
 Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent 
 And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare ? ' ' 
 
 Slowly as I read and looked there struggled 
 back to my recollection an hour in my girlhood 
 when all unconsciously I had assumed a pos- 
 ture, an action, it might even have chanced, an 
 expression, in some sort like that in the picture 
 before me. For an instant I was transported to 
 that July morning when my lover sat beside me 
 with adoring eyes and I felt the warm sun filter 
 through my hair. 
 
 "Lilith!" 
 
 That was the word once spoken by Dr. 
 Kirke which had roused Irving and me from 
 our love langour, our dreamy dalliance. How 
 often I had sought to make articulate the sound
 
 CHAP. XIV [ 144 ] 
 
 he had uttered. At last I knew what was in his 
 thought, for I was told beyond doubt or ques- 
 tion, by some mysterious inner witness, that 
 I had here met myself. Vague hints of the 
 old Doppleganger legend strayed through my 
 thought, and a chill ran over me. To meet one's 
 self, did not that mean death? 
 
 Only for an instant did the strange delusion 
 hold -me. Promptly I rejected it. How could I 
 fancy in myself the slightest similitude to the 
 superb beauty, the imperial sensuousness of 
 this creature, or to her cruel, unfathomable 
 charm? I, the commonplace, home-bred Amer- 
 ican girl, Irving's wife, dressed now in my mo- 
 dish Paris tailor-gown and walking-hat, neither 
 beautiful, brilliant, nor, at least I hoped, wicked. 
 What an idiotic, distorted trick of imagination ! 
 Dr. Kirke was responsible for it and it alto- 
 gether meant nothing but that when he saw me 
 first I was drying my hair and happened to have 
 a comb and a glass in my hand a la mermaiden. 
 I turned and left the picture impatiently, but it 
 drew me back again despite my will. An irre-
 
 [ 145 ] CHAP. XIV 
 
 sistible pang warned me that, all the outward 
 trappings to the contrary, I had met in this ter- 
 ribly beautiful conception one side of my own 
 nature powerfully symbolized. I experienced a 
 species of angry terror of the man who had di- 
 vined something of the coldly amorous egotist 
 in me at a glance. I went back into the large 
 room, missing Irving on the way, and sat down 
 before the Whistler to wait for him, a sudden 
 aching weariness coming over me. He ap- 
 peared after long waiting and asked if I were 
 ready to go home. I rose, and as we moved tow- 
 ard the door, he paused, looking over his shoul- 
 der into the inner room. 
 
 " Did you see the Rossetti? " he asked. I 
 nodded. 
 
 " Marvelous painting that, but rather mon- 
 strous, somehow. That man had a devil of an 
 imagination. It is the oddest thing, though, 
 Sidney, the Lady Lilith actually looks like you." 
 
 " Pleasing thought," I murmured and we 
 came out into the old court of the Guildhall. 
 
 The next day we went out to Warwick. In 
 10
 
 CHAP. XIV [ 146 ] 
 
 the strangers' book at the Castle Irving found 
 inscribed but a week earlier the names of Dr. 
 Kirke and his sister. He had not known of their 
 coming abroad this summer ; he wished we might 
 have the luck to meet them. This, however, was 
 unlikely. At Leamington we parted, Irving to 
 make a tour of a number of the great English 
 houses in Mr. KimbalPs interests, I to visit my 
 mother's sister in Herefordshire. Irving would 
 sail in two weeks from Glasgow; I was to re- 
 main as long as I cared to do so. 
 
 I enjoyed my quiet summer in my aunt's 
 beautiful country house in spite of two persist- 
 ent drawbacks. The rain fell almost contin- 
 ually and for the first time in my life almost I 
 was physically wretched, each day bringing me 
 some small wearisome unexplained suffering. 
 I refused the services of a physician and 
 dragged around, languid, pallid and yet not 
 really ill. Early in August I suddenly found that 
 I was very tired of tea and tarts and all things 
 English and decided to return to America on 
 the first Cunard steamer on which I could find
 
 [ 147 ] CHAP. XIV 
 
 accommodation. This proved to be the Lu- 
 cania, sailing the twenty-seventh, and I was de- 
 clared fortunate in being able to secure a, small 
 inside stateroom at a moderate price. I wrote 
 Irving at once of my sailing date and made 
 ready to depart. My aunt accompanied me to 
 Liverpool, where we spent the night of the 
 twenty-sixth at a hotel, parting there in the 
 morning, as it was inconvenient for her to go to 
 the steamer with me. In our last hour together 
 my aunt spoke with unwonted tenderness of my 
 mother. 
 
 " I wish she could have lived to see you as 
 1 the woman of thirty,' Sidney. I think she 
 never quite foresaw how fine a woman you 
 would be when you fully matured. You have a 
 noble physique, your lines are positively statu- 
 esque, and so is the pose of your head. You 
 dress as only the American woman who goes to 
 Paris ever can. Every one who has met you 
 speaks to me of an irresistible fascination in 
 your speech and manner. Men continually turn 
 to look at you as you pass them on the street.
 
 CHAP. XIV [ 148 ] 
 
 Certainly you have the indescribable something, 
 and altogether you are a success, but I do not 
 like to see you look so pale. I fancy, however, 
 the voyage will bring back your color and appe- 
 tite." 
 
 Soon after this she kissed me good-by, 
 promising to come to America in a year or two 
 for a long visit. 
 
 As I stepped on board the Lucania just be- 
 fore sailing time, my very correct leather bag 
 in my hand, I was met by the usual rush of 
 superattentive porters and cabin-boys, to one of 
 whom I gave my bag and mentioned the number 
 of my stateroom. We passed down the dark 
 close corridor into the very depths of the ship, 
 as it seemed to me, and when we came to the 
 small, stuffy, artificially lighted stateroom which 
 bore my number, 81, I was much surprised to 
 find the floor covered with hold-alls and can- 
 vas-wrapped bundles of the umistakable Eng- 
 lish variety. 
 
 Standing in the midst of these, adjusting a 
 very obvious " fringe " before the mirror, I saw
 
 [ 149 ] CHAP. XIV 
 
 a very dowdy and very dressy Englishwoman 
 with high cheek-bones and false complexion. I 
 stopped on the threshold, verified the number of 
 the room, and then, speaking to the cabin-boy, 
 but looking at the intruder, said with uncon- 
 cealed displeasure that I had reserved the whole 
 of this stateroom for myself. They had no right 
 to put another lady in it. There must be a mis- 
 take. Quite unmoved the Englishwoman fan- 
 cied that this might be true, but the mistake was 
 certainly not on her part. The purser himself 
 had given her her number. Decidedly nettled I 
 told the boy to call the purser and produced my 
 letter from the Cunard office assigning the 
 whole of stateroom 81 to my exclusive use. 
 
 " Would you come this way, Miss f " the boy 
 asked pleadingly, moving a few steps down the 
 corridor. " The purser is that busy just at this 
 time, you see, Miss, that he might keep you wait- 
 ing." 
 
 I followed the lad in some suppressed indig- 
 nation, and at the foot of the stairs he caught 
 the purser himself and gave him my grievance
 
 CHAP. XIV [ 150 ] 
 
 in a few words. The man's face at once under- 
 went a marked change of expression from that 
 of impatient annoyance to one of recognition, of 
 interest and even anxiety. He bowed to me with 
 profound civility. 
 
 " Is this Mrs. Lloyd then? " he half inquired, 
 half exclaimed. " Ah, now this is a mistake al- 
 together! I had a lad set off to watch for you 
 and make sure there was no trouble, but he has 
 missed you after all and I am very sorry. You 
 must pardon the trouble ; it is all confusion you 
 know, just now. It will be all right after this, 
 Madam. You will have no more reason to com- 
 plain. May I trouble you to follow me? You 
 will find everything ready for you and I think 
 you will be quite comfortable." 
 
 With this and a confident smile he sprang 
 up the stairs, I following him to the next deck, 
 my perplexity growing ever greater. Here he 
 led me to a stateroom, which I saw at once from 
 its location was one of the few cabins de luxe, 
 and opening the door ushered me into a large, 
 light room, its three portholes set wide to sun
 
 [ 151 ] CHAP. XIV 
 
 and air. It contained a broad brass bed, arm- 
 chairs and deeply cushioned sofa; a spacious 
 private bath, immaculate in shining white tub 
 and silver mounting opened beyond. Baskets 
 of roses, fresh and fragrant, stood on desk and 
 dressing-table; hampers of magnificent fruit 
 and others of enticing shape marked " Buzzard, 
 London," stood on the floor, as also a box of 
 books whose titles caught my eye in the first 
 moment. They were the newest, most desir- 
 able, most discussed of the season. What did it 
 all mean? Less than thirty seconds had shown 
 me these details. 
 
 " There is certainly a very great mistake 
 here," I said emphatically, drawing back from 
 the door. " This room is intended for some 
 other person." 
 
 " Not at all, Mrs. Lloyd, not at all, Madam," 
 replied the purser, rubbing his hands cheerfully, 
 although evidently in desperate haste to get 
 back to his duties. " It is all perfectly right as 
 you will find. Every package there, Madam, is 
 plainly addressed to yourself, as you will see,
 
 CHAP. XIV [ 152 ] 
 
 and the letters you will find on the desk will no 
 doubt explain it all." 
 
 " But why have I not been informed of the 
 change ? " I demanded, more disturbed as I 
 grew less mystified. 
 
 " It was the wish of the party in Boston, 
 Madam, who did the cabling, that you should 
 not be told until you reached the steamer. I 
 beg pardon if this is not just to your mind, but 
 I have to obey orders, and the orders were 
 straight. You can see for yourself," and pla- 
 cing a cablegram to the Cunard Company in my 
 hand, he hurried away with profuse apologies. 
 
 I went into the stateroom then, perforce, and 
 closed the door. The cablegram was signed by 
 Eoss Kimball's secretary. It ordered a cabin 
 de luxe on steamer Lucania reserved for Mrs. 
 Lloyd ; she not to be informed of the change un- 
 til sailing. I turned then to the desk and found 
 two letters; one from Irving, the other from 
 Ross Kimball. The former was a hasty, affec- 
 tionate note expressing his gratification at Mr. 
 KimbalFs generous provision for my comfort,
 
 [ 153 ] CHAP. XIV 
 
 and his joy at my speedy return ; the latter was 
 also short but demanded longer reading. I was 
 to forgive the liberty he was taking in changing 
 my quarters on the ship, but he simply could 
 not have me traveling like a grocer's wife. He 
 would not let them inform me of what he had 
 done in advance lest my wicked, wilful pride 
 should be up in arms and make him trouble. I 
 must appreciate the fact that I had rendered 
 him invaluable service and that I was traveling 
 in his interest and behoof. The least he could 
 do was to try to make my journey comfortable. 
 Besides, he was in excessively good humor after 
 having been given over to ill tempers ever since 
 he left Paris. He was ready to offer me a king's 
 ransom since I was really coming back to lift 
 life out of such hopeless mediocrity as it had 
 now assumed. The house was going on finely 
 and I would be delighted when I saw it, which 
 was not to be until the night of its opening for 
 the reception. The date was fixed for October 
 the second. 
 
 I rose, tossed both letters back upon the
 
 CHAP. XIV [ 154 ] 
 
 desk and bent over the great pink roses which 
 fairly covered it; they brought a faint reflec- 
 tion of the Eossetti to my mind. I then looked 
 about me and took in deliberately the details of 
 luxury and refined sense gratification with 
 which Mr. Kimball had surrounded me. I liked 
 them all and found them very good, most ac- 
 ceptable and welcome to the body of me; to 
 the spirit? That was a different thing and 
 I was far from sure. The danger of which I 
 had had intuition when I met and talked with 
 Ross Kimball at the Club reception last New 
 Year's eve, seemed subtly closing in around 
 me in all these finely drawn cords of care and 
 claiming. How could I ever release myself? 
 Where was it all to end? And yet the explana- 
 tion of his letter was simple and sufficient. It 
 ought to satisfy even the New England con- 
 science. Sarah Kirke herself could not gainsay 
 it. It was but the business method of the great 
 capitalist who, as he said of himself, did not 
 employ first-class service for second-class pay. 
 Yes, I would accept, with simple, unconscious
 
 [ 155 ] CHAP. XIV 
 
 gratitude, and enjoy it. Indeed, what else was 
 to be done? Obviously nothing, as the steamer 
 was full to the extreme limit of her capacity, 
 and was even then swinging from her moorings. 
 To ask my English friend in 81 to change cabins 
 with me seemed the only alternative. This idea 
 I found highly diverting and proceeded forth- 
 with to appropriate the room, a faint sense of 
 being myself appropriated being the sole draw- 
 back to my complete satisfaction. 
 
 When, a few moments later, I came out upon 
 the deck, the first person I saw was Sarah Kirke 
 in her long, deaconess-fashioned cloak and close 
 bonnet, standing by the rail, looking gravely 
 back at the receding shore.
 
 XV 
 
 THE Kirkes, I found, had been in Germany 
 through June and July. They came now from 
 Scotland, where they had spent a fortnight in a 
 very great house, that of a famous scientist, 
 consorting freely with persons of high rank and 
 distinction. They were, however, as unassum- 
 ing as ever and no handsomer. About them 
 there clung, as always, that flavor of a world 
 wholly different from my own. Sarah Kirke at 
 once opened the way for me to attach myself 
 as closely as I cared, to their party. At her 
 request her brother submissively obtained a 
 seat for me next to theirs at the Captain's table, 
 and our deck-chairs were placed side by side. 
 
 My occupancy of a cabin de luxe was never 
 commented upon by them so far as I remember. 
 Their staterooms were on the deck next below. 
 
 The Doctor was an accomplished traveler,
 
 [ 157 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 passionately, albeit quietly, fond of the sea, chiv- 
 alrously devoted to his sister, unapproachable 
 to other people, and to me as indifferent as I 
 had always found him. In my own mind, how- 
 ever, I felt that a change was near. Before din- 
 ner that first day out I had reached the point of 
 deliberately deciding to use the following six 
 days, which seemed fairly mine, to break down 
 this man's coldness. At the end of the voyage 
 he should stand in a less unflattering attitude 
 toward me, or we would frankly and finally de- 
 clare war. His indifference had become intol- 
 erable to me. This decision was the outcome 
 of several operating causes. First and most 
 obvious of these, my pride was keenly stung; 
 second, I wished to force Dr. Kirke mentally to 
 take back that cruel name with which he had once 
 characterized me; third, during Irving's illness 
 I had come to regard him with reluctant rever- 
 ence and with an unwilling admiration in which 
 awe had some place, and which made him seem 
 more worth my while to win than any man I 
 knew who remained unwon ; and last, there was
 
 CHAP. XV [ 158 ] 
 
 a very tangible if still uncertain cause for me to 
 wish to commend myself at this time to his care 
 and concern. 
 
 The question was, how to go about it? I 
 knew perfectly well that the usual weapons of 
 war would here be without effect. The second 
 day out I made a blunder so bald that I never 
 recall it without a sense of impatient mortifica- 
 tion at my own banality. I felt extremely ill on 
 rising, the headache, faintness and other dis- 
 comforts from which I had suffered through the 
 summer in England being increased by the mo- 
 tion of the ship, although not to the point of sea- 
 sickness. Instead of remaining in my room, 
 which was palpably the thing to do, I rang for 
 the stewardess, and with her help dressed in a 
 perfectly plain black velvet walking suit which 
 I had acquired in Paris, and with a small black 
 velvet toque pinned over my hair and my face 
 as white as a sheet of paper, I came out on deck 
 and turned in the direction of my deck-chair. 
 
 Dr. Kirke, it happened, was occupying his. 
 Sarah was not in evidence. These facts I had
 
 [ 159 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 accumulated through my porthole before I de- 
 cided to appear. The Doctor laid down his 
 book, a small and shabby leather-bound volume 
 and sprang up when he saw me coming sup- 
 ported by the stewardess, a support which I 
 found actually necessary. Gravely and as if 
 under orders he assisted me into my chair and 
 folded my rug about my limbs and feet. The 
 stewardess slipped a pillow behind my head and 
 then slipped away herself to send me up some 
 brandy and ice. I closed my eyes until I knew 
 she was gone and the Doctor had resumed his 
 chair; neither of us having thus far spoken a 
 word. For a moment I felt that his eyes were 
 upon my face, and I longed for second sight that 
 I might discern of what elements his glance was 
 composed. Probably it was two parts profes- 
 sional, one part perfunctory, a fourth part 
 disappointment at the interruption I had caused. 
 Presently I opened my eyes and noted Dr. 
 Kirke's hand, which lay along the arm of his 
 deck-chair near my side. I had noticed when 
 Irving was ill the characteristics of the Doctor's
 
 CHAP. XV [ 16O ] 
 
 hands. They were large rather than small, but 
 finely formed, the texture of the skin as fine as 
 a woman's; they were firm, yet sensitive, and 
 possessed in a curious degree the expression of 
 trained and tested power. Looking at this 
 strong left hand lying so close to my own, which 
 stretched pallid and nerveless on the rug before 
 me, I felt a sick longing to have that hand of 
 his take one of mine in its firm, invigorating 
 clasp. A kind of wistful " Give me of thy 
 strength, oh Fir-tree " appeal welled up within 
 me. I glanced up then at the Doctor. He was 
 reading, but he immediately lowered his book 
 and said courteously, but in a colorless tone, 
 
 "You are not feeling quite yourself, this 
 morning?" 
 
 In answer I volunteered in an undertone, 
 " It is not seasickness, however. That would be 
 simple. To tell the truth, Dr. Kirke, I am very 
 far from well, I fear. I have been really ill 
 much of the summer." 
 
 As I said this I noted anew how thin, wan 
 and weak my hands looked as they lay on the
 
 [ 161 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 deep velvety pile of my rug. The change in 
 them together with my desperate weakness sud- 
 denly touched me with a sense of pathos and 
 self pity and I felt my eyes grow dim. I rather 
 hoped Dr. Kirke would notice the fact, but, on 
 the contrary, he sat with one finger still mark- 
 ing the place in his book, his eyes fixed steadily 
 and musingly on a life-boat opposite. 
 
 " Why that is bad, very bad," he said frown- 
 ing a little. " A great pity, I am sure. I believe 
 you are in fairly good health at home usually, 
 are you not? Let me send the ship's surgeon to 
 you. He happens, oddly enough, to know some- 
 thing, I have been told is not the regulation 
 lay-figure, you know. Probably he can make 
 you more comfortable." 
 
 He had risen while speaking, and now 
 moved away rapidly before I had time to reply. 
 
 Rejected as a patient promptly and com- 
 pletely, I saw myself, with keen mortification. 
 Did this mean simply that Dr. Kirke did not 
 care to talk shop when off on his vacation, or 
 
 that for all and altogether he would none of me ? 
 11
 
 CHAP. XV [ 162 ] 
 
 General practise, to be sure, was not in his pres- 
 ent line, but after having made such exception 
 of Irving I had fancied my footing secure. The 
 ship's surgeon soon appearing I permitted him 
 to give me a few harmless powders and then lay 
 in my dizzy languor vainly hoping that Dr. 
 Kirke would return and talk to me. In this en- 
 counter I had certainly been repulsed with loss. 
 
 The Doctor did not return, and I soon grew 
 very tired of looking at the canvas-covered rail 
 over which no speck of sea showed itself. The 
 fresh wind invigorated me, and my head grew 
 steadier. I wished I had brought out some book 
 from my goodly store. Then I noticed the little 
 book left by Dr. Kirke lying on his chair. It 
 looked stupid; I picked it up, glanced at the 
 title, and gave a small sigh of mock resignation 
 as I read, "Aids to Reflection," and nearly a 
 hundred years old at that. What could be 
 worse? I turned the leaves, however, and 
 glanced at a page here and there for sheer 
 ennui. 
 
 My eye, catching the word "Ballroom"
 
 [ 163 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 printed with quaint capitalization, ran back a 
 page to find the connection. The writer seemed 
 to start with this sentence, which he called an 
 " Aphorism " : 
 
 " There is small chance of Truth at the Goal 
 where there is not a childlike Humility at the 
 Starting-post" 
 
 That struck me as having two distinct mer- 
 its : it was lucid and it was brief. I would read 
 a little more. 
 
 " It would be a sorry proof of the Humility 
 I am extolling, were I to ask for Angel's wings 
 to overfly my own Human Nature. . . . It is 
 enough if the ' lene clinamen,' the gentle Bias, 
 be given by no interest that concerns myself 
 other than as I am a Man, and included in the 
 great family of Mankind. . . . Widely dif- 
 ferent from this social and truth-attracted 
 Bias, different both in its nature and its effects, 
 is the Interest connected with the desire of dis- 
 tinguishing yourself from other men, in order 
 to be distinguished by them. Hoc revera est 
 inter te et veritatem: this Interest does indeed
 
 CHAP. XV [ 164 ] 
 
 stand between thee and thy own Soul. . . . 
 By your own act you have appointed the Many 
 as your Judges and Appraisers : for the anxiety 
 to be admired is a loveless passion, ever strong- 
 est with regard to those by whom we are least 
 known and least cared for, loud on the Hust- 
 ings," (What were the Hustings'? Something, 
 I believed, connected with foxes) " gay in the 
 Ballroom, mute and sullen at the family Fire- 
 side," Rather like Irving that, to be sure, at 
 times. 
 
 "Applause and Preference are things of 
 Barter." What an ugly notion! I concluded 
 to skip. Here I struck upon something marked 
 with double pencil lines, concerning those who 
 " prefer a philosophic Paganism to the moral- 
 ity of the Gospel." That might interest me. 
 
 " Now it would conduce, methinks, to the 
 Childlike Humility we have been discoursing of, 
 if ... Christians, restoring the word (Vir- 
 tue) to its original import, viz.: Manhood or 
 Manliness, used it exclusively to express the 
 quality of Fortitude ; Strength of Character in
 
 [ 165 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 relation to the resistance opposed by Nature 
 and the irrational Passions to the Dictates of 
 Reason ; Energy of Will in preserving the Line 
 of Rectitude tense and firm against the warping 
 forces and treacheries of Temptation. Surely, 
 it were far less unseemly to value ourselves on 
 this moral Strength than on Strength of Body, 
 or even Strength of Intellect. . . . What more 
 is meant in this last paragraph, let the venera- 
 ble Hooker say for me . . ." 
 
 " From the venerable Hooker I pray to 
 be excused," I commented to myself and was 
 about to close the book and replace it where I 
 had found it. A quotation from Seneca stood 
 out noticeably alone on a page otherwise blank. 
 I glanced at it as I dropped the book from my 
 hand. The simple loftiness of the words has 
 haunted me at times ever since that moment. 
 
 " This I say, Lucilius, a Holy Spirit abides 
 ivithin us, the observer of our evil, the guardian 
 of our good. Just as he has been drawn by us, 
 so he himself draws us. No one is a good man 
 without God"
 
 CHAP. XV [ 166 ] 
 
 Having now received all the Aids to Reflec- 
 tion which I seemed to require, and rinding that 
 no one sought me in my corner, except the wind, 
 which was turning cold and shrewish, I next be- 
 took me to my stateroom and my bed, where in 
 truth I properly belonged. I remained all day 
 in bed, sleeping much of the time. Sarah Kirke 
 came in to see me for a moment and showed 
 kindly interest and concern. I was at pains to 
 tell her that I needed no medicine whatever; 
 without doubt the sea air would be just the tonic 
 best suited to me. Naturally it took one a little 
 time to become fitted to the change. 
 
 At five o'clock I awoke from a long and re- 
 freshing sleep and was astonished at the late- 
 ness of the hour. I slipped over to my sofa, 
 drew a basket of fruit to the side of it, and then 
 sat among its deep cushions in luxurious enjoy- 
 ment of a great tawny peach as fragrant as it 
 was delicious. 
 
 " A whole day lost," I meditated, " and only 
 five more left for the siege of Dr. Kirke." 
 Then I sat perfectly still and thought steadily
 
 [ 167 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 for ten minutes. As a conclusion I said to my- 
 self, 
 
 " Perhaps not entirely lost even yet," and 
 with that pressed the electric bell and ordered a 
 demi-tasse of black coffee. When this had been 
 taken I made a slow, careful toilet, putting on 
 a quiet gown of dark silk, made high in the 
 throat and of a girlish simplicity of outline and 
 effect, but a gown which I knew to be peculiarly 
 becoming. By the time dinner was announced 
 I was a wholly different being from the pallid 
 sufferer of the morning. Always I was at my 
 best in the evening, and now I perceived with 
 satisfaction that, although my skin was start- 
 lingly white, its tints were firm and warm and 
 there was deep color in my lips and luster in 
 my eyes. 
 
 I had come to a clear and definite perception 
 that while the line on which I had heretofore ap- 
 proached Dr. Kirke, or sought to approach him, 
 was absolutely hopeless, I had still at my dis- 
 posal resources which might prove otherwise. 
 I had treated him like other men as open to con-
 
 CHAP. XV [ 168 ] 
 
 viction by a woman on the personal side, if so 
 be she was sufficiently pretty, clever or appeal- 
 ing. So long as I moved along this line he 
 would. remain invulnerable. For some reason 
 he was not open to attack on this side. It re- 
 mained to be seen whether he were equally in- 
 accessible on other lines. If there was any field 
 of thought or activity or research in which I 
 was confident of my own mastery, in which I 
 could hold my own fearlessly and on equal 
 terms with him, I might yet interest him. To 
 do more than this I had not the slightest desire, 
 but this I wished more deeply than ever to do. 
 Hence I had been somewhat carefully taking 
 a mental inventory at intervals all day. My 
 college education gave me the broad general 
 basis for intercourse with an intellectual and 
 scientific man. My study of architecture and 
 mastery of its history and details, a study 
 known only to my husband and Ross Kimball, 
 gave me a specialty in which I felt the power 
 and ease of the thorough and enthusiastic stu- 
 dent. I was ready to try one more experiment.
 
 [ 169 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 It was a little late when I took my place in 
 the glittering dining saloon beside Sarah Kirke. 
 The Doctor glanced up and greeted me with a 
 certain toleration at least, I thought, and his 
 sister pressed my hand affectionately, declaring 
 I looked rested and made over. During dinner 
 I asked her incidentally, if she had any taste for 
 early English domestic architecture, especially 
 for those curious, unspoiled old English manor- 
 houses which one sometimes stumbles upon 
 when well off the tourist's track. 
 
 She declared herself extremely fond of 
 everything of the kind and in fact prided her- 
 self, she said, somewhat on her collection of 
 prints of these subjects. I proceeded to give 
 her some little description of an extremely 
 quaint Elizabethan manor-house near Malvern, 
 which I had visited with my aunt. I had had 
 permission from the present owner to take as 
 many views as I chose, and being enamored of 
 the ceilings, staircases, oriel windows and the 
 " bench ends " in the chapel, I had gathered a 
 rather large harvest.
 
 CHAP. XV [ 17O ] 
 
 As I talked with an interest which I by no 
 means assumed, showing almost unconsciously 
 in my use of terms my familiarity with the ar- 
 chitecture of the country and period, I saw that 
 Dr. Kirke bent a little forward and listened 
 with quickened interest. Before we rose from 
 the table he had joined to some extent in the 
 conversation. As we left the dining-room to- 
 gether he said, 
 
 " You do not happen to have with you any 
 of those views of the manor-house of which you 
 were speaking, do you, Mrs. Lloyd? I should 
 like extremely to see them." 
 
 " Why, yes, Dr. Kirke, some of them I am 
 sure are in my steamer trunk. Would you care 
 to look at them this evening? " 
 
 Yes, both he and his sister cared greatly to 
 see them as soon as might be. Accordingly 
 when the tables had been cleared in the saloon 
 I found them both awaiting my appearance with 
 unmistakable eagerness, and as I advanced 
 down the room, the views in a thin brown en- 
 velope in my hand, I saw that Dr. Kirke watched
 
 [ 171 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 my approach for the first time in his life with 
 interest and, I felt also, with something like ap- 
 proval. I believed that the simplicity of the in- 
 genue which he felt about me, due in part to my 
 dress and partly to the very real timidity with 
 which he and his sister inspired me, commended 
 me to him in a way which fashion and elegance 
 and self-confidence could never have done. 
 
 I sat down with them, the Doctor at the end 
 of the table, and Sarah Kirke and I on each 
 side, and passed on my photographs, which were 
 of extraordinary beauty, with a few words of 
 simple description and explanation. They were 
 both delighted. Plainly they counted this an 
 enviable achievement. The Doctor commented, 
 with a keen question in his eyes, on my very 
 unusual familiarity with architectural matters. 
 To this I replied demurely that I thought most 
 wives felt a peculiar interest in the details of 
 their husband's profession. This remark I 
 could see won me a higher place in Sarah 
 Kirke's favor than I had ever reached before, 
 and I observed the Doctor looking at me shortly
 
 CHAP. XV [ 173 ] 
 
 after with much the same musing expression 
 with which he had regarded the life-boat in the 
 morning. 
 
 It soon appeared, as one line led to another, 
 that Dr. Kirke was an enthusiast and something 
 of an amateur student in Tudor Gothic. A long 
 and lively discussion of French and English 
 Gothic in general ensued. I acquitted myself 
 with boldness and confidence, sailing into his 
 opinions without the smallest hesitation where 
 I honestly differed with him, and once or twice 
 convicting him of some minor inaccuracy in ob- 
 servation or statement with frankly mischievous 
 triumph. He seemed to study me much as a lion 
 might study a kitten, and I saw for the first time 
 the peculiar brooding beauty in his eyes, which 
 were hazel, and large and clear, but somewhat 
 robbed of the effect of these qualities by the 
 very heavy overhanging brows. 
 
 We were all amazed when Sarah Kirke, look- 
 ing at her watch, declared it was after eleven 
 o'clock, and she must send me straight to bed 
 else I would be drooping again in the morning.
 
 [ 173 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 The Doctor seemed slightly reluctant to break 
 up the conversation, but I rose promptly, bade 
 them good night in a respectful fashion, speak- 
 ing gratefully of their kindness in not being 
 bored by my chatter, and so betook me to my 
 cabin. The coffee and conversation kept me 
 awake until far into the night. I decided then 
 never again to allude to my ailments and never 
 to appear on deck until eleven o'clock in the 
 morning. By that time, I now ventured to be- 
 lieve, Dr. Kirke would be glad to see me coming 
 and would lay aside his book without reluctance. 
 This policy I carried out and considered my be- 
 lief justified by the event. 
 
 The voyage was notably pleasant and in the 
 short week the Kirkes and I became good 
 friends and comrades. There was a strangely 
 energizing influence, both intellectual and moral, 
 in the association with them, unlike anything I 
 had known before. 
 
 Often now, and always to my satisfaction, 
 the Doctor would seek me out and walk and talk 
 with me of his own accord. Plainly I was right.
 
 CHAP. XV [ 174 ] 
 
 An appeal to Ms intelligence, to his intellectual 
 tastes, would win Mm to a serious, sincere sym- 
 pathy. An appeal to him from the standpoint of 
 sex and self did not touch him anywhere. 
 
 The morning of the day on which we landed 
 in New York the Doctor came up as I stood on 
 deck watching the approach of the pilot-boat. 
 For a full minute he stood looking down upon 
 me with an attentive but gentle and even earnest 
 scrutiny, quite unlike any look he had ever be- 
 fore bestowed upon me. 
 
 "Welll" I said at length, lifting my chin 
 slightly with my lips pressed together in a sort 
 of playful defiance, which I had found he could 
 do with very well on occasion. 
 
 " Your lips are too red, Mrs. Lloyd," he said 
 quietly; "they are scarlet this morning, and 
 they were yesterday." 
 
 I knew this was not compliment; could it 
 actually be professional? 
 
 "Pardon me," he continued, and took my 
 hand in his, then drew his flexible, trained fin- 
 ger-tips lightly across my forehead and cheek.
 
 [ 175 ] CHAP. XV 
 
 " Yes, it is as I thought. Your temperature must 
 be half a degree below normal." With this he 
 put thumb and finger in his vest-pocket and 
 drawing out a small pasteboard box, gave it into 
 my hand. 
 
 " Take these powders, if you will," he said, 
 smiling slightly, possibly at the surprise in my 
 face ; " the directions are with them. I had them 
 put up for you in the pharmacy down-stairs." 
 
 I dropped my eyelids, fearing that my eyes 
 would shoot their rays of exultation plainly to 
 his sight. What could be more deadly common- 
 place than that neat diminutive yellow paper 
 box? But it meant more to me than many a 
 more romantic symbol could have done. It 
 meant that I had won my siege.
 
 XVI 
 
 SOON after my return Mrs. Owen came to see 
 me. For a little while we talked over various 
 Paris experiences, but she soon led up to the sub- 
 ject which I saw was uppermost in her mind, 
 the gowns from Carlier's. Hers had been re- 
 ceived a week before and was a dream of per- 
 fection in mauve. Had mine come I As far as 
 I knew, nothing of the kind had been received at 
 the house during my absence, and certainly not 
 since my return. Mrs. Owen seemed greatly sur- 
 prised, deeply concerned, was very much afraid 
 even that it might not now arrive in time for 
 the great event of October second. Should she 
 not get Mr. Owen to speak to Mr. Kimball about 
 it? Not for worlds, I replied emphatically. Be- 
 neath the nimble staccato of her sympathetic 
 expressions I clearly detected the note of secret 
 elation as she realized that her interests had
 
 [ 177 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 been followed up with so much greater care and 
 promptness than had mine. I professed myself 
 rather indifferent as to the arrival of the gown 
 at this or any other time. 
 
 " You have no idea, really, what it is to be 
 like?" she asked eagerly. "I had not, you 
 know, either, but mine is far more beautiful 
 than I expected, even of Carlier, and it really is 
 very becoming. Mr. Owen is simply charmed. 
 I do hope, my dear, that you are not to be dis- 
 appointed. It some way seems so careless, does 
 it not? I am surprised that Mr. Kimball should 
 not have taken more pains. He might have 
 looked after it a little himself, even, and then 
 it would have been sure." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Owen ! " I replied, " I certainly 
 should not expect that. He did quite enough in 
 planning it in the first place. Mr. Kimball has 
 a few things on his mind, you know, of a larger 
 concern than an evening dress for the wife of 
 one of his employees." 
 
 Notwithstanding this very sensible statement 
 
 of mine I was slightly piqued and disturbed 
 12
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 178 ] 
 
 when up to the last days of September no allu- 
 sion to the expected gown was made by Mr. 
 Kimball, whom I saw two or three times, and no 
 box from Carlier arrived. Evidently the whole 
 thing had been lost sight of and it was then im- 
 possible to have a costume prepared suited to 
 the very magnificent affair with which Mr. Kim- 
 ball was to open his house. Mrs. Kimball would 
 receive her own exclusive and select circle on 
 Wednesday, the first day of October, in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 The affair of Thursday night would be a 
 magnificent fete and ball with music by several 
 famous orchestras in the house and garden. 
 ' The illuminations of both these were to be su- 
 perb in the extreme, while the decoration of the 
 house would employ the services of the best flo- 
 rists from New York as well as from Boston. 
 This much I had learned from Irving and also in 
 part from Mrs. Owen, who lightly let fall the 
 fact that she was invited to both functions, the 
 very exclusive one of Wednesday afternoon as 
 well as the more general one of Thursday night.
 
 [ 179 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 It was not in an altogether unclouded mood 
 that I set myself to work, five days before that 
 long-anticipated Thursday night, to look over 
 my two or three very simple evening dresses 
 and decide which could be most advantageously 
 freshened up and put in order for the great oc- 
 casion. The choice lay between a pale green 
 gauze which had an undeniably languid droop 
 to its flounces, a thin white silk which I had 
 never considered an unqualified success, and a 
 simple but very pretty blue embroidered mull 
 which I had bought outright at a bargain in 
 Paris and had worn a number of times in Eng- 
 land. It was still a charming gown, but its first 
 freshness was gone and I tossed it rather sulkily 
 over a chair-back and began seriously to con- 
 sider regretting Mr. Kimball's grand ball since 
 he had been so palpably negligent in forgetting 
 me. The strongest argument against this was 
 that I was wild to go, and as far as I could judge 
 Mr. Kimball cared very little whether I came or 
 not. Consequently my absence would punish no 
 one particularly but myself.
 
 CHAP. XVI [ ISO ] 
 
 I ate my solitary lunch in a very bad temper. 
 The dining-room seemed low and dark to me; 
 the treasured bits of ware on my buffet had a 
 kind of doll-house shelf effect, cheap and child- 
 ish; the simple fare toast and a chop, with a 
 cup of tea and fruit afterward, served by the 
 cook herself at one end of the table made me 
 feel like a respectable seamstress or nurse. I 
 had become so accustomed to grandeur and com- 
 plexity ! 
 
 As I rose from the table the maid was called 
 to the front door and when I came into the hall 
 I found her holding out in both arms an enor- 
 mous foreign-looking pasteboard package. 
 
 " Has the man gone! " I asked quickly. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," was the reply. " Everything 
 was paid, he said. Where shall I take it, 
 ma'am? " 
 
 " Up-stairs," I said carelessly. " Is it heavy ? 
 Shall I help you?" 
 
 " Oh, it's as light as a feather, ma'am, to what 
 it looks," and with this she slowly mounted the 
 stairs. By the time the package had been de-
 
 [ 181 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 posited on my bed I had no longer a ray of 
 doubt as to its contents, and my low spirits had 
 already given way to eager expectation. How- 
 ever, I concealed my eagerness until the maid 
 was well out of the way ; then with swift strokes 
 I cut the numberless cords which had plainly 
 been renewed in the Custom House, threw off 
 the outer and inner covers, and drew out to sight 
 my Carlier gown packed in folds of cotton and 
 tissue with consummate skill. -But the common- 
 place details of this kind were instantly for- 
 gotten when I saw the gown itself, for it was the 
 most beautiful work of its kind which I had ever 
 beheld. 
 
 I laughed low to myself remembering all the 
 patter about extreme simplicity, a narrow band 
 of embroidery, the jeune fille effect, and all the 
 other lies. The gown was of finest cream 
 white crepe, the front of the skirt and corsage, 
 however, being composed largely of white satin 
 of incredible fineness, embroidered by hand at 
 intervals with pink sweetbrier roses and their 
 leaves. The stamens were in gold thread topped
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 183 ] 
 
 by seed-pearls. The shoulder-straps were of 
 flexible enamel on gold, a design of tiny closely 
 crowded rosebuds. In the folds of the gown I 
 discovered a small box containing a band for 
 the throat of the same design on the same flex- 
 ible enamel joined by a gold clasp set with 
 pearls. Upon this discovery I felt a hot flush 
 run over my whole body and my heart beat very 
 fast. I knew it was more than I ought to accept 
 from any man for any consideration, and yet . 
 The whole costume was simple in its sumptuous- 
 ness; it contained in a superlative degree in- 
 deed that irresistible charm of Parisian art, the 
 exquisite restraint, the horror of the too much, 
 in which I most delighted. The ornament was 
 wholly in keeping. I removed my gown and 
 stood with bare shoulders and arms in my deli- 
 cate lace-trimmed corset-cover, and fastened the 
 band around my throat. I saw that the effect 
 was strangely beautiful. I saw that it became 
 me marvelously. Then I said to myself, " I 
 shall probably not wear that Thursday night, 
 and afterward I can return it to Mr. Kimball,
 
 [ 183 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 and tell him that I never consented to receive 
 more than the gown." 
 
 However, when Thursday night came I wore 
 the band. I called Irving in to see me when I 
 was dressed, without it, and then I put it on 
 and said indifferently, 
 
 " Mr. Kimball sent this too, but I don't be- 
 lieve it is best to wear it. You wouldn't if you 
 were in my place, would you? " 
 
 To which Irving, delighted with the finishing 
 touch the ornament gave to my appearance, 
 said, 
 
 " Why, wear it, of course, Sidney. It is be- 
 witchingly pretty on you and it goes with the 
 dress. What difference does it make that it 
 happens not to be sewed on like the other trim- 
 ming? " 
 
 The house and grounds when we reached 
 them that night were more beautiful than 
 any dream, more beautiful than anything but 
 the magic which money can conjure up in 
 these modern days. Hundreds of people were 
 there, but it was all on so large a scale
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 184 ] 
 
 that one could not realize it. No room was 
 at any time crowded. Mrs. Kimball had ap- 
 peared for a little time earlier, but had with- 
 drawn before we arrived. Mrs. Owen with her 
 husband was helping Mr. Kimball to receive in 
 the picture-gallery, beyond the great entrance- 
 hall. Her gown, I noted with a swift glance, 
 was extremely rich and handsome, but mine, al- 
 though apparently simpler, was in a different 
 class. Her first unconscious look of startled 
 surprise betrayed her perception of the fact. 
 Instantly, however, she commanded an affec- 
 tionate smile, but the smile, I noted, had an acid 
 reaction. As I passed on she said with much 
 empressement, 
 
 " My dear, you are superb ! How glad I am 
 that it came ! " 
 
 Mr. KimbalPs hand was extended, and he de- 
 tained me for a moment, letting his eyes flatter 
 me. A strange, half-triumphant smile hovered 
 about his lips. 
 
 " Ah, how glad I am that your gown was re- 
 ceived in time," he said in an undertone. " As
 
 [ 185 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 you had said nothing I began to fear that there 
 might have been a delay." For some reason as 
 he made this remark the conviction flashed upon 
 me that my gown had been in Boston as long as 
 had Mrs. Owen's. I was beginning to learn a 
 certain balanced rhythm of calculation in all 
 that proceeded from this man. 
 
 " Thank you, no," I said composedly. " It 
 reached me in ample time in perfect condition. 
 I must wait till another time to thank you, Mr. 
 Kimball." 
 
 " Thank me at your peril ! " he said, with a 
 warning shake of the head. " I have had my 
 reward." 
 
 I passed on filled with a bewildering sense 
 that I had after all compromised myself far be- 
 yond anything I had imagined in accepting and 
 in wearing these gifts. Mrs. Owen's look alone 
 had given me a measure of their value. I was 
 convinced now that the delay had been a very 
 delicate bit of diplomacy on Boss Kimball's 
 part. With what admirable docility I had 
 played the role and run through the gamut of
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 186 ] 
 
 emotions assigned to me! Fearing revolt if I 
 had much time for sober thought, he had starved 
 me with disappointment and then dazzled me 
 with splendor until I was tractable! 
 
 " Come, Sidney," said Irving, breaking into 
 my hot and passionate reverie. " We must go 
 now where glory waits us. I can not wait any 
 longer to show you the west wing." 
 
 In another ten minutes every disagreeable 
 reflection was lost and forgotten in the unpar- 
 alleled delight of seeing my own conceptions re- 
 alized in complete and splendid maturity, my 
 seed-thought full blossoming now under the 
 skilled and fostering hands of masters of their 
 craft. 
 
 In entering the west wing we passed first 
 through the wide central hall, from which, on 
 either side opened with a large arch a conversa- 
 tion or reception room. The hall gave direct 
 access at its farther end to the enormous music- 
 room. From the music-room a vaulted, mosaic- 
 paved vestibule not more than fifteen feet 
 square, lined with yellow Sienna marble, led to 
 the entrance of the great octagonal library.
 
 [ 187 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 The first step, as we advanced into this part 
 of the building, brought us, as I had intended, 
 into an environment of Oriental gorgeousness. 
 The reception-rooms first entered, compara- 
 tively small in dimensions, were, on the right, 
 Persian, on the left Moorish. Walls, ceilings, 
 floors, furnishings gave in rich, unbroken har- 
 mony the Oriental genius, vivid, subtle, mysti- 
 cal. Here was the half-barbaric riot of strong, 
 unshaded color, thick crusted with gold; the 
 infinite intricacies of interlacing line in ara- 
 besque; the mysterious, baffling patience of de- 
 tail; the grotesque, bizarre symbolism. 
 
 This, in my thought, was the place for 
 Speech, and in human development stood for 
 the Child. I saw it and was satisfied. Here was 
 the stage and scenic basis for the daily inter- 
 course of life for conversation, for sunny rev- 
 erie, also, and warm, secluded repose. The sole 
 flowers which had been placed here were pop- 
 pies, which were everywhere in great bowls of 
 chased brass. 
 
 We passed on into the lofty harmony of the
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 188 ] 
 
 music-room, and here I could not control my 
 frank delight. This was pure Greek and the 
 ensemble of proportion, line, column, color, 
 smote upon my sense like noble music, although 
 the place was still. The acanthus and the an- 
 themion gave the keynote to the decoration in 
 frieze and meander ; the latter with its firm yet 
 flowing and graceful curves of flute and trum- 
 pet-like suggestion. All the color here was pure 
 and lucid, of pastel clearness and transparency. 
 It seemed to me the French tapestry weavers 
 and the American mural painters had done 
 their work in perfection, as had all the other 
 artists and craftsmen. Everywhere, in panel, 
 molding, ornament, and ceiling, was the deli- 
 cate, graceful sensuousness of the Greek and his 
 blithe and buoyant joy in existence. Between 
 the great windows of the north wall was painted 
 the voyage of the Argonauts, with the Sirens, 
 and Orpheus discoursing his " diviner music." 
 Opposite, on the south wall, was the Spirit of 
 Music, an exquisite figure surrounded by youths 
 and maidens, dancing in a flowery, sunlit
 
 [ 189 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 meadow. The four panels of tapestry repre- 
 sented Apollo and Daphne, Orpheus and Euryd- 
 ice, Echo and Narcissus and Butes and Aphro- 
 dite. The coloring was of surpassing brilliancy 
 and purity. Throughout the room fresh honey- 
 suckles and orange-blossoms were scattered in 
 profusion. 
 
 To my thought this room typified Youth 
 the youth of the race, its poetry and romance. 
 I looked and was satisfied. 
 
 We went on between the yellow marble walls 
 of the vestibule and stood to study the entabla- 
 ture of the library portal, a facsimile of the 
 doorway to the Temple at Philse, with the 
 symbolic globe and asps, giving the incompar- 
 ably imposing effect of its wide, overshadowing 
 wings. 
 
 Just within the portal stood two bronzes, 
 copies of antiques, one on either hand. On the 
 right, Horus with the Lotus Flower, the God of 
 Silence and the nascent Sun, his finger on his 
 lips; on the left, the impressive Scribe, of the 
 Louvre. Facing us across the diameter of the
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 190 ] 
 
 room was the colossal chimneypiece, a propylon 
 of polished red Numidian marble, carved with 
 hieroglyphics. In the space above it was a 
 painting of the great Sphinx of Thebes with the 
 motto below: 
 
 " Who telleth one of my secrets 
 Is master of all that I am." 
 
 The remaining six sides of the octagon were 
 filled with book-shelves, divided by richly 
 carved pillars of red mahogany, their capitals 
 bearing the lotus, the bell-shaped papyrus bud, 
 or the palm. Six feet above the floor the win- 
 dows were placed, and above them ran a light 
 gallery giving access to the second tier of books. 
 Just below the massive rafters of the roof in 
 a fine frieze appeared the birds of Egypt, the 
 sacred ibis, the heron and the crane. The ceil- 
 ing showed an astronomical chart, the constella- 
 tions gold, on a deep blue ground, surrounded 
 by the zodiac. The coloring was grave, power- 
 ful, deep-toned. 
 
 To my thought the genius of Egypt, hoary, 
 silent, with its severe, rigid dignity, its intellec-
 
 [ 191 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 trial mastery, its massive mystery, its profound 
 symbolism, signified the mature Man. I saw 
 and was satisfied. Everywhere here, I noticed, 
 in open jars were exotic water-lilies, white and 
 blue and rose. 
 
 Mr. Hook joined us in the library and we 
 spent an hour together discussing the success of 
 these decorations. The master-architect was 
 emphatic in his approval of Irving's work and 
 in spite of my protesting glance Irving there- 
 upon explained to him the part which I had had 
 in his designs. Upon this Mr. Hook bestowed 
 upon me, albeit in a few words, a serious intel- 
 lectual homage which I felt to be one of the cli- 
 maxes of life as I had thus far lived it. As we 
 slowly moved back to the central portion of the 
 house and up the staircase to the ballroom 
 whither all were now gravitating, I seemed to 
 walk on air, and to be borne along by the buoy- 
 ancy of my exultation, the honest, if intoxicat- 
 ing, pleasure of artistic achievement. Different 
 mirrors as we passed them gave me back a re- 
 flection of myself which seemed to me a miracle.
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 192 ] 
 
 I did not know that I could look as I looked then 
 in the lustrous loveliness of that gown, and with 
 my face transfigured by the stimulus of per- 
 sonal triumph. Men and women who saw me 
 fell in love with me for the moment, and I fell in 
 love with myself. Dancing was welcome to me 
 as an expression of the buoyant delight which 
 filled me, body and mind. 
 
 Eoss Kimball came himself and claimed me 
 for one dance and I forgave him all that I had 
 been heaping up against him of doubt and mis- 
 trust. Let all that go for to-night! Surely 
 never was there a more generous friend and 
 benefactor. Why should I smirch the beauty of 
 his kindliness by mean suspicion? Our dance 
 over, he brought me a glass of champagne and 
 stood over me while I drank it, saying that I 
 looked white. Then, declaring that he had been 
 on host's duty long enough, he led me on through 
 an open window into the garden, past the great 
 southern porte-cochere and so along a dusky, 
 fragrant terrace beneath the central pile of the 
 house and half the west wing. Opposite the
 
 [ 193 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 music-room windows we paused. They were 
 opened to the floor, and light streamed out 
 through them. 
 
 " Let us go in a moment," he said, " I have 
 not yet had the pleasure of seeing your work, 
 with you. Don't you think that is a privilege 
 mine by right? " 
 
 I acquiesced, with a faint flutter of misgiv- 
 ing at my heart below the keen gratification I 
 always found in each new sign of this man's 
 imperious devotion to myself. Something in 
 his tone reminded me of the morning on the 
 terrace in Paris, when he had spoken to me of 
 the Carlier gown. Again the sense of being 
 wound closer and closer in an inextricable net 
 came over me, but for an instant only. The wild 
 reckless thrill of the music to which we had been 
 dancing still ran in my blood and the wine 
 added its incitement to my exuberant self-con- 
 fidence. The net must surely be of rose mesh if 
 net there were. 
 
 We found the music-room deserted, upon 
 which I felt a change in Mr. Kimball's manner. 
 
 13
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 194 ] 
 
 He praised the work in which I had had part 
 most cordially and yet he grew graver, and his 
 courteous attention a shade colder, I thought, 
 as we crossed from side to side of the beautiful 
 room discussing its effects and what was yet left 
 to desire. After a few moments I moved on 
 through the vestibule to the Egyptian doorway. 
 I stood for a moment, glancing back, across the 
 width of the music-room. From where I stood 
 I could even catch a glimpse in the background 
 of a portion of the magnificent color and splen- 
 did hieroglyphics of the Moorish room. I 
 glanced beyond me then into the deep library 
 and back again. Something in my face caught 
 Mr. KimbalPs attention. He stood in front of 
 a heavy Alexandrian hanging before a door in 
 the vestibule side wall. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked smiling. 
 
 "Nothing particularly. I was simply ta- 
 king it in, that is all. It is pagan, is it not? com- 
 pletely. There is the Saracen, a barbarous sen- 
 sualist after all, when you have seen the Greek, 
 and the Greek himself, and then, here, old
 
 [ 195 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 Egypt, the worst pagan of the lot! I never 
 thought of it before. You might imagine it was 
 done before anything happened, you know, 
 1 down in Judee,' as Hosea Biglow says. And 
 there is not a modern touch anywhere, Mr. Kim- 
 ball! Do you mind?" 
 
 " Not as long as I have the modern touch 
 right here," and he laid his hand lightly on my 
 arm. " You are sufficiently modern to atone for 
 all the antiquity of the rest. I confess it may be 
 a little dreary when you are out of it." 
 
 He turned now, pushed away the curtain, 
 and unlocked the door which it had concealed. 
 This door opened into a narrow passage from 
 which his private staircase gave the only access 
 to the second floor of the octagon, tower. The 
 key to this door Mr. Kimball had always kept 
 himself, as he wished one place, he said, where he 
 could keep certain of his possessions in absolute 
 privacy. This portion of the tower had not as 
 yet been finished off, however. This at least was 
 what Irving and I had supposed. 
 
 "I have another modern touch up-stairs
 
 CHAP. XVI [ 196 ] 
 
 also," he said in an incidental careless tone. 
 " Come, I want to show you a picture I have 
 just received from Paris. You have not been 
 up-stairs yet, perhaps I " 
 
 " Why no," I replied gaily, " I didn't know 
 the upper part of the tower was open to vis- 
 itors. I thought it was hopelessly private, and 
 hopelessly unfinished." 
 
 "You can go up all right," he said in the 
 same negligent manner. 
 
 I entered the small passage, which was 
 lighted only from above. Except for a narrow 
 grade door opposite the one by which we had 
 entered, which must, I saw, open directly on the 
 terrace, the walls were unbroken. 
 
 " Shall I precede ! " Mr. Kimball had closed 
 the door behind us. He bowed with ceremoni- 
 ous courtesy and passed me, leading the way 
 up. The long metal staircase was narrow and 
 interrupted by several landings protected by a 
 wrought-iron rail. It was brightly lighted from 
 above. 
 
 " The enormous height of the library neces-
 
 [ 197 ] CHAP. XVI 
 
 sitates a pretty stiff flight of stairs here," said 
 my host as we reached the top, and he preceded 
 me down a spacious corridor, next the wall. I 
 now perceived within the octagonal wall of the 
 tower, above the library, the smaller octagon 
 which had been constructed, precisely following 
 the lines of the one below, but with a diameter 
 not more than half as great, leaving a corridor 
 around its whole circumference.
 
 XVII 
 
 MB. KIMBALL now opened a door into this 
 enclosed chamber and I entered, commenting 
 upon my interest in first observing at the mo- 
 ment the precise construction of this part of the 
 tower, and my curiosity regarding the new pic- 
 ture. 
 
 " Did you say it came from Paris I " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The room as I stepped into it was very dimly 
 lighted, but as Mr. Kimball followed me in, clos- 
 ing the door behind him, soft lights sprang up 
 everywhere around and before me, and espe- 
 cially over my head. I looked up and saw that 
 myriads of electric lights were shining down 
 through the horizontal windows of richly jew- 
 eled glass, diffusing a soft glowing radiance. 
 There were no other windows. 
 
 I stood spellbound. The intoxicating bitter-
 
 [ 199 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 sweet perfume of hyacinths filled the room. 
 Bowls of them, cream-white and pink, stood on 
 stands and tables ; and roses were present also 
 in profusion; these flowers only were in the 
 room I observed. Just opposite I saw, slowly 
 approaching me, the figure of a stately fair- 
 haired woman with delicate color in her cheeks 
 and shining eyes, clothed in gleaming white, 
 shot here and there with roses. The figure was 
 my own. That section of the wall was mirror. 
 On either hand were creamy white panels, four 
 in number, of richest tapestry bearing wild 
 roses, dropped singly or falling in graceful 
 flowing garlands from the hands of floating 
 nymphs. I recognized these panels at once, and 
 recalled the mysterious incident in the tapestry 
 works. Behind me, I perceived, the large panel 
 in which the entrance-door was set was also 
 mirror. 
 
 The floor was covered with a white rug, 
 showing roses in the border. The room was 
 exquisitely furnished, but with quiet, unpreten- 
 tious effect, the broad sofas and chairs being
 
 CHAP. XVII [ 2OO ] 
 
 covered in chintz, white, with wild roses running 
 over. 
 
 Books and magazines were everywhere. On 
 
 an easel stood a pastel portrait study by Bol- 
 
 dini which I had seen in Paris. Mr. Kimball had 
 
 always insisted that it reminded him of me in 
 
 . pose and coloring. 
 
 The ensemble of the room was of an enchant- 
 ing loveliness with a singular effect of enga- 
 ging, homelike, traulichkeit, skilfully achieved. 
 There was even a sewing-table with a little low 
 rocking-chair beside it. 
 
 " What a darling place ! " I cried. 
 
 Mr. Kimball stood before me. 
 
 "Does it please you?" he asked with his 
 peculiar smile. "It has been prepared for a 
 darling woman." So speaking he gave me a 
 chair. My limbs trembled so that I was forced 
 to sink into it to conceal my rising agita- 
 tion. Even as I did so I perceived that it was 
 a chair which I had always fancied for myself 
 at the Monceau villa, or a precise facsimile of it. 
 
 "Those are the first roses I have seen to-
 
 [ 3O1 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 night," I said hastily, seeking to conceal my 
 throbbing dread. 
 
 " Yes. Roses were set apart for you to- 
 night. The hyacinths too, of course. The white 
 hyacinth is you." 
 
 " It is all perfectly lovely, Mr. Kimball," I 
 said cordially, though with inward constraint. 
 
 " I wished to make it so," he returned quite 
 simply, and then with a sudden unforeseen 
 movement he caught my hand and pressed it to 
 his lips. " This room is for you and for you 
 alone. Here are the keys. One for this door, 
 one for the door below. No one on this side of 
 the ocean has seen it in its present guise. Oh, 
 Lit, to be sure, but that is nothing. He has to 
 take care of it." 
 
 I stared at him uncomprehending. 
 
 " French workmen have done it all while you 
 were abroad," and he made a sweeping gesture 
 of his right hand around him. " They have 
 gone back now. It is our secret yours and 
 mine." 
 
 Then followed words of concentrated pas-
 
 CHAP. XVII [ 2O2 ] 
 
 sion, charged with the mastery of this man's al- 
 most preternatural insight into the workings of 
 my mind. He stood before me armed with his 
 power of awakening that strange nerve-thrill in 
 me ; his remarkable personal beauty and his sin- 
 gular charm. Added to this was the full weight 
 of material obligation laid upon me by his gen- 
 erosity, of moral obligation by reason of my 
 acceptance of it. 
 
 I knew now to what all that had gone before 
 had led. The net had tightened about me now 
 to the finish, but its rose mesh was indescriba- 
 bly enthralling. A strange subtle suggestion 
 flashed through my mind at that instant. Did 
 not the great Sun-god of Egypt joy to visit Isis 
 whom he loved in a secret room of the ancient 
 temple of Philae? I had myself planned the 
 building of the famous Philae portal below. 
 Was it destined to be the portal to things far 
 beyond my dream, my desire or my venture? 
 What was it which was coming to me ? Highest 
 honor or deepest shame? I felt my thought be- 
 coming confused. My womanhood was insulted
 
 [ 2O3 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 indeed, but surely never was insult more splen- 
 did. I had played with fire too long, and now 
 the flames seemed visibly to enswathe me. I 
 was growing faint, and as the faintness crept 
 over me I recall a cold, neutral sense as of esti- 
 mating judicially the probabilities of the work- 
 ing of this coup d'etat upon my mind. I knew 
 the Lilith side of my nature. Others saw it. 
 When I should be going down from this mys- 
 terious room presently, would those keys be in 
 my possession, would Boss Kimball hold the 
 promise which he sought the promise of my 
 return? My head dropped and my eyes closed. 
 I felt the hand which fell helpless at my side 
 caught in his hand. The touch startled me as if 
 it had been fire. Oh, fool, to faint now ! a voice 
 cried within in self-scorn. With a mighty ef- 
 fort I rose, stepped back a pace, and resting my 
 arms on the frame of the chair I lifted my head 
 and confronted Ross Kimball in a passion of 
 horror and loathing. For there had flashed 
 upon me in that instant the hateful sense that I 
 was to be bought, bought with a poor, paltry
 
 CHAP. XVII [ 2O4 ] 
 
 show of material magnificence, bought with the 
 greed of luxury, bought with the fear of falling 
 fortune for my husband, with the dread of dis- 
 grace for myself, tricked into a glittering trap 
 for lust's sake, not swept down by a strong 
 man's honest, overwhelming love. 
 
 Doubtless to the man before me the price 
 offered for a woman's soul seemed on the whole 
 extravagantly high. But it was not high enough. 
 He asked the supreme sacrifice of a woman's 
 purity, faith, honor, her happiness on earth, 
 her hope of heaven, the most precious of spir- 
 itual essences, and for this he was ready to 
 barter certain material commodities, as gold, 
 silver, and precious stones. It was as if he had 
 said, A true man's heart I have not, but silver 
 and gold (such as I have) give I thee. Could 
 he have reversed the words I should have trem- 
 bled indeed before him. 
 
 I think perhaps, though it might be hard to 
 explain it, my deepest sense in that moment, 
 deeper than shame or indignation, was a sense 
 of relief, disappointment. The foe which I had
 
 [ 3O5 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 sometimes fearfully fancied myself fighting, 
 with all the forces which Heaven itself could 
 give me, suddenly uncovered, and showed itself 
 a mean and puny thing. 
 
 " Mr. Kimball," I said slowly, " you have 
 been entirely mistaken in me." 
 
 " Not entirely, I think," he said, crossing his 
 arms upon his breast, a lightly satirical touch 
 in his tone. " I have studied you with infinite 
 care and infinite entertainment. You are not a 
 schoolgirl. You must have known that some- 
 thing like this was to be the end." 
 
 I was silent for a few seconds. 
 
 " I wished not to believe it," I said very low. 
 
 " What do you suppose the world believes 1 " 
 he asked, with the cynical gesture of brow and 
 shoulder he had learned in Paris along with so 
 many other things more diabolical. 
 
 I trembled from head to foot, but at that mo- 
 ment there shot through my frame a strange, 
 even violent physical sensation, faintly fore- 
 shadowed indeed in the days just passed, but 
 never fully felt before. In the familiar, deeply
 
 CHAP. XVII [ 2O6 ] 
 
 significant phrase, I "felt life" quickening. 
 The sensation with all its denotement of mater- 
 nal hope, its firm fetter of fidelity to the man 
 who was to be the father of my child, nerved me 
 with a power I had never possessed before. I 
 knew that I was safe. I knew that the heart of 
 my husband could safely trust in me. I knew 
 that no art or device however seductive, how- 
 ever terrible, could compass now my ruin. I 
 seemed to grow taller, firmer, prouder and yet 
 more humble. 
 
 " I have been very wrong ; I can see it now," 
 I said with a new quietness, " but it has not been 
 so simple. I should know better after this. The 
 world may believe what it will, what you choose 
 to have it. I shall never, willingly, see you 
 again." 
 
 With this I turned to leave the room. Ross 
 Kimball did not stir from his place, however, 
 and the door by which we had entered, being 
 closed, had become indistinguishable. 
 
 " Is this your final word? " he asked, speak- 
 ing low and with peculiar distinctness, his face
 
 [ 2O7 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 even paler than its wont, his eyelids drooping 
 as if to hide their light. 
 
 " It is," I said solemnly. 
 
 " I am not quite through, however," he said 
 with an assumed carelessness, slowly drawing 
 his watch by its fob from his trousers pocket 
 and glancing at it coolly. " We have not been 
 in this room five minutes yet. We can have two 
 minutes more safely, which is all I want." 
 
 I had retreated as far as might be, and stood 
 now hard against the shining mirror of the wall. 
 
 " Very well," I said, and bent my head. 
 
 "You must permit me to say," he began 
 with icy politeness, " that while you are possi- 
 bly at this moment particularly pleased with 
 yourself, are looking upon yourself it may be 
 as something of a heroine, a model of perse- 
 cuted purity and that kind of thing, I am look- 
 ing upon you, reluctantly, it is true, with some- 
 thing very like contempt." 
 
 He paused a moment and then as I did not 
 speak he continued with the same air of studied, 
 unimpassioned fairness,
 
 CHAP. XVII [ 208 ] 
 
 " Let me tell you why. You have the mind, 
 the soul of the courtezan without her courage. 
 It is courage which fails you now, not principle 
 which guides you. Another thing, you are abso- 
 lutely cold, incapable of love. If you really 
 loved, you would throw your body into the scale 
 to win your lover without a tremor. But that 
 you will never do, because you will never forget 
 yourself in a 'great emotion." 
 
 " I think that may be true," I said with com- 
 posure. 
 
 " I despise you for another reason, as I de- 
 spise all women of the world who pride them- 
 selves on their virtue because you are a hyp- 
 ocrite. Notice, if you will, what you have done, 
 as others do. You uncover your body to the 
 very verge of decency, you furnish it then with 
 every allurement to the senses conceivable, of 
 color, of fragrance, of texture, and thus pre- 
 pared you give yourself into a man's arms. In 
 this guise you dance with him motion, contact, 
 voluptuous music all adding their effect. What 
 is it all for? For the express purpose, I notice,
 
 [ 2O9 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 of arousing the sense nature in the man, if by 
 any chance it is asleep or at peace. This noble 
 end is gained, gained easily. Sense awakes and 
 claims its natural satisfaction. But upon this 
 you retreat shuddering with disgust, amaze- 
 ment, horror at the man's brutality. This you 
 call virtue." 
 
 His eyes rested now full upon me and 
 scorched me with their withering contempt. My 
 own fell before them, unable to sustain their 
 gaze. The man was more formidable even than 
 I had divined. 
 
 Mr. Kimball advanced then, touched a 
 spring, near me as I stood ; a part of the mirror 
 slid back, disclosing the door. He opened it, 
 bowing me out with formal and dignified cour- 
 tesy. But in the very instant of crossing the 
 threshold a swift transition passed over him. 
 He caught my hand from behind as he followed 
 me, and gently drawing me back bent and 
 pressed his lips repeatedly upon my shoulder, 
 murmuring, as he did so, 
 
 " Forgive me, for I love you. If you did but 
 know what love is ! " 
 
 14
 
 CHAP. XVII [ 310 ] 
 
 The light, passionate contact of his lips upon 
 my flesh filled me with a fury of terror and dis- 
 may. I was not safe after all. Perhaps the 
 worst was yet to come after my sorry victory 
 had been, as I thought, won. Smothering a cry 
 of distress I broke away from his touch and flew 
 down the stairs just before me. Blinded and 
 dizzy with fear and agitation I did not note the 
 first landing, and so missed my footing, plun- 
 ging violently forward against the iron rail op- 
 posite, striking my side with extreme force, so 
 that for a moment I was sure a rib was broken. 
 I clasped my hands against my side, conscious 
 not only of the anguish there but of a more pro- 
 found shock and sensation throughout my body. 
 
 Boss Kimball was at my side instantly, well- 
 bred although with distant concern on his face. 
 
 "How unfortunate," he said, with bitter 
 irony, " and yet what can be expected when In- 
 nocence is pursued by the Devil himself! But 
 are you hurt, Mrs. Lloyd? " 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing," I answered breathlessly, 
 hastening on down the stairs. " Nothing of any
 
 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 account. Still, I believe I will go home. I will 
 not wait for my husband." 
 
 He looked keenly in my face. We had 
 reached the foot of the stairs. 
 
 " By all means," he said. " I will send a car- 
 riage to the south entrance for you. You will 
 prefer to go out this way." He advanced now to 
 the small grade door which opened from the rear 
 of the house, and laid his hand upon the knob. 
 
 " Oh, yes, thank you," I said, trembling so 
 violently that my teeth chattered as I spoke. 
 " There is a dressing-room there? " then, my 
 voice breaking utterly and tears like a child's 
 coming in spite of me, I cried, 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Kimball, I am so cold ; how can I 
 get my cloak? Tell me how to get away without 
 seeing people." 
 
 We stood face to face at the narrow door, 
 his hand upon the knob. He smiled. The irony 
 of the situation smote upon him then as it did 
 not upon me until later. 
 
 " Directly at the right of the south entrance 
 you will find a small anteroom which has not
 
 CHAP. XVH [ 
 
 been used to-night. The door, however, is un- 
 locked. Go in and ring the bell and send for 
 your cloak. By the time it is brought to you the 
 carriage will be waiting. Can I do anything for 
 you? I would accompany you if 
 
 " Pray do not think of it," I murmured, with 
 a gesture of unconscious command. He opened 
 the door obedient to it ; I stepped out on the dim 
 terrace and heard the door close fast behind me. 
 The night air revived my failing sense. No 
 one, fortunately, was in sight, and I hurried for- 
 ward, almost running at first in my agitation, 
 toward the great porte-cochere which, outlined 
 with countless electric lights, stood out boldly 
 against the sky. Just before I came within the 
 circle of its brilliant light I caught sight of a 
 man pacing slowly to and fro enjoying a soli- 
 tary cigar, for I caught the odor. No matter. 
 I moderated my speed. Whoever it was he 
 could hardly have seen me as I first came out. 
 There was nothing now to cause especial com- 
 ment. I would pass this person swiftly ; he need 
 not see my face.
 
 [ 213 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 When I reached the spot, however, the man 
 had stopped his pacing, and stood as if to inter- 
 cept me. To my surprise I saw that it was Dr. 
 Kirke. He held out his hand, not in greeting, 
 but as if to arrest my progress. 
 
 " Do not run like that," he said almost curtly, 
 then paused, took a contemplative whiff at his 
 cigar, and added, " And do not dance any 
 more." 
 
 That was all. He walked on then, and I 
 hastened forward to my goal. So he knew a 
 cause for caution and perhaps had known all 
 along ! 
 
 I found the small anteroom empty as prom- 
 ised, entered, closed the door and rang. In the 
 brief interval which succeeded I walked to a 
 mantel mirror and glanced at myself. I looked 
 like death, my face gray, drawn and haggard 
 above the clasping of the rose and pearls of my 
 throat band. 
 
 "No wonder Boss Kimball did not choose 
 to be met walking with such a hunted specter," 
 I thought, unclasped the thing from my throat
 
 CHAP. XVII [ 214 ] 
 
 and let it fall upon the mantel. It seemed to 
 suffocate me. I looked down upon the gleaming 
 folds, the delicate embroidery of my gown. 
 Just then a servant came and I gave him direc- 
 tions to find and bring my evening wrap. It 
 was a long coat of white broadcloth fitted to 
 button from neck to hem. While I waited I 
 walked rapidly up and down the room unfasten- 
 ing loops and hooks with nervous fingers. Again 
 the servant came. I took my coat from his 
 hands and again locked the door. The windows 
 were closely guarded by shades and heavy 
 drapery. Then with feverish haste, my eyes on 
 a mantel clock which showed the stroke of 
 twelve almost reached, I tore the beautiful, 
 hateful garment off from my body, tossing it 
 with unspeakable loathing far from me over a 
 chair. Then I slipped into my own coat, but- 
 toned it carefully to the very feet and so ha- 
 stened from the room, locking the door after me 
 and leaving the key as I passed upon a silver 
 dish I chanced to see. The carriage stood wait- 
 ing. The great hall chimes were ringing melo-
 
 [ 315 ] CHAP. XVII 
 
 diously for midnight as I entered it. The coach- 
 man knew, I found, where he was to go. There 
 
 were three miles to drive to reach C . I 
 
 leaned back in the tufted-satin seat, and the car- 
 riage rolled smoothly over the asphalt drive 
 past Dr. Kirke still slowly pacing the terrace. 
 
 " Kather like Cinderella, all this," I thought, 
 a kind of dull mechanical triviality playing over 
 the abyss of my pain and humiliation. " I won- 
 der if the carriage will last until I get home to 
 my dust and ashes." 
 
 My soul had escaped out of the snare of the 
 fowler ; the snare was broken and I had escaped, 
 but it was with wings bruised and spirit laid 
 waste.
 
 XVIII 
 
 FOB twenty-four hours I fought desperately 
 alone with severe bodily suffering, almost glad, 
 I think, to have in this effort a diversion from 
 my profounder pain. Saturday morning I 
 awoke in an agony of mental confusion and 
 apprehension. I could no longer conceal from 
 myself or from Irving the seriousness of my 
 condition. It was hardly more than light when 
 Dr. Kirke came into my room, with face very 
 grave, even stern, and sat down by my bedside. 
 I had not known that he was coming, and I 
 turned my face from him with sudden terror 
 lest he had in some way learned all my shame. 
 
 I remember nothing clearly of what fol- 
 lowed. I slept almost continuously until Sun- 
 day forenoon. When I awoke I found myself 
 free from pain and my head clear ; familiar ob-
 
 ] CHAP. XVIII 
 
 jects bore their natural aspect; familiar actions 
 seemed again possible. For a space I even for- 
 got the events of Thursday night, and when 
 again I saw the doctor entering the room I 
 greeted him without unusual consciousness or 
 disturbance. 
 
 He sat down in his silent fashion beside me 
 and took my hand, studying my face thought- 
 fully. It was my first personal encounter with 
 the man on his purely professional side. His 
 eye and voice and hand I found gentler than any 
 woman's, but behind the outer aspect of him I 
 discerned the unrelenting probing of his mind 
 to the center of things, the inflexible purpose to 
 uncover and lay bare that he might afterward 
 soothe and heal. Formerly I had complained of 
 his manners. At this juncture such criticism 
 seemed as lacking in pertinence as if applied to 
 sun or wind. I felt that I bore for the time at 
 least no relation whatever to him save that of 
 a suffering human creature whom he was called 
 upon to relieve. My personality, .whether win- 
 ning to him or detestable, was for the time non-
 
 CHAP. XVIII [ 318 ] 
 
 existent, save as his knowledge of it bore upon 
 his diagnosis. Nevertheless, as he simply sat 
 at my side, his hand resting for a little while 
 upon my wrist, his eyes fixed with their search- 
 ing but soothing directness upon my face, I un- 
 derstood suddenly the remarkable influx of 
 vigor and repose which Irving had always re- 
 ceived from his visits during his various ill- 
 nesses. I should rather say, I felt the same 
 thing in myself. I understood the psychic 
 causes of it even less than before. 
 
 " You are better, and I hope you have now 
 escaped the great risk you ran into," he said 
 briefly, smiling slightly at the energy of my 
 movements. "When he released my wrist I had 
 clasped both hands together and thrown them 
 with a movement habitual to me above my head. 
 " That is not a good thing to do, just now, 
 though." 
 
 I looked up at him with surprise and ques- 
 tion in my eyes, then with a child's instant docil- 
 ity drew my arms down and let them lie deco- 
 rously at my sides.
 
 [ 219 ] CHAP. XVIII 
 
 " I don't know how to behave," I said meekly. 
 " I have always been ridiculously well." 
 
 " So I see. Probably that is one reason why 
 you have not been awake to the need of taking 
 better care of yourself lately." 
 
 My eyes fell. 
 
 "I have tried to be careful," I murmured 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 Dr. Kirke shook his head. Then he said 
 gently, 
 
 " I saw on Thursday night that you were 
 running a serious risk in the way you dressed. 
 Probably no one not professional would have 
 suspected your condition. That was all wrong 
 all wrong," he repeated with a touch of se- 
 verity. 
 
 I pressed my lips together rebelliously and 
 felt that I hated this man worse now than when 
 I saw him first. 
 
 "I saw, too, that you danced a good deal, 
 danced several dances in succession the mo- 
 tion was sustained for a considerable time. Did 
 you not know the danger this might bring upon 
 you?"
 
 CHAP. XVIII [ 22O ] 
 
 I shook my head. What right had he to be 
 watching everything I did Thursday night? 
 
 " You see what it did bring upon you," he 
 remarked quietly. I did not reply, but tapped 
 the coverlet impatiently with my finger-tips. 
 He was all astray, but I could not tell him so. 
 
 " Mrs. Lloyd, you will pardon me, but the 
 question could hardly fail to rise in my mind 
 last night whether you were not willing to run 
 this risk, as many women unhappily are," and 
 his eyes searched mine with unrelenting serious- 
 ness. " If this was the case I must insist upon 
 knowing it, and I must ask you to employ an- 
 other physician." 
 
 I returned his look, my eyes unswerving, 
 flashing a reply half frank, half fierce, wholly 
 indignant. 
 
 " You are cruel, cruel ! " I exclaimed. " I 
 never wanted anything so much as I want my 
 baby ; I may be very bad, but I have a little good 
 grain too ! " and with that I burst into passion- 
 ate weeping. 
 
 " It was not my fault, it was not what you
 
 [ 221 ] CHAP. XVIII 
 
 think," I wailed piteously. " It was not the dan- 
 cing or the other " and remembering with 
 sudden vividness the physical shock I had re- 
 ceived, and under what circumstances, a long 
 shuddering sob broke from me. 
 
 Dr. Kirke placed one hand upon my fore- 
 head, with the other smoothing my hands with 
 a firm, gentle motion. Instantly I became per- 
 fectly calm. 
 
 " There, there," he said with incredible ten- 
 derness, " it is all right. You are a good girl, 
 and you shall be taken good care of. I will not 
 scold you any more. You have had your lesson. 
 Keep perfectly still now for twenty-four hours, 
 and I will see you to-morrow." 
 
 For three days I appeared to improve, al- 
 though I thought I saw that the Doctor was 
 somewhat troubled, not perfectly satisfied. On 
 Wednesday night Irving went for him in hot 
 haste. I was violently ill. 
 
 Throughout the night the Doctor, to my 
 feverish fancy, seemed to hold in his hand thun- 
 derbolts of pain which he darted into my frame
 
 CHAP. XVIII [ 222 ] 
 
 in a steady, remorseless rhythm of inconceiv- 
 able agony. I was sure the wielding of that tor- 
 ture was all in his hands. 
 
 Quiet came at sunrise and with it the death 
 of my hope. They were all pitiful and kind, but 
 I begged them all to go and leave me, for my 
 heart I thought was broken. 
 
 My recovery was prompt and natural and 
 the Doctor's attendance ceased almost at once. 
 Fixed between us lay my weak but passionate 
 resentment that he believed me by my vanity 
 and lightmindedness verily guilty for the loss 
 of my child. In a far deeper sense I knew I was 
 touched by this taint, but I chose to cherish this 
 superficial vexation regarding his misunder- 
 standing, the better to cloak to myself my mor- 
 tal pain.
 
 XIX 
 
 WHEN three weeks had passed I was able to 
 move about the house again, and I had ceased 
 to be interesting, as far as my physical condi- 
 tion was concerned, even to my husband and my 
 nurse. Miss Webster had come to us immedi- 
 ately upon my being taken ill. Irving left home 
 for a business expedition to the West. Miss 
 Webster began to talk of leaving, but we per- 
 suaded her to remain during Irving's absence 
 that I might not be left alone. 
 
 All the while I knew that I was less perfectly 
 recovered than appeared. Not for one moment 
 had the pain ceased in my bruised side since 
 that night of horror. There were times when it 
 became excruciating, but always I kept it reso- 
 lutely to myself. What if it should by any 
 chance become known to Dr. Kirke? I had a
 
 CHAP. XIX [ 224: ] 
 
 conviction that if this happened the corroding 
 shame which defiled my memory could not es- 
 cape his searching eyes. From this I shrank 
 supremely and I hid my pain with a ferocity of 
 determination, hoping against hope that it 
 would gradually leave me. Sometimes I hoped 
 that it would swiftly kill me, but that I reflected 
 bitterly would be more merciful than life and 
 death as I had found them. 
 
 The day after Irving left it seemed for a few 
 hours as if all my painful concealment had been 
 in vain. I had a sharp chill, followed by a very 
 high temperature and intense headache. In 
 spite of my protests and persuasions, the nurse 
 sent for Dr. Kirke. He questioned me very 
 closely and seemed to ponder my condition with 
 troubled and even perplexed seriousness. I 
 treated the whole matter as lightly as possible, 
 answered all his questions as briefly as I could 
 and insisted peevishly that the attack must be 
 malarial I knew it was precisely like illnesses 
 Irving had had when a little quinine and care 
 had pulled him out in short order.
 
 [ 225 ] CHAP. XIX 
 
 The Doctor rose after I had thus delivered 
 myself. With quiet emphasis he said to me, 
 
 " Do not carry this too far." Then, remark- 
 ing that under the circumstances he could not 
 prescribe, he left with a curt good-by. He per- 
 ceived my lack of frankness plainly. I saw that 
 he did and was the more afraid of him. 
 
 The next day, after a sleepless night, I per- 
 sisted in rising and dressing myself in a house 
 gown without the nurse's assistance. Having 
 had breakfast in my room I came down to the 
 library at ten o'clock and went straight to my 
 desk. With all the nerve and control which I 
 could rally I forced myself to sit erect and to 
 write without perceptible trembling in my hand 
 the note I had determined to send to the Doctor. 
 It told him briefly and formally that I was quite 
 myself, dressed and about the house, and that 
 it would be unnecessary for him to take the time 
 from his pressing engagements to call upon me 
 again. I regretted that the nurse had troubled 
 him on so slight an occasion, etc. 
 
 Having despatched this note (of which I did 
 
 15
 
 CHAP. XIX [ 226 ] 
 
 not choose Miss Webster to have knowledge) by 
 special messenger to Dr. Kirke's house, I moved 
 restlessly about my hall and library. I was bent 
 on galvanizing myself into energy, on forcing 
 upon myself oblivion of my bodily anguish. I 
 paused before the open book-shelves with which 
 the room was lined. Why not read ? I had al- 
 ways been able to divert myself with books in 
 the small ailments I had hitherto known. At 
 random I drew a book from the selves and flut- 
 tered its leaves over with hot and trembling 
 hand. My eye caught a startling heading in 
 large print over a page: "How Love Looked 
 for Hell." I tried to read and discern the mean- 
 ing but it was dim to me. But on the same page 
 I found the following and this I read with swift, 
 eager eyes to the last word : 
 
 " Thou Ship of Earth, with Death, and Birth and Life 
 
 and Sex aboard. 
 
 And fires of Desires burning hotly in the hold, 
 I fear thee, 0! I fear thee, for I hear the tongue and 
 
 Sword 
 At battle on the deck, and the wild mutineers are bold.
 
 [ 237 ] CHAP. XIX 
 
 " The dewdrop morn may fall from off the petal of the sky, 
 But all the deck is wet with blood and stains the 
 
 crystal red. 
 
 A pilot, God, a pilot ! for the helm is left awry, 
 And the best sailors in the ship lie there among the 
 dead! 11 
 
 What did the man mean who wrote it? What 
 did it mean to me who read it? I could not have 
 told, but I felt the answer to both questions, 
 dimly, inarticulately. It troubled me, and I 
 tossed the book away with a little groan and 
 clasped my hands hard against my side. What 
 was this clutching, tearing thing with beak and 
 talons which I called pain? If I called it pleas- 
 ure would it not serve as well ? What was pain 
 what was pleasure? Why could I not make 
 use of the theories of Christian Science? Pain 
 was not ; fever was not. I was in perfect health 
 if I would but believe so. Neither was there 
 any sin. Evil was only delusion. What then of 
 the facts burned into my consciousness and 
 burning there unceasingly? Were they too de- 
 lusion? Was that room with its seductive re-
 
 CHAP. XIX [ 228 ] 
 
 finement of beauty only a mirage, a fevered 
 dream? What of Boss Kimball? his terrible 
 tenderness, his scorching passion, his lips upon 
 my shoulder, the shafts of his scorn piercing my 
 heart? Were these all may a, may a? Oh, if that 
 could only be true ! But if all these were delu- 
 sion I too was a delusion, a burning, throbbing, 
 demoniacal, delirious nothing, and nothing was 
 but what was not! I laughed aloud and knew 
 the sound of my laughing was weird and gro- 
 tesque. 
 
 Perhaps Boss Kimball himself was a delu- 
 sion. Certainly no sign or token of any sort 
 whatsoever had reached me of his existence 
 since that Thursday night. I wondered idly if 
 he had discovered the Carlier gown and the or- 
 naments where I had left them ; if he had taken 
 them on his own arm and carried them up that 
 steep iron stair and laid them in the still beauty 
 of that shameful room. I could see him enter it. 
 The hyacinths and roses would be drooping. The 
 lustrous trailing garment would again be re- 
 flected in the mirror, but its folds would hang
 
 [ 229 ] CHAP. XIX 
 
 limp and lifeless. The panel thus made would 
 not have the artistic effect for which he had so 
 carefully striven, when a warm, living woman, 
 passion pale, her firm, rounded limbs caressed 
 by its folds, should have been reflected there! 
 How well I discerned all that had been in his 
 refined epicurean fancy. He had prepared a po- 
 tent spell for flesh and sense ; he had looked to be 
 drunk with beauty, exhilarated with conquest 
 and this was the end spurning and mockery 
 and hard hate : an empty room, an empty gown. 
 Did the keys which were to have been mine still 
 lie on the marquetry table? What would he do 
 with the Boldini now? Perhaps the woman 
 whom he chose next would like it; but many 
 people did not fancy it overmuch. I could see 
 him now as he turned from the room. The mir- 
 ror slipped back to its place, the door swung to 
 on its hinges and shut fast. He was coming 
 down the stairs and where the insolence of con- 
 fident anticipation had been beating in his brain 
 the poison of hate and revenge were working 
 now. What would their working be 1 Cruel as
 
 CHAP. XIX [ 23O ] 
 
 the grave, that I knew, but subtle and studied 
 after the man's fashion. Should I ever see him 
 again? and would he caress me with his eyes 
 before he killed me 1 ? For of course he would 
 kill me in soul, in spirit, if not in body. Per- 
 haps he had killed me already. 
 
 In my pacing of the library I had come back 
 to the fireplace and now stood on the hearth- 
 rug, beside Irving's great-chair, on the spot 
 where Koss Kimball had stood when I first saw 
 him. Again I seemed to see him bodily before 
 me, distinguished, graceful, ironical, with that 
 mysterious appeal of his to the nerves which 
 set them all in vibration. Something passed 
 through me like an electric shock. I seemed to 
 myself paralyzed. Instinctively I put out my 
 hand and touched the arm of the chair to find 
 if I could feel it it seemed far away. Chairs 
 too were delusions then all was maya, yes, all. 
 Then I fell unconscious. 
 
 When I came to myself I was lying on the 
 broad leather-covered library lounge, and the 
 nurse was moistening my lips with some pun-
 
 [331] CHAP. XIX 
 
 gent drug. I looked at her and instantly remem- 
 bered everything. 
 
 " Whatever you do, whatever happens to 
 me," I articulated distinctly but with difficulty, 
 " do not send for Dr. Kirke." 
 
 " I have not sent for him," she whispered ; 
 " but he is here." 
 
 Then I saw that some one stood behind her, 
 and Dr. Kirke pushed her gently away and bent 
 over me. He did not speak. What did he mean 
 to do? He seemed to be unfastening the front 
 of my dress; it had already been loosened and 
 laid back from my neck while I had been uncon- 
 scious. Dark reddish streaks had thus become 
 visible raying upward from the inflammation 
 below. 
 
 "What are you doing? " I whispered, look- 
 ing up into his face with frightened eyes and 
 pushing feebly at his hands. 
 
 "Be quiet," he said not unkindly, but in a 
 way which told me it was useless to struggle 
 against him. " There is trouble here. Turn if 
 you please on the left side," and with the words
 
 CHAP. XIX [232] 
 
 he himself moved me as if I had been a child. 
 With sure and steady hands he drew or cut 
 away my inner clothing, asked the nurse for 
 more light from the nearest window, and then 
 sent her for a bowl of hot water, antiseptics and 
 linen cloths. 
 
 I tried weakly to turn, to push him away, to 
 rearrange my clothing. I was frightened, de- 
 fiant, maddened almost that he had discovered 
 my secret, but most of all I was powerless. His 
 hand, strong, unyielding, albeit gentle, held me 
 fast. He spoke in the most matter-of-fact man- 
 ner, an undertone of easy habitual control just 
 perceptible. 
 
 " It is necessary, Mrs. Lloyd, to lance this 
 abscess which is making you so much trouble, 
 without delay. It is not safe to neglect it for 
 another hour. Have I your permission?" 
 
 " Yes," I said with defiant coldness. " I do 
 not care what you do now, Dr. Kirke." 
 
 " That is right. That is all we want." 
 
 I heard steps. The door opened. Miss Web- 
 ster returned.
 
 [ 233 ] CHAP. XIX 
 
 " I will ask you to hold Mrs. Lloyd's hands," 
 the Doctor said in an undertone with a swift ges- 
 ture. She obeyed, coming to the opposite side 
 of the lounge and kneeling with an anxious, 
 pitying face beside me. Then I closed my eyes, 
 hopeless of further resistance. Scalding tears 
 flowed down my cheeks, but I held my body 
 motionless. 
 
 Then followed the poignant darting pang of 
 the lancet which I bore without a tremor. The 
 nurse bent then and kissed my bare arm as it 
 lay across her white apron. I could feel her 
 tears. She loved me. 
 
 The Doctor worked over the wound for a few 
 painful moments more with his skilled but un- 
 sparing touch; then the soft coolness of the 
 smooth linen bandages, firmly, swiftly drawn, 
 succeeded; he turned me gently to an easier 
 position and the physical ordeal was over. 
 
 " What right had you? " I murmured, flash- 
 ing still unquenched defiance through my tears, 
 and the desperation of my weakness. " I wrote 
 to you not to come."
 
 CHAP. XIX [ 334 ] 
 
 He looked at me with a smile of genuine 
 amusement. 
 
 " It was too bad, was it not? I received the 
 note and wondered how much longer you would 
 hold out. Unluckily, we doctors have to take an 
 oath to save people's lives if we can, even when 
 they don't want us to." 
 
 Then he followed the nurse out of the room 
 to wash his hands. When he returned I was 
 quite calm and already easier. The Doctor 
 stood by the table and looked over at me with a 
 musing half-smile on his face. 
 
 " Mrs. Lloyd," he said, with slow, peculiar 
 emphasis, "you have any amount of grit and 
 of sense, as you have shown just now and often 
 before. How does it happen that you can act 
 like pardon me ! to put it moderately a con- 
 genital idiot? " the words were spoken with a 
 whimsical cadence which saved them from 
 harshness. 
 
 " What do you mean? " I asked simply, feel- 
 ing much less vindictive than a few minutes be- 
 fore.
 
 [ 335 ] CHAP. XIX 
 
 " You have received a serious injury on 
 your side which has resulted in this gathering. 
 It happened several weeks ago, I perceive. It 
 has been criminally neglected. Why?" 
 
 " For a reason that I can never explain to 
 you or to any other person," I said after a pain- 
 ful pause. 
 
 There was a long silence, broken only by 
 a choking sob now and then which I could not 
 perfectly suppress. I lifted my eyes at last. 
 Dr. Kirke was looking down upon me as I 
 lay in my piteous weakness with a grave 
 compassion which softened his face to tender- 
 ness. 
 
 " You do not need to, poor child," and as he 
 spoke he stepped nearer and placed his hand 
 not on my forehead, but on my head as if in ab- 
 solving benediction. In another moment he was 
 gone. 
 
 But in that simple action the Doctor had con- 
 veyed to me a sense that, whatever had been or 
 was yet to be, he mysteriously comprehended 
 the nature of my suffering, the sin-sickness
 
 CHAP. XIX [ 236 ] 
 
 which lay upon me so heavily, and that in 
 spite of all he believed in me. I knew that his 
 faith once bestowed was impregnable. I knew 
 that I had found a friend. I took courage to 
 believe a very little in myself.
 
 IRVING returned from the West and settled 
 into his ordinary routine of work, hopeful of 
 brilliant results from his association with Eoss 
 Kimball's building operation. Upon the in- 
 dorsement and recommendation of the great 
 financier he felt his future in large measure to 
 depend. 
 
 I soon began to recover rapidly, but I was 
 obliged to retain my nurse, Miss Webster, to 
 dress the wound in my side. The Doctor looked 
 in now and then to make sure that all was right. 
 Sarah Kirke came often to see me and treated 
 me with a certain imperative, motherly kind- 
 ness. I awoke shortly to the fact that she was 
 the only person who did visit me. Mine had 
 been a long and painful and disastrous illness, 
 but as I looked back I suddenly became aware 
 that after the first week not a soul, save a neigh-
 
 CHAP. XX [ 238 ] 
 
 bor or two, no one in fine from my proper world, 
 had been near me, had so much as sent me a mes- 
 sage, a note or a flower. And in our world we 
 did so much of that kind of thing! My rector 
 had not even inquired at my door, so far as I 
 could hear; and where was his wife, my, com- 
 panion in the Paris days, my most obliging and 
 altogether unconscious decoy bird? The same, 
 I found on reflection, was true of her. 
 
 The autumn weather was fine that year. I 
 began to go out a little, walking slowly, and not 
 quite steadily at first in the nearest park. No 
 one invited me to drive, although most of my 
 friends kept horses. Occasionally I met ac- 
 quaintances. They stopped and spoke with me 
 politely, and I detected curiosity at least in their 
 concern, but I felt something of constraint, even 
 of uneasiness in their manner. Moreover, they 
 were always on their way to some very imme- 
 diate appointment. I would return with a dull 
 and leaden weight on my spirit, would be grate- 
 ful to my nurse for liking to be with me, and 
 would seek to interest myself in the old vivid
 
 [ 339 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 fashion, in making and keeping my house shin- 
 ing and beautiful. But there seemed so little 
 motive now. No one ever came to see us any 
 more, and Irving was always preoccupied I 
 found in those days, unresponsive and unob- 
 servant. He looked careworn, hollow-cheeked 
 and blue-lipped. Sometimes I would ask him 
 questions regarding his professional work, 
 thinking he might be missing my participation. 
 I was not strong yet, but I could begin a little 
 on the old lines again and perhaps it would do 
 me good. However, he always turned me off 
 with some colorless excuse which I dimly felt 
 covered something like resentment at the sug- 
 gestion that he could need my help. I began to 
 surmise that there was very little to help about, 
 the rather as his old, almost forgotten habit 
 of fretting and petty nagging about trifles 
 of household and personal expense returned 
 strangely upon him, adding to the cheerlessness 
 of the situation. He let me know plainly after 
 a little that he considered it a reckless piece of 
 extravagance to keep the nurse when I was so
 
 CHAP. XX [ 240 ] 
 
 far recovered. I dismissed her promptly and 
 thereafter I was left to sit day after day in my 
 silent house and brood over the swift punish- 
 ment meted out to one who was bold enough to 
 thwart Ross Kimball's cherished purposes. No 
 human being but himself could guess the travail 
 of my spirit in any degree. He, least of all, per- 
 haps, could have understood its deeps. The 
 pain of this social ostracism was but the faint 
 reflex of the awful sense of defiled womanhood 
 which I had borne within since that night. 
 
 But worse was to follow. One morning 
 while I walked alone in the park with slow, aim- 
 less feet, quick steps came behind me and a man 
 I knew very slightly in the fashionable world, 
 by name Mortimer Masson, overtook me and 
 walked beside me. This man, known for a 
 worthless, contemptible degenerate, was tole- 
 rated in society because his family was one of 
 Colonial distinction, one of the oldest in the com- 
 monwealth, and he still clung to a remnant of 
 what had been a considerable fortune. The man 
 had always been odious to me. I had shunned
 
 [ 241 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 him invariably from the first time I met him, 
 but he had contrived to maintain a bare bowing 
 acquaintance with me, never more. On this oc- 
 casion I was struck immediately by a change in 
 his bearing toward me. He greeted me with 
 confident familiarity, and as we walked on I felt 
 his eyes resting on my face with a flattery of 
 scarcely disguised insolence. I sought to hurry 
 on and escape, but this was obviously impossible, 
 as a long, unbroken path extended before us and 
 the park must be traversed and a wide square 
 'crossed before I could win my own door. 
 
 Masson began at once to enlarge upon the 
 hardship my prolonged absence had caused my 
 admirers ; I had hardly been seen since the Kim- 
 ball affair; what a thoroughly vulgar, parvenu 
 show it had been, by the way ! These self-made 
 men were all insufferable. They thought they 
 could buy everything, but blood and breeding 
 were not commercial commodities. No woman 
 of taste could tolerate a man of that stamp very 
 long. That he could understand perfectly. Then 
 followed a torrent of fulsome flattery of my ap- 
 
 16
 
 CHAP. XX [ 242 ] 
 
 pearance on that night, which lasted until we 
 came in sight of my own house, when he saluted 
 me with exaggerated gallantry and walked away. 
 
 That day I ate no food. Hour after hour I 
 spent in tasting instead the bitter flavor of the 
 cup pressed to my lips to drink. Surely worse 
 than this could not be. 
 
 So I sat alone with my wordless wretched- 
 ness when in the afternoon Irving came home 
 in the early twilight, earlier than his wont. I 
 was surprised that he did not presently come 
 into the library to greet me. I heard him go 
 up-stairs, and when half an hour had passed I 
 followed and found him lying on a sofa near the 
 fireplace in the wide upper hall. There was 
 neither fire nor light. 
 
 " Why, my dear ! " I exclaimed, with a deter- 
 mined effort to appear myself, my heart crying 
 out for a look and word of tenderness from him, 
 " the idea of your staying up here in the dark ! 
 Let me build up the fire and we will have a cozy 
 twilight talk together. You came home early, 
 didn't you?"
 
 [ 243 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 " I hope you will not build a fire, Sidney," 
 Irving replied with icy gloom. " You know, I 
 suppose, how expensive wood is. At least let us 
 save unnecessary expenses. We have got to cut 
 down somewhere." 
 
 " Yes, certainly, Irving. I am sorry I for- 
 got. Are you quite well, dear? " and with this 
 I drew a footstool up by the sofa and sat down, 
 drawing his hand between my own. 
 
 " As well as usual, I believe," he said briefly. 
 
 He left his hand lying in mine, but without 
 the faintest response of touch or pressure. I 
 might as well have held his glove. There was 
 absolute silence. Stirred by his peculiarly im- 
 passive gloom I said at length, 
 
 " Would you rather I would go away, Ir- 
 ving? " 
 
 " I do not know that I care particularly," he 
 replied coldly after a pause of some seconds. 
 
 I rose then, deeply hurt, and went to my own 
 room. The deck-chair I had brought home with 
 me from the Lucania stood always under my 
 window. In it I lay in the chill and darkness
 
 CHAP. XX [ 244 ] 
 
 alone for an hour, wondering what new turn the 
 wheel of torture was to take. 
 
 The next day it was the same, and the day 
 after. Each day Irving confronted me with the 
 same haggard, careworn countenance, the stark 
 gloom in his eyes, the bitter compression of his 
 lips, the invariable cold repulse to my efforts at 
 sympathy and understanding. I should have 
 thought that a supreme inner suffering would 
 have made me less sensitive to outward sources 
 of depression, but I did not find it so. Every 
 night I lay awake in nameless apprehension, 
 feeling all the fabric of our life and of our home 
 crumbling down about us, with lover and friend 
 put far from me, and nowhere help or hope. 
 
 I was still far from strong and my nerves 
 had been profoundly shaken. On the fourth 
 day Irving appeared earlier than on previous 
 days and walked into the upper room where I 
 sat in a long white wrapper my side still 
 troubled me trying to embroider a poor bit of 
 drapery which I loathed. When I saw on his 
 face the same grim, desperate darkness, deeper
 
 [ 245 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 it seemed to me than ever, I realized that the 
 climax was reached, for I could bear no more. 
 
 " Irving ! " I cried, with piercing earnest- 
 ness, " tell me what is the matter or I shall be 
 insane. You are killing me, dear, by the way 
 you treat me. "Whatever has happened, let me 
 know it, let us bear it together." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be better if we were both 
 dead," he replied with sullen hardness. 
 
 I rose from my reclining chair and stepped 
 toward him. My spirit was roused at last and I 
 faced him without fear or flinching. 
 
 " You shall tell me what you mean," I said 
 sternly. "I will not bear this silence another 
 minute." 
 
 " I imagine you know what I mean, Sidney, 
 pretty well already," he said, glancing aside and 
 throwing himself on the deep window-seat wear- 
 ily. "In fact, I judge that you could if you 
 chose fill out in full what I only know in broken 
 hints." 
 
 " Tell what are the broken hints and I can 
 answer you," I said haughtily, with an uncon-
 
 CHAP. XX [ 346 ] 
 
 trollable sinking in my heart as I saw that his 
 faith in me was not beyond swerving. 
 
 " You really want me to, do you? " he said, 
 fixing a gaunt, bitter glance upon my face. 
 
 I bent my head. 
 
 " Very well, then. This is the kind of thing 
 the Clubs are full of just now a little perhaps 
 will be all you will care for Lloyd is no archi- 
 tect, he has failed flat in everything he has un- 
 dertaken, conspicuously on his interior work for 
 Ross Kimball's house, which had to be com- 
 pletely reconstructed by Hook. His wife has 
 to have luxuries, so she finds ways to get them 
 for herself. Ross Kimball took a fancy to her 
 for a little while, and spent enough money on 
 her in Paris to set up a provincial bank, but he 
 is deadly tired of her now." 
 
 Here Irving broke off. Something in my 
 face I think frightened him. 
 
 "Go on," I whispered hoarsely, my throat 
 had become chalk dry. 
 
 "I should think that was enough. It was 
 enough for me any way. This though is par-
 
 [ 247 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 ticularly choice Boss Kimball, they are say- 
 ing, has promised Mort Masson to keep him in 
 wine and cigars a year if he will take my 
 wife off his hands." 
 
 With this Irving rose, thrust his hands deep 
 in his pockets and strode up and down the room, 
 his face fairly livid, his eyes on the floor. 
 
 I stood motionless, save that, having just be- 
 fore taken up a fine embroidered handkerchief 
 from my dressing-table, I now, with absolute 
 unconsciousness of what I was doing, began 
 tearing it with nice deliberation into narrow, 
 even strips. This action presently caught Ir- 
 ving's eye. He stopped and stood watching my 
 hands silently for an instant. Then, in a change 
 of tone from the tragic intensity which had 
 marked the conversation thus far to one of triv- 
 ial fretfulness, he asked sharply, 
 
 " Isn't that a particularly expensive hand- 
 kerchief, Sidney?" 
 
 I looked at him steadily, musing a little on 
 the curious unreality which this question seemed 
 to cast on all that had gone before.
 
 CHAP. XX [ 348 ] 
 
 " Yes," I said slowly, perceiving what I had 
 done. "I ought to have selected a commoner 
 one/' 
 
 I spoke with perfect gravity. I do not think 
 Irving detected the ghastly sarcasm. He went 
 on walking. I watched his misery and grew 
 gentle. 
 
 " My husband does not believe these things," 
 I said. " Of that I can be sure, so we will not 
 quite despair, even yet." 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 " Surely, Irving," I cried then with urgent 
 appeal, " you can not let me think that you do 
 believe that I am what they say ! " 
 
 " I do not want to, Sidney ; you may be sure 
 of that. It has been killing me, and not slowly 
 either, all this week but what can I think? 
 Where there is so much smoke there is always 
 some fire. And you know Ross Kimball has 
 taken you about and given you expensive things 
 oh, you know it all better than I do ! " and his 
 look was of weary disgust. 
 
 "Irving," I said, with the quietness which
 
 [ 349 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 despair gives, for I felt that I had sounded now 
 the lowest depths of human misery, " all that 
 I have accepted from that man has been with 
 your express knowledge and approval," and I 
 recalled to his mind the events that have been 
 recounted here. Of the room which had been 
 prepared for me I found it impossible to speak 
 to Irving. Instinct told me that it was better 
 to bury that in silence. 
 
 " Is this all all that has happened between 
 you 1 " he questioned harshly. 
 
 " No." My head dropped then and my voice 
 faltered. " On the night we were at his house, 
 that second of October, he made it known to me 
 that he wished an impossible relation to exist 
 between us. I found then that all he had done 
 for me, for us both, had been with this horrid 
 end in view." 
 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 Then I looked straight in my husband's 
 face and felt no veil of shame upon my own. 
 
 " The only thing I could do, Irving. I re- 
 pulsed, rejected everything, fairly fled from
 
 CHAP. XX [ 35O ] 
 
 him. Of course he will never forgive me but 
 at least oh Irving ! " 
 
 With all my soul hanging upon him, with its 
 supreme and solemn appeal for his sovereign 
 wrath, his protecting pity, I suddenly perceived 
 that of all these none was in his face. Its look 
 was of dogged dejection and disfavor. Then I 
 cried to God, for I knew that vain was the help 
 of man. I had sounded now a deep still below 
 the deep. 
 
 " Of course he will never forgive you, nor 
 me either," Irving was saying, I found a little 
 later. "You should have foreseen this, know- 
 ing what was at stake. You could have used a 
 little finesse in turning him away. There must 
 have been some way to soften things down a 
 little and not make a man like that your bitter 
 enemy." 
 
 My limbs seemed suddenly to lose their 
 strength. I dropped back upon my reclining 
 chair, staring blankly. 
 
 Irving stepped forward and stood looking 
 down upon me.
 
 [ 251 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 " We are undone, Sidney, that is the whole 
 of it. It is shipwreck, nothing less. Ross Kim- 
 ball is strong enough to sink any man when he 
 sets out, as many a man knows to his sorrow- 
 as I am finding out every day now. And as for 
 a woman's reputation well, we won't talk about 
 it any more. You have been very imprudent" 
 (and his voice added by its inflection " if noth- 
 ing more "), " and the sooner we can get away 
 
 from C now the better it will be for both 
 
 of us. I can not live where I am no longer re- 
 spected. Good-by, Sidney." 
 
 "Where are you going?" I asked mechan- 
 ically, my lips moving stiffly, with difficulty to 
 frame the words. 
 
 " Back to Boston. You needn't have dinner 
 for me. I have arranged to dine at the Parker 
 House with a man who may be willing to buy the 
 house, if you consent, and if we can agree on 
 terms. We will talk it over later." 
 
 He bent and kissed me, but his kiss was cold. 
 He went immediately down-stairs and in a few 
 minutes more the outer door closed upon him.
 
 CHAP. XX [ 252 ] 
 
 So the house was going too ! Had I not felt it 
 crumble in the night when all was still? This 
 was shipwreck, Irving said. If only the waves 
 would close quickly over my head ! Then there 
 strayed back into my mind, by some trick of as- 
 sociation, the lines which I had read that other 
 day. Slowly, audibly I repeated them, calling 
 each word back as I pronounced it from the 
 blank of forgetfulness. 
 
 " A pilot, God, a pilot ! for the helm is left awry, 
 And the best sailors in the ship lie there among the 
 dead I " 
 
 As in paroxysms of physical agony some 
 formula of words, however unmeaning, will me- 
 chanically reiterate itself on the lips of the suf- 
 ferer, so in the hour which followed, these two 
 lines said themselves perpetually in my brain. 
 
 Some one knocked at length on my door, just 
 as the lights began to shine out in the street 
 below. It was my maid. 
 
 " Dr. Kirke has come, Mrs. Lloyd. Would 
 you wish to see him up here? I think, ma'am, 
 he is rather in a hurry."
 
 [ 253 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 For a moment I could not think who Dr. 
 Kirke was. The maid waited patiently a full 
 minute, while I rose, crossed the room to my 
 dressing-table, looked mechanically at my hair, 
 and then turned to her and said, 
 
 " Who did you say had come f " 
 
 She repeated her first statement word for 
 word. 
 
 I forced myself to look at her with intelli- 
 gence and recognition of what she said. I be- 
 lieve I even smiled. 
 
 " Yes. Let him come up here if he will." 
 
 Then, in so short a time that I was sure he 
 must have followed her up the stairs, Dr. Kirke 
 came into the room. I saw at once that he was 
 preoccupied with some grave anxiety and in 
 haste. He did not take the chair I offered. 
 
 " How is the side ? Is the nurse dressing it 
 regularly, as I told her? " 
 
 " I let the nurse go, Dr. Kirke, a week ago." 
 
 The Doctor frowned. 
 
 " What in the name of common sense did you 
 do that for? " and a quick motion of his hand
 
 CHAP. XX [ 254 ] 
 
 indicated that he must himself examine condi- 
 tions. In weary submission and unbroken si- 
 lence I removed the sleeve of my wrapper and 
 adjusted the inner clothing. While I did this 
 the Doctor with quick movements had drawn the 
 shades and turned on the light. Warm water 
 and towels were just at hand. Without a word 
 on either side he went through the process of 
 removing the dry, heated dressings, cleansing 
 the wound still not fully healed and putting on 
 fresh bandages. His touch I noticed was pecu- 
 liarly rapid and dexterous, but so gentle that I 
 almost felt the pity in his finger-tips. 
 
 He rose when all was done and remarked 
 that I was not having quite the care that the case 
 demanded. 
 
 " I must look after you a little better, I see," 
 he said, and smiled his quiet smile, then grew 
 graver as he observed my face and asked me a 
 few questions. " My sister is coming to see you 
 to-night, I believe," he added later, " or to-mor- 
 row morning." 
 
 He bowed then a silent good-by, and with
 
 [ 255 ] CHAP. XX 
 
 light but firm, rapid step left the room. But 
 when I was left alone I experienced in an ex- 
 traordinary degree the irresistible effluence of 
 comfort and uplifting which flowed from Dr. 
 Kirke's mere presence and from his silent, 
 steady power. 
 
 He had said not one word of sympathy to 
 me, barely one of passing personal interest. 
 He had sought to convey no significance in looks 
 which he would not commit to speech. Never- 
 theless, I knew as perfectly as if he had sworn 
 to it, that though I was all that calumny had 
 made me and he knew it, he would still have 
 looked upon me with his great compassion with- 
 out hardness or contempt and would still have 
 sought to succor me, body and soul, with his 
 healing touch. Tears came to me then and 
 sleep.
 
 XXI 
 
 SARAH KIKKE came early in the morning 
 and the maid brought her to my room. 
 
 " You are a lamb," she assured me bending 
 over my bed and using her somewhat abrupt 
 style of petting. " You are a lamb and you are 
 going to be gathered in arms and carried in 
 bosoms for a while now. It is high time ! Come, 
 put out your feet and I will slip on your stock- 
 ings." 
 
 " I am afraid I am not able to get up, Miss 
 Kirke," I said, turning a plaintive look up to- 
 ward her. It was so new to be petted after this 
 fashion. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said cheerfully, "you will 
 feel better after you have been up a little. I 
 will help you to dress and then put you in my 
 carriage which is waiting, and take you home 
 with me for a fortnight at least. You need 
 looking after."
 
 [ 257 ] CHAP. XXI 
 
 Obstacles and arguments were borne down 
 with imperative decision. Irving's comfort was 
 amply provided for. Everything had been con- 
 sidered. I went with her. I knew perfectly 
 well that if I had remained proud and prosper- 
 ous and popular this woman's interest would 
 not have been bestowed upon me, and never 
 should I have been taken into her home save as 
 a formal visitor to its outer courts. But now 
 I was poor, suffering, neglected, slandered, 
 broken-hearted. All that gave others the ex- 
 cuse to pass me by on the other side gave me my 
 claim on Sarah Kirke's innermost treasures of 
 sustaining sympathy. I did not know, however, 
 until long afterward, that this present line of 
 action was the result of an impulse of the Doc- 
 tor's conceived only at the moment when he told 
 me that his sister would call upon me soon. 
 
 I had never been beyond Miss Kirke's recep- 
 tion-room before. The moment I entered the 
 rooms in which she and the Doctor lived I felt 
 in them the vitalizing atmosphere of their in- 
 mates. It was an enormous house, and it was 
 
 17
 
 CHAP. XXI [ 258 ] 
 
 only the second floor which was given up to in- 
 valid guests. I was not counted as one of these, 
 but rather as one of the family. 
 
 The first floor contained in separate suites 
 the offices and private apartments of the Kirkes, 
 and beside these a great library, hall and dining- 
 room. Everywhere I found certain things in 
 evidence: spotless cleanliness, comfort, repose, 
 simplicity, books and sunshine. There seemed 
 to have been no calculation for esthetic effect; 
 there was no elaborate overrefinement, no co- 
 quetry of things, no finesse in these rooms. All 
 was homely, low-toned, destitute of self -con- 
 sciousness. In fine they bore a masculine rather 
 than a feminine expression. But the library 
 was lined with books to the ceiling, save for the 
 wide, uncurtained windows which always stood 
 open level with the lovely old garden ; the chim- 
 ney was enormous and in it great logs were al- 
 ways burning with a heart of deep-red embers 
 beneath ; a great oak table, as sturdy and strong 
 as the Doctor, held endless store of magazines 
 and books, chiefly indeed scientific I found ; and
 
 [ 259 ] CHAP. XXI 
 
 there was an unstinted number of no less sturdy 
 and inviting easy-chairs. Dogs were every- 
 where, small and great. Sarah Kirke's favor- 
 ite was a white collie, but I immediately adopted 
 for my own intimate companionship a large 
 Irish setter named Barbarossa, commonly 
 known as Bab. Something in his somber eyes 
 under the amorphous, overhanging brow, to- 
 gether with his mild mouth, suggested his mas- 
 ter to me in a curious and even moving degree. 
 The presence of so much wholesome animal life 
 ever about me, strong, sluggish even, destitute 
 of self-consciousness or introspection, minis- 
 tered I believe in a large degree to my recovery 
 of poise and health. 
 
 Altogether I found my new abode a place to 
 make no demand upon me for the nerve effort 
 of response, of admiration and appreciation, 
 but a place where I could let myself and my 
 cares go clean out of sight. 
 
 I had never seen maids like Sarah Kirke's. 
 They were always charmingly neat in pink cot- 
 ton gowns and white aprons, and always con-
 
 CHAP. XXI [ 260 ] 
 
 veyed an effect of quiet but enthusiastic satis- 
 faction in the privilege of bringing one at all 
 hours and in all places a cup of tea, a plate of 
 fruit, an added pillow or rug, a fresh magazine, 
 a few perfect flowers. I had never been so 
 taken care of in my life, never made so blessedly 
 comfortable. I was like a frightened child who 
 is afterward soothed and petted; who finds all 
 his terrors suddenly vanishing and learns that 
 he can smile again. 
 
 Sarah Kirke herself was the busiest woman 
 and the most energetic I ever knew and in her 
 own domain an absolute monarch. I found her 
 much less plain at home than as I had more 
 commonly seen her in street costume, by reason 
 of her very fine gray hair and the splendid 
 molding of her head and neck which her outer 
 garments concealed. She always wore gray silk 
 with broad bands of sheer white lawn at throat 
 and wrists. Whenever she entered the room 
 where I happened to be it was as if a tonic blast 
 had entered with her to chase away all the fogs 
 and vapors. She took wholly into her own
 
 [ 261 ] CHAP. XXI 
 
 hands all the care of me, both as doctor and 
 nurse, from the day I entered her house. 
 
 The one feature of life in the Kirke house 
 which impressed me more than all others was 
 the outflowing, self-forgetting beneficence of 
 service. There was a perpetual, vital contact 
 with all forms of human need and suffering, 
 and to each in turn virtue was given out daily 
 in full and cordial measure. Life was lived for 
 others' needs, not for the delight of self and 
 sense. Such life was to me a revelation. 
 
 I lay in my spacious sunny chamber one of 
 those first days, and pondered over these things. 
 Sarah Kirke came in to look after me, and while 
 she was treating my side, then almost healed, I 
 said to her, 
 
 "I never did a good deed in my life, al- 
 though I do not think it ever occurred to me to 
 notice it before. I have given away food and 
 clothing sometimes because it made me uncom- 
 fortable to know that people were unfed and un- 
 clothed. I gave to ease my mind. I have given 
 away money in church collections for hospitals
 
 CHAP. XXI [ 262 ] 
 
 and for other charities, because it was expected, 
 and I should have been criticised if I had failed 
 to do so. I did not like to give it particularly, 
 but my husband always wished me to do the cor- 
 rect thing. But you give yourself and all that 
 you have for these people in the house, for peo- 
 ple like me, for everybody. You do it all the 
 time. How does it happen that I am so utterly 
 different?" 
 
 At first she seemed to have no answer ready. 
 I glanced aside at her face and saw that she was 
 thinking. At length she said with characteristic 
 abruptness, 
 
 " It is simply a matter of motive power." 
 
 I did not answer and she spoke again, brief- 
 ly, as before. 
 
 "You have heard of Christ? " 
 
 "Yes. The name is familiar, Miss Kirke." 
 
 She drew her mouth with a quaint, silent 
 smile she sometimes had. 
 
 "I am afraid it is too late now for me to 
 elect religion," I said musingly, and my thought 
 ran back to the time when I had flippantly, har-
 
 [ 263 ] CHAP. XXI 
 
 dily, coined the phrase. It was the night I first 
 saw him. 
 
 Sarah Kirke had risen now to go. She was 
 always in demand all over the house at this time 
 in the morning. I do not think my words pained 
 her, although she probably saw that they were 
 half carelessly spoken. 
 
 " It is not too late," she said. " Believe any- 
 thing rather than that." 
 
 So saying, she left me. 
 
 A letter from Irving lay still unread on the 
 table. Sarah Kirke had brought it when she 
 came in. I opened it now and found it exactly 
 what I expected : correctly affectionate, perfunc- 
 torily solicitous at the end an honest touch of 
 morbid desperateness. One reading was enough. 
 I threw it presently into the open fire. It 
 brought no help or healing; held no spiritual 
 essence to burn away malignant memories ; no 
 tears of tenderness to quench the flames of re- 
 morse and self-accusing. Irving and I had 
 lived our life together as comrades-at-arms in 
 a none too noble contest, the contest for enjoy-
 
 CHAP. XXI [ 264 ] 
 
 merit, gain, appearance, self-advancement. We 
 had been worsted. Our cause lost, we faced 
 each other with mutual distrust and upbraiding, 
 bitter though disguised such ignoble energies 
 as an ignoble strife engenders. 
 
 I saw Irving's mind, his nature, laid out dis- 
 tinctly before me in that moment. Its prime 
 factors were "the correct thing," securing his 
 share of the world's booty, the passion for 
 calling forth approval, admiration, envy per- 
 haps incidentally wholly a man of the world. 
 On a small scale, truly; the lines were drawn 
 narrowly. What of that? I had seen the man 
 of the world on the grand scale, the man who 
 no longer needed to struggle, having attained. 
 The prime factors were much the same. What 
 was to choose between them? 
 
 Could I see myself as clearly? I lifted my 
 eyes, which ached and burned, and looked list- 
 lessly across at the fireplace where the flames 
 had died down to red embers. The open sheet 
 of Irving's letter lay smoldering, half burned 
 at the embers 7 edge. Being stout paper the
 
 [ 265 ] CHAP. XXI 
 
 sheet had partially resisted the fire. I noted its 
 scorched and spotted surface, seared to the cen- 
 ter, shriveled, shapeless, the blackened edges, 
 the meaningless marks of the writing. I saw in 
 it my sign. Yes, my life was like that signi- 
 fying nothing now, nothing but that it had been 
 through the fire and was spoiled. 
 
 What was the fire? What was the fire? I 
 asked myself in dreary monotony. Then all the 
 sick fancies ran into each other confusedly and 
 I dozed miserably. 
 
 When I awoke I decided to let myself go for 
 a while. Thinking terrified me.
 
 XXII 
 
 YES, Sarah Kirke was the strongest, the 
 finest woman I had ever had the good fortune 
 of meeting in my life, but, strange as it will 
 sound, in those days the companionship of Bar- 
 barossa, the great Irish setter, was secretly 
 more welcome to me than hers. Despite all her 
 tact and the abrupt tenderness which I quickly 
 learned to love, I knew that she was watching 
 me, expecting something of me, hoping I would 
 develop at this point in my experience after a 
 certain ideal for me which existed in her mind. 
 But, alas, I could never take the form of any- 
 body's ideal, and just then I was not ready to 
 develop in any direction. Stagnation was my 
 heaven, oblivion my chief good. I would have 
 liked 
 
 ' As right and true to be 
 As a flower or a tree " 
 
 I was willing to be " instinct-good," but I did 
 not want to think about myself at all. The sub-
 
 [ 267 ] CHAP. XXII 
 
 ject was too awful, too complex, and I was still 
 too bruised and broken to encounter it. And so 
 I liked best the dogs who received me with hos- 
 pitality and gravely permitted me to caress 
 them, but who expected nothing of me beyond 
 a bonne bouche now and again. And best of all 
 the dogs, as I have said, I liked Barbarossa. 
 
 To tell the whole truth I missed Dr. Kirke 
 inexpressibly. I was finding an acute disap- 
 pointment in the fact that once within the walls 
 of his own house he had himself become to me 
 persistently invisible. I had supposed that when 
 I became a member of his household I should 
 find daily opportunity for intercourse with him. 
 I had learned to look to him as the source of 
 light and leading on my dark and thorny way, 
 my pilot in the stormy voyage I had made of 
 my life thus far. I wanted him. I longed for 
 his presence, for the look in his eyes, that trou- 
 bled gentleness, that musing patience which I 
 found in Barbarossa's. Sarah might be as 
 strong; she was certainly as earnest and as 
 true-hearted ; but she was a woman. I was still
 
 CHAP. XXII [ 268 ] 
 
 too much myself not to find the man's sympathy 
 and support more availing than the woman's. 
 
 But him I saw not. The first five days Sarah 
 kept me fast in bed. In those days I certainly 
 heard his step and his voice at intervals about 
 the house, and although his sister never men- 
 tioned him directly I was easily convinced that 
 a constant rapport existed between them re- 
 garding my care and treatment. I was confi- 
 dent that it was he who prescribed for me 
 through her. However, when I began to come to 
 the table he did not appear. I asked no ques- 
 tion regarding him or his movements, as I 
 should have done had I been indifferent to them. 
 I knew he had an office in Boston; I knew he 
 was constantly called long distances away from 
 home in consultation and for difficult surgical 
 operations. His absence was plainly not re- 
 markable or Sarah Kirke would have remarked 
 upon it. 
 
 After I was able to go about the house I used 
 to amuse myself with tracing what I fancied 
 might be his household habits, by the books, and
 
 [ 269 ] CHAP. XXII 
 
 pipes, and papers, the microscopes, the port- 
 folios, the easy chairs. Sarah kept a horrible 
 photograph of him on her chiffonier. I used to 
 make excuses to go into her room that I might 
 glance at this photograph in passing. 
 
 But I soon discovered a better source of 
 comfort and of communication with the avail- 
 ing presence of Sarah Kirke's brother. In a 
 straw pocket attached to one great wicker chair 
 I found the small, shabby volume which I used 
 to see oftener than any other book in his hand 
 on shipboard. It was much worn, much marked, 
 much like the man. One day, reading this which 
 follows, I learned the Kirkes' whole theory of 
 spiritual healing: 
 
 " A Grief of recent birth is a sick infant that 
 must have its medicine administered in its milk, 
 and sad Thoughts are the sorrowful Heart's 
 natural food. . . . The Soul in her desolation 
 hugs the sorrow close to her as her sole remain- 
 ing garment; and this must be drawn off so 
 gradually and the garment to be put in its 
 stead so gradually slipt on and feel so like the
 
 CHAP. XXII [ 27O ] 
 
 former, that the Sufferer shall be sensible of the 
 change only by the refreshment. The true spirit 
 of consolation is well content to detain the tear 
 in the eye, and finds a surer pledge of its suc- 
 cess in the smile of Eesignation that dawns 
 through that, than in the liveliest shows of a 
 forced and alien exhilaration." 
 
 But the deepest word and the divinest was 
 herein : 
 
 " We are next to bring out the Divine Por- 
 trait itself, the distinct features of its coun- 
 tenance, as a sojourner among men; its benign 
 aspect turned toward its fellow pilgrims, the 
 extended arm and the hand that blesseth and 
 healeth" 
 
 These words I pondered often and long. I 
 had seen and known the man of this world both 
 small and great. I had now been brought into 
 touch with another type ; the man of God. And 
 behind him I now dimly discerned the Christ 
 of God. 
 
 One day I found a pair of gray dogskin 
 gloves which I recognized lying on a table in a
 
 [ 271 ] CHAP. XXII 
 
 corner of the hall, a long surgical case with 
 them. I knew they had not been there the day 
 before. The sight of them gave me a strangely 
 agreeable sensation. I could not resist the im- 
 pulse to take them up in my hands. I even laid 
 my cheek against them, pretending to distin- 
 guish the species of skin by the slight charac- 
 teristic odor. Some one came down the hall and 
 I hurried away feeling like a guilty thing. 
 Sarah was bringing in the letters. As I joined 
 her she took her fountain-pen from its neat 
 little socket (she always carried it at her belt 
 and it was always in order) and began rapidly 
 crossing out the addresses and redirecting them. 
 
 " I must forward these to the doctor," she 
 said carelessly. 
 
 I noticed that she wrote Savannah on the 
 envelopes. 
 
 " He has run away for a little duck-shooting 
 and exploring in the South," she added. 
 
 " When did he go ? " I asked politely. 
 
 " He started last night." 
 
 The days passed and my two weeks were
 
 CHAP. XXII [ 272 ] 
 
 nearly over. Sarah Kirke expressed a quiet 
 satisfaction in my recovery. I could sleep and 
 eat normally; my pulse was comparatively 
 steady ; my physical system in reasonably good 
 order; my nervous condition far less disturbed 
 than when I came: all my tangible and local 
 troubles were healed. I had no longer an ex- 
 cuse for not taking up life again. Doubtless 
 Irving needed me, even if he did not greatly de- 
 sire my presence. At least I must go back to 
 him and to our home. The time was set for a 
 certain Wednesday morning. It was December 
 now. On Tuesday afternoon Sarah Kirke came 
 into the library about four o'clock and found 
 me engaged in carefully arranging a section of 
 the book-shelves which had been out of order. 
 Barbarossa was asleep on the hearth-rug. The 
 room was still. 
 
 " I am a good girl," I said, glancing over my 
 shoulder at her with a playful childish challenge 
 'for her praise. " See what I am doing ! " 
 
 "A very good girl," she said nodding, 
 plainly pleased. " I am going out, Sidney "
 
 [ 273 ] CHAP. XXII 
 
 she had taken up the habit of calling me thus 
 by name to my infinite comfort " and I will 
 drive around by your house and see that your 
 maid is there, and leave word that you are com- 
 ing in the morning." 
 
 " And the man can take my trunk to-night. 
 It is quite ready," I returned. Then I thanked 
 her and she went out. I heard the carriage as 
 it was driven down the long garden, and watched 
 it a moment from the nearest window, feeling a 
 lump rising in my throat and a moisture in my 
 eyes. I finished my row of books, getting all 
 the Darwins and after-Darwins into a fine 
 chronological sequence, then, weary of the work, 
 crossed to the hearth-rug and sat down beside 
 Barbarossa, looking into the fire. 
 
 The dog lifted his nose from his paws as he 
 felt my arm thrown over his flank, cocked a 
 vaguely troubled eye back at me, decided to in- 
 dulge me in my somewhat undignified approach, 
 dropped his nose and subsided into revery. 
 
 " Bab," I murmured softly, " I wish the mas- 
 ter of this house was coming home." 
 
 18
 
 CHAP. XXII [ 274 ] 
 
 Bab appeared to acquiesce. 
 
 " I shall never, never see him any more, you 
 know." 
 
 Bab reflected and found this sad. 
 
 "Is he good to you, Bab?" 
 
 I was sure I detected an affirmative guttural. 
 
 "I thought so. Perhaps he is good to you all 
 the time. Sometimes he is very dreadful and 
 severe to me, and hurts me, Bab, very much. 
 Would you have thought him capable of it? " 
 
 Bab made a sudden snap at an imaginary 
 fly which gave the effect of an indignant shake 
 of the head. 
 
 I patted his head and fumbled my fingers in 
 the impossible softness of his neck. Then I 
 pressed my forehead against the smooth space 
 between the great, hanging ears and went on. 
 
 " But he does it for my good, you know, Bab, 
 and afterward he is rather apt to smile, which, 
 you see, makes you forget. If I were only a 
 dog like you, Friedrich Barbarossa, I would 
 lick his hand. I suppose he would find that 
 rather disagreeable, though. Oh, dear me ! He
 
 [ 275 ] CHAP. XXII 
 
 lets you lick his hand all you want to, you im- 
 perial old person. You can lie at his feet and 
 lay your head on his knee and have his hand 
 laid on your head every day of your life. How 
 I hate you for it ! " 
 
 With this I kissed him between his eyes with 
 effusion, and then, as I thought his mental 
 powers seemed a little exhausted by the strain 
 of so prolonged a conversation, I patted his 
 eyes shut, moved off a bit, and made myself 
 very comfortable lying on the rug with his 
 shaggy back for a pillow. 
 
 In these two weeks of dreamy, irresponsible 
 quiet, my married life and all its fever and 
 stress had sunk into the semblance of a dream. 
 Irving, Ross Kimball, the Owens and the rest 
 had lost tenacity and form. They seemed to me 
 sometimes like shadows. Often now I went 
 back to the fancies of my girlhood, farther back 
 indeed. From the fierce and passionate experi- 
 ences of the last months I had undergone a 
 strong reaction. The old child-heart of me 
 seemed to have come back to life, kindling with
 
 CHAP. XXII [ 276 ] 
 
 an innocent and cordial fire out of the ashes of 
 shame and despair. To please myself now in 
 my pensive mood, I fell to dreaming such fool- 
 ish day-dreams as I had fed myself with at 
 twelve, with myself ever as central figure. I 
 was a beauteous (beauteous had always been the 
 word) young creature in long trailing white gar- 
 ments who had wandered into a great forest 
 otherwise known as Darksome Wood, alone 
 save for the magnificent greyhound which fol- 
 lowed her adoringly wherever she chose to go, 
 and which she held by a silver chain locked with 
 a tiny key to a bracelet on her fair wrist. B. C. 
 (Beauteous Creature), being weary (on no ac- 
 count tired), soon gave over exploring the for- 
 est, and with a gesture commanded the dog to 
 throw himself at her feet. Then she sank grace- 
 fully on the mossy ground, pillowed her head 
 (this I had always thought neat) on the smooth 
 shoulder of the Faithful Dog and had straight- 
 way gone to sleep. Naturally he guarded her 
 slumber in motionless adoring silence ; naturally 
 also her golden hair fell in glittering profusion
 
 [ 377 ] CHAP. XXII 
 
 over his body and her graceful limbs were ele- 
 gantly concealed by the silken folds of her 
 drapery. I remember smiling to myself at this 
 point as I regarded my rough, short, homespun 
 skirt, my own lengthy limbs and by no means 
 small feet stretched frankly on the Shirvan rug 
 arrayed in thick-soled, mannish boots of the 
 " bulldog " variety. But never mind, it was all 
 very nice. Barbarossa had gone to sleep again 
 with blinking at the fire, and I was deliciously 
 drowsy. So the B. C. slept on, her blue-veined 
 lids concealing her glorious eyes, the long lashes 
 sweeping the delicate bloom of her cheeks, when 
 lo! at precisely the right moment, enters the 
 Hero obviously a Gallant Knight, else what 
 would he have been doing in a Darksome Wood! 
 dismounts in a pleasing manner from his own, 
 his Arab steed, and approaching B. C. stands 
 spellbound at her entrancing loveliness. 
 
 Suddenly without faintest warning the Faith- 
 ful Dog who had thus far submissively tolerated 
 my head upon his shaggy hide, sprang to his feet 
 with a mighty motion, hurling my head from its
 
 CHAP. XXII [ 278 ] 
 
 resting-place without the smallest ceremony, 
 dashed to the library door, whining, barking, 
 and scraping at it in a fury of excitement. Be- 
 fore I had had time to scramble to my feet the 
 door was opened and Dr. Kirke stepped into the 
 room, restraining Bab with one hand and, as he 
 perceived my presence, holding out the other 
 to me. 
 
 Gladness and confusion held an instant's 
 high carnival with me as I shook myself into 
 shape and returned his greeting, my lips saying 
 not even a word, my eyes saying perhaps too 
 much. 
 
 The Doctor gave me a chair by the fire and 
 drew up another for himself, and I stared child- 
 ishly to see what a different air he wore at 
 his own fireside and that he did not choose for 
 himself the chair I had always silently counted 
 his and hence preferred. Bab established him- 
 self firmly and without a moment's delay close 
 before his master's knees, gazing with wistful 
 worship into his rugged face, his eyes pleading 
 for the attention they did not get while the Doc-
 
 [ 279 ] CHAP. XXII 
 
 tor talked to me. Yes, he had returned early in 
 the morning, he had been busy in Boston all day. 
 He had had a pleasant trip; the weather had 
 been good ; I was looking better, he thought ; he 
 was glad the change had resulted so well; his 
 sister had told him by telephone in the morning 
 that I was about leaving. 
 
 Then lights were brought and Sarah Kirke 
 came home and we had dinner, and after dinner 
 it was the fireside again, with fresh logs and 
 great flames roaring up the chimney. We talked 
 of our shipboard life and of the sea and what 
 we loved best oversea ; of architecture, of music 
 and poetry and the masters of each. Portfolios 
 were brought and rich collections looked over 
 and talked over. As always with these two peo- 
 ple I found repose and healing. Life seemed 
 worthy, deep, bountiful, sane and strong. In the 
 morning I went home, knowing not what should 
 await me. With me went the little leather- 
 bound " Aids to Reflection." Dr. Kirke had dis- 
 covered that I liked it. He insisted that I should 
 borrow it for a year.
 
 XXIII 
 
 I WAS glad that I was permitted to go home 
 alone. 
 
 It was like Sarah Kirke not to insist on go- 
 ing with me. She never fussed, never overdid a 
 thing. 
 
 I unlocked my own door and entered the 
 silent house. Everything looked strange and 
 foreign to my eyes for a moment. All seemed 
 on a tiny scale and I was struck by a patchiness 
 of effect. So many small objects seemed to tease 
 the eye and challenge attention and comment. 
 I saw what I had never seen before, that my 
 house lacked repose. Still, it was my own, and 
 on the whole it pleased me. 
 
 Or was it perhaps not my own now? Irving 
 had written me that the sale of which he had 
 made mention would probably be effected. I 
 had given my consent.
 
 [ 281 ] CHAP. XXIII 
 
 No one had marked my entrance, and I 
 walked through into the dining-room. The table 
 was laid daintily for lunch for two. Then Ir- 
 ving would come home to-day to meet me. A 
 sense of pleasure quickened my pulse a little. 
 There were beautiful roses in a bowl on the 
 table. Perhaps Irving had sent them to mark 
 and welcome my return. I recognized them, 
 however, in a moment as having come from the 
 greenhouse of the Kirkes. Doubtless Sarah had 
 brought them yesterday. I came back into the 
 library. It had a cheerless, littered air. I 
 glanced over the papers on the table. Many of 
 them I found were railroad publications, all of 
 Southern routes. A large tissue map of Florida 
 lay outspread. Newspapers were piled every- 
 where. Does a man never destroy a newspaper ? 
 One I noticed was skulking, half hidden, under 
 the lounge. I bent and drew it out, glancing at 
 the date. It was an evening paper, ten days old, 
 left fallen, no doubt, where Irving had dropped 
 it after first reading, and later pushed a little 
 out of sight. As I crossed to my desk to throw
 
 CHAP. XXIII [ 282 ] 
 
 the paper into the large waste-basket a head- 
 line caught my eye : " Reports of G. Ross Kim- 
 ball's 111 Health Without Foundation. Inter- 
 view of a Reporter for the Evening with 
 
 the Eminent Financier." My eyes were irre- 
 sistibly drawn to the column. I read the entire 
 paragraph. It was as follows: 
 
 " The Evening is glad to be able to 
 
 announce authoritatively that the rumors per- 
 sistently circulated recently in certain quarters 
 regarding the alleged physical disability of Mr. 
 G. Ross Kimball, the famous railroad operator 
 and multimillionaire, are gross exaggerations. 
 Whether these reports have arisen from the 
 overanxiety of Mr. Kimball's friends, or 
 through the effort of speculators who wished 
 to influence the money market, the Evening 
 
 does not attempt to determine. But a 
 
 representative of this journal called upon Mr. 
 Kimball at his palatial residence this afternoon, 
 and was received by Mr. Kimball himself. The 
 interview took place in the magnificent private 
 library of the great capitalist. This apartment
 
 [ 283 ] CHAP. XXIII 
 
 forms the lower portion of the west wing tower, 
 and in its interior decoration the genius of Mr. 
 Hook, the distinguished New York architect, 
 has perhaps reached its climax. 
 
 " The writer was received most graciously 
 by Mr. Kimball. The distinguished citizen cer- 
 tainly showed no signs of failing health. The 
 extent of his illness has been a sharp attack of 
 grippe which has confined him for a short time 
 to the house. He will not give himself to affairs 
 of business for at least two or three days longer. 
 
 " It is hard for Mr. Kimball to do nothing 
 and during his brief recess from public busi- 
 ness he is occupying himself with, designs for 
 a superb chancel window which he proposes 
 to bestow upon St. Christopher's Episcopal 
 Church, in this city, of which he is, as is well 
 known, a communicant and earnest supporter. 
 
 The representative of the Evening was 
 
 favored with a view of the drawings in ques- 
 tion, which prefigure a surpassing effect when 
 carried into execution." 
 
 I had hardly had time to toss the paper away
 
 CHAP. XXIII [ 284 ] 
 
 before I heard Irving coming in. He kissed me 
 with much tenderness, and seemed exceedingly 
 relieved at finding me so much myself. I thought 
 him looking badly, and questioned him affec- 
 tionately regarding his health, which he ad- 
 mitted was " off." The habitudes of marital 
 courtesy and kindness tided us over the first 
 difficult bar. We sat down to luncheon with 
 some sense of pale and sober happiness. But 
 the house was sold, Irving told me. He had 
 brought the deed home for me to sign. Luncheon 
 over, Irving, who seemed to have no intention 
 of going back to his office, sat down with me in 
 the library and called my attention to the va- 
 rious maps and railroad circulars which were 
 lying about. 
 
 " We must face the question now squarely, 
 of what to do next;" he said, the lines of care 
 deepening visibly, I thought, in his face. 
 
 " What are you considering most 1 " I asked. 
 " I judge it must be to go South." 
 
 "Yes," and he drew the map of Florida 
 nearer to him and bent over it. " Dr. Kirke ad-
 
 [ 285 ] CHAP. XXIII 
 
 vises me to try the South, and especially Flor- 
 ida, for the next few years. The only reason 
 for not going is that he says I shall probably 
 live a good deal longer if we go down there than 
 if we remain here. The distance from Boston is 
 to my mind a great thing in favor. The farther 
 we go from where we are known the better." 
 
 I choked down a sigh, but made no comment 
 on the bitter weakness of his words. Twisted in 
 with the pain they gave me was another thread. 
 Dr. Kirke, it seemed, wanted to send us away 
 as far and as soon as possible. 
 
 "And Dr. Kirke really advised Florida?" 
 I asked with persistent if hard-won cheerful- 
 ness. 
 
 " Yes, he has spent a week down there, look- 
 ing into the thing for me." 
 
 I gave an exclamation of surprise shot 
 through with sudden understanding of that un- 
 explained absence. 
 
 " How could he leave his practise? I know 
 how busy he is; I understand, you see, better 
 now how hard he has to work."
 
 CHAP. XXIII [ 286 ] 
 
 " Oh, it did him good to get away," returned 
 Irving coolly. " It's a good time of year to take 
 a little run like that." 
 
 Plainly the sense of obligation which touched 
 me instantly as acute was not so to Irving. He 
 always congratulated himself, I remembered, on 
 getting a good thing for small outlay. Hiding 
 the distaste which the thought awakened I said : 
 "Well, tell me the results of his prospecting 
 tour. Did he bring back anything definite ? " 
 
 " Yes. Sit over here. Let me show you on 
 this map." 
 
 Irving then proceeded to set forth the many 
 considerations in favor of our establishing our- 
 selves permanently in Borromeo, near the east 
 coast. We could come north perhaps, if we 
 could afford it, for the hottest months, but this 
 would be our home. He would go in for his pro- 
 fession ; the place was large enough to give him 
 something to do perhaps in that way, and he 
 would invest a part of the proceeds of the sale 
 of the house in an orange-grove. This he could 
 work to some extent himself. Kirke said noth-
 
 [ 287 ] CHAP. XXIII 
 
 ing could be better for his health than that kind 
 of outdoor occupation. Of course, we should 
 necessarily have to curtail our style of living, 
 perhaps do without a maid altogether if I were 
 well enough. I instantly expressed my unquali- 
 fied willingness to accept this part of the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 " You may think you will like it now, at this 
 distance," Irving said drily, " but you may not 
 like it as well when you come to the actual 
 thing. However, Kirke says people live very 
 simply down there, use lots of tinned things, you 
 know, and you can always get the colored people 
 to come in on a pinch and help." 
 
 " And the Doctor thinks this location espe- 
 cially desirable?" I asked, my heart sinking 
 more and more as I saw more clearly what defi- 
 nite shape the plan was assuming. 
 
 I wondered vaguely why I felt this unspeak- 
 able oppression. It certainly would be a relief 
 to get away from the associations of the past 
 few months. Why was not Borromeo as good 
 a place as any other?
 
 CHAP. XXIII [ 288 ] 
 
 But there was a cowardice in running away 
 which I felt sharply. One question I would and 
 must ask Dr. Kirke. 
 
 " Yes," Irving replied ; " he says it is a really 
 live little place for a Southern town and the 
 climate is perfect no malaria, which you know 
 is remarkable for Florida. He has even looked 
 up the matter of a house, and thinks he has per- 
 haps found the right thing." 
 
 " Really? " I asked, tears piercing my eyes. 
 Dr. Kirke was so kind, and so in earnest to get 
 us away ! Perhaps he was getting a little tired 
 of such a very exacting pair of people, always 
 making some astonishing demand upon his 
 generosity and patience. I knew he would not 
 pack us off to Florida on that account, but I 
 could not wonder if he should find it a rest when 
 we were fairly off his hands. 
 
 Irving had stopped to sketch with swift, skil- 
 ful pencil a ground plan, consisting of a broad 
 veranda and three rooms, a living room, bed- 
 room and kitchen. 
 
 " There," he said, placing it in my hand :
 
 [ 289 ] CHAP. XXIII 
 
 " that will give you the notion as well as Kirke 
 could remember. It is just a cabin, you see, no 
 cellar, no lath and plaster. Just the three rooms 
 with a garret over. Think you could live in it, 
 Sidney? You see there are almost no houses to 
 be had in Borromeo after this time of year." 
 
 " Oh, we could make it very nice and cozy, 
 I am sure. But what should we do with all our 
 furniture? " and I glanced about at the beauti- 
 ful massive old mahogany pieces, my mother's 
 pride and my own. 
 
 " Sell the ones we can bring ourselves to part 
 with; store or lend these things of your moth- 
 er's. Take with us just enough of your simplest 
 and least expensive things a few chairs and 
 tables, a bed and a bureau and a set of dishes. 
 In short, strip life down to its bare bones, Sid- 
 ney. It will be a kind of colorless, fleshless 
 thing, like that," and he held out his hand, grown 
 sadly thin, in a forlorn, spiritless gesture. 
 
 " When do we give possession of this 
 house ? " I asked. 
 
 " The first of January." 
 
 19
 
 CHAP. XXIII [ 29O ] 
 
 " When could we have that other house, the 
 one in Borromeo, if we should decide to go 
 there?" 
 
 " The first of January. Kirke took a re- 
 fusal of it for a fortnight. I shall wire them to- 
 night if you think we had better take it. Of 
 course, you could take a day longer to decide. 
 This is the seventh of December " 
 
 "I think probably you would better wire. 
 You and Dr. Kirke know much better than I pos- 
 sibly can. You and he think it is best? " 
 
 " There is no best, you know, Sidney, any 
 more for us. Whatever we do will be tough for 
 both of us." 
 
 " Yes, I see." I was finding what it means 
 for a man to lose his grip. 
 
 " You think, do you, that you could manage 
 to pack up and all in three weeks? I have got 
 Miss Webster's promise to come for a week and 
 help you if we decide. But of course the time is 
 short." 
 
 " I like it better to be short. The shorter the 
 better. I can not bear living long in confusion.
 
 [ 291 ] CHAP. XXIII 
 
 The place is not ours any more. We don't be- 
 long here. We don't belong anywhere." 
 
 " I guess that's right." 
 
 " See, there is Christmas. Where shall we 
 take our Christmas dinner? In a restaurant, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " It will have to be a cheap one," Irving an- 
 swered with a hard little laugh. 
 
 " All I ask is," I said now, thinking hard and 
 fast, " that you will let me take until six o'clock 
 to decide. Will that give you time for your tel- 
 egraphing? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. If you don't take any longer than 
 that it will be doing very well." 
 
 With this Irving brought out a newspaper 
 and threw himself on the lounge to read. 
 
 I went slowly up-stairs. On the way my de- 
 cision was reached. I went to the telephone and 
 called for Sarah Kirke's number. One of the 
 maids, whose voice I recognized, responded. 
 Miss Kirke was out. Was the Doctor there or 
 would he be in soon? No. He was not expected 
 to dinner to-night. She would call up the Bos-
 
 CHAP. XXIII [ 292 ] 
 
 ton office and find whether he was out of 
 town. 
 
 After a short interval she repeated the in- 
 formation she had gained. Dr. Kirke was not 
 out of town, but his movements were uncertain. 
 He might possibly be in the office during the 
 afternoon. He was not there at the time. 
 
 I rested a half hour, then dressed for the 
 street and the snowstorm, the first of the season, 
 the kind of storm I used to love when I was 
 happy and strong. The car took me within a 
 block of Dr. Kirke's town office. It was the first 
 time I had ever visited it. My heart beat with 
 unreasonable rapidity as I opened the door and 
 entered. I found it very much as I imagined; 
 soberly handsome, dignified, orderly, well-ap- 
 pointed. The Doctor was not there. Two or 
 three tired-looking souls were waiting for him 
 in the reception-room. I went out after a little, 
 too restless to remain seated staring between 
 these people and being stared at by them. For 
 the first time it occurred to me to feel an inter- 
 est in my appearance to know what I had come
 
 [ 293 ] CHAP. XXIII 
 
 to look like after the tempest and earthquake. 
 It was the first time I had ventured out from 
 under shelter, so to say. I strayed into a large 
 store and presently passed a mirror. I stood 
 and looked at myself with deliberation, a little 
 startled at my very marked pallor. My eyes 
 had grown larger and darker, it seemed, but 
 still more I marveled at the change of expres- 
 sion, elusive, yet sure. Something was not there 
 which used to be. Something which used to be- 
 long to my face had been burnt and purged 
 away. Was it the Lilith of me? 
 
 I walked for an hour in the whirling snow- 
 storm, thinking so to gain vigor and quicker cir- 
 culation. Then I came back to Dr. Kirke's office. 
 It was lighted now I perceived. I stepped in 
 with a peculiar timidity, an annoying trepida- 
 tion through all my limbs and a fluttering at my 
 heart, and yet I had beneath all this perturba- 
 tion of the nerves a firm and unshaken spirit 
 and purpose. It was not strange that my 
 nerves were insurgent, since undeniably I was, 
 as I always had been, afraid, ridiculously afraid 
 of Dr. Kirke.
 
 CHAP. XXIII [ 394 ] 
 
 I found no one in the reception office, but the 
 page said the Doctor would probably see me 
 soon and withdrew. Hearing voices proceeding 
 evidently from an inner office door, as of some 
 person about taking leave, I did not seat my- 
 self but crossed to the center of the room and 
 stood resting one hand on a table there, when 
 the door leading through a small passage to the 
 inner office was opened and a man entered the 
 room. My face was turned directly toward him. 
 It was Ross Kimball.
 
 XXIV 
 
 THE shock was extreme, or so, at least, to 
 me. It occurred to me mysteriously, for I hardly 
 lifted my eyes to his face, that Boss Kimball 
 was less surprised than I at this encounter. 
 The adroit by-play with which I had of old be- 
 come so familiar, of following my movements 
 from point to point, and, in the end, meeting me, 
 apparently by pure accident, suddenly flashed 
 before my memory. 
 
 We stood confronting one another of neces- 
 sity since I would not retreat and could not ad- 
 vance until summoned to enter the inner office, 
 and he did not choose to proceed on his way out. 
 A slight change was obscurely perceptible in his 
 face, a muscular relaxing. He greeted me with 
 marked courtesy, extending his hand, which I 
 did not notice. I felt rather than saw the old 
 ironical smile of unruffled composure, even of 
 secret amusement, at my consternation.
 
 CHAP. XXIV [ 296 ] 
 
 " It is a great pleasure to see you out again, 
 an immense relief," he said, and bent toward 
 me, Ms courtliness and grace rather augmented 
 by the strain of the situation than disturbed. 
 
 My eyes were fixed on the solid oak door 
 beyond him. Would it never open! 
 
 " You have given us profound anxiety, Mrs. 
 Lloyd, and your world has been sadly ennuye 
 without you. Do not keep us waiting much 
 longer." 
 
 The consummate hypocrisy of these words 
 filled me with a sudden blaze of anger. Fiery 
 flames of it seemed to vibrate around me where 
 I stood, and I looked straight into the face of 
 the man before me with its semblance of deli- 
 cate devotion, its insulting homage. 
 
 Perhaps Ross Kimball had not often met a 
 look in which lay no faintest lurking of compro- 
 mise, of yielding before him, or of fear. His 
 eyelids fell, then rose again, and his eyes swept 
 me with one swift passing glance of untutored 
 savage sincerity, the strangest glance I ever en- 
 countered; so fraught with the passion of vin-
 
 [ 297 ] CHAP. XXIV 
 
 dictive anger, and with what he could have 
 called the passion of love. He was in that in- 
 stant at once the seducer and the avenger. 
 
 " Pardon me," he murmured under his 
 breath, moving past me. Then the door opened, 
 the page made a motion that I was expected, 
 and I passed through into the consulting room, 
 trembling from head to foot, my breath almost 
 failing me. 
 
 Dr. Kirke was sitting in a substantial arm- 
 chair before a substantial desk, his head in pro- 
 file bent slightly forward as he wrote rapidly 
 in a notebook before him. I had closed the door 
 and stepped nearly to the desk before he glanced 
 up and perceived who had entered. Taken un- 
 awares, without time for reflection or control, 
 light leaped into his face. He sprang from his 
 chair with the exclamation " You ! " into which 
 a whole world's significance seemed concen- 
 trated, and drew me with one strong unpremed- 
 itated movement as if to gather me to his heart. 
 
 It was not done before it was undone. He 
 had marked the terror in my face and the
 
 CHAP. XXIV [ 298 ] 
 
 tremor in my limbs, at the first glance. Doubt- 
 less that explained his involuntary gesture. I 
 found myself in another instant laid in a deep 
 Morris chair, with salts held at my nostrils and 
 a window open near my head through which the 
 good cold wind blew lustily. 
 
 " I am not going to faint," I said, compass- 
 ing a smile. 
 
 "You may if you want to," he said indul- 
 gently. "It will do no harm." Then as my 
 color and strength came swiftly back he sud- 
 denly exclaimed 
 
 " Did that reptile dare to speak to you, Sid- 
 ney?" 
 
 I nodded without speaking, finding it in no- 
 wise strange that he called me by name uncon- 
 sciously. 
 
 I looked up into his heavily lined face, the 
 powerful molding of the features, the deeply 
 sagged eyes, glowing with a sudden fire under 
 the craglike brow, the sudden unwonted paling 
 of the skin. This was an angry man too. But 
 the anger of that other had been assault; this
 
 [ 299 ] CHAP. XXIV 
 
 man's wrath was protection. Irving had not 
 been angry at all in my behalf, although he had 
 snarled at my imprudence. Dr. Kirke actually 
 roared in an outburst of fierce and uncontrol- 
 lable indignation. 
 
 " God ! " I heard him say, and not in impre- 
 cation, "what did I save that man's life for? 
 Oh, let him die ! One devil is enough." 
 
 I cried quietly while he raged a little longer. 
 What it meant I could not fathom, for how could 
 he know? But at least he knew enough to pity 
 and protect me, to despise and abhor the man 
 who had slain my fair name and would have 
 sunk my body and soul in hell if he had had his 
 way. 
 
 Presently calmness fell. 
 
 " There, that will do. Don't cry any more," 
 the Doctor said abruptly, taking a seat beside 
 me and looking at his watch. " There is no 
 more time for emotions ; I have to take a train 
 at five thirty. What is it? " 
 
 " I came to ask you one question, Dr. Kirke, 
 and I am in a hurry too," and I sat up with sud-
 
 CHAP. XXIV [ 3OO ] 
 
 den energy. " It is about this going South. I 
 want to know whether we are going down there 
 on account of Irving's health really and sin- 
 cerely, and because it is necessary. Or whether 
 we are running away like cowards because we 
 have an enemy here who is driving us out and 
 whom we are afraid of." 
 
 The Doctor looked fixedly at me with com- 
 pressed lips, his head dropped slightly forward. 
 His powerful physiognomy was all the physi- 
 cian's now. His eyes were clear of passion. 
 After a perceptible pause he said, 
 
 "It is necessary for you to go. That is 
 clear. We have got to do something for Ir- 
 ving's health. He is losing ground perceptibly 
 as things are now, and his nervous exhaustion 
 reacts unfavorably upon his heart action. Con- 
 ditions here will inevitably increase this depres- 
 sion. It is highly important to get him away, 
 and Florida is a pretty good place on the whole, 
 because he can live outdoors and potter about 
 in an orange-grove until he is stronger. His 
 lungs are none too good either, I find. But with
 
 [ 3O1 ] CHAP. XXIV 
 
 the change he may have the best of his life still 
 before him." 
 
 "Very well," I said gravely, rising as I 
 spoke ; " I am willing to go for Irving's sake ; 
 there is nothing I could not do for that. But 
 I flatly refuse to go for fear of Boss Kimball. 
 He has done his worst already." 
 
 " You can never be sure of that," said Dr. 
 Kirke, advancing to open the door for me. " It 
 is much better for you both to be away from 
 here." 
 
 " And better for you to have us go," I said 
 a little sadly. " We have been an unmerciful 
 bother to you." 
 
 He had come out through the reception- 
 room beside me and opened the outer door for 
 my exit. He made no response for an instant, 
 but the gravity of his face deepened even to 
 melancholy. 
 
 "Yes, it will be better, as you say better 
 for me. Good afternoon." 
 
 I came out upon the street, caught my car, 
 and reached home just before six o'clock. Dr.
 
 CHAP. XXIV [ 3O2 ] 
 
 Kirke had agreed only too easily that it was 
 better for him that we should go. But this 
 ready, unprotesting assent gave my heart no 
 painful tumult, but rather a ground swell of 
 nameless joy. 
 
 "Is that you, Sidney?" Irving called from 
 the dusky depths of the library when I came 
 into the house. 
 
 "Your time is nearly up. Have you come 
 to a decision? " 
 
 " Yes," I responded. " Let us take the house 
 in Borromeo, Irving. I am ready. Nobody 
 needs us here. It will be better for every one 
 that we should go." 
 
 The next morning I began with a will the 
 sorting over of boxes and drawers with a view 
 to the change of abode. I caught myself sing- 
 ing a snatch of song and deep in my breast 
 there seemed a measureless content. I did not 
 seek to find its source, but a sense of a silent, 
 homely man with a watch-dog faithfulness and 
 threatening, somber eyes, standing in my de- 
 fense, never left me. It has never left me yet, 
 waking or sleeping.
 
 [ 3O3 ] CHAP. XXIV 
 
 It was about ten o'clock, I think, when my 
 maid brought me a white box, satin smooth, 
 ribbon-bound, from which I drew an enormous 
 bunch of English violets. There was no card. 
 The room was instantly pervaded with their 
 fragrance. Delighted I hung over them, enjoy- 
 ing their color and sweet earthy odor. Who 
 could have sent them to me? I never had flow- 
 ers nowadays save from the Kirkes. These did 
 not look like Sarah in the least, and as for 
 the Doctor, he would be as likely to send me 
 French novels and bonbons. There was nothing 
 Kirkesque about that sumptuous ribbon-bound 
 box. Suddenly the thought darted through my 
 mind that it had come from Ross Kimball. I 
 knew it then by intuition beyond further doubt. 
 He chose quietly to ignore my anger, my repudi- 
 ation, to meet my resistance and my scorn with 
 amused forbearance. Whatever had been his 
 previous intention, on seeing me he had re- 
 solved to set his siege again in action, believing 
 that in my poverty, my humiliation, my obvious 
 physical weakness, I would yet yield. Thus
 
 CHAP. XXIV [ 3O4 ] 
 
 would both passion and revenge find sufficient 
 satisfaction. Yes, he would first caress and 
 then destroy. I walked straight to the window, 
 then threw it open and flung the violets down on 
 the snowy pavement below, turned back with a 
 scornful lip and went on with my work. The 
 box I broke between my hands and threw into a 
 heap of rubbish which was mounting into pro- 
 portions on the floor, the refuse of my morn- 
 ing's work. 
 
 A few moments later I was impelled to go 
 to the window and look down. The violets still 
 lay untouched and untrodden on the pavement 
 a superb patch of color on the snow. There 
 was little passing on our quiet street at this 
 time of day. But as I looked some one was ap- 
 proaching, a young man with a plodding step, 
 a pinched face, a shabby coat. I had seen him 
 pass often he lived on a narrow street beyond 
 ours a clerk on meager wages at best and prob- 
 ably out of work altogether now. He would not 
 be going down street at this hour if he were em- 
 ployed. He had an invalid mother at home, I
 
 [ 3O5 ] CHAP. XXIV 
 
 had heard. He stopped, seeing the violets lying 
 in the snow, picked them up quickly, then stood 
 a moment looking up and down the street. No 
 one was in sight. Slowly a smile of incredulous 
 delight came into his face. He wrapped the vio- 
 lets tenderly in his handkerchief, faced about 
 and hurried back toward home with a quick, 
 elastic step. 
 
 I watched him out of sight, and my eyes 
 grew dim. I knelt then as I did sometimes of 
 late, albeit shyly and as one unused to God, and 
 prayed that out of all that was wrong and un- 
 clean love and joy might come to somebody, 
 somewhere. My heart seemed touched to music. 
 I had elected religion. 
 
 20
 
 XXV 
 
 AT first I think our prevailing sense in our 
 new abode in Borromeo was of its temporary 
 character. It was a tent in the wilderness; a 
 hospice in which we had taken a passing refuge 
 from a great storm ; a wayside inn which gave 
 us its simple and friendly shelter in our time of 
 wandering. Gradually, however, the sense that 
 we were camping out wore away, and in six 
 months I believe Irving and I felt that this poor 
 cabin was in a real sense our home. 
 
 The house stood on the outskirts of the town, 
 on a street of somewhat dubious existence, laid 
 out as it was, amid drifting sand and the harsh, 
 scanty grass, into which it altogether lapsed 
 farther on. Beyond were a few tall pines which 
 we loved, and still beyond, on the level horizon 
 line, lay the sea. The salt spray reached us 
 when the wind blew from the east. The house 
 stood up in ugly nakedness on four corner-
 
 [ 3O7 ] CHAP. XXV 
 
 posts, and was built of pine, painted a merci- 
 fully dull green outside, and not at all within. 
 But it was perfectly new, we being its first in- 
 mates, and it was fresh and clean and sweet. 
 The living-room, into which the house door 
 opened, was severely simple, but by no means 
 uninviting, with its big rude chimney-piece and 
 its windows looking seaward. We had brought 
 one good rug with us, a box of books, a few 
 favorite pictures, and the lounge and a few 
 chairs from the home library. All were in this 
 room and besides a small rack of shelves for 
 china and a round oak dining-table of modest 
 size, which served alike for our meals and our 
 magazines, since this was dining-room as well 
 as hall, parlor and library. The kitchen was 
 equipped with an oil-stove, a cupboard, a table 
 and two chairs. The sleeping-room was fur- 
 nished with equal simplicity. 
 
 Irving felt the lack of luxury, beauty and 
 comfort more than I, but he made a serious 
 occupation of living out of doors, and the 
 orange grove which he laid out and planted be-
 
 CHAP. XXV [ 3O8 ] 
 
 hind the house absorbed much of his time and 
 attention. 
 
 We were now in the ranks of honest poverty, 
 not simply so by comparison with people of 
 wealth, but actually and undeniably, since all 
 that we possessed outside the orange grove and 
 house produced but a few hundred dollars of 
 interest as income. My chief responsibility 
 settled into two prime factors: the routine of 
 a very careful housekeeping, in which I was 
 myself housekeeper and maid-of-all-work, and 
 the conscientious care of Irving's health. Dr. 
 Kirke had instructed me carefully regarding 
 his weak points, his tendencies and his needs. 
 These last were in the main sunshine, pure air 
 and to be in it all the time, sleeping even on the 
 veranda when possible; pure water; an abun- 
 dance of varied and nourishing food; a com- 
 plete absence of all excitement, worry and ner- 
 vous stimulation. 
 
 From the moment when I had perceived, on 
 that darkest day of our wedded lives, that Ir- 
 ving had no firm, essential faith in my faithful-
 
 [ 3O9 ] CHAP. XXV 
 
 ness, and that compromise on my part with 
 Ross Kimball's dishonorable gallantries would 
 have been more easily condoned by him than 
 absolute repulse from that moment he had 
 ceased to be my husband according to the vital 
 and inner law of the spirit. He remained now 
 and hereafter my husband only by the law of 
 the outer commandment, of duty, obligation and 
 sworn faith. I experienced no resentment, but 
 something infinitely deeper and more sorrowful 
 in this hidden moral readjustment. My hus- 
 band became my ward, my charge, the object of 
 all my life's devotion, which could never, I felt, 
 atone for the irreparable injury my reckless 
 dallying with temptation had brought down 
 upon his head. All the more because the inner 
 and spiritual bond, weak perhaps at best, was 
 severed now, did my diligence fail in no small- 
 est scruple in the external loyalty. I watched 
 his face with a nurse's eyes, listened to his 
 breathing while he slept, studied the caprices of 
 his taste and appetite. I bore as my just pen- 
 ance the frequent fits of despondence, the cheer-
 
 CHAP. XXV [ 31O ] 
 
 less fretting over small details, the spiritless re- 
 pining, the thinly veiled reproaches which had 
 become habitual to him, brought out in startling 
 evidence by adversity, as an obscure design in 
 a fabric is sometimes brought out by turning it 
 into shadow. Irving had lost his grip, largely 
 through my fault. I alone could bear with him 
 now, could seek to comfort, cheer and uphold. 
 That I did this humbly, without wrath or doubt- 
 ing, I, with my proud, passionate and impatient 
 nature, was due to what the old phraseology 
 calls " divine grace." Surely never was there a 
 sweeter phrase nor an apter. 
 
 We made a few friends in Borromeo. We 
 did not want many. Chief among these was a 
 young Episcopal rector named Loring, a gal- 
 lant young Knight of the Holy Grail, who had 
 seen the Vision and set out on the Quest and 
 had thus far suffered no loss of his fine illu- 
 sions. For this I loved him, I who had lived 
 so long without the Vision, and Irving cared for 
 him because he was a gentleman, because he 
 could lend and borrow books with intelligent en-
 
 [ 311 ] CHAP. XXV 
 
 thusiasm, and would sometimes go a-fishing, in 
 the non-apostolic sense. 
 
 Sometimes there would come a morning 
 when these two would start off together to be 
 gone the day and perhaps the to-morrow also. 
 I would fill their straw knapsacks with substan- 
 tial food, daintily prepared, for Irving's eye 
 must always be won before his appetite ; would 
 watch them then as they strode through the 
 sand, toward the sea, until they turned into the 
 strip of pine wood and were lost to sight. Then 
 I would drop into my hammock or my deck- 
 chair on the veranda and all my being would 
 relax, eye and brain, nerve and limb, hand and 
 heart. All day I would lie like that, the morn- 
 ing cares over, for my dinner would be a bowl 
 of bread and milk, my supper fruit and bread 
 from a plate held in my hand. And so, as I 
 watched the sea through the silent hours, the 
 high tide of love would come pouring in, sweep- 
 ing up through every bare inlet and creek and 
 bay and drowning out from memory and con- 
 sciousness all things save itself.
 
 CHAP. XXV [ 312 ] 
 
 The man who had said he loved me and did 
 not, but lusted after me, had said that I was 
 incapable of love, that I would never forget my- 
 self in a great emotion. I partly believed him 
 then. Now I knew better, for in days like these, 
 when duty and penance seemed for a little space 
 put by, self and sense were clean forgotten, and 
 I companied solely with memories of the man 
 who had believed in me, the man who had lifted 
 me up, who had been my pilot through the 
 storm. That he, who could be infinitely gentle, 
 could also be as rough and rugged as the storm 
 itself, made him but the more adorable. In all 
 the superficial love affairs which I had known I 
 had loved love, the being loved, the excitement 
 of the amorous and egotistic instinct. Now at 
 last, at thirty, I experienced for the first time the 
 majesty and the mastery of a mortal passion, and 
 now at last I loved my lover, witnessing anew 
 to the trenchant maxim of La Rochefoucauld. 
 Albeit for proof that the man I worshiped was 
 my lover, I had nothing beyond an involuntary 
 gesture, a single word, a doubtful phrase with
 
 [ 313 ] CHAP. XXV 
 
 barest chance of a hidden meaning, and per- 
 sistent, unremitting avoidance. Meager mate- 
 rial indeed with which to build, but I was meek 
 enough now not to ask for more. I am not sure 
 that I wanted Dr. Kirke to love me, since love 
 would only mean for him perpetual renuncia- 
 tion. I only asked to love him. This I dared to 
 do, I, Irving's wife, and believed it did me no 
 scathe, since this love in its essence was wholly 
 spiritual, not carnal. If an angel from Heaven 
 had rebuked me, calling it a " guilty love," I 
 should have faced him with an unflinching Retro 
 mihi. I knew it for the love which purified, not 
 that which defiled. 
 
 As the months passed we settled more and 
 more into our quiet life, and felt it not too sim- 
 ple after all. As Irving grew stronger he grew 
 less irritable and despondent, and we had va- 
 rious forms of sunshine in our homely cabin. 
 He began to take hold of the common life of 
 Borromeo with a certain interest, to identify 
 himself with the ambitious little town. Finding 
 him ready to stand less aloof the townspeople
 
 CHAP. XXV [ 314 ] 
 
 began to seek Mm out, drawn to him as people 
 always were by his personal elegance and dis- 
 tinction, his very marked refinement and unob- 
 trusive culture, and perhaps yet more by the 
 pathos of the melancholy in his face, so much 
 more marked I saw sadly of late, in spite of all 
 my contrite ministration. 
 
 All this was very good for Irving, and his 
 health improved steadily. He decided to open 
 an office as architect in the central street of Bor- 
 romeo. Some little work came his way which 
 we both enjoyed greatly, although the financial 
 return was inconsiderable. We found it neces- 
 sary that spring to draw somewhat heavily 
 upon the principal which we had invested, since 
 an orange-grove is bound to be an arch-con- 
 sumer for a few years before it can become a 
 producer. Still we were not seriously troubled 
 by this, especially when we were able to econo- 
 mize more closely as Irving's firmer health per- 
 mitted. 
 
 When the summer heats came on we were 
 brave at first to bear them, to compare records,
 
 [ 315 ] CHAP. XXV 
 
 and declare one day and another of a tempera- 
 ture far lower than we had often known in 
 Massachusetts. But as I watched him through 
 July I saw that Irving drooped again under the 
 continuous, unintermitting weight of humid 
 heat. With hardly a day for deliberation, he 
 started North, protesting much, but driven forth 
 by my inflexible determination and my auda- 
 cious assurance that I could make up the ex- 
 pense in some way. Oh, I knew ways! there 
 was no need to worry. I packed his dress suit 
 in his trunk and told him of it only as he was 
 leaving. 
 
 " Go in for a gay good time, dear. You will 
 be wanted everywhere; accept invitations; it 
 will do you good." 
 
 And so it proved. Irving's letters came back 
 filled with very frank and manifest delight in 
 the welcome he found waiting. He met it first 
 of all in New York, where he ventured to call 
 upon Mr. Hook, the architect. He had found 
 him in and delighted to see him. He had praised 
 his work on the Kimball house most generously.
 
 CHAP. XXV [ 316 ] 
 
 He had spoken of our coming eventually to 
 settle in New York ; had as good as said that he 
 could put plenty of business in his way if he 
 should decide to do so. Then it had been home, 
 and to the old clubs and haunts. " By Jove, 
 Sidney," he wrote, " it almost seems as if every- 
 thing we suffered and feared had been a mon- 
 strous delusion. The whole flurry is over now 
 and forgotten. I never had such a royal wel- 
 come. All the men who were in town seem bent 
 on treating me like a foreign prince. You never 
 saw anything like it. Every one comments on 
 my looks. They say I have grown so muscular 
 and vigorous. And they all ask for you and 
 seem so anxious to have you come back why, 
 I have yards of invitations for visits for you. 
 I saw Kirke yesterday and told him what a 
 grand nurse you had turned out. Of course, he 
 didn't say anything. You know he never does, 
 but he seemed pleased I thought. Sometimes it 
 makes my eyes dim when I think how my poor 
 girl felt herself sent to Coventry here less than 
 a year ago. I know everybody who fell in with
 
 [ 317 ] CHAP. XXV 
 
 that sort of thing is dead ashamed of it now. 
 The Kimballs, thank Heaven ! are in Alaska. I 
 wish they would stay there. Never mind, maybe 
 we'll come back some time, after the grove gets 
 to bearing, and hold up our heads again with the 
 rest. What if we could even buy back the dear 
 old house ! I passed it yesterday, and threw a 
 kiss up to your window." 
 
 Irving returned to Borromeo in October, 
 looking brown and hearty. I had a fine sur- 
 prise for him. I was teaching in the Academy, 
 having taken a position a month before at a 
 very fair salary. I liked the work and found 
 I could do it as well as not. Our housekeeping 
 was so very simple, and easier than ever if Ir- 
 ving were in good appetite and condition. He 
 demurred vigorously at first, but I convinced 
 him that the teaching was perfectly manageable 
 for me. Soon I perceived that secretly it was 
 an immense relief to him. He had found money 
 fairly melting away while he was North, and 
 had been forced to ravage his bank account. 
 You couldn't turn around without handing out
 
 CHAP. XXV [ 318 ] 
 
 a dollar, he said, and of course you couldn't air 
 your poverty before the men in the clubs and 
 the fellows who took you to their houses. 
 
 " It will be all right, dear," I assured him 
 confidently. " Didn't I tell you I knew a way ! "
 
 XXVI 
 
 DECEMBER again. Two years since we came 
 first to Borromeo. It is a raw and windy night 
 with frequent gusts of chilly rain; twilight is 
 falling early. 
 
 I have remained late at the schoolhouse, for 
 the holidays are near at hand, and much extra 
 work is involved by an approaching Christmas 
 festival. I have no need to hurry home, for no 
 one will be waiting for me there. I set out for 
 my mile walk, my netted bag of books and exer- 
 cises to be corrected during the evening hang- 
 ing from my arm. It is a lonely walk, and the 
 twilight in which I start will be dusk ere I reach 
 home. 
 
 A year ago when I took this same walk I 
 used not to take it alone, for Irving would al- 
 ways meet me somewhere on the way, often at 
 the schoolhouse door, and we would stride on
 
 CHAP. XXVI [ 32O ] 
 
 together like the good comrades in the folk-song. 
 Kind and dear Irving had been all the winter 
 long, and was growing dearer. We thought, 
 too, ever stronger. It had been a happy winter, 
 bringing fresh heart and hope to both of us and 
 clean, honest work and wages, without fear or 
 favor of any man. But in March Irving had 
 not seemed so strong. His work tired him, and 
 he was discouraged by the great " freeze " which 
 ruined half of his young trees, just fairly 
 started after long tending. It was hard to have 
 to be away from him then through the hours of 
 school, but it could not be helped. Our resources 
 had been so drained that now the interest had 
 dwindled to a pitifully small amount, and if I 
 broke off Irving could not have the costly food 
 he craved and required. I must teach long hours 
 every day. I do not know always how those 
 days were spent in March, when the weather 
 was bleak and depressing, and he could not 
 go beyond the narrow walls of the little house. 
 I know they must have been drearily monot- 
 onous with such scant resources as were at our
 
 [ 321 ] CHAP. XXVI 
 
 disposal, but he made no complaint. There were 
 so many people in Borromeo who had much the 
 same languid tediousness to bear, so many who 
 had been worsted in life, moreover. I think Ir- 
 ving came to feel that he was not the most cru- 
 elly buffeted of men. Mr. Loring was our best 
 friend and standby. All through that last 
 month he went very often during school hours 
 and played cribbage, which he despised, with 
 Irving, talked and read with him and kept up his 
 spirits. 
 
 The thing which happened at last was what 
 none of us had yet foreseen. It was early in 
 April. We were fearing for his lungs, as he 
 coughed at night and lost flesh perceptibly ; the 
 slow wasting of consumption was ever before 
 my eyes as a thing which might follow. But it 
 was not to be. Swift and sudden a heart sei- 
 zure came upon him in the early morning when 
 we were quite alone. I used all the measures 
 and medicines with which Dr. Kirke had pro- 
 vided me, called a neighbor, when I could leave 
 for a moment, and sent for a physician and Mr. 
 
 21
 
 CHAP. XXVI [ 332 ] 
 
 Loring. Even then Irving was unconscious, 
 and the end came very soon. 
 
 We did not talk of going North for the burial. 
 There was no money for such a journey nor any 
 motive power. My work and my home were in 
 Borromeo ; the people had loved Irving here and 
 they loved me also. So we laid him that spring 
 morning in the quiet Southern cemetery, with 
 a great live oak bending near as if in yearning, 
 while from afar palm-trees lifted their branches 
 to the sky for victory. I used before that to 
 wonder that women went to the graves of their 
 dead to weep there ; it seemed, I had thought, a 
 weak, faint-hearted, faithless clinging to the clay. 
 I shall never think that again. Irving had be- 
 come like my son rather than my husband in 
 that last year of tenderness and devotion. A 
 mother does not expect her son to be faultless, 
 as the wife does her husband ; she knows all, and 
 her love can sustain all. And so, as a mother 
 yearns over the grave of her child, I yearned 
 over the grave of my husband with outgoing, 
 faithful tenderness, and for his sake and the
 
 [ 323 ] CHAP. XXVI 
 
 beauty which he so longed for everywhere, I 
 made it beautiful with flowers. People were 
 wonderfully kind, and Mr. Loring mourned 
 with me sincerely and with a sufficing sympathy, 
 which I was by no means minded to reject. For 
 mine was not a comfortless or a consuming 
 grief, although it held its own unnamable an- 
 guish. I took up my life and went on with it 
 quite simply. It was needful that I should 
 work, and my place in the Academy awaited me. 
 I found that I was still clear in mind, and sound 
 in body; equal to my task now so sadly sim- 
 plified. All those who knew me urged that I 
 should not live alone, but I knew that alone I 
 was best content. 
 
 As the months passed I began to find a quite 
 indescribable satisfaction in the life I lived, its 
 simplicity, its monotony, its very poverty. I 
 dwelt now day, by day with the two supreme 
 lords of life Love and Death, and I was spir- 
 itualized and purified by their companionship. 
 
 In my girlhood and in the years following I 
 had been deeply if delicately sensuous. Per-
 
 CHAP. XXVI [ 334 ] 
 
 fume, color, texture, food must be of exquisite 
 and elaborate refinement, and in them all I rev- 
 eled in a kind of languid ecstasy. I had been 
 an idolater, an idolater of my own body, an 
 idolatry so subtle yet so gross that fire-worship 
 becomes sublime in comparison. 
 
 Now I had no personal luxuries beyond a 
 portable bath and abundance of clean linen; a 
 book, an easy chair, a rose or a spray of jessa- 
 mine; I wore the simplest and most unadorned 
 of clothing both outer and inner ; my fare was 
 wholesome, but of the cheapest; my day was 
 that of a working woman going forth to her 
 labor until sunset ; my house, my bed, my board 
 were solitary. Such a life would once have 
 seemed to me as intolerable as the life of a 
 convict or a miner, but into it I now infused the 
 same ardor which in the old days I had infused 
 into the life of material luxury. I was enamored 
 of poverty and chastity, of my austere solitude, 
 my ascetic and ordered severity of life. Like a 
 draught of cold pure water this discipline 
 seemed to quench the restless fever in my spirit.
 
 [ 325 ] CHAP. XXVI 
 
 I sought to adopt the practise of good deeds, 
 as it belonged essentially now to my scheme of 
 things, but involuntarily heart and flesh cried 
 out that these might not assume the shape of 
 taking into my house some alien creature, how- 
 ever deserving, who would bring disorder and 
 discord into its simple low-toned harmony. 
 
 It will be perceived, therefore, that to-night 
 as I walk homeward alone in my black gown and 
 small black bonnet, tied widow-wise below my 
 chin, the rain and wind beating into face and 
 eyes, the twilight deepening around me, I am 
 not heavy-hearted, acutely lonely and unhappy, 
 or altogether to be pitied. 
 
 Never in my days of " virgin liberty " has 
 my step been firmer or more elastic. My phys- 
 ical health is perfect, and many of my spiritual 
 wounds are healed. So I come within sight of 
 my small dark cabin with the shading of the low 
 grove of young trees behind, and the sparse 
 faded grass before and presently I am aware 
 that a red spark of light is moving slowly and 
 evenly back and forth along the narrow strip of
 
 CHAP. XXVI [ 326 ] 
 
 walk leading up to the veranda step. A moment 
 later I can discern through the dim dusk a man's 
 form. Some one is waiting for me then. 
 
 A nameless dread and danger, the possibil- 
 ity of which never quite leaves me, pierces 
 through my thoughts, and I stand still where I 
 am, in the rain. 
 
 Could this be the man I fear most? Can it 
 be Ross Kimball come again to pursue and to 
 besiege me in my def enselessness I 
 
 My heart beats violently, my breath quick- 
 ens, but I start on again. A moment more must 
 decide. At least I will not play the coward with- 
 out cause. When I reach my gate the stranger 
 stands, his back to the darkness of the veranda, 
 and seeing me comes with deliberate step down 
 the walk. My hand is taken in a strong and 
 reassuring grasp.
 
 xxvn 
 
 "DR. KIRKE!" 
 
 (Joy, be merciful and stay thy hand!) 
 " Yes, the Doctor, come once more to tor- 
 ment you! Tell me that I have not begun by 
 frightening you. It never occurred to me that 
 I might have a ghoulish air, lurking like this 
 about your door." 
 
 " Not now, since I have seen your face." 
 " It was not to have been dark, you see, when 
 you appeared. You take an unmercifully long 
 time to come from that Academy. I have paced 
 your hurricane deck since five o'clock." 
 
 " How dreadful, and you must have been so 
 long on the way." 
 
 " Yes, two years. But they have not been as 
 long as this last hour." 
 
 " It must have been most discouraging." 
 " I thought I had timed things particularly
 
 CHAP. XXVII [ 338 ] 
 
 well, supposing five o'clock the time when all 
 good Christian teachers sought their own 
 abodes." 
 
 " God rest ye merry gentleman, not at Christ- 
 mas time! Will you come in? The door is 
 open now." 
 
 " Perhaps you would better go first. I am a 
 little afraid of the dark." 
 
 The sputter of a match was held in the Doc- 
 tor's hand. I hastened in before him, lifted the 
 porcelain globe from the lamp on the table, and 
 there was light. Pine sticks were laid ready 
 across the andirons with slivers of pine below. 
 I touched them with a match and presently the 
 flames of a hearth fire curled upward, a puff of 
 fragrant piny smoke issuing into the room. 
 
 " Ah, what a capital place you have made 
 of it ! It is amazing, remembering it as I saw 
 it first. But I foresaw this too, in part. Given 
 a fireplace and a woman " 
 
 " Yes. But please take off your coat first 
 of all. Is it wet! See, I will hang it here. 
 When did you reach Borromeo ! "
 
 [ 329 ] CHAP. XXVII 
 
 " I do not quite know ; just before I reached 
 here. There is a difficulty which I fear to own 
 about taking off my coat." 
 
 "And what is it?" 
 
 He looked at me with a comic lifting of the 
 brows, humble and pleading. 
 
 "Lady, I am a famished man! Have you 
 ever been on a Southern accommodation train 
 for eight hours t " 
 
 " And you think I can not give you supper? 
 If that is the difficulty decide to remain, I beg, 
 at once." 
 
 " If you had come at five, you see, all would 
 have been well. I should have returned betimes 
 to the Borromeo House, but now 
 
 " Now you will stay at my house, please." 
 
 I was already preparing to lay the cloth on 
 the round table drawn before the fire. A sud- 
 den misgiving made me put my finger to my lip. 
 
 "Well, what is it? Have you not food 
 enough in the larder for such a hungry tramp 
 as I? I do not require much. Give me simply 
 such anchorite's fare as you were going to give
 
 CHAP. XXVII [ 33O ] 
 
 yourself. A toothsome veal pasty with a haunch 
 of venison, a brace of pheasants and plenty of 
 good Rhenish to wash it down will suffice." 
 
 " Do you ever eat rice flakes ? " 
 
 The Doctor shook his head despondently. 
 
 " I was going to have them for my piece de 
 resistance, with bread au beurre, and tea au 
 citron. Will you take the same? " 
 
 " I'll be hanged if I will," contemplatively. 
 " What bird-seed women do live on if they dare ! 
 You need a beefsteak this minute. You look 
 objectionably like the Lady Superior of a con- 
 vent." 
 
 " Oh, you are going back to the hotel ! Dr. 
 Kirke, I have just thought ! I can cook you two 
 eggs, new laid too, pure as pearls, fabulous 
 things at Christmas time in Florida! Won't 
 you stay ? " 
 
 " No, but I will return. I am going to get 
 that beefsteak. Will you broil it, Mrs. Lloyd? " 
 
 " Gladly." The door closed. 
 
 It was rapid work. When he returned, the 
 thick porterhouse, such as I had not seen in
 
 [ 331 ] CHAP. XXVII 
 
 many months, wrapped in brown paper under 
 his arm, the table was set with all my best 
 array, coffee was made, potatoes cooked brown, 
 bread toasted, and a great bed of live coals lying 
 ready. 
 
 When I sat down opposite him at the table 
 a little later and grew bold to look fully into his 
 face I saw that he looked wretchedly worn and 
 jaded, in spite of the massive modeling of his 
 features. Much of this may have been hunger, 
 for when the meal was over I marked an access 
 of firmness in line and color. The table cleared, 
 I drew armchairs near the fire and we sat down 
 together, all the badinage with which we had 
 bridged over the first sharp emotion of meeting 
 dying away. For an hour we talked only of Ir- 
 ving and all that preceded his death; rather I 
 talked and Dr. Kirke listened with grave and 
 mournful interest. 
 
 I spoke of the kindness and sympathy of all 
 our friends, both here in Borromeo and in the 
 North. Letters had been veritably a comfort. 
 I never dreamed how truly such they could be.
 
 CHAP. XXVII [ 333 ] 
 
 Miss Kirke's had been, of all, the best; his also 
 had been most kind. They had numbered (but 
 this I did not say) in all, precisely two. 
 
 " It is strange," Dr. Kirke commented, his 
 eyes with their old musing quietness resting 
 upon my face, "how you have grown younger 
 under it all. You are thinner, to be sure, but 
 you look younger than you did the first time I 
 saw you in a way more girlish. There has 
 been a very rare transformation." He seemed 
 to be speaking to himself rather than to me, I 
 thought. 
 
 " The first time you ever saw me you said 
 something very strange of me very awful," I 
 said sadly. " I have always hoped you would 
 unsay it some time." 
 
 " I was not aware of saying anything for 
 you to hear. But the first time I saw you, you 
 did, in fact, remind me of a picture by some Pre- 
 raffaelite painter which I saw once in Wil- 
 mington." 
 
 " Lilith. I have seen a replica since in Lon- 
 don."
 
 [ 333 ] CHAP. XXVII 
 
 He nodded gravely, but his eyes smiled. 
 
 " Now you remind me of Dante's Beatrice. 
 I mean as I think of her. No one has truly 
 painted her." 
 
 " Oh, no, no. You are quite mistaken in me 
 if you think that. It is a long way from Lilith 
 to Beatrice." 
 
 " You are far more Beatrice now than ever 
 you were Lilith, at least. Lilith was the Ewig- 
 weibliche, sinking to the mere body of woman's 
 beauty and charm. Beatrice is the woman es- 
 sence rising to her ideal place some one says it 
 better ; the ' soul of humanity regaining full in- 
 tuition of God.' " 
 
 Slow tears rose in my eyes and I shook my 
 head, unable to speak, to make further denial. 
 
 Dr. Kirke leaned forward then and took 
 both my hands in his and drew me toward him 
 with a gentle, resistless strength. 
 
 " What pedants to sit quarreling here over 
 Curious Myths of the Middle Ages ! I do not 
 care what you are like, Sidney, so you are like 
 yourself. I love you, and it is for my wife I
 
 CHAP. XXVII [ 334 ] 
 
 love you and want you. I have come to Bor- 
 romeo to tell you so. Tell me, my girl, can I 
 win you ? " 
 
 Soul and body yielded to his presence and 
 power for one unspeakable moment. Then I 
 drew away from his hands, from the arms which 
 would have gathered me wholly to his heart. 
 
 " No," I said and rose from my chair, stand- 
 ing where I could rest an elbow on the pine chim- 
 ney-shelf. " It is great and good it is like you 
 to think of this, but it can not be." 
 
 " It can not ! " with a falling cadence of poig- 
 nant distress. He had risen too and stood fac- 
 ing me with those somber, threatening eyes, like 
 Barbarossa's. 
 
 " No, never. But it is enough for me that 
 you could desire such a thing could dream that 
 I could be worthy of love like yours." 
 
 " It may be enough for you. It is not by 
 any means enough for me. I have lived in 
 dreams and de'sires long enough. I want reali- 
 ties now. I have heard your answer. Forgive 
 me, but I can not accept it peacefully, submis-
 
 [ 335 ] CHAP. XXVII 
 
 sively. I came here for you no, not for you. 
 Think once more, Sidney, before you send me 
 away like this." 
 
 " I must not think. You must not let me 
 change ! " I murmured confusedly. 
 
 "It is no new thing, no sudden fancy, no 
 reasonable, considered purpose that has brought 
 me here. Men of my age sometimes think it 
 wise to marry, and select complacently from 
 their acquaintance the woman who seems best 
 to serve their turn. I would not importune you, 
 Sidney, like a craven, querulous fool if I had 
 come like that. No! Listen to me. For two 
 years, for more than that and never for one in- 
 stant of conscious thought, have you been absent 
 from my mind. Before that I did not trouble 
 about you much. You had a strange charm for 
 me, but I own I did not like you altogether, did 
 not approve you for Irving's wife. Then cer- 
 tain causes led me to a passing interest and 
 concern in your affairs and I occupied myself 
 with you in a moderate degree. Afterward I 
 found your life possibly, your reason certainly,
 
 CHAP. XXVII [ 336 ] 
 
 your redemption perchance, in serious danger 
 all seemed pressed upon me for rescue. But to 
 me you were hot, haughty, rebellious of control, 
 determined never to yield your secret, or sub- 
 mit your will. I began to see the devilish forces 
 arrayed against you ; then the power, the pathos 
 of your strange organization; the artistic and 
 sensuous all to the fore, the moral in abeyance, 
 but awakening; I saw the tremendous struggle 
 you were waging, and would yet wage ; the god- 
 dess-like sorrow you suffered over your own in- 
 firmity. All the manhood in me enlisted in your 
 defense. But see! While I was thinking my- 
 self strong to be your champion, your shield 
 and defender, suddenly one day, you, all uncon- 
 sciously, rose and wounded my sword-arm and 
 well-nigh threw me. I found that I loved you, 
 I who had no right. The battle was turned and 
 it was with myself I have had first of all to fight 
 in your behalf, from that November day at twi- 
 light when I saw you wholly brought to bay; 
 your reason itself imperiled, until now. I found 
 you white and shaken, do you remember? lift-
 
 [ 337 ] CHAP. XXVII 
 
 ing eyes of strange and awful boding to my face, 
 the great, wounded, beaten soul pleading from 
 them for something, I knew not what." 
 
 " A pilot. I had prayed," I whispered. He 
 flashed a look of comprehension in my face, then 
 bent his head with gentlest reverence, and in the 
 silence I saw what I had never seen before: a 
 strong man's tears. From head to foot I trem- 
 bled before him, but still I stood my ground. 
 He gave me one glance then, gathered himself 
 together, and shook his head impatiently back- 
 ward. 
 
 " You can not love me ! I can not wonder. 
 I am harsh, homely, clumsy, graceless, a very 
 Vulcan of a man. What should a girl like you 
 find to love in me I " He turned away from me 
 and paced the floor. The pathetic bending of 
 his powerful head as to a yoke of sorrow, the 
 mighty shoulders suddenly seeming to express 
 the burden of a weight of care, produced an ef- 
 fect which I could not wholly withstand. 
 
 " You shall have my reason," I said steadily, 
 
 forcing myself to calmness ; " but when I have 
 22
 
 CHAP. XXVII [ 338 J 
 
 told you what it is, and that it must be final 
 then, Dr. Kirke, will you promise me that you 
 will go away and leave me ! It is late, you see, 
 almost ten." 
 
 " Perfectly right," he said with brief assent, 
 " I will go. You should have ordered me out be- 
 fore. Speak, please." 
 
 He stood then at a short distance, the table 
 with its lamp and books and papers between us. 
 His hands were behind him; his head dropped 
 forward; thought sat heavily upon his brow, 
 which was yet calm, judicial. It was thus the 
 Doctor looked, I knew, when a case of mortal 
 issue lay before him. 
 
 " I can not be your wife because I love you 
 too much have loved you all the way. If I 
 loved you less I could be your wife." 
 
 "And now? " 
 
 " I will not." 
 
 He bowed as if in submission, but a change 
 swifter than a lightning-flash passed over him. 
 Sudden power and illumination proceeded from 
 his form and face. The homely, careworn, bur-
 
 [ 339 ] CHAP. XXVII 
 
 dened man who had been pleading with me as 
 for his life became imposing, splendid, awe-in- 
 spiring. He pleaded no more. 
 
 " You will not, but I will," his look plainly 
 said. However, aloud he said simply, " Good 
 night. May I see you for a little while before 
 I leave, to-morrow night? " 
 
 " You start back then so soon? " 
 
 " Yes, by the eleven o'clock train. May I 
 come about eight? " 
 
 "Yes, or earlier. I shall be in school all 
 day, or I would see you sooner." 
 
 " I shall do very well. I mean to ask that 
 young preacher you like so much, Irving's 
 friend " 
 
 " Mr. Loring." 
 
 "Yes. I had forgotten the name. I shall 
 get him if I can to go out with me for the day 
 in somebody's sailboat." 
 
 " That is good. You will enjoy it, and I know 
 he will be glad to go. Good night."
 
 XXVIII 
 
 " PRODUCE your reasons I " 
 
 The night was as mild as in a Northern Sep- 
 tember; the sky was brilliant with stars. "We 
 had walked together through the pines and be- 
 yond us now lay the sand barrens and the sea, 
 with its long withdrawing roar. Over it, east- 
 ward, hung the young moon, an inverted cres- 
 cent. 
 
 " My reasons are chiefly three, but the first 
 one alone is enough. We need not touch the 
 others." 
 
 " The first then." 
 
 " Dr. Kirke, I love you too much to let you 
 marry, if I can help it, a woman with a tarnished 
 name." 
 
 Plainly this was anticipated. An indefinable 
 slackening of the tension in him followed. 
 
 " That is your first worst. I weigh it in the
 
 [ 341 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 balance and pronounce it naught. Your name 
 to-day, my girl, is clean, every whit. You have 
 sailed a gallant course, and your friends have 
 watched you." 
 
 He felt an involuntary grateful touch then 
 on his hand, but it was gone when he would have 
 stayed it. 
 
 " But, Dr. Kirke, that is only the outer rim 
 of the trouble. The real trouble is I have not 
 been a good woman. You do not know and you 
 shall now. Then you will see." 
 
 "I fear nothing you can tell me, Sidney. 
 Say on." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "May I tell you slowly, with some things 
 far back in the past? " 
 
 "As slowly as you will, dear child. See, 
 here is a fallen tree. Will you sit down? " 
 
 "I do not want to keep back anything. I 
 can not bear it to find how much better you think 
 me than I am." 
 
 Another brief silence. Then I began slowly. 
 
 " I saw a half -burned sheet of paper one day
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 342 ] 
 
 useless, meaningless, scorched, shriveled as it 
 lay in the ashes. You know how it would look." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " It was when I was at your house that I saw 
 how my life was like that. I saw that I had been 
 through the fire and was spoiled for beauty and 
 purity and noble service. I remember asking 
 myself over and over in what fire my soul had 
 been burned. My mind was weak ; my spiritual 
 vision weaker yet. I could not discern it. Later 
 I saw, and I found then the key to the cipher of 
 my whole past life." 
 
 " Few persons go so far." 
 
 " It has been the fire of vanity that poor, 
 trite, pitiful thing which I fancied belonged only 
 to an old-time Pilgrim's Progress notion of 
 things. It is oh, so real, I have found, so cruel, 
 mercenary, devouring a consuming fire, start- 
 ing too from such a little spark. I was not a 
 vain girl at first. I was not vain enough, my 
 mother thought. I did not care to attract ad- 
 miration nor did I miss it that men did not fol- 
 low me as they did others. Then some small
 
 [ 343 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 things, commonplace at most, happened and sud- 
 denly the thing awoke in me like a hungry ani- 
 mal, the passion for admiration, and sought its 
 own satisfaction and cared for nothing else at 
 heart. Year by year it grew bolder, more reck- 
 less, more tyrannous. My very marriage was 
 based upon the soothing of my pride, before 
 that wounded. Why was there no one, Dr. 
 Kirke, in those years to warn me? No one to 
 tell me that but one life was mine, and that if 
 I gave that to the sense I could not give it to 
 the spirit? That if I gave it to the flesh I must 
 taste the bitterness of corruption, as I have 
 done ? It all seemed so light and harmless then. 
 Sometimes, in these later years, I have fairly 
 hated this body, these senses for they have 
 devoured all the glories and delights of earth, 
 and sky in their coarse, selfish greed of lux- 
 ury." 
 
 " You overrate this. You have been consid- 
 ered a woman of intellectual and artistic tastes, 
 always." 
 
 " Yes, and it was in me to be that and more.
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 344 ] 
 
 I have some good capacities. But, Dr. Kirke, 
 you can not understand a woman. Even the 
 things which came through these higher chan- 
 nels, the beauty of art, of poetry, all the esthetic 
 life, were in the end captured as booty by this 
 tyrant of vanity. I decked my body, my mind, 
 my stage, with them as accessories to myself, the 
 more to win praise and draw the men who met 
 me to my feet. So I cheapened the best things 
 of life, yes, the very best, for I even turned the 
 sacred privileges of Christ's Church to the com- 
 merce of self-advancement. How base, how ter- 
 rible it sounds, but it is bare truth ! Irving and 
 I joined that church in Boston simply because 
 we thought it would help us to gain position, 
 money." 
 
 " Did any one ever talk to you about re- 
 ligion?" 
 
 " Mr. Owen certainly never did. No, I think 
 no one. When I was a girl I caught up a super- 
 ficial habit, common at my age perhaps, of ridi- 
 culing and mocking the old forms of thought 
 and speech and practise common to the Chris-
 
 [ 345 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 tian people. But do you know, Dr. Kirke, com- 
 pared with the vulgarity, the crass, sordid mean- 
 ness of a soulless life, such as mine has been, the 
 humblest, quaintest old colored mammy down 
 here who cherishes her religion as her chief 
 good, is a spiritual aristocrat ! Compared with 
 the mercenary maxims of the world in which I 
 have lived, the tritest phrases of those old re- 
 ligionists seem stately and splendid, for what- 
 ever they missed, they always spoke of two 
 things the soul and God. These were left out 
 in my program of life. Self, sense, the pride of 
 life, took their place." 
 
 " You have drawn a great arraignment less 
 of yourself than of a prevalent type, however. 
 I warn you that I shall not accept it for a mo- 
 ment as an argument on your side." 
 
 "Wait until you see how it fared with me 
 when I met Boss Kimball." 
 " You were in danger then." 
 " And you perceived it? When, first! " 
 " That night at the Club reception. I 
 watched the man while he danced with you."
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 346 ] 
 
 " Was it you who sent your sister to me, 
 with that warning 1 " 
 
 " We agreed together to compass your pro- 
 tection, if it was in our power." 
 
 " And that was when you did not like me 1 " 
 
 " Yes. But no man was ever indifferent to 
 you, Sidney." 
 
 "And on shipboard. Did you dislike me 
 then?" 
 
 " No, but you depressed me. I will tell you 
 frankly, at that time I feared the nature of your 
 relation to Ross Kimball. That was before I 
 knew you." 
 
 " It is not strange." 
 
 "Before the voyage was over I was con- 
 vinced of my mistake. Sarah and I made up 
 our minds deliberately then to surround you, 
 unknown to yourself, with all the defense and 
 guarding we could devise. You helped us by 
 opening the way to a possible basis for better 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " Then, Dr. Kirke, it was I who was being 
 led gently along when I fancied it was you 1 It
 
 [ 347 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 would be amusing if it were not so dreadful. So 
 it was I who was being encompassed, after all ! " 
 
 "In a sense. You must not sit here any 
 longer, Sidney. This heavy dew is making your 
 clothing damp. Shall we walk back? " 
 
 " Oh, what a guardian angel Sarah Kirke 
 has been to me ! " 
 
 " Sarah has been no more an angel than I. 
 Who do you suppose stood guard that night 
 while you were up in that infernal tower-room 
 of Ross Kimbairs?" 
 
 " Dr. Kirke ! How can you have known ? I 
 supposed the existence of that room an abso- 
 lute secret." 
 
 He shook his head. " There was mischief 
 abroad that night. It was in the air. It was in 
 that man's face when he watched you. It was in 
 the exuberance of your own spirit. You were 
 thrillingly dangerous that night to the sense of 
 a man; what was more, you were self -intoxi- 
 cated." 
 
 I was startled and no wonder. Nothing had 
 escaped this man's vision, it seemed.
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 348 ] 
 
 " I was wholly ignorant of the existence of 
 that room, but I was not so ignorant of the 
 workings of Kimball's mind. I have known him 
 well in the past, much better than he has sup- 
 posed. I was convinced that that night of tri- 
 umph would not pass without a diabolical effort 
 on his part to win from you some crucial token 
 or promise. I went there only because I be- 
 lieved you would need some one to guard you. 
 There was little, however, that I could do." 
 
 " Tell me all, Dr. Kirke. I guessed after- 
 ward that you had watched me for some reason, 
 and like the idiot I was, I resented it." 
 
 " I remember," and he smiled drily. " Yes, 
 I watched you systematically, determined not to 
 leave you undefended one moment while you 
 were in that house. So it happened that I was 
 on the north terrace with my eyes wide open 
 when you went up to the second floor of the 
 tower. And I came around and listened for 
 your return by that outer door on the south ter- 
 race. As I listened I did the only other thing 
 for you in my power. I prayed. I believed that
 
 [ 349 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 if all were well you would return by the way you 
 went, and very soon. You were gone a little 
 more than eight minutes." 
 
 " Yes, that is precise." 
 
 " But you came back by the wrong way. If 
 you had been gone ten minutes you would have 
 heard a knocking like the knocking in Macbeth 
 on that door. But when I heard the knob turn 
 I crossed rapidly in the shadow to the great 
 south entrance and awaited you there. You may 
 remember." 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " Why are you crying so ? " 
 
 " To think you were so watching over me in 
 that awful time." 
 
 " I saw your face as I stopped your flying 
 feet. I saw signs of a mortal battle. Oh, Sid- 
 ney ! " and he ground his teeth. " And I had 
 stood down there like a stock or stone, unable 
 to lift my hand! I have never known what I 
 said when I stopped you, your face put me in 
 such a rage. My only thought was to let you 
 know that you could summon me if you were
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 35O ] 
 
 still in need. Then presently I saw you drive 
 away and thanked God that at last you were 
 safe." 
 
 " Dr. Kirke, you spoke just now of that un- 
 known room above the library. That room had 
 been prepared for clandestine visits from me. 
 If you had seen it you could better under- 
 stand." 
 
 " I have seen it. I understand. Let my part 
 go till later, though." 
 
 " Ah, then you know the terrible beauty of it, 
 how the man had calculated each smallest detail 
 to make an irresistible appeal to my sense. He 
 was so sure of my love of luxury and my love of 
 using my power over him the Lilith side of 
 me!" 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 " Was ever deeper shame than this complete 
 confidence of his ? I believe in all his elaborate 
 preparation he never doubted the issue." 
 
 " He is accustomed to succeed in all he un- 
 dertakes. That makes a man insolent." 
 
 "But don't you see, Dr. Kirke, that Ross
 
 [ 351 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 Kimball is too prudent a man and too intelli- 
 gent to have done all that with no reason ? Now, 
 surgeon, the wound is open for you to probe to 
 its very core. He was justified in his estimate 
 of me by what had gone before between us. I 
 had let him say things, look things, which no 
 true wife permits a man to say to her or to 
 look." 
 
 My voice had sunk to a trembling whisper. 
 Dr. Kirke simply bent his head and waited. 
 We were standing now on the hither edge of the 
 pines, and it was mercifully too dark for us to 
 see each other's faces. 
 
 " Have I not told you truly that I have not 
 been a good woman? " I continued mournfully. 
 " I had seen my danger, seen it from the very 
 first. No woman could have failed to see it, 
 whatever she might say. I believed in myself 
 sufficiently to dare to dally with the danger, and 
 expect to escape. That was all." 
 
 " But what was the motive, the object, the 
 gain?" 
 
 " Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it! The infi-
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 353 ] 
 
 nite littleness! Just the need of money and 
 more money for Irving, of name and power and 
 position for us both. Just the flattery of my 
 pride, the satisfaction to my vanity in having 
 this man my thrall." 
 
 " Did you ever care for him ! " 
 
 " He satisfied a certain side of me, but not 
 the side that loves. He appealed to my taste, 
 and in a subtle, cynical way to my intellect. 
 Most of all I think to my pride and my love of 
 power. I liked him that he could control men, 
 I knew he was not good, and yet I let him think 
 he could control me. Now you must admit that 
 you have not truly known me or you could 
 never have wished to marry me." 
 
 " On the contrary, your spiritual diagnosis 
 of yourself coincides with what I have always 
 known it to be, Sidney a magnificently natural, 
 sensuous pagan creature, with a soul appal- 
 lingly slow in awakening to God. But it has 
 awakened and God was not too late. When God 
 inbreathes the breath of life the man becomes a 
 living soul in the highest sense. Life is just a
 
 [ 353 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 stuff to ' try the soul's strength on,' you know 
 to ' educe the man.' You have had a bitter 
 struggle and you have won. But you are trem- 
 bling, Sidney. Do not let us recall these bitter 
 memories. Come, you must not shiver so. We 
 will go back to the house now and you shall 
 have a fire and better cheer." 
 
 A match was struck and the watch consulted. 
 
 " It is growing late, after nine." 
 
 " When must you start for the station? " 
 
 " At half-past ten." 
 
 " We will go back then. There is little more 
 to say, only I wanted just to tell you that when 
 I saw that room and understood, God helped me 
 to hate him, and myself and all the foul taint of 
 the atmosphere we had been living in, and I ran 
 for very life away from it all. Then I saw you 
 who had been praying for me to God." 
 
 " And somewhere on the way you were griev- 
 ously hurt, my poor Sidney." 
 
 " Yes, on the stair. I was so afraid that I 
 ran, and could not see quite where I went, and 
 so plunged against that cruel iron rail." 
 
 23
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 354 ] 
 
 " And all those weeks you hid your pain and 
 your danger ! " 
 
 " Yes, I was afraid of you. I knew you 
 would divine something of the truth whatever 
 plea I might make." 
 
 " Spartan ! You were properly punished in 
 the end. Poor plucky little Sidney! I wanted 
 to help you, but you would not let me. I used to 
 wish I had you in a hospital, where I would have 
 made short work of all your obstinacy and your 
 rubbishy fibbing." 
 
 "But tell me now how it ever could have 
 chanced that you yourself saw that tower room. 
 Have they done something with it 1 " 
 
 " You remember that afternoon, I have 
 spoken of it already when I made that very 
 short call toward night ! " 
 
 " The day before I went to your house ? 
 Yes." 
 
 " That afternoon, an hour earlier, I had been 
 summoned urgently and rather mysteriously by 
 telephone to Ross Kimball's. The man who tel- 
 ephoned I found afterward that it was Lit, the
 
 [ 355 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 confidential valet asked me to leave my car- 
 riage in front of the gates and come on foot, if 
 I would, to the small grade door on the north ter- 
 race. I did so and was admitted by Lit himself. 
 He was plainly scared to death for several dif- 
 ferent reasons, but instinct and training had 
 been sufficient to make him keep still. I was 
 taken up that iron stair and into the upper 
 room. Of course, I perceived in passing, by the 
 construction, that it was the only room on that 
 floor of the tower, and therefore I knew that it 
 was to it that Mr. Kimball must have taken you 
 that night, six weeks earlier. The room was 
 marvelously lighted and 'of the extraordinary 
 beauty you know. I looked for signs of confu- 
 sion, for I saw at once that Mr. Kimball was 
 lying on the floor insensible. The only disorder 
 was a woman's gown, white silk I should think, 
 lying in a careless heap in a corner, as if it had 
 been flung there. A pastel portrait on an easel 
 of a woman by her pose and color she instantly 
 suggested you had been cut several times 
 across the face with a sharp blade. I noticed
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 356 ] 
 
 no other disorder. I found Mr. Kimball breath- 
 ing heavily and suffering from a stroke of apo- 
 plexy, not, however, severe. Lit had been in the 
 library below and had heard him fall. He pos- 
 sessed pass-keys to the place, and so ran up and 
 at once discovered his master's condition. That 
 was the whole story." 
 
 " Was Mr. Kimball in danger? " 
 
 " He could have been easily enough if I had 
 let him." 
 
 There was a certain grimness in the reply. 
 
 " I also had my moment of temptation in that 
 room, Sidney." 
 
 There was a mome'nt's pause. 
 
 " We brought him out all right in a short 
 time and as soon as he could speak he began to 
 explain about Mrs. Kimball's boudoir which he 
 had been fitting up himself with such pains and 
 so forth. I picked up his penknife while he was 
 talking and laid it on the table. I couldn't stand 
 his lies very well just then, and so gave him to 
 understand that talking would be sure death to 
 him. I helped Lit after a little to carry him
 
 [ 357 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 down to the library, and got away as soon as I 
 could. I had to go back to him, though, in the 
 evening." 
 
 " I read in the paper after I returned from 
 your house that he had had grippe." 
 
 " Yes. The usual thing. He will have grippe 
 again by and by. Some other doctor will have 
 the case, however." 
 
 We had reached the house now and soon had 
 taken our former seats by the fire which we 
 found burning cheerily in expectation of our re- 
 turn. A mulatto jewel, who had been my occa- 
 sional helper ever since we came to Borromeo, 
 had been retained for the evening. She now 
 brought in coffee and we took it together in 
 silence and were glad of the space to rest. 
 
 " Now then for secondly and thirdly," said 
 Dr. Kirke, with a glance at the clock, when we 
 were alone again. It was twenty minutes then, 
 I observed, before ten. 
 
 " I think firstly must have been enough." 
 
 " Firstly has lost your case for you, Sidney, 
 completely. I will hear secondly."
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 358 ] 
 
 "You will not understand it, I know. A. 
 man could not. But when I said if I loved you 
 less I would marry you I meant exactly that. I 
 love you, as I have for two years, religiously and 
 with a power which I think few women ever 
 know. But I do not think the love I have for you 
 is the basis for marriage. You are so great to 
 me, so exalted, so next to God, that I fear you as 
 much as I love you, and that fear is strange, you 
 will think a thing I worship and cling to. My 
 love is ideal, impossible to sustain on the same 
 plane if put to the test of domesticity ; I can not 
 see it change and decline to the level of the aver- 
 age married life. I can not bear to discover the 
 heel of my great Achilles. To tell the truth, Dr. 
 Kirke, I think I never had a talent for marriage. 
 The details and demands of it repel me. I pre- 
 fer my own ascetic restraint to the larger con- 
 straint which it involves. It may be that I am 
 supercivilized, overrefined, cowardly even. You 
 will probably say so. But I wish to see you at 
 intervals not too long if you please, Dr. Kirke 
 and I should be pleased to think you cared for
 
 [ 359 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 me a little. In any event I shall love you as I 
 have done. It is my life. In this way we shall 
 both retain our illusions ; and if we have to tra- 
 verse wide plains of dead and dreary endurance, 
 we shall at least now and then, when we meet, 
 climb to a summit of impossible joy like this ! " 
 
 He smiled upon me with exceeding benevo- 
 lence. 
 
 " I see. However, granting that a husband 
 is always likely to become a lost illusion, it is 
 certainly not so with a child. It is a thwarting 
 of nature for a woman of your superb physique 
 and endowment to miss motherhood." 
 
 " I have thought of that too, but I am more 
 afraid of that in one way than of the other." 
 
 "You can not convince me that you are a 
 coward, do your best." 
 
 " No, it is not exactly that this time. But 
 you see I fear what you call my endowment. See 
 how nearly fatal it has been to myself. I dare 
 not hand it down with all its pitfalls and perils 
 to another generation." 
 
 "That is a mistaken view. You were all
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 36O ] 
 
 right at the start if this demon of vanity had not 
 been aroused in you, and you had a strong na- 
 tive virtue to meet it with. A robust sensuous- 
 ness, moreover, is no bad thing to graft upon the 
 old Puritan stock. Go on. I cancel secondly. 
 Let us have thirdly." 
 
 Thirdly was to have been my deep satisfac- 
 tion in the simple, solitary, nunlike life I had 
 been living in Borromeo, but as I sat now with 
 the Doctor's eyes resting full upon me with their 
 brooding tenderness I essayed to speak but fal- 
 tered. A curious unreality and blight seemed 
 to have overtaken that life of ordered and strin- 
 gent discipline. Its charm had fled. I did not 
 speak. 
 
 " There is no thirdly. Exactly as I expected. 
 Very well then, Sidney, why should we not be 
 married before I take my train t " 
 
 I stared at him in speechless wonder. 
 
 " Mr. Loring will be here now in a few min- 
 utes. I asked him to come for the sake of the 
 walk back together, ostensibly ; really because I 
 foresaw that we might require his services."
 
 [ 361 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 " I do not comprehend." 
 
 " It is, however, very simple, very safe, very 
 beautiful to me. None of your reasons has the 
 slightest weight with me. I decline to accept 
 them even at the risk of declining from my 
 present august proportions to the paltry com- 
 monplaceness of a husband ; even at the risk of 
 showing my heel I wonder which one it is ! I 
 will promise to keep you afraid of me, however, 
 fast enough. There will be no trouble about 
 that part of it." 
 
 " Yes, there is your temper. But, Dr. Kirke, 
 I could not be married now ! " 
 
 " I do not ask you to go with me, or to an- 
 nounce a marriage. Sidney, I only ask the priv- 
 ilege of the right to protect you and care for you. 
 I am never without a fear of trouble coming to 
 you again from that same quarter. If it comes 
 you must have a man upon whom you dare to 
 call. I can not leave you here alone unless I 
 have the right to defend you." 
 
 " I have been afraid." 
 
 " Naturally you have. But you need not be
 
 CHAP. XXVIII [ 363 ] 
 
 any more. Let our marriage take place to- 
 night; there is still time and let it remain un- 
 known save to ourselves and the witnesses. I 
 will promise not to intrude upon you in any 
 way until summer, unless you call for me. If 
 you need me, telegraph. You can teach your 
 school and carry on this nun's life here, which 
 you like so much, to your heart's content, until 
 the term's end. When is that? " 
 
 " The first of June, Dr. Kirke." 
 
 " Then the second of June I will come again. 
 The marriage can be announced and then, at 
 that time I warn you there will be no escape for 
 you. I shall carry you back with me then, my 
 girl. I shall claim you forever, until death us 
 do part." 
 
 We had risen and with these words he took 
 me in his strong, sheltering embrace, and there 
 I was glad at last to rest without further ques- 
 tion or gainsaying. His eyes searched mine 
 solemnly, profoundly. 
 
 " And thereto I give thee my troth."
 
 [ 363 ] CHAP. XXVIII 
 
 I could only whisper the words. A long kiss 
 was given. 
 
 As I turned to dash away the tears which 
 blinded my eyes a step was heard by both of us 
 on the walk. The clock struck ten. Dr. Kirke 
 remarked in his most matter-of-fact tone, 
 
 " That must be Loring."