THE LADDER 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 JANE H. FINDLATER
 
 ftf-
 
 fbe LADDER to 
 THE STARS
 
 The LADDER to 
 THE STARS 
 
 By 
 JANE H. FINDLATER 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 1906
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 Published October, 1906
 
 THE LADDER TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IT was a very warm Sunday afternoon in early sum- 
 mer, and Miriam Sadler had walked all the way from 
 Hindcup-in-the-Fields to Hindcup Manor, to call upon 
 her Aunt Susan Pillar, Lady Joyce's housekeeper. She 
 approached the Manor by the back avenue, of course ; 
 but even this entrance was imposing enough. Miriam 
 loved the century-old beech trees, their boughs cour- 
 tesying to the earth, that bordered each side of the 
 road; under their green shade the girl stopped, and 
 turned her remarkable face up to gaze into the flicker- 
 ing depths above her. After the glare of the mid- 
 day sunlight it seemed almost dark here under the 
 trees. She noticed the splendid spring of the tree boles 
 skyward. " Once they were little beechnuts, hidden 
 in the earth like a grave," she said to herself ; " but 
 they pushed up through the sods and grew and grew, 
 and now see their splendid growth and stature ! " 
 
 Miriam was fond of words for their own sake, quite 
 apart from any meaning they might have so fond of 
 them that sometimes alone in the back kitchen at home 
 she would repeat over and over to herself strings of 
 words for nothing but their sound " Great and glori- 
 
 I
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 ous and supercelestial, evanescent, elemental, majes- 
 tic, mystical, and melodramatic " they rolled off the 
 tip of her tongue like a tune. But, as you see, her 
 thoughts were busy as well as her lips. She was al- 
 ways thinking, thinking, thinking unformed, chaotic 
 thoughts that led nowhere. This afternoon the still- 
 ness under the beech trees was almost oppressive. It 
 was so hot that all the world except Miriam seemed 
 to have gone asleep. Far away in the meadows the 
 sleepy, slow-running river kept up a gentle reminder 
 of its flowing, and some rooks in the elm trees in the 
 park gave sleepy caws every now and then ; but other- 
 wise there was no sound or murmur of sound. As she 
 came into the courtyard of the Manor, the stable dog 
 rushed out from his kennel with a startling rattle of 
 his chain and a tremendous bark. A kitchen maid 
 came sleepily to the door, blinking in the afternoon 
 sunshine, and greeted Miriam to a cold welcome ; she 
 was no favorite in the servants' hall. 
 
 " It's you, Miss Sadler ; yes, Mrs. Pillar is in her 
 sittin' room ; will you come inside ? " she said, holding 
 open the door to let her pass in. A garden boy had 
 appeared to see what the dog was barking at, and 
 Miriam saw that he and the kitchen maid exchanged 
 a wink at her expense. She did not mind ; but youth 
 is youth, and even a garden boy's wink wasn't alto- 
 gether pleasant. Miriam laid down the yellow cotton 
 parasol she had carried, and, as she went along the 
 passage to the housekeeper's room, began to pull off 
 her white thread gloves, which, owing to the heat, 
 were adhering firmly to her hands. 
 
 "Lor', Miriam!" cried Aunt Pillar, jumping up 
 
 2
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 from her armchair where she had been having a well- 
 earned nap, " to think of you walking across the fields 
 on such a warm afternoon as this ! Whatever pos- 
 sessed you ? " 
 
 Miriam sat down by the round table which stood in 
 the middle of the room, and with a final tug got off the 
 damp thread gloves and laid them on the table. A 
 weariness of mind, not of body, overcame her for a 
 moment at this reception. 
 
 " Oh, I do not know ; I like the exercise and the 
 freshness of the fields and the quiet," she explained. 
 
 Aunt Pillar surveyed her niece disapprovingly, 
 pursing her lips together. 
 
 " It's a blowzing walk, take it any way you please," 
 she said ; " but I'm glad to see you, and how is sister? * J 
 
 " Oh, mother is well, thanks," said Miriam absently. 
 She took up one of her gloves and began to pull out 
 the fingers of it. 
 
 " I do wish you weren't so absent-minded like," 
 said Aunt Pillar impatiently. She was a little cross 
 at being wakened from her delicious Sunday nap by 
 a girl who apparently had nothing to say, and who 
 looked as if her thoughts were a hundred miles away. 
 Aunt Pillar crossed and uncrossed her fat feet on the 
 footstool with ill-concealed impatience, and smoothed 
 out the creases from her black silk skirt. 
 
 " I have come to ask you something, aunt," the girl 
 said at last, with a desperate effort. " That is why I 
 have come. I want to talk to you about myself." 
 
 " There's little else that young persons ever care 
 to talk about those I've known," said Aunt Pillar, 
 not very graciously. But Miriam had never expected 
 
 3
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 a gracious reception. Her rather heavy features were 
 not of the kind that quickly betray emotion; no one 
 could have guessed all she felt at that moment. 
 
 " The fact is that I want more education," she said 
 quietly. " I have such a craving for truth and knowl- 
 edge, aunt, and I did not learn much at Miss Cumper's ; 
 all she taught me was superficial and provincial. I 
 wish to go to London to study, and I have no money 
 will you help me ? " 
 
 Nothing could well have surprised or displeased 
 Aunt Pillar more than this request. Intellectual 
 woman, and her place in the scheme of things, did 
 not appeal to Aunt Pillar. In her eyes, woman was a 
 marrying, child-bearing creature, or else a house- 
 keeper; she laughed to scorn any further pretensions 
 of her sex. 
 
 Putting on a pair of spectacles, she gazed at her 
 niece for a full minute before making any answer. 
 During that minute Miriam counted the heavy beating 
 of her own heart in horrid trepidation. At last Aunt 
 Pillar took off her spectacles, replaced them in their 
 case, laid the case on a table that stood by her chair, 
 and spoke: 
 
 " Well, no, Miriam, that I won't. You've had, in 
 my opinion, education enough to ruin your prospects 
 already, and I won't be the one to help you to more. 
 It's no kindness." 
 
 " My prospects ! " cried the girl. " What pros- 
 pects ? " 
 
 "Your prospects of a good husband what every 
 young woman should look out for; what else would 
 you be after ? " 
 
 4
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Aunt Pillar," she cried, rising in her excitement, 
 and resting her hand on the table, " Aunt Pillar, I'm 
 made for better things than that ! " Her voice trem- 
 bled with emotion, her eyes filled with tears, and the 
 hand which rested on the table shook. 
 
 " Better things ! " Aunt Pillar ejaculated. " Better 
 things, indeed! The girl's crazed to speak such non- 
 sense ! " 
 
 " I am not crazed, or even conceited ; I know only 
 too well the depths of my own ignorance. I must have 
 education and then I shall surprise you all." 
 
 " You surprise me already, Miriam, with your silly 
 pride, and talking wild nonsense like that," said Aunt 
 Pillar. " What you have to do is to settle down in 
 your mother's house, and take the first good man that 
 asks you. You'll never get one with book-learning; 
 there's nothing the men dislike more mind you that." 
 
 " Well, if they do, they will never like me, for I 
 have been born that way, and I must follow my bent," 
 said Miriam. She paused again, and then broke out 
 with : " Oh, aunt, don't refuse to help me ! I've never 
 asked a penny of you before ; but it's life I am asking 
 of you now life and hope ! " 
 
 Aunt Pillar was seriously alarmed now. In her es- 
 timation nothing except an unhinged brain could pos- 
 sibly account for all this nonsense. She rose from her 
 chair and stood confronting her niece ; her short 
 portly figure in its black silk gown seemed the very 
 epitome of what she was, a decent, vulgar-minded 
 Englishwoman of the lower middle class. Strange 
 that tragedy should center round such a figure ; but it 
 did. To Miriam the tragedy of that refusal could not 
 
 5
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 be exaggerated ; it meant to her the loss, as she had 
 said, of life and hope. 
 
 As the aunt and niece stood thus facing each other 
 in silence, a sound of footsteps came down the passage, 
 and a light little tap sounded on the panel of the door. 
 In a moment the whole expression of Aunt Pillar's 
 face had altered. 
 
 " That's some of the Family," she whispered to 
 Miriam. It must have been by some subtle inner sense 
 that this was revealed to her, for one knock is after 
 all much like another; she ran to open the door and 
 usher in the august intruders. 
 
 " Why, Miss Eve, is this you ? and am I to have the 
 honor of a visit? I'm sure I'm very proud, indeed, 
 Miss Eve. Will you step in? and this is Mr. Alan 
 Gore too; step in, sir, I'm very pleased to see you," 
 she exclaimed all in a breath. " And, Miss Eve, this 
 is my niece, Miriam Sadler, who has walked over to 
 see me this afternoon ; it will be a great day for her, 
 getting a sight of you, I'm sure; girls like her have 
 few advantages. Come here, Miriam, and speak to 
 Miss Eve." 
 
 She spoke for all the world as though her niece were 
 still a child in a pinafore, instead of a young woman 
 of four-and-twenty. 
 
 Miss Joyce evidently meant to be affable, for she 
 held out her hand to the girl, and asked if she had not 
 had a very hot walk. 
 
 " No," said Miriam, " I like the walk." 
 
 Miss Joyce sat down, and begged Aunt Pillar to re- 
 sume her seat, which she did with some show of re- 
 luctance. The man who had come in with Miss Joyce 
 
 6
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 looked round to find himself a seat, too, and Aunt 
 Pillar told her niece to fetch a chair for Mr. Gore. 
 Miriam lugged out a great old chair from a corner 
 for him. He thanked her and sat down, wondering 
 what he would say to this heavy-featured young 
 woman. 
 
 " We have come to see the old lead cistern which 
 lives somewhere in these regions," he said. " I dare- 
 say you have often seen it it has curious figures 
 carved on it." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I love the beauty of it," said Miriam. 
 The young man looked up sharply at her words. 
 
 " Are you interested in such things ? " he asked. 
 
 " Surely, everyone must be ; they link us on to the 
 famous past," she answered. He looked at her even 
 more curiously, and leaned forward as he said : 
 
 " The famous past ? Do you think the past is any 
 more famous than the present? I incline to think 
 this is the accepted time, this is the day of salvation." 
 
 It was almost the first time in her life that Miriam 
 had heard anyone start an abstract subject of conver- 
 sation. She drew in a long breath of surprise and 
 delight. 
 
 " The present to me always seems ignoble compared 
 with the past," she stammered out. 
 
 " Ah, but isn't that only only the glamour of time ? 
 After all, the past was the present to the men of those 
 days, just the same as ours is to us." 
 
 " Then you do not think the old days were finer, 
 more romantic than our times ? " asked Miriam. It 
 was an entirely new idea to her. 
 
 The young man smiled- a smile that lit up his face 
 7.
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 as suddenly as if a lamp had been lighted behind his 
 eyes. It seemed to express a world of meaning, that 
 smile pleasant, pleasant experiences stored in his 
 memory, grand views of a brave and worthy world. 
 
 " Not a bit finer or more romantic than the present 
 time ; men and women and their lives are what make 
 the interest of the world, and the outward conditions 
 have little to do with it." 
 
 Miriam gave a gasp of interest ; but at this moment 
 Aunt Pillar broke in upon the conversation. 
 
 " Miriam, will you fetch two candles from the pan- 
 try? " she said. " The passage is dark, and Miss Eve 
 wishes to see the old cistern." 
 
 When the candles had been fetched and lighted, 
 Aunt Pillar, with many apologies for preceding her 
 visitors down the passage, advanced in the direction 
 of the cistern. Miss Joyce followed close behind the 
 housekeeper, holding up her beautiful frilled skirts 
 above wonderful shoes, and Miriam followed her, in 
 company with Mr. Alan Gore. He walked with his 
 hand thrust deep down into his pocket a habit he 
 had turning when he spoke, and looking down at 
 her with an amused, pleased expression. 
 
 Miriam was in a vast state of excitement, for she 
 had grasped the fact that she was at this moment, and 
 for the first time in her life (and probably the last), 
 talking to one of those distinguished men whose names 
 one read in the papers, whose speeches were quoted 
 all over the country ; one of the men who made things 
 happen in the world. And instead of being difficult to 
 speak to, this man seemed, as the Bible said, to under- 
 stand her thoughts afar off. She longed to grasp such 
 
 8
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 a golden opportunity, and, of course, failed to do so, 
 just because she was too eager about it. Probably 
 never again in life would she be able to exchange a 
 word with Mr. Alan Gore, and here she was, walking 
 beside him, tongue-tied and stupid as any schoolgirl. 
 
 Gore, on his part, was wondering what sort of crea- 
 ture this niece of the Joyces' housekeeper could be. 
 He looked down at her strange, large-featured, immo- 
 bile face and thought he read something unusual there. 
 
 " What books do you read ? " he asked suddenly, 
 without any preamble, taking for granted that she 
 read. 
 
 " I have few books," said Miriam. " There is no 
 good library at Hindcup-in-the-Fields, and I have read 
 all the books I can borrow." She could not avoid this 
 sententiousness which overtakes those who attempt to 
 reform their original speech. 
 
 " I wonder if I could lend you any," Gore began. 
 But just as this suggestion had fallen from his lips, 
 Aunt Pillar stood still beside the old cistern and began 
 to explain the carvings upon it. It took some time 
 for the visitors to examine these, and then Miss Joyce 
 suggested that they had seen enough. 
 
 " It's dark and drippy down in these cellar places," 
 she said. " Come, Mr. Gore, we will ascend into the 
 upper regions again. Good afternoon, Mrs. Pillar, 
 and thank you. I'm afraid we have disturbed the quiet 
 of your Sunday. Good afternoon, Miriam." And she 
 swept away down the passage without leaving Gore 
 time for another word with Miriam. 
 
 " Here, take one of the candles, and look to your 
 gown; they do drip dreadful in this draught; better 
 
 9
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 put yours out, or your dress will be all a-spot with 
 grease," said Aunt Pillar. She gathered up her skirts 
 and stepped off down the passage toward the house- 
 keeper's room, puffing from her exertions. Miriam 
 followed slowly, the extinguished candle in her hand. 
 
 " I feel like that," she said to herself as she looked 
 at the cold, black wick " a flame one minute and then 
 blown out. I don't suppose he will remember anything 
 about the books. Miss Joyce said, ' Let us come up 
 into the upper regions ' ; that also is like me. I remain 
 down below ; happier people breathe an upper air." 
 
 Aunt Pillar's voice broke in upon her melancholy 
 thoughts : 
 
 " You'll be ready for your tea now, Miriam ; I will 
 be having mine directly. That new kitchen maid is 
 worritting the life out of me ; never a meal in time. 
 It's her duty to set them, you see. I think the stable 
 boy's courting her, she's that forgetful. I have a 
 business keeping them all at their work, I can tell 
 you ! " 
 
 Miriam followed her aunt into the parlor as if she 
 walked in a dream, and listened, throughout the meal 
 that followed, to her aunt's comments on their visitors. 
 
 " I daresay it will be a match between them," she 
 said. " She is a fine-looking young lady, to be sure." 
 
 10
 
 TQ THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE Sadlers were Wesleyans; that is to say, Mrs. 
 Sadler was one heart and soul, while her daughter 
 was one in name only. Twice every Sunday they went 
 to chapel, and every Sunday evening Mr. Hobbes, the 
 Wesleyan minister, and his wife came to supper with 
 the Sadlers, " for it saves Mrs. Hobbes the trouble 
 of cooking," as Mrs. Sadler invariably remarked, as 
 each Sunday came round. This recurrence of tiny, 
 scarcely noticeable incidents often becomes very irk- 
 some to young creatures ; Miriam found herself wait- 
 ing for the invariable " it saves Mrs. Hobbes " to come, 
 and it always came. With changeless regularity, too, 
 the Hobbeses sat down to the cold Sunday supper, 
 year in and year out ; Mr. Hobbes said the same long 
 grace before meat and (so it seemed to Miriam) they 
 spoke about the same things each night. Now it is not 
 of the nature of woman to be an Ishmael ; she likes 
 to conform to the views of those about her; it does 
 not please her to be in revolt from custom ; but deep 
 down in this young woman's heart was a savage feel- 
 ing of revolt from her surroundings. She still went 
 unresistingly to chapel with her mother, still listened 
 without dissent to all that Mr. Hobbes said; but she 
 knew it was not going to be for long a time must 
 come when she would rebel. 
 
 This Sunday evening was, of course, no exception 
 ii
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 to the general rule. Miriam had to hurry on the way 
 home, and arrived hot and tired, just in time to go 
 to chapel with her mother. A smell of new varnish 
 filled the building, which had been freshly " done up " 
 by the local house painter. The walls were a bright 
 shade of flesh pink, " picked out " at their junction 
 with the boarding by a floral design in darker red. 
 The congregation, this fine evening, was small and 
 sleepy, and Mr. Hobbes tried to awaken the sleepers 
 by very energetic methods ; his over-emphasis offended 
 every sensibility of Miriam's nature; but she was a 
 girl of extremely impartial judgment, and as she lis- 
 tened to the preacher she kept saying to herself, " Even 
 though I dislike his style of preaching, I should respect 
 his beliefs because they are genuine ; he is a good man 
 in his own way, though it is such an objectionable 
 way ! " And then, having tried to be impartial, she 
 would confess her own entire separation of heart from 
 all Mr. Hobbes's creeds and methods of promulgating 
 them. As he waxed more and more urgent in appeal, 
 she felt colder and colder. " This is not God's way, 
 this is man's way," she said to herself. The hymns, 
 too, provoked her by their stridency, their urgency, 
 their familiarity. Only now and again some of the 
 more old-fashioned verses made a true appeal to her 
 heart ; then she thought : " I might find God if I were 
 left alone to find Him, with fine, dignified, worthy 
 words like these to help me, and without being irri- 
 tated and disgusted by other people." 
 
 One such hymn was sung this evening. Miriam 
 loved the undecorated short meter of the verse, and 
 the simple metaphor: 
 
 12
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
 Stand decked in living green." 
 
 How beautiful it was ! Long ago, when she was a 
 little child, she had cried aloud in chapel during the 
 singing of this hymn, because she thought it meant 
 that some awful day, all alone, with no grown person 
 near to help her, she must wade through the Hindcup 
 river, which was so terribly black and deep, or else 
 be forever shut out of heaven. But time had softened 
 this terrible impression, and she now felt only pleasure 
 in the beauty of the words, the truth of the imagery. 
 When this hymn had been sung, the benediction was 
 pronounced, and the heated congregation streamed 
 out into the cool evening air. Miriam and her mother 
 always hurried home at a great pace, so as to be ready 
 to receive Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes. Supper, as I have 
 said, was cold, but a cup of Symington's Essence of 
 Coffee (a thick brown liquid, a teaspoonful of which 
 was poured from a bottle into each cup and filled up 
 with boiling water) cheered the coldly furnished feast 
 toward its close. 
 
 Conversation during this meal always followed the 
 same lines the number of persons at chapel ; who had 
 seemed attentive; who inattentive; whether such or 
 such a preacher was expected shortly in Hindcup 
 these were the usual topics. But this evening a remark 
 from Mrs. Sadler that Miriam had been at the Manor 
 to see her aunt, provided fresh subject for discussion. 
 
 Mr. Hobbes had drawn his chair nearer to the open 
 
 window and was enjoying his essence of coffee when 
 
 Mrs. Sadler imparted this bit of news to him. He 
 
 turned at once to Miriam and asked her with a would- 
 
 2 13
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 be sarcastic emphasis whether she had seen anything 
 of the "big people" at the Manor, adding: "I hear 
 Mr. Alan Gore arrived there last night ; I should like 
 to see him ; I am afraid that he holds dangerous views." 
 
 " He'll be one of those dreadful freethinkers," said 
 Mrs. Sadler, shaking her head. 
 
 " I doubt it is so ; I doubt it is so ; a speech of his 
 which I saw reported not long ago was strongly fla- 
 vored with doubt and unbelief." 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " sighed Mrs. Sadler, and the sigh 
 over Gore's defections was echoed by both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hobbes. Miriam kept her own counsel ; worlds 
 would not have made her reveal that she had that af- 
 ternoon spoken with the subject of their animadver- 
 sions. 
 
 " I feel like a dog with a bone whenever I have 
 anything that I like to think about," she thought. " I 
 go away and hide it, and only dig it up again when I 
 am quite alone." She smiled to herself then, and sat 
 silent. But not for long was she to be let alone. 
 Mr. Hobbes belonged to what he would himself have 
 called the aggressive school of Christian workers ; his 
 motto was " Instant in season and out of season " ; so, 
 inspired by the last mouthfuls of coffee essence, he 
 turned to her and began : 
 
 " And now, Miriam, what are you going to do to 
 hasten the coming of the Kingdom ? I think it is time 
 that you took a more decided stand, and began some 
 definite Christian work. What do you say to a Bible 
 class? We are in want of a teacher." 
 
 " A Bible class ! " the girl exclaimed ; " what would 
 I teach ? " 
 
 14
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Just the simple Gospel story ; no wisdom is re- 
 quired for that," said Mr. Hobbes, and really believed 
 what he said. 
 
 " Wisdom is more required in the teaching of reli- 
 gion than in anything else in the world," said Miriam, 
 with an energy and conviction that struck her listeners 
 dumb. There was silence for quite a minute, till Mrs. 
 Sadler exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! how dare you speak up to Mr. 
 Hobbes in that way ! " 
 
 " Because I mean it, and believe it, mother, and I 
 do not see why one should not say what one thinks," 
 her daughter answered. She had risen from her chair, 
 flushed and trembling, ready to fight for liberty of 
 speech. In an evil hour Mr. Hobbes began to argue 
 with this strayed sheep of his fold. 
 
 " Oh, that just depends on whether one's opinions 
 are right and wise and good opinions," he began. But 
 Miriam would have none of his arguments. 
 
 " Not in the least," she said ; " it just depends on 
 whether the opinions are mine my own. If they are, 
 then they are right for me, whatever all the world 
 may think or believe." 
 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sadler. 
 What serpent was this that she had been warming in 
 her bosom all these years ? Of late she had been a lit- 
 tle unhappy about Miriam somehow, but never, never 
 had she feared that things were as bad as this that 
 daughter of hers should assert her claim to freedom of 
 thought and speech as opposed not only to Mr. Hobbes 
 but to all the thinking, believing world ! 
 
 " She takes after her poor father, Mr. Hobbes," she 
 15
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 said, with a dismally prophetic shake of her head. It 
 was generally known in Hindcup that the late Mr. 
 Sadler had been something of a trial to his wife. He 
 was not a native of the little town, and that fact alone 
 was an offense to the townspeople ; then he had never 
 consorted much with anyone there, and had been 
 known to have a dangerous love of books. These were 
 all suspicious facts. He had a nasty, sarcastic tongue, 
 and used it freely against those of his neighbors who 
 offended him, and alas, very frequently against his 
 wife. It was not Mrs. Sadler's fault that she was stu- 
 pid ; and it was certainly his fault that he had married 
 her; but these were facts that Joseph Sadler had al- 
 ways ignored in his contemptuous references to the 
 wife of his bosom. Such a husband had been no great 
 loss; and the widow may perhaps be excused for ex- 
 claiming so sadly that her child " took after him." 
 
 There was another ominous silence ; then Miriam 
 got up and left the room. When she was gone, her 
 elders drew nearer to one another and discussed this 
 new position that she had taken up. 
 
 Their conclusions, when arrived at, were distress- 
 ingly mistaken. Miriam was to be " lovingly " and 
 unwearyingly " dealt with " by one member or another 
 of their community. Mr. Hobbes himself would " take 
 an early opportunity " of speaking to her, and he 
 would mention her case to another church member 
 who had great powers of winning young souls. 
 
 Finally, in deep distress, Mrs. Sadler asked Mr. 
 Hobbes to pray with her for her erring child. The 
 prayer was offered up ; but prayers are not always an- 
 swered exactly as we wish them to be. 
 
 16
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HiNDCUP-iN-THE-FiELDS, as you would judge from 
 its name, lies among meadows wide and marshy. 
 It is scarcely possible to walk across them without 
 getting your feet wet; but this moist soil induces a 
 lush growth of delightful flowers and grasses but- 
 tercups, cuckoo-pints, and buck-beans. Here Miriam 
 loved to walk conferring with her own heart, and 
 gloating with an extraordinary rapture upon the beau- 
 tiful world. It was not always easy for her to get out, 
 for girls of her class are not brought up to an out- 
 of-door life, and Mrs. Sadler preferred to see her 
 daughter sewing in the afternoons. But more and 
 more of late the girl disregarded her mother's hints, 
 and went off to the meadows for hours at a time. 
 
 A meandering path, which twisted so as to avoid 
 the marshiest bits of the fields, wound along in the 
 direction of the Manor. It was little frequented, and 
 at the crossing of two fences there was a low stile with 
 two steps. Here Miriam used to sit, watching until 
 the sun had gone down, a red ball behind the church 
 spires and house roofs of Hindcup. Then, when the 
 dusk began to fall, and the quiet of evening stole over 
 the land, she reluctantly turned her steps homeward. 
 
 A few days after the Sunday evening of her revolt, 
 Miriam came slowly along this favorite path toward 
 the stile. Rather to her surprise, she saw that some 
 
 17
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 one was there before her, and the next moment she 
 recognized Mr. Alan Gore. She hesitated, stood still 
 for a moment, and then came on. Gore rose from the 
 stile to let her pass, and then, seeing who it was, turned 
 to speak to her. 
 
 " I am blocking up the stile," he said, as he moved 
 aside. 
 
 Miriam could not reply her thoughts were in a 
 wild confusion. Would she dare ? She must ; it was 
 life itself at stake! She turned her strange face to 
 him, unsmiling, troubled. 
 
 " Sir," she cried, " will you lend me some books ? 
 You said you Her words trailed off into silence. 
 Would he be angry ? 
 
 " Books ? Why, yes ; I am honored to lend you any- 
 thing in my power," said Gore, with a gravity and 
 kindness that set all her fears at rest. He motioned 
 to the stile. " Won't you sit down and tell me about 
 yourself ? " he said. " Then I shall know better what 
 to send you." 
 
 " I do not know what to tell you. I do not know 
 where to begin ! " Miriam exclaimed. She sat down 
 on the step of the stile, and Gore leaned against the 
 fence, waiting for her to begin her story. 
 
 "Well?" he asked. 
 
 " I want knowledge, and I cannot get it. I want to 
 find a faith that satisfies me or even an unbelief 
 that is certain I want a life " She hesitated, and 
 stopped again. 
 
 "Have you ever seen any of Blake's pictures?" 
 Gore asked suddenly. " No ? Well, there's one ab- 
 surd little thumb-nail sketch of two little manikins 
 
 18
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 putting up a ladder to try to reach the stars, and under 
 it is written, ' / want! I want! ' That's about your 
 all our position, is it not ? " 
 
 " That's it, that's it ! " cried Miriam, clasping her 
 hands together in an ecstasy the ecstasy of finding 
 herself understood at last. " ' / want, I want ' ; and 
 I know of no ladder to reach the stars." 
 
 " There is none," said Gore gravely. 
 
 " Oh, sir, don't say that ! some people reach them ; 
 surely you have reached them yourself ! " 
 
 " I ? " he said, in unaffected surprise. " No, no ; 
 'I want, I want/ too, and ever shall, till this race is 
 run." 
 
 " Ah, but then you are running the race," said 
 Miriam bitterly. 
 
 " And can you not run yours ? " he asked. 
 
 " If I had one, perhaps oh, I do not know where 
 to turn," she cried. 
 
 " May I give you some advice ? Do not be in too 
 great a hurry to choose your road," said Gore. " You 
 are young, and so must probably wander about on 
 a good many wrong paths before you find the right 
 one. You must have patience with yourself." 
 
 Miriam considered this bit of advice in silence. 
 Youth is proverbially impatient, so this was not very 
 palatable counsel. Gore went on after a minute : 
 
 " What books do you wish to have ? What have 
 you already read ? " 
 
 " I wish to read all the poets, all the historians, all 
 the novelists," she began, and then laughed at her 
 own absurdity; and Gore laughed with her. 
 
 " There's a life-work for you ! " he said. " But why 
 
 19
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 do you wish to do all this reading ? What is to be the 
 end of it all ? Have you any aim before you ? " 
 
 " Yes, I must get away from the world I live in 
 now, and I am not fit for any other yet. I wish to be 
 able to live among people who care for the same things 
 that I care for." 
 
 " Why do you wish to leave your own world ? " 
 Gore asked kindly. 
 
 " Because every week I seem to grow farther away 
 from everyone in it; they do not like me; even my 
 own mother would like me to be different from what 
 I am." 
 
 Gore looked upon the ground and meditated. This 
 was a very curious young woman. He felt sorry for 
 her, but was it wise to help her to widen the gulf 
 which seemed already to lie between her and her 
 people ? 
 
 "Well," he said at length, "you shall have the 
 books. I'll send you any number on one condition 
 that you work at them, not reading only, but reread 
 them to find out all they have to teach you. That 
 never hurt anyone yet. Perhaps they will help you ; 
 that will largely depend upon yourself. I'll send them 
 next week. When you are quite done with them, will 
 you send them back to me, and write to me, telling me 
 what you have gained from them if anything ? Then 
 I'll send you some more, if you wish for them. Does 
 this arrangement suit you ? " 
 
 Miriam sat quite silent for a minute. Large tears 
 welled up in her eyes, and fell down on the blue cot- 
 ton gown she wore. Then she said : " I think there 
 .must be a God."
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Why ? " Gore asked, curious to have her answer. 
 But she only shook her head ; she either could not or 
 would not reply; he did not press the question, but 
 took out a pencil from his pocket and an envelope. 
 
 " Where shall I send the books to ? Will you give 
 me your full name and address ? " he said. A world 
 of difficulties flashed before Miriam at this question. 
 What would her mother say? Only a few days ago 
 she had heard Mr. Alan Gore denounced as a " free- 
 thinker " by Mr. Hobbes ; how would she permit books 
 of his choosing to enter her house ? But for this diffi- 
 culty Miriam quickly invented a remedy. She had 
 but one friend in Hindcup to this friend's house the 
 books must be sent. 
 
 " Will you please address the books to Miriam 
 Sadler, The Old House, Hindcup?" she said ; and Gore 
 wrote down the address unsuspiciously. How could 
 he guess that " The Old House " was not her home? 
 
 " Very well, then," he said, shutting up his pencil. 
 " You shall have the books ; take as much time as you 
 please with them, and get all the help you can out of 
 them, and don't be discouraged." He held out his 
 hand to her, smiling his kind, interesting smile, and 
 turned away. 
 
 Miriam watchecl till a bend of the path hid him from 
 sight; then she rose from the stile and walked slowly 
 off toward Hindcup. The refrain of one of the chapel 
 hymns haunted her memory, with its lilting old tune: 
 " There is a better world they say, 
 Oh, so bright! Oh, so bright! " 
 
 " There is, indeed, with men like that in it," she said 
 to herself bitterly. 
 
 21
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 You must now learn something about Miriam's 
 only friend in Hindcup. Some ten years before this 
 story begins, an elderly woman, Miss Geraldine Foxe, 
 inherited considerable house property in Hindcup. 
 She came, in consequence, to live there ; but from her 
 first settlement in the town, showed no inclination to 
 be friendly with her neighbors. Their visits were not 
 returned, and after a time the kindly ladies of Hind- 
 cup ceased ringing at Miss Foxe's door bell. She 
 lived in a very old house known for that reason as 
 " The Old House " which stood a little way out from 
 the town on the Goodhampton Road. Its roof was 
 covered with the moss of centuries, its garden was 
 only a wilderness of tangled bushes, where with diffi- 
 culty one could trace the hedges that had once been 
 trim and clipped. Antiquarians who visited Hindcup 
 often tried to gain access to the old house, but Miss 
 Foxe would not allow it. She would not be disturbed 
 by anyone. This mysterious-looking house had always 
 had a curious attraction for Miriam. She used to go 
 and gaze through the big, old, wrought-iron gate 
 which was so seldom opened that its hinges were all 
 rusted over, wondering what histories had gone on 
 behind it. As children do, she exaggerated the glories 
 of the old place, and in fancy saw kings and prin- 
 cesses wandering down the grass-grown paths under 
 22
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 the yew hedges. Then as she grew older, Miriam rec- 
 ognized that this was unlikely, and that even in its 
 halcyon days The Old House could never have been 
 magnificent; but she kept her love for it. She never 
 passed the gate without pausing to look through it, 
 and her childish wish to see the inside of the house 
 was strong as ever. One evening, when Miriam was 
 standing thus at the gate, Miss Foxe came toward it ; 
 the girl turned politely away but Miss Foxe called 
 after her. 
 
 " Stop ! " she said. " Tell me why you are looking 
 in ; I have seen you do it before though you have not 
 seen me." 
 
 Miriam was rather annoyed, and a little alarmed. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am," she said ; " but ever 
 since I was a child I have thought The Old House so 
 beautiful and interesting, and liked to look at it." 
 
 "What do you mean by interesting?" Miss Foxe 
 demanded. She had come close up to the gate, and 
 spoke through the bars. 
 
 " I mean as if interesting, wonderful things had 
 happened in it," Miriam said hesitatingly. 
 
 "What sort of things?" 
 
 " I am not sure, ma'am ; but I think I could 
 imagine." 
 
 Miss Foxe fitted the key into the gate and it creaked 
 open. 
 
 " Come in," she said ; " and call me ' Miss Foxe,' not 
 ' ma'am,' for I see you are a girl of education. I want 
 none of your ' ma'ams ' ; tell me your name and come 
 in and see the house for yourself." 
 
 This had been the beginning of a friendship with 
 23
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Miss Foxe a friendship which Mrs. Sadler was not 
 quite ' sure about/ as she would have said herself, 
 but which she permitted, because she was rather flat- 
 tered that ' a real lady,' who had persistently refused 
 the acquaintance of everyone in Hindcup should elect 
 to make friends with her daughter. 
 
 Miss Foxe was a very eccentric woman, and if Mrs. 
 Sadler had heard many of the things she said to 
 Miriam there would have been a speedy end of the 
 friendship. But the girl knew too well to mention 
 any of these sayings before her mother. Miss Foxe 
 was always urging the girl to emancipate herself in 
 one direction or another ; to leave home ; to stop going 
 to chapel ; to have nothing to do with her cousins, if 
 they were tiresome counsels which Miriam had never 
 acted upon, but which sunk into her mind none the less. 
 
 Miss Foxe was particularly vigorous in her denun- 
 ciations of Miriam's cousins: 
 
 " From your accounts of them, they seem to be quite 
 impossible people ; the sooner you break off from them 
 the better. This tyranny of blood which exists in 
 England is intolerable. Why should one consort with 
 fools because they happen to have had the same grand- 
 father as one's self? I do not see it." 
 
 Miriam had certainly been blessed with a goodly 
 array of cousins. The Pillars seemed to populate half 
 Hindcup; ramifications of the connection stretched 
 everywhere. They were a strong, self-assertive, suc- 
 cessful race. The men made their way in the world, 
 got good situations, and earned money; the women 
 were handsome and married well. It was traditional 
 with them to do this ; and if, as was sometimes neces- 
 
 24
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 sarily the case, one of them happened to make a less 
 successful matrimonial venture than her cousins, it was 
 also traditional with the family to deny the unsuccess 
 so strongly that the outside world in time came to take 
 the match at their valuation. " It would never do," 
 as they said, " to do anything else " ; they liked that 
 it should be acknowledged on all sides that " the Pil- 
 lars married well." 
 
 It would be weariness itself to enumerate all Mir- 
 iam's cousins ; but the more important members of 
 the connection bulked so largely in her life that you 
 must know who and what they were. 
 
 Timothy Pillar, the eldest unmarried male cousin, 
 was quite a feature of Hindcup society. He was a 
 stout, high-colored young man, a " traveler " for table 
 glass, and getting on well in his calling. He and 
 Miriam were always at war not openly, but perhaps 
 all the more savagely for that very reason. She could 
 not abide the horrid jokes on matrimony that he fired 
 off at her whenever they met. Poor Timothy only 
 meant to be pleasant and amusing ; but Miriam did not 
 see his jokes in this light. She did not get on very 
 much better with his sister Maggie, the eldest married 
 Pillar. Maggie was a buxom young woman, who had 
 done her duty early in life by marrying the most ris- 
 ing lawyer in Hindcup. That was some ten years ago, 
 and she had now a comfortable establishment, and 
 a numerous and healthy progeny. She saw nothing 
 beyond her house, her husband, and her children 
 nor ever would. 
 
 The second sister, Matilda, had not married quite 
 so well her husband was only a bank clerk; but the 
 
 25
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 other members of the family had bolstered up his po- 
 sition to the outside world till James Marsden ap- 
 peared more in the light of a bank director than any- 
 thing else. 
 
 Two sisters still remained in the parental nest 
 Grace, who was undeniably getting elderly, and yet 
 whom no one seemed to wish to marry, and Emmie, 
 the youngest of the sisters, a pretty, fresh-complex- 
 ioned girl, who spent her life in trimming hats for her- 
 self, and giggling over what she called her " ad- 
 mirers." Hindcup had not yet given up hope of seeing 
 Grace Pillar led to the altar, and as tales of Emmie's 
 conquests formed the major part of her married sis- 
 ters' conversation, the townspeople only waited to see 
 what her choice would be. 
 
 Miriam, on her return from Miss Cumper's School 
 at Goodhampton, had naturally been expected to see 
 a great deal of her cousins. But before very long her 
 object in life was to see as little of them as possible. 
 She did not care to hear about Emmie's love affairs, 
 she did not mind whether Grace married or did not 
 marry, she took no interest in Maggie Broadman's 
 house, husband, or children, and cared less than noth- 
 ing whether James Marsden got a raise of salary, and 
 enabled Matilda to keep a second servant. This was 
 all, no doubt, very unamiable in Miriam ; but thus she 
 was made. The Pillars, in their turn, held her in the 
 utmost contempt ; she had no love affairs, " nor was 
 like to have," as they said, and she was always saying 
 queer things they did not understand. Because she 
 was one of their family, however, the married Pillars 
 (for a Pillar always seemed to remain a Pillar, some- 
 
 26
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 how) asked her to their houses; but it was only on 
 sufferance, and they had little to say to her when she 
 came. So relations were somewhat strained all round, 
 and Maggie Broadman would say in a pitying way : 
 
 " If only some man would take a fancy to Miriam 
 and marry her, I'm sure it would be a good thing; 
 but there, it's not likely, I'm afraid; not that I would 
 say so out of the family, it might be bad for Emmie 
 and Grace. Nothing spoils a girl's chances like being 
 thought to belong to a family that don't marry easily." 
 
 So, with a family loyalty that was positively noble, 
 Mrs. Broadman would describe Miriam's unmarried 
 state in far other terms to the outside world. 
 
 " You see, she is very particular," she would say, 
 laughing, and shaking her head. 
 
 27
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE well-married young Pillars confessed to each 
 other (but never, never to outsiders) that their Aunt 
 Pillar's position as housekeeper at Hindcup Manor 
 was a trial to them. It was impossible to ignore the 
 fact that powerful as her sway was at the Manor, she 
 herself was a servant, albeit an upper one. By a sort 
 of tacit consent, they never invited Aunt Pillar to 
 their houses when they had company ; but sometimes 
 they allowed themselves an afternoon of fearful joy. 
 One of the sisters would invite Aunt Pillar to her 
 house on a day when no one else was likely to be there, 
 and then (the other sisters assembling by prearrange- 
 ment), in the seclusion of their dining room, they gos- 
 siped freely with her over the great people at the 
 Manor their doings, their visitors, their dresses. 
 
 With her nieces Aunt Pillar had positively no re- 
 serves; she would descend to the most petty detail 
 imaginable which of the ladies wore false hair; 
 whether this one disposed of her old dresses, or gave 
 them to her maid ; whether that one gave out as many 
 garments to be washed as another. All was grist to 
 the mill of gossip; and sitting round the little dining 
 table, elbows on board, the young women feasted on 
 the scraps of information as eagerly as hounds on 
 meat. 
 
 One afternoon, a few days after Miriam's meeting 
 28
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 with Alan Gore in the fields, Mrs. Marsden (nee Ma- 
 tilda Pillar) had resolved upon one of these family 
 gatherings. 
 
 Matilda had not quite such genteel visitors as her 
 sister Maggie Broadman, so it was generally consid- 
 ered safer for her to be the hostess on these occa- 
 sions when Aunt Pillar came to tea. Matilda (like all 
 her sisters) was an excellent housekeeper, and the 
 little party expected a delicious meal. 
 
 Aunt Pillar came in much heated from her walk up 
 the street. 
 
 " Though I drove to the station in one of the car- 
 riages, my dears, and only walked up here," she ex- 
 plained. She untied her bonnet strings at once, on 
 sitting down, and removed her black silk mantle, 
 which Matilda took from her and carefully laid across 
 the back of a chair. 
 
 " It's very kind of you to have made the exertion 
 of coming over here in this heat," said Maggie Broad- 
 man, supplying her aunt with a footstool. 
 
 " Well, this is a very busy time at the Manor, of 
 course, I won't deny; what with visitors coming and 
 visitors going every hour of the day. But to be frank 
 with you, my dears, I've something to tell you all," 
 said Aunt Pillar. She took out her handkerchief and 
 wiped her face all over, and seemed refreshed by the 
 process. The four sisters drew nearer; Matilda only, 
 in her capacity of hostess, suggested that this interest- 
 ing bit of news should be delayed till they had had tea. 
 " It was just coming," she said. 
 
 Aunt Pillar knew too well what a good cup of tea 
 was, to suggest that it should be delayed. 
 3 29
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " You're right, Mattie," she said. " Tea is never 
 the better for being overdrawn. Let us have it now. 
 I'm in need of it ; really, with the indoor life I lead, the 
 least exertion out of doors throws me into such a per- 
 spiration." She had recourse again to her musk- 
 scented handkerchief. Matilda hastened the tea, and 
 after a good deal of quiet fussing they all got seated 
 round the table and were supplied with brimming, 
 steaming cups of tea. 
 
 Aunt Pillar took a taste of hers in a spoon. 
 
 " We couldn't do better than this at the Manor, 
 Mattie," she said ; " but I think I gave you the address 
 of our tea merchant he's very reliable." 
 
 " Yes, aunt ; I always get five pounds of the black 
 and one of Pekoe," Matilda began ; but the other sisters 
 broke in upon the housewifely talk, demanding to hear 
 what the news might be. 
 
 " Well," Aunt Pillar began, looking all round the 
 table to collect her audience, and have them well in 
 hand before she got into her story " well, it's Miriam 
 Sadler again; I don't know what that girl's going to 
 turn into at all." 
 
 There was a shout all round the table of, " She's 
 going to be married ! She's engaged ! " 
 
 But Aunt Pillar smiled and shook her head. 
 
 " No, indeed ; Miriam is little likely to do anything 
 so sensible ; but I must begin as far back as Sunday 
 last. You'll remember it was a very hot day for the 
 time of year. I had had a very busy morning see- 
 ing about the cold luncheon they had upstairs (I'll 
 tell you all about it afterwards, Mattie two entrees in 
 aspic, and the lobster went high at the last minute, and 
 
 30
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 cook nearly in a fit with the heat, couldn't get her as- 
 pics to set) ; well, after all was over " (it is noticeable 
 that Aunt Pillar always mentioned a meal in the same 
 terms that other people employ for a more solemn 
 event) "when all was over, I was that exhausted I 
 just sat down in my parlor and dropped over to sleep. 
 I can't have been dozing for more than half an hour, 
 when who should walk in but Miriam, blowzed with 
 heat, poor girl, and looking very strange and excited. 
 I was going to ask her for her mother and the rest of 
 you, but she scarcely answered and just blurted out : 
 
 1 ' I've come to ask you to help me, aunt ' ; and 
 really I was quite overset by her look as she said it." 
 
 The sisters almost stopped eating in their excite- 
 ment, but urged Aunt Pillar to go on. 
 
 " I asked her what about ? and she said ' Knowledge, 
 learning, aunt ; I want more education.' Did you ever 
 hear anything like it ? " 
 
 " After two years with Miss Cumper ! " said Maggie. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, what more would anyone want ? 
 Well, I just said, ' No, Miriam, you've had more than 
 enough to ruin you.' And I'm sure I spoke the truth. 
 She gave me such a look as you never saw ; and, as I 
 sit here, she cried out : ' Aunt, it's life and hope I ask 
 of you ! ' Well, my dears, my own thought was she 
 had had a touch of the sun, coming over the meadows 
 in the heat, and I was alarmed at the thought. But 
 as I was trying to collect myself, who should come in 
 but Miss Eve Joyce and Mr. Alan Gore." 
 
 She paused to let this startling item sink well in. 
 Her hearers held their breath. 
 
 " Mr. Gore, you know, is a wonderful distinguished 
 31
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 man, unmarried yet, too, and I shouldn't wonder but 
 he and Miss Eve made a match of it, though they're 
 connections " 
 
 But this was an unpardonable error in the story- 
 teller's art; for it was as bad as drawing the prover- 
 bial red herring across the scent, to mention a possible 
 marriage before the Pillars. Their attention was at 
 once turned aside from the main heroine of the tale to 
 this subordinate character. 
 
 " Oh, do you think so ? Have they been going about 
 much together? Tell us, Aunt Pillar," they exclaimed 
 in a breath. 
 
 But Aunt Pillar was bent on reaching the climax of 
 her story she would not be drawn aside, but waived 
 these questions, and went on : 
 
 " They had come to see the old lead cistern. I gave 
 Miss Eve a chair, and she began to chat with me, and 
 then I saw Miriam and Mr. Gore were talking to- 
 gether, quite interested, it seemed. I heard him saying 
 a number of things to her that / couldn't understand, 
 for I was talking to Miss Eve and listening to him, 
 you see." 
 
 " Yes, exactly ; go on," the sisters cried. 
 
 " Well, I couldn't make out what they were saying, 
 but to make a long story short, they must have got 
 very intimate in those few minutes, for what was my 
 surprise yesterday to have another call from Mr. Gore 
 alone this time and it was to ask me about ' my 
 niece, Miriam Sadler,' if you please ! " 
 
 " Never ! " they ejaculated. " What did he wish to 
 know about her ? " 
 
 " Her circumstances, no less. Was she badly off ? 
 32
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Where had she been educated ? Was her father alive ? 
 A great many questions, I can assure you, and ended 
 with, ' You have a very remarkable young relative, 
 Mrs. Pillar, and you may live to be very proud of her 
 some day.' ' I am sure, sir,' says I, ' I'll be glad and 
 thankful if I don't live to be ashamed of her.' It seems 
 he had met her again in the fields on Wednesday even- 
 ing, and " here Aunt Pillar leaned across the table, 
 and whispered the words " and she had asked him 
 to give her some books! " 
 
 There was a pause, followed by a babel of exclama- 
 tion : " She's crazy ! She's demented ! She's a shame- 
 less, impudent girl ! What will Aunt Sadler say ! Is 
 he going to send the books ? " 
 
 " Well, as to that, he said he was very pleased to be 
 able to help her, and was going to send her the books 
 whenever he got home. But what your Aunt Sadler 
 will say I don't know, for Mr. Gore has the name of 
 being very easy in his beliefs " 
 
 This was all that was needed to give a climax to the 
 thrilling story. 
 
 " And Aunt Sadler such a leading member with Mr. 
 Hobbes ! No doubt but Miriam has taken up strange 
 views, too. I always thought there was something 
 very peculiar about her," said Maggie. 
 
 " We'll see what we'll see," said Aunt Pillar ; a safe 
 prophecy which had a sound of wisdom in it. She 
 leaned back in her chair and begged for another cup 
 of Matilda's excellent tea, while the sisters rained 
 comments on the story, and reviewed it in all its pos- 
 sible and impossible bearings. 
 
 33
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MIRIAM felt the consequences of the cousinly con- 
 clave next afternoon. Maggie Broadman had been in 
 to see Mrs. Sadler in the morning, and had sown the 
 seeds of difficulty. Mrs. Sadler never approached 
 any subject directly, she had not enough character 
 to do so, but started weakly at some point far off in 
 her mental horizon, and slowly directed her conversa- 
 tion onward from that point to the one she wished to 
 reach. So this afternoon she began in her hesitating 
 way: 
 
 " Miriam, I've been reading a very sad article in the 
 Methodist Recorder on ' Some Books of the Day ' ; I 
 wish you would read it." 
 
 " Which books is it about ? " Miriam asked. She 
 had a deep distrust of the Methodist Recorder. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, I forget the names of the books ; 
 but it was more the tendencies of the day," said Mrs. 
 Sadler, picking nervously at her work. 
 
 " Well? " said Miriam. She could not imagine what 
 her mother was driving at. 
 
 " It said there were so many atheistical works 
 just now. I'm sure they shouldn't be allowed to be 
 printed." 
 
 " But you see, mother, that would scarcely do ; it 
 would infringe the liberty of the press," the girl sug- 
 gested. Mrs. Sadler shook her head; such general 
 
 34
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 principles as the liberty of the subject and of the press 
 did not appeal to her. 
 
 " I do hope they won't ever come your way," she 
 said, with an anxious look at her daughter. 
 
 A fear shot suddenly through Miriam's mind; was 
 it possible that her mother had somehow heard about 
 Mr. Gore's offer of the books? 
 
 Mrs. Sadler was really a little in awe of her daugh- 
 ter; already she felt the stress of a stronger nature 
 contending with her own at many points. She rose up 
 in a flutter, letting her work fall to the floor, and 
 found strength to speak directly at last. 
 
 " Maggie B roadman came to me with such a story 
 this morning, that it's quite overset me. It seems Aunt 
 Pillar was in to see her yesterday, and told her that 
 that freethinking Mr. Gore, who is at the Manor, has 
 been speaking to you, and offering you books or you 
 asked him for them and I can't believe it, that you 
 should do such a thing." 
 
 " Yes," said Miriam. " I did ask him for the books, 
 and he did say that he would send them to me." 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! and him a freethinker ! But maybe 
 he won't send them ; at least, if he does, you must send 
 them back unread, and not defile your mind with 
 them." 
 
 " In the first place," Miriam began, " perhaps you 
 are quite wrong to call Mr. Gore a freethinker; and 
 in the second place the books I asked for are not on 
 these subjects. I asked him for poems and histories 
 and novels." 
 
 " And what would any sensible girl do reading 
 poems of a morning, or of an afternoon either, for 
 
 35
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 that matter ? Surely you learnt all the history you want 
 to know at Miss Cumper's, and we all know what 
 novels are just lies." 
 
 It was hopeless to argue with such an antagonist. 
 Miriam sat silent, and her mother went on: 
 
 " I just hope he will forget all about them ; these 
 busy men often make promises and forget them. Mr. 
 Hobbes says that offers of this kind have to do with 
 the Elections always, though how you could have to 
 do with the Elections I don't see ; but Mr. Hobbes says 
 they get into the habit of making promises." 
 
 " Perhaps that was it," said Miriam, with a lurk- 
 ing smile about the corners of her mouth. She was 
 anxious to end the subject, and decided that, after 
 this, complete silence about the books must be main- 
 tained. She knew that when the books failed to ap- 
 pear, her mother would conclude that Mr. Gore's 
 promise had, whether owing to the Elections or not, 
 been an empty one ; and she must be allowed to believe 
 this. It would never occur to Mrs. Sadler for a mo- 
 ment that Miriam had given another address for the 
 books to be sent to ; she was safe to receive and read 
 them in comfort. Only how had Maggie Broadman 
 heard anything about them? Aunt Pillar must have 
 seen Mr. Gore. Well, Miriam decided, she would not 
 trouble herself more about that. 
 
 She got up and left the room to signify that the 
 subject was at an end between them, and went upstairs 
 to her own room, a little dormer-window chamber 
 looking out upon the street. A tree grew in the gar- 
 den below, and its topmost boughs swept against the 
 sill of the window. The tender green leaves of early 
 
 36
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 summer had burst through their enclosing sheaths just 
 now, soft and fresh; but Miriam noticed that one of 
 the branches was growing too near the house, and 
 whenever a breath of wind came, the young leaves 
 were cruelly scraped against the rough brick wall. 
 She stood watching this, and thought how like her own 
 life it was every shoot she put out toward the sky got 
 bruised by some hard wall of circumstance. 
 
 This may have been rather a morbid thought for a 
 young creature to indulge in ; but it was true enough. 
 Miriam's nature turned with passionate eagerness to 
 the things of the intellect ; she thirsted for knowledge 
 with a thirst that was almost pain. She wanted to 
 know, so that she might express; but as yet she was 
 unaware that this was the reason of her longing for 
 knowledge. In her present environment, there was 
 about as much chance of satisfying these longings as if 
 she had been in the Desert of Sahara. 
 
 By her unlikeness to themselves, she had alienated 
 all her relatives; not even the mother that bore her 
 knew what Miriam felt on any subject. 
 
 Sometimes, in a sudden girlish craving for com- 
 panionship, she would try, awkwardly, to throw herself 
 into the interests of the young people about her. But 
 half an hour of their talk sent her home with a baffled 
 sense of defeat. After all, perhaps they had the right 
 of it, she would say to herself with their flirtations 
 and their petty quarrels and pettier friendships; they 
 at least seemed to enjoy life, which was more than she 
 did, and they would marry and have husbands and 
 children of their own before long, and that actually 
 was life, wasn't it? while she And then Miriam 
 
 37
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 would smile, and look up to the sky with a sudden 
 quickening at her heart. 
 
 Not for her were these aims, these satisfactions. 
 Would it ever satisfy her, make life worth living for 
 her, that young Dr. Pratt should admire her? Yet 
 this seemed to give Emmie Pillar a satisfaction that 
 " Heaven itself is powerless to bestow." No ; not even 
 the life-long and whole-souled affection of such a man 
 as Dr. Pratt could ever please her. " Oh, I'm all 
 wrong somewhere," she would cry out to herself. " I 
 wish I could feel like other girls ! Emmie is so pleased 
 with Dr. Pratt's attentions, and Grace, though she 
 hasn't any admirers, was as pleased as possible all last 
 week because Maggie brought her a new dress from 
 London ! " 
 
 This afternoon Miriam sat looking out at the win- 
 dow for a long time and thought very deeply. Then 
 she took out a little blank book and a pencil and began 
 to write down her thoughts. This is what she wrote : 
 
 " I wish to enter into life profoundly, tasting the 
 best, the deepest, it has to give. How am I to do 
 this?" 
 
 She put the date beneath this aspiring sentence, and 
 sat down again to think. How, indeed, was she to 
 taste the best life had to offer ; and what was that, in 
 the first place? She almost involuntarily took up her 
 pencil again to write down her thoughts it seemed 
 to give them coherence. 
 
 " I wonder what the best of life really is? I sup- 
 pose it is different for each person. Emmie's best of 
 life would not be mine. Hers would be to be admired 
 by a great lot of young men, whether she cared for 
 
 38
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 them or not ; then to marry one of them, and live in a 
 house furnished very handsomely, and wear expensive 
 clothes, much finer than the other women she knows 
 could afford. She would put on these fine things 
 and go out to call on her poorer neighbors in them, 
 and be delighted by their admiration. 
 
 " I have never been admired ; men don't like me ; so 
 I do not know if that would please me much. I do not 
 think it would. But, oh, I do desire to find one person 
 who quite understands me, and whom I understand; 
 just now I am going through the world alone. 
 
 " Life just now consists of this for me : in the morn- 
 ing I do housework and cooking ; and in the afternoon 
 mother likes me to sit and sew with her, but I gener- 
 ally go out ; then I get alone for an hour or two and 
 can think interesting thoughts. But when I come in, 
 I perhaps find Mrs. Hobbes at tea with mother, and 
 they talk about the price of meat, or how Mrs. Hobbes's 
 little servant won't rise in the morning. 
 
 " Or perhaps it is one of the Pillar girls who has 
 come in, and she will talk about nothing but clothes, 
 or young men. Then in the evening mother sews 
 again, and talks, or takes me out with her to an even- 
 ing meeting of the Christian Institute; and so life 
 is lived, or what is called life here. Can I mend it? 
 Can I make anything out of it ? I cannot leave home, 
 as Miss Foxe urges me to do, because I have no good 
 excuse for doing so. Mother is kind and means well 
 by me, and we have enough to live upon without my 
 earning anything. Oh, what am I going to do ? " 
 
 The pencil fell from Miriam's fingers, and she hid 
 her face in her hands in one of those agonies of help- 
 
 39
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 lessness, of impotence against Fate, that Youth is 
 prone to. After a little she looked up and wrote an- 
 other sentence into her book. 
 
 " I must put something into my life ; for there is 
 nothing in it ! What shall it be ? " 
 
 There rose in her troubled mind one word that 
 seemed to have some comfort in it Effort. Let her 
 attempt something, whatever it was, however futile 
 the results might be. Better to try and fail even, than 
 not to try at all. But she must struggle and agonize 
 by herself, without a soul to help her or to understand 
 what she was striving after. How she envied Emmie 
 Pillar her preoccupation with dress and men. " If I 
 only could want something possible," she cried. But 
 she could not, and that was the end of the matter; 
 she was predestined to attempt the unattainable and 
 desire the impossible, and she had better make up 
 her mind that it would always be thus with her. 
 
 40
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IT occurred to Miriam the next afternoon that she 
 should go and warn Miss Foxe of the possible arrival 
 of a box of books at The Old House. Mrs. Sadler en- 
 tered her usual feeble protest against this afternoon 
 walk. 
 
 " You would be far better sewing, my dear ; Mrs. 
 Hobbes is very anxious for more workers at her guild ; 
 she says there's scarcely a young woman nowadays 
 can cut out and make a flannel petticoat. I felt quite 
 ashamed that such a thing should be said of my daugh- 
 ter, for I was always a good needlewoman myself. 
 I don't know where you got your dislike for your 
 needle ; won't you just stay in this afternoon, and show 
 Mrs. Hobbes you can do it ? " 
 
 If Miriam had been better than she was, this pa- 
 thetic appeal must have touched her heart; but, alas, 
 it did not. 
 
 " Oh, mother, I can't stay in and sew flannel petti- 
 coats to-day," she cried impatiently; and Mrs. Sadler 
 gave a disheartened little sigh, and said no more. 
 
 The walk to The Old House was a very pleasant one 
 away from the town ; and the irritations of home life 
 seemed to fall off from the girl as she walked along. 
 Miriam loved even the curious fusty smell which hung 
 about The Old House ; it seemed to breathe something 
 uncommon and unlike the rest of Hindcup ; it was really 
 
 41
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 the smell of damp, and old furniture, but she did not 
 believe this. A dark, steep stair led up to the drawing- 
 room, and as she came up it, the drawing-room door 
 opened and a man went into the next room. A man 
 was not a common sight in Miss Foxe's house, and 
 Miriam could not think who he could be. She hesitated 
 whether to go in or not; but the maid assured her 
 that Miss Foxe was quite able to see her, so she 
 went on. 
 
 The old lady gave the girl her usual welcome, and 
 said it was too long since she had been there. 
 
 "What have you been doing? Has anything been 
 wrong with you ? " she asked. 
 
 There and then Miriam poured out the whole story 
 of the books, Miss Foxe nodding and smiling at every 
 pause in the narrative. 
 
 " Quite right, quite right. I suppose most old peo- 
 ple would say you were quite wrong, but I don't ; you 
 have done quite wisely." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you ! " Miriam cried. She 
 was so accustomed to an atmosphere of disapproval, 
 that Miss Foxe's words warmed her like sunshine. 
 
 " Then you don't think I was wrong, and I may 
 come and read here every day, if the books come ? " 
 
 " Every day, as long as you please. Though, of 
 course, your mother will wonder why you come here ; 
 it will have to be done openly before long." This diffi- 
 culty had not occurred to Miriam. " I could keep the 
 books here, and take them to read at home one by 
 one," she suggested. 
 
 " Yes, till your mother found you reading them at 
 home." 
 
 42
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " Then, as I have always told you, you must remind 
 your mother that you are of a reasonable age, and 
 must be allowed to exercise your reason; but delay 
 this scene as long as you can try gentle measures." 
 
 In the meantime the books had not yet arrived, 
 and there was time to consider the subject carefully ; so 
 Miss Foxe thought she might introduce another topic. 
 
 " Max Courteis is here my nephew I'll send for 
 him. I want him to see you," she said. 
 
 " I have heard you speak about him," said Miriam. 
 " Is he not very clever ? He has something to do with 
 writing, has he not ? " 
 
 " Yes, with other people's writing ; that's why I 
 wish him to see you. He can sample talent as some 
 men can sample tea or wine. It is his profession ; he 
 has a special talent for it a special insight. To be 
 quite frank with you, I asked him down here very 
 much because of you." 
 
 " O Miss Foxe ! " 
 
 " I thought he might assist you. Don't be afraid of 
 him, or mind his absent manner, or his bullying man- 
 ner; he has both, and I cannot say which he will as- 
 sume to you, most likely the absent one, unless he takes 
 a sudden liking for you." Miriam shook in her shoes ; 
 she did not feel equal to meeting such a formidable 
 person. 
 
 Miss Foxe went into the next room, and through 
 the open door came the sound of her voice and that 
 of the man she spoke to, though what they said was 
 inaudible. In a few minutes she returned, bringing 
 her nephew with her. Max Courteis was a tall, gray- 
 
 43
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 haired man, who came in looking as if he did not know 
 where he was going. He did not seem to direct his 
 course toward any special chair, or, indeed, to see 
 anything in the room, but sat down in a haphazard 
 kind of way on the first seat that presented itself. 
 
 What then was Miriam's surprise, almost terror, a 
 minute later, to look up and find herself the subject 
 of a scrutiny the most intense she had ever undergone. 
 She started in alarm, but the next minute Mr. Cour- 
 teis seemed to be looking blankly at the opposite wall, 
 as if he did not know she was in existence. 
 
 " I came down to the country for solitude," he said 
 abruptly, " and now my aunt brings me in here to 
 talk to you." 
 
 Miriam looked up. " I have nothing to talk with 
 you about," she said gravely. " I know nothing about 
 anything." 
 
 Courteis turned quickly at her words and looked at 
 her again. 
 
 " I wonder who does know anything ? " he said in 
 an amused voice. 
 
 " I think that a number of learned people know 
 about things," she ventured to say. 
 
 "Learning?" said Courteis, with inexpressible con- 
 tempt in his voice. " What does learning matter ? 
 Ideas are the rub." 
 
 " Do* not ideas spring from learning?" Miriam 
 asked timidly. 
 
 Courteis jumped up and began to walk about the 
 room in his blundering way, as if he would knock 
 down the furniture. 
 
 " O Lord ! " he said, with a sudden laugh. 
 44
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Ideas spring from learning ! It's evident you have 
 met few learned persons ! " 
 
 Miriam was a little rebuffed by his rough manner; 
 she shrank up into herself. 
 
 " I have met none at all," she said. 
 
 " Well, take my advice, and avoid them like the 
 plague; they are the very death of originality," he 
 replied. 
 
 " I had supposed it was quite the other way," said 
 Miriam. She became primmer and expressed herself 
 in more stilted language, as she was more frightened 
 by Courteis's manner. 
 
 " Well, then, you were quite wrong," he said, paus- 
 ing beside her chair; he seemed to be looking out at 
 the window, not at her, so Miriam found courage to 
 say, with her funny little lurking smile at the corners 
 of her mouth, that Hindcup should be a very original 
 place, by his showing. 
 
 " No doubt it is ; we are all getting rubbed down to 
 hateful uniformity in towns," he said ; " you, for in- 
 stance, would never grow in London. When would 
 a town young woman say she knew nothing, and want 
 to be in the society of learned people? Oh, no; you 
 get fine fresh stuff in the provinces." 
 
 Miriam was really amused now; she laughed natu- 
 rally and heartily, and forgot to feel afraid. 
 
 " You should come and live in Hindcup, Mr. Cour- 
 teis," she said. " I think it would very soon cure you 
 of these ideas." 
 
 " I am going to do something for my nephew's sake 
 that I have not done for years," said Miss Foxe, who 
 had listened to their conversation with some amuse- 
 4 45
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 ment. " I am going to take him to the fete at Hindcup 
 Manor next week." 
 
 " Why do you wish to go there ? " Miriam asked. 
 " I always find these fetes so painful." 
 
 " Ah, you see them the right way, then," said Cour- 
 teis. " Of course they are painful painful and ridic- 
 ulous. One class making believe to be friendly with 
 another for one day, and all for its own ends. I want 
 to see it for ends of my own, too, you may be sure. 
 You are going, Miss Sadler?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course I am," said Miriam, with an 
 earnestness that surprised her hearers. She rose sud- 
 denly, and held out her hand to Miss Foxe, saying 
 she must be home before six o'clock. 
 
 " Why, it is not nearly six o'clock yet," Miss Foxe 
 said. But Miriam seemed to wish to go, and no per- 
 suasions would make her change her mind. 
 
 46
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MIRIAM found her mother talking with Mrs. Hobbes 
 on this very subject of the fete at the Manor, when she 
 came home. 
 
 " Mrs. Hobbes has come in to arrange with us about 
 Thursday," she said. " Mr. Hobbes has engaged a 
 char-a-bancs for the choir, so that they may have a 
 little music on the road, and they have two vacant 
 seats, and Mr. Hobbes kindly says will we come with 
 them?" 
 
 " Music on the road " was not a very attractive 
 thought to Miriam. She was silent for a minute, won- 
 dering how to evade the unwelcome invitation. 
 
 " Don't you wish to go to the fete at all ? " asked 
 Mrs. Hobbes. 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course I wish to go," the girl exclaimed 
 with the same surprising earnestness she had shown 
 to Miss Foxe about the fete. 
 
 " Then surely we couldn't do better than go in the 
 char-a-bancs" Mrs. Sadler pleaded. There was no pos- 
 sible escape, so it was agreed that in the char-a-bancs 
 they would go. After all, Miriam thought, what would 
 it matter what would anything matter if only she 
 might catch a glimpse again of Mr. Alan Gore's face, 
 or perhaps if Heaven was kind hear an echo of that 
 golden voice ! 
 
 " They say it will be a very fine affair this year," 
 Mrs. Sadler pursued. " The band from Goodhamp- 
 
 47
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 ton is to be there, and there are to be races for the 
 youths, with prizes, and the gardens are to be open 
 to the public, and tea in a tent for all altogether very 
 fine. I had it all from my sister, Susan Pillar." Mrs. 
 Sadler took her pleasures sadly, but she seemed to find 
 a certain lackluster satisfaction in retailing all these 
 items to Mrs. Hobbes. 
 
 " Dear me ! It will be a great treat for us all, I'm 
 sure," said Mrs. Hobbes. " Then I'll tell Mr. Hobbes 
 it is all arranged that you and Miriam drive with the 
 choir. Good night, Mrs. Sadler, I must be off ; there's 
 a meeting this evening, you know, and supper still to 
 get. Good night." 
 
 The days rather lagged for Miriam till this Thurs- 
 day of the fete. It broke bright and warm. For some 
 days she had had to listen to all that Emmie and Grace 
 Pillar had to say about their clothes for the occasion. 
 " The question is, is it to be my blue toque, or the 
 black straw with pink roses ? " Emmie had said when- 
 ever they met. " 7 like the blue toque myself, but 
 I've an idea mind, it's just an idea, but I have it 
 that some one else likes the straw with the roses. He 
 gave me a pink rosebud, you remember, at the Flower 
 Show last year. I have it still, though I wouldn't have 
 him know that for worlds." 
 
 " O Emmie, do make up your mind one way or 
 other!" Miriam said impatiently; and Emmie (truly) 
 observed that her cousin was horridly unsympathetic. 
 Miriam's own toilet was of her usual, unsuccessful 
 kind. She, alas, was the type of woman who invari- 
 ably puts on the wrong hat, even if she happens to have 
 hit upon the right dress. If she ever looked well and 
 
 48
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 she occasionally did it was entirely by accident. But 
 to-day, I am forced to admit that her clothes were un- 
 fortunate. 
 
 The three miles to the Manor seemed very long 
 even enlivened by music for the roads were dusty, 
 and the char-a-bancs was not a luxurious vehicle. Al- 
 though it was early in the day, the natives of Hindcup 
 were already disporting themselves under the trees, 
 waiting for their entertainers to appear. They stood 
 about in groups, talking and laughing, and gaping at 
 the smart uniforms of the bandsmen, who, in their 
 turn, smiled at the vacant rustic faces, and thought 
 themselves very fine. The well-to-do townspeople 
 kept themselves a little apart from their poor neigh- 
 bors, and affected a metropolitan indifference to the 
 band. Miriam would rather have stayed among the 
 working people old cottage women in sunbonnets, 
 and young women carrying babies, and laborers in 
 their Sunday clothes; but Mrs. Sadler frowned upon 
 such an idea. 
 
 " You must come over among your cousins, my 
 dear," she said. " See, there's Maggie Broadman in 
 the new dress she got down from London ; she do look 
 very well, I declare." 
 
 As Miriam came across to where her cousins stood, 
 Maggie openly exclaimed at her dowdy appearance. 
 
 " I do wish Miriam were not such a bad dresser ! " 
 she said. " No man will ever look at her the way 
 she throws on her things." 
 
 " Good morning, Maggie," said Miriam, and then, 
 as usual, found she had nothing else she wanted to 
 say. Just then, however, the band began to tune up, 
 
 49
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 there was a stir among the village people, and in the 
 distance Sir Samuel and Lady Joyce appeared with 
 their friends. Had Sir Samuel Joyce been born a 
 poor man, he would never have been respected by 
 anyone, but as he happened to have many lands and 
 much money, he had a great local reputation. It 
 would have been impossible to find a less intelligent 
 man, in many ways, yet he had his own little narrow 
 ideas of the duties of a landlord toward his tenantry, 
 and these he did his best to live up to. This annual 
 business of the fete was one of these ideas. He 
 thought it encouraged good feeling between the dif- 
 ferent classes. 
 
 As Sir Samuel and Lady Joyce came nearer, Maggie 
 Broadman shook out the flounces of her new dress, 
 and arranged herself to the best advantage ; she did 
 not really expect to be noticed personally by Lady 
 Joyce, but she wished to be. 
 
 " Who is that gentleman with them ? Who will 
 he be, I wonder?" she whispered. "And that's Miss 
 Eve Joyce, and I wonder who the other lady is, about 
 the same age? Very stylishly dressed both of them. 
 There's Sir Samuel stopping to speak to old Mrs. 
 Clarke." 
 
 Something made Miriam move away from the vi- 
 cinity of her cousin ; she strolled over to where the 
 children were playing, and stood leaning against a 
 tree to watch their games. 
 
 As she stood there she saw Miss Foxe and her 
 nephew coming across the park. They were speaking 
 together, not to any of the townspeople. Courteis 
 came up to her immediately. 
 
 50
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Isn't it delicious ? " he asked ; " this sort of thing 
 that makes one squirm with joy at human absurdity. 
 The poor so humbly pleased with the grand enter- 
 tainment given them by the rich the patronage of it 
 all ! " 
 
 Miriam looked up and smiled her smile expressed 
 a very complete understanding of the scene before 
 them. 
 
 " You see it all, of course ? " he said. 
 
 She was silent for a minute. 
 
 " See it ! " she exclaimed suddenly. " I feel it, down 
 to my fingers and toes ! " 
 
 " Why don't you write it down, then ? " said Cour- 
 teis. He came close up to where she stood. Miriam 
 started. 
 
 " I write it ? " she stammered. 
 
 " Yes, all about it the truth that you see. I tell 
 you what, if you do something good, I'll publish it in 
 The Advance Guard my magazine." 
 
 Miriam stood as still as Lot's wife, turned rigid 
 it seemed by looking forward instead of looking 
 back. 
 
 " I know nothing about it about writing," she 
 said at last. 
 
 " Look here," said Courteis. " Come and walk over 
 there among the trees with me, and talk." Miriam 
 obeyed him mechanically and he went on : " You don't 
 know anything about writing ; and nothing about life ; 
 you have to learn about both of them. But I know 
 what's there, behind your eyes; good fresh stuff that 
 hasn't been used before." 
 
 He paused, and Miriam interpolated: 
 51
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Good provincial stuff." At which they both 
 laughed. 
 
 " Yes, just so ; well, the words will come right 
 enough, and for methods you have that for your puz- 
 zle to invent one. Time and trouble will teach you 
 the rest." 
 
 He walked on in silence for a little looking on the 
 ground, and then added : " I had to be a very miserable 
 man before I did anything, and most people find it the 
 same way." 
 
 "Would happiness not do it?" she asked timidly. 
 Her young heart wanted a pleasanter recipe for suc- 
 cess than the one he had given her. Courteis consid- 
 ered for a little before he answered. 
 
 " Exquisite happiness will, sometimes the kind 
 that comes to about one man or woman in ten thou- 
 sand. Most of us, you know, are content with 
 makeshifts of joy ecstasy is an unknown sensation 
 to the vast majority of the world. I wonder why? 
 If I had been at the making of things, I'd have done 
 it differently; trained men by ecstasies of happiness, 
 instead of by this time-honored method of exquisite 
 misery. I expect it would have done quite as well, too ; 
 it's extremes of temperature that are needed to try 
 us, and heat would have done as well as cold, surely." 
 
 He kicked a stone off the path and walked on in 
 silence. 
 
 " I have had no extremes in my life ; it has all been 
 at one quite uninteresting temperature," said Miriam. 
 
 The man beside her laughed. 
 
 " As if you needed to tell me that ! " he said con- 
 temptuously.
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Miriam drew back into her shell in a moment; for 
 nothing hurts inexperience so deeply as any recogni- 
 tion of it. Then, with a sudden rush of wounded 
 pride, she exclaimed hotly: 
 
 " Perhaps I will astonish you all some day, in spite 
 of my inexperience." 
 
 Courteis laughed aloud. 
 
 " Of course you will ; that's to say, you won't 
 surprise me in the least; but your own people won't 
 know where it all comes from. But I won't be aston- 
 ished; do you suppose I go about the country asking 
 many young women to write for The Advance 
 Guard? " 
 
 " I am so inexperienced," said Miriam, " that I 
 might almost have thought that you did." 
 
 Already the sense that she was believed in had 
 given her courage; a week ago she would have been 
 incapable of this retort. 
 
 " Come, don't take anything I say amiss," said Cour- 
 teis. " What I mean is only this, that you want to 
 grow." 
 
 " ' Which of us, by taking thought, can add one 
 cubit to his stature ? ' " Miriam quoted. She walked 
 along by his side, a tall, ill-dressed young woman, not 
 lovable, not desirable, from the man's point of view, 
 as Courteis tacitly and coarsely put it to himself ; but 
 with just something in everything she said that marked 
 her as entirely different from other women. 
 
 " What will time make of her ? " Courteis asked 
 himself. 
 
 " Tell me something about your life ? " he added 
 aloud. 
 
 53
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " About my life, Mr. Courteis, there is nothing to 
 tell. I live with my mother in an uninteresting little 
 house at the corner of New Street not even in the 
 nice old part of Hindcup; we have one little servant, 
 and enough of money to have comfortable food and 
 clothes. Mother goes a great deal to chapel. I have 
 a number of cousins in Hindcup, but I do not get on 
 with them. I have no friends, except your aunt, Miss 
 Foxe. I have been at a school at Goodhampton ; but 
 three years ago they said my education was finished, 
 though I know nothing, so I came home. I have 
 nothing to do in life." 
 
 " That sounds blank enough," said Courteis. 
 
 " Women are made for misery, I think," said 
 Miriam bitterly. " Now, if I were a man, no one 
 would expect me to live this wretched sort of life; I 
 would be allowed to do and think and go where I 
 pleased." 
 
 " The old story ; well, I see how it is. I see how 
 you live, deeply sunk in the social morass. I know the 
 sort of thing perfectly. Now, what you have to find 
 out is all about it. You have the temperament ; that's 
 to say, you can recognize your desperate situation, 
 and not your own only, but that of all your class. 
 The more you recognize it the better. Steep yourself 
 in its limitations; try to imagine yourself into their 
 state of mind ; become as one of them, and then pro- 
 duce a picture of it all. Do you see? " 
 
 " Perhaps a little," said Miriam, with reserve ; and 
 Courteis went on: 
 
 " Arrived there at the point of describing it all 
 you have yourself escaped, a case of ' Christian at 
 
 54
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 morning looks back into Hell,' or whatever the pic- 
 ture is." 
 
 Here was a new idea for Miriam, that her very fet- 
 ters should be the instrument of her liberation! She 
 drew a long breath of the most intense interest. See- 
 ing this, Courteis went on : 
 
 " Then when you see more, you will understand the 
 tragic difference between man and man, and between 
 class and class." 
 
 " I know that already," she said. 
 
 " Well, so much the better. Write all you know, 
 and nothing else, and you will be all right. Send it 
 to me. I'm curious to see the sort of thing you will 
 produce." 
 
 " But how do I begin ? " she asked. 
 
 " Do you think I can give you a recipe for it ? as 
 if it were a pudding? I thought you were more in- 
 telligent, Miss Sadler." 
 
 Miriam folded her lips tightly. They walked on in 
 silence. 
 
 " You see, I never mind about hurting the feelings 
 of those I wish to help," said Courteis. " It's no use 
 trying to help people if you are too tender of their 
 feelings." 
 
 " How clever you are ! " Miriam exclaimed in spite 
 of herself. She felt, she thought, like a horse in the 
 hands of a skillful driver. 
 
 " Yes, in that way I'm clever enough. I can get 
 other people to do what I can't do myself. That's 
 where my talent lies, that's how I've made The Ad- 
 vance Guard what it is. I picked up the men that 
 write for it, like jewels out of the dust. I told them 
 
 55
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 what they could do, and they have done it. I found 
 them; now I have found you, I hope." 
 
 Miriam turned round and held out her hand sud- 
 denly to him. He took it, and shook it kindly enough, 
 giving her one of those penetrating looks that terrified 
 her. 
 
 " Good luck to you, Miss Sadler," he said. " I'll do 
 what I can for you; but Fate and yourself will do 
 more." To himself he added in his coarse, undeni- 
 able way: 
 
 " She's no good as a woman; yet I wonder if she'll 
 wake up soon ! "
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 As Miriam and Max Courteis stood there together, 
 two people came walking toward them through the 
 sun-dappled oak-glade. 
 
 " There is Lady Joyce," said Miriam ; but she did 
 not add, " and Mr. Alan Gore." She stepped aside 
 a little awkwardly as they advanced. 
 
 Lady Joyce had decided to shake hands and smile 
 whenever she met anyone that day ; so she stopped and 
 held out her hand to this girl, although she really had 
 no idea who she was. 
 
 " You are one of my guests," she said, " but I am 
 stupid enough to have forgotten your name." 
 
 Miriam was beginning to explain who she was, when 
 Alan Gore anticipated her words: 
 
 " I can introduce you, Lady Joyce," he said. " This 
 is Miriam Sadler, the niece of your Mrs. Pillar." 
 
 " Oh, really ! Yes, how stupid I am," said Lady 
 Joyce. She turned to speak to Courteis then, and 
 Alan Gore greeted him as an old acquaintance. They 
 had evidently met before. " You here, Courteis ? " 
 he said, with some surprise. 
 
 They all stood speaking together for a minute or 
 two, and then Lady Joyce suggested they should 
 walk on. 
 
 " I wonder if you will let me take Miriam Sadler 
 into the house to see the Blake pictures ? " said Gore, 
 as they went down the path. " I was speaking to her 
 
 57
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 about one of them the other day." He said this in a 
 low voice, that neither Miriam nor Courteis could 
 hear; they had fallen behind their entertainers. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you told me about the girl, I remember ; 
 do take her," said Lady Joyce. She turned round as 
 she spoke, and said to Miriam : 
 
 " Would you care to see some Blake pictures we 
 have? Mr. Gore tells me you are interested in these 
 things." 
 
 " Yes, I should like it," she answered. She could 
 not find words in which to express her pleasure ade- 
 quately. 
 
 " I must go and look up my relative," said Courteis, 
 smiling as he looked from one of the little group to the 
 other. He turned off down a side path, and Lady 
 Joyce went on toward the park. Miriam found herself 
 walking alone with Alan Gore. 
 
 He wore no hat, and seemed to rejoice in the wind 
 and the sunshine, as he walked unhurriedly along, ap- 
 parently unconscious that the groups of townspeople 
 they now began to meet were looking curiously at him 
 and at his companion. She, poor girl, was far from 
 unconscious of the scrutiny she underwent from her 
 neighbors, and she blushed painfully as she saw that 
 her cousin Matilda had observed them. Mr. Gore, 
 however, sauntered along without any knowledge of 
 the attention they excited, or, perhaps, she thought, 
 a man like him was so accustomed to being looked at 
 that he didn't mind it in the least. 
 
 They came at last to the front door of the Manor. 
 Never had Miriam thought to enter by this sacred 
 portal how often she had hurried in by the back en- 
 
 58
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 trance, undreaming of such an honor as now was 
 hers! 
 
 She glanced at her conductor, and wondered how he 
 could be so indifferent to these splendors the foot- 
 men at the door, the size and height of the hall, as 
 they came in, the wealth of objects around them. 
 Miriam held her breath in awe. The magnificent foot- 
 men looked at her inquiringly ; she wanted to scurry 
 past them, but Mr. Gore would not hasten the least 
 bit for any of their staring. It seemed to her that it 
 took about an hour for them to walk slowly down that 
 hall with those two silent staring men looking at them 
 and listening to them. For Mr. Gore talked on, with- 
 out lowering his voice in the least, just as if he did 
 not care whether the footmen heard or not. To be 
 sure, it was only about Blake's pictures that he talked ; 
 but Miriam knew, if he did not, that the two men were 
 wondering what on earth Mrs. Pillar's niece had to do 
 with Blake's pictures, or what right she had to walk 
 in at the front door along with Mr. Alan Gore. 
 
 This ordeal past, however, she gave herself up to 
 the delights of observation. Thus the better world 
 lived ! She gazed at the rooms they passed through, 
 taking in with pitiful quickness every detail of their 
 arrangement. 
 
 In the library, Gore brought her a chair and went 
 to get out the Blake drawings. These he laid on the 
 table before her, and sitting down beside her, began 
 to explain the strange imagery of the pictures. 
 
 As his explanation ended, a silence fell between 
 them. Miriam was surprised to find herself break- 
 ing it. 
 
 59
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Does it not seem hard that half the world should 
 have access to all this, and the other half be shut out 
 from it ? " she asked. 
 
 Gore leaned back in his chair, looking straight at 
 her with his kind, clever eyes. 
 
 " Yes, it does," he said frankly. " And then one 
 remembers something that equalizes it. The men that 
 make these splendid things things like Blake's poems 
 and pictures they are the wonder, far more than 
 what they produce; rich people may be able to buy 
 pictures and books, but they can't buy the power to 
 produce them. What sort of a world did Blake live 
 in? A garret in London, no money to buy food, 
 scarcely money to buy paints, yet such men as he make 
 our culture; he had the something none of us can 
 buy. There's the essential justice of things, that no 
 one class can have the monopoly of genius, except," 
 he added with a laugh, " except that rich men seldom 
 or never have it, so the poor get the monopoly there ! " 
 
 " Oh, do you think so ? " said Miriam, deeply in- 
 terested. 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 " But do circumstances advantages not make 
 men ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not half as much as men make their circum- 
 stances, it seems to me." 
 
 Miriam looked at him doubtfully. Did he not him- 
 self contradict what he asserted? Did he not stand 
 there before her, a man who seemed the very flower 
 of the human race, the product of inherited gifts 
 and graces that were denied to men of meaner birth? 
 She shook her head. 
 
 60
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " I don't quite believe it, I am afraid," she said. 
 Gore leaned forward with the eagerness of a born 
 arguer. 
 
 " But you must not hold these views ! " he exclaimed. 
 " They are all wrong ! Why, the gifts of fortune, all 
 this for instance" (he indicated the beautiful room with 
 its books and pictures), " these are all valuable in their 
 way, of course; but what you want really to value is 
 the brain behind it all ; the brain that wrote the books 
 and painted the pictures. Money collected them here, 
 and holds them, but brain made them. Surely you 
 would rather have the one than the other, rather be 
 able to produce good work yourself than possess all 
 the art treasures of the world ? " 
 
 " I think possessing beautiful things like these would 
 help one to produce good work," said Miriam, stick- 
 ing to her guns. 
 
 " Indeed, I think it is only a hindrance," said Gore. 
 " Much better not to have too many so-called advan- 
 tages." He paused, wondering for a moment why he 
 had been led into such an argument with this girl, 
 who, after all, had never shown any capacity that he 
 knew of for artistic production of any kind. But just 
 as he was thinking this, Miriam exclaimed, as if she 
 could not keep back the news any longer : 
 
 " Oh, sir, Mr. Gore, I have had something extraor- 
 dinary happen to me. Mr. Courteis wishes me to write 
 something for him." 
 
 She stopped then, half-ashamed of her sudden con- 
 fidence, half-proud to have it to give. 
 
 "And I hope you are going to try?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 5 61
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " I am almost afraid to try it would disappoint me 
 so sorely to fail, and how could I succeed ? " 
 
 Gore rose and began to walk about the room. 
 Miriam sat in silence, waiting for him to speak again. 
 At last he came and sat down beside her again. 
 
 "Have you known Courteis for long?" he asked, 
 and she thought she distinguished a note of coldness 
 in his voice. 
 
 " Oh, no, I only saw him last week for the first time. 
 His aunt, Miss Foxe, I have known for several years." 
 
 " You know he has offered you a wonderful chance, 
 one of the chances that only come once or twice in 
 life, sometimes not even that ' He hesitated, and 
 then went on: 
 
 " But perhaps shall I say certainly, you can't know 
 what Courteis and his school are like they will be 
 strange company for you. Shall I explain? I take it 
 that you have no one to advise you about such things." 
 
 " I have no one whose advice I respect to advise 
 me ; plenty of people whose advice I despise." 
 
 " Exactly. Therefore, I am going to speak. You 
 must take this chance. It means failure to hold back 
 from the leaps that come to us in life. But can you 
 take care of yourself ? " 
 
 " How ? " Miriam asked. 
 
 " I mean this way : you are young, and, pardon 
 me, for you acknowledge it yourself, ignorant of the 
 world, and very clever, very unlike your age and the 
 people you have lived among. If you begin to work 
 for Courteis you will come under his influence, and 
 he will try to get you to write like the men of his 
 school. You don't know them, or their clever, detest- 
 
 62
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 able gospel. Quite different from the gospels you have 
 been trained in, and therefore irresistibly attractive, 
 probably. How will that be ? " 
 
 " I wonder," said Miriam slowly. Gore noticed in 
 all that she said a tendency to weigh the subject in 
 hand. Most young women would have hazarded a 
 conjecture at that moment ; this girl merely said, " I 
 wonder," and thought about it. 
 
 " When I get home," Gore proceeded, " I'll send 
 you some back numbers of The Advance Guard to read. 
 They are full of clever writing and clever ideas. I 
 should like you to try to grasp the spirit of the paper 
 its intention the sort of lines it goes on." 
 
 " I shall try," said Miriam. 
 
 " There will be a great deal in it you won't quite 
 understand, I fancy a lot that will shock you; a lot 
 you will admire. I shall be curious to hear how it 
 strikes you. Will you let me know? Don't think I 
 am trying to discourage you I am so glad for you." 
 
 He stood up and held out his hand to her, half in 
 congratulation, half (she felt) to put an end to the 
 interview. She rose, and stood there silent for a mo- 
 ment before she turned to go. 
 
 " There's your ladder to the stars that we spoke of. 
 I told you there was none that would ever reach them ; 
 but you may be always climbing up," said Gore, as 
 they shook hands. 
 
 " I feel afraid, after what you have told me about 
 Mr. Courteis," she said. 
 
 " Afraid ? Do you remember, " O Soul, never strike 
 sail to a fear ' ? That precept carries one far ! " 
 
 " Oh, who said that ? " Miriam cried, her eyes filled 
 63
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 with sudden tears tears of delight that anyone should 
 have said just what she wanted. 
 
 " Emerson said it, and you must practice it. Life 
 is nothing without its risks. This is a big one for you, 
 so you are bound to take it." 
 
 " I do fear ; but perhaps I shall not strike sail," said 
 Miriam. She glanced fearfully at the clock, afraid 
 to think how long she had been there. 
 
 " I must go. My mother will be wondering where 
 I am. Good-by, sir Mr. Gore." 
 
 " Good-by, and good success to you. I shall not 
 forget the books," he said. " But I must come back 
 to the park also; see, we can come out through the 
 window; it saves time." 
 
 Miriam gave a sigh of relief. She would not need 
 to run the gantlet of footmanly criticism again.
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 As Miriam came out again into the sunshine, it 
 seemed to her that she came out into quite another 
 world. Life had suddenly put on a new aspect for her. 
 She had always been a close observer, but now there 
 was some object in her observation ; it was to be part 
 of her business now ; she could not observe too much. 
 
 A little group of Pillars stood together under one 
 of the elm trees, and, as they caught sight of their 
 cousin, they opened out and then gathered in round 
 her, all exclaiming in different tones on the same 
 subject : 
 
 " My goodness, Miriam ! Where have you been all 
 this time?" 
 
 " What can you have been about? " 
 
 " Were you in the house ? " 
 
 Finally Maggie Broadman for the whole group : 
 
 " Who was that gentleman you walked across the 
 lawn with? Surely, you hadn't the presumption to 
 speak to him? We were all quite annoyed, and we 
 tried to keep your mother from noticing it." 
 
 " That was Mr. Gore ; he spoke to me," said Miriam 
 curtly. It seemed sacrilege to her to mention his name 
 before her cousins ; but it could not be avoided. 
 
 " The well-known Mr. Gore ? You don't mean it ! 
 Why, we thought that stout gentleman with the white 
 
 65
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 waistcoat would be him ; he looks far more important, 
 somehow." 
 
 " What did he say to you ? " Matilda questioned ; 
 but Maggie broke in: 
 
 " It's much more important to know what you said 
 to him. I hope you said none of those silly, strange 
 things you sometimes come out with ? " 
 
 But Miriam could not be drawn into any details of 
 her talk with Mr. Gore. She turned away to where 
 the children were playing, and left her cousins to con- 
 jecture what they pleased. 
 
 " She's quite set up with all this notice," said one 
 to the other. 
 
 Sports for the youth of the village had been in- 
 stituted, and Miriam stood and watched the hot, over- 
 excited lads as they gathered in a group, preparatory 
 to being started by Sir Samuel. Her quick eye ob- 
 served that what was such an exciting event for the 
 boys was an intense boredom to their entertainer. Sir 
 Samuel was visibly trying to assume an interest in 
 the sports, which it was impossible that he felt. 
 
 " Come on, lads ! Stop a moment we must start 
 fair ! I back Hindcup ! One, two, three off ! " he 
 shouted with an assumption of eagerness that Miriam 
 took in perfectly. She found herself imagining the 
 relief of Sir Samuel and his wife when that day's 
 geniality was over. After her late sight of the library, 
 she could form a mental picture so vivid that she 
 could have sworn to having really seen it. Sir Samuel 
 would fling himself down into one of those beautiful 
 leather-covered chairs and laugh over it all. Mr. Gore 
 would be there also, and but here Miriam checked 
 
 66
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 herself. She felt sure that whatever Mr. Gore said 
 about the events of the day and the guests he had 
 helped to entertain, he would not laugh at them. 
 
 " I think he would think it rather piteous," she 
 thought. 
 
 The races were concluded, the prizes given, the 
 speeches made, and at last the evening came. Mr. 
 Hobbes had with difficulty collected the members of 
 his choir, and packed them into the char-a-bancs. Soon 
 would the day be over. Miriam shrank back into the 
 corner of the carriage and thought over all it had 
 meant to her. But her thoughts were interrupted by 
 Mr. Hobbes 's suggestion of some music to cheer the 
 homeward way. 
 
 " Let us have ' Safe in the Arms,' " he said. " You, 
 Matilda Pillar, with your fine voice shall. lead." 
 
 So Matilda, in her shrill, ill-modulated voice, started 
 the swinging melody. It was quickly taken up, and 
 soon they were all singing away at the top of their 
 voices. The vulgar, sensual melody delighted them. 
 Dr. Pratt sat closer to Emmie Pillar in the dusk, and 
 gave her hand a slight pressure; she did not seem to 
 mind this, nor the fact that the rest of the party must 
 have noticed the action. 
 
 " What a sweet, tender hymn it is, Mr. Hobbes," 
 said Mrs. Sadler, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " A precious hymn precious," he answered ; " let 
 us have the last verse once again, Matilda." And 
 Matilda, nothing loath, sang the verse over again with 
 great emphasis. 
 
 Miriam did not join in the singing, but she sat 
 there, in the corner, watching them all like a lynx. 
 
 67
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 She thought it was rather disgusting of Emmie and 
 Dr. Pratt to go on that way. 
 
 " You are taking no part in the singing, Miriam," 
 said Mr. Hobbes, leaning across the carriage to speak 
 to her. 
 
 " No," she answered bluntly, and all looked at her. 
 
 " It is a pity not to join in," he persisted, and 
 Miriam, goaded by his persistency, made retort: 
 
 " I don't, Mr. Hobbes, because I dislike the hymn." 
 
 " Tut, tut, tut ! " went Mr. Hobbes, but he had the 
 sense not to press the subject, and contented himself 
 with asking Matilda to start " The Sweet By and By " 
 instead. To this luscious tune they swung homeward ; 
 the very driver, as he whipped up his jaded old screws, 
 roared away about the " sweet by and by." 
 
 Miriam sat apart and wondered at it all all the 
 men and women beside her, at herself, at this strange 
 world. 
 
 Far away, through the dark woods, she saw the 
 Manor lights shine out, and a wave of bitterness swept 
 over her : 
 
 " Oh, if I were there there and happy, not here and 
 disgusted ! " she thought. What she longed for was 
 not the beautiful house and all its luxuries; but the 
 greatest, most unattainable luxury in the world the 
 interchange of ideas. 
 
 There rang in her ears words that from childhood 
 had seemed to her the most poignant in the whole 
 Bible : " Ye shall see Abraham and Isaac and Jacob 
 in the kingdom of God, and ye yourselves cast out." 
 
 "That's it," she thought; "'ye yourselves cast 
 out.' " 
 
 68
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MIRIAM went the next day to see Miss Foxe; she 
 wished to tell her all the happenings of the fete day. 
 But before she did this she found that Miss Foxe had 
 a good deal to say about her nephew. 
 
 " Max poor Max, has left me this morning," she 
 said. 
 
 " Why do you call him ' poor ' ? " Miriam asked. 
 
 " Because he is unhappy, unhappy in his matrimo- 
 nial ventures. ' A hot love cooling ' is one of the sad- 
 dest sights of this world. When I recall the ardors 
 of his courtship, I tremble for human frailty, and won- 
 der if love ever does endure." 
 
 Miriam was very much interested. She somehow 
 had never thought of Courteis as a married man, or 
 perhaps it would be truer to say that she had never 
 thought whether he was married or not. 
 
 " Does he not care for his wife ? " she asked. 
 
 Miss Foxe smiled. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, they live on these terms of icy in- 
 difference that are so much worse than good, warm 
 dislike so much worse for the character. It has 
 turned all the good in poor Max into bad. He has 
 no reserves with me, I hear a great deal from him. 
 Let me give you a piece of advice, Miriam: watch 
 men and women in their relation to each other, if you 
 wish to see the strangest freaks of human nature. 
 
 69
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Men and women view the world according as their 
 love affairs have been happy or unhappy. It's a great 
 mistake, of course, being so personal, but apparently 
 they can't avoid it. There is no optimist so blatant 
 as your happily, successfully married man or woman ; 
 they just can't be persuaded that everything is not 
 all right." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Miriam. " I've noticed that." 
 
 " And conversely," Miss Foxe pursued, in a musing 
 tone, " when a man has had his heart wounded, and all 
 his affections thwarted, it inevitably coarsens or em- 
 bitters him ; generally the first. They don't believe in 
 the reality of love. They think it all passion a phase 
 of youth that passes ; and you may speak to them from 
 June to January, you will never convince them that 
 it is not so. Try, my dear, not to take these hope- 
 lessly individual views when your time comes." 
 
 " You have just said that it can't be avoided," 
 laughed Miriam. 
 
 " Well, so it seems ; anyhow, Max Courteis cannot 
 avoid it clever as he is. His whole philosophy of 
 life is tinged by his own experience. He has collected 
 a school of writers round him who think like him. I've 
 sometimes asked him unkindly if they are all unhappily 
 married, and what do you think he replied ? " 
 
 "What?" Miriam asked in amusement. 
 
 " ' No one is ever anything else, and if they think 
 they are, it's only a fleeting illusion of sensual grati- 
 fication ! ' That's his pose, you see ; the soul left very 
 much out of things, indeed; so make the best of this 
 world while you may." 
 
 " Did Mr. Courteis tell you what he said to me ? " 
 70
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Miriam asked the question that had been burning her 
 lips all this time. She was as shy and yet as anxious to 
 speak of this as a young mother of her coming child. 
 
 " Yes, he told me ; but I had told him to say it to 
 you, so it was no news to me. He knows nothing 
 about you and your abilities ; he took them at my valu- 
 ation, and after seeing you. What are you going 
 to do?" 
 
 " I am going to think and think for a long time, and 
 study ; and then when I have arranged my ideas a lit- 
 tle, try to write." 
 
 " And what are you going to study first ? " asked 
 the old lady. 
 
 " The books Mr. Gore sends me, and may I come 
 here? I am going to speak to mother about it when 
 I go home. There is no quiet in our house to read or 
 write. Whenever I sit down to do either, mother 
 comes in and interrupts me, or the servant wants me to 
 show her about something, or one of my cousins looks 
 in ; it's no use at all. I must come here to read." 
 
 " Very well," said Miss Foxe. " I shall be delighted 
 to have you here; no one shall disturb you. I shall 
 think about you this evening when you break it to your 
 mother." 
 
 " It will be very disagreeable to do." 
 
 " Very ; but the wars of independence have always 
 been the most stirring ones in history, and generally 
 the most successful. I've always thought that God 
 prospered them." 
 
 Miss Foxe very seldom made an allusion of this 
 kind in her talk, and Miriam was surprised by it. She 
 thought about it as she walked back to Hindcup, and 
 
 71
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 wondered if what Miss Foxe had said was true. 
 Would God, indeed, fight this battle with her? But 
 no, she concluded, she had no right to claim the help 
 of the Most High in her difficulties, if she did not ask 
 it when things went well with her. " I must fight my 
 own battles," she thought. The wholly unintelligent 
 creed taught her in childhood had long ago been re- 
 jected by her strong young intellect, and as yet no 
 other had taken its place with any definiteness. Some- 
 times, unknown to her mother, Miriam would slip into 
 the parish church of Hindcup. There, where the faith 
 and hope of centuries had grown, she felt herself 
 nearer God ; but no Divine Friend walked beside her 
 through the every-day streets. 
 
 Mrs. Sadler and Mrs. Hobbes were standing to- 
 gether in closest converse at the gate when Miriam 
 approached. They parted at sight of her, and Mrs. 
 Hobbes hurried off down the street. Mrs. Sadler 
 waited to meet her daughter, and they walked to- 
 gether up the little flower-bordered path that led from 
 the gate to the door. 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Hobbes is that put out about her Su- 
 sannah," the good woman began ; " they've had a dif- 
 ference over some cold meat. It seems Mrs. Hobbes 
 had laid it by for Mr. Hobbes's supper to-night, and 
 Susannah had her young man in to supper last night 
 and gave it to him ; and then when Mrs. Hobbes asked, 
 ' Where was the cold meat ? ' Susannah spoke up to 
 her in the rudest way. I'm sure these girls are more 
 worry than they're worth any day." 
 
 Mrs. Sadler became aware suddenly that her daugh- 
 ter was paying very scant attention to this thrilling 
 
 72
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 history of Susannah and the cold meat; she stopped 
 her recounting in a grieved way, saying : 
 
 " But I always forget you don't take much interest 
 in Mrs. Hobbes's troubles." 
 
 Miriam was stricken with shame; how horrible it 
 was to be out of touch with her own home. She tried 
 to atone for it by an elaborately feigned interest ; but 
 simple people like Mrs. Sadler are often less easily 
 mollified than more subtle personalities; she would 
 have none of this affected interest. 
 
 " No, no, my dear, I know you take no real interest 
 in these things, so it's little use pretending to." The 
 girl did not try to defend herself. She sat down 
 and decided to speak at once about her proposed 
 studies. 
 
 " Mother," she said, " I wish to speak to you about 
 something." 
 
 " Well, I hope it is that you've changed your mind 
 and decided to take that class in the Sunday school, 
 after all," said Mrs. Sadler. Poor woman ! She knew 
 perfectly well, somewhere deep down in her heart, 
 that it was no such happy decision that her daughter 
 wished to announce, but she kept desperately hoping 
 against this conviction. 
 
 " No, indeed ! I am afraid you will think that I 
 mean to separate myself more from this sort of thing 
 from Sunday schools and Young People's Institutes, 
 and so on, for I have decided to devote my life to 
 study just now." 
 
 Mrs. Sadler repeated the words vacantly. " ' To de- 
 vote your life to study ! ' Dear, dear ! But, Miriam, 
 what in all the world will you study ? " 
 
 73
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " I wish to study history, first ; and then literature 
 and philosophy, perhaps." 
 
 " Philosophy ! " echoed Mrs. Sadler. The word 
 bore only a dangerous significance to her ears. 
 
 " I am going to begin by studying for three hours 
 each day, from eleven till two," Miriam pursued ; but 
 here her mother broke in desperately: 
 
 " Eleven to two ! the busiest hours in the day ! And 
 who is to dust this parlor, and help cook dinner ? " she 
 cried in indignation. 
 
 " I shall dust the parlor before eleven," said Miriam 
 gravely ; " and Joan must just manage to cook by her- 
 self." 
 
 " But Joan is no cook ; you know for yourself she 
 burned the joint to a cinder yesterday." 
 
 " Well, then, we must try to find some one who can 
 cook ; for I am not going to do it." 
 
 " But home is your first duty, surely ? " argued Mrs. 
 Sadler. 
 
 " If there were no one else to do the things that need 
 to be done; but, mother, we can pay a servant to do 
 them, and I am not going to spend my life cooking." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! how wrong and foolish," 
 sobbed Mrs. Sadler. " And if it had been anything 
 but study; if it had been you were getting married, 
 now, like your cousins ; but study! what good will study 
 do you ? " 
 
 " I believe if I were marrying the stupidest man in 
 England you would make no difficulty about sparing 
 me," said her daughter bitterly. 
 
 " No, indeed ; 'tis the way of all flesh, is marriage ; 
 but study ! " 
 
 74
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Miriam laughed outright. 
 
 " Not of all flesh, mother ; but perhaps you won't 
 take so unkindly to my studies when you see that they 
 do me no harm. I am going to study at Miss Foxe's 
 house, because it is quieter. I have arranged it all 
 with her." 
 
 " I should never have had that friendship with Miss 
 Foxe," cried poor Mrs. Sadler. " She's a strange, god- 
 less woman, by all accounts. I've been a foolish 
 mother, and now I have my punishment." She wiped 
 her eyes and gave a sigh of very real distress. 
 
 Miriam knew that it was useless to try to convince 
 her mother on any point. The reasoning faculty, 
 which was her own strongest characteristic, had been 
 strangely left out of Mrs. Sadler's composition. 
 
 " I'll get Mr. Hobbes to speak to you," she said. 
 " Surely you will believe what he says ? " 
 
 " No, mother. Mr. Hobbes does not see things as I 
 see them. You must just let me take my own way 
 about this. I am old enough now to choose what I 
 wish to do with my life, and I am going to do it." 
 
 " Oh, Miriam, Miriam, that's no way for a young 
 person to speak ! " cried the mother. 
 
 Miriam, seeing the vanity of further argument, 
 turned away, and left the room. 
 
 75
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THAT evening, in the solitude of her own room, 
 by the light of one candle, and trembling with ex- 
 citement, Miriam wrote the following note: 
 
 DEAR SIR: 
 
 The conversation you had with me has given me many new 
 ideas, which I wish to follow out if possible. Might I ask you 
 to send me specially some histories of Democracy, and essays on 
 the same subject to study? Do you not think it will be better 
 for me to devote myself to one subject at a time, in case I should 
 be in danger of being overwhelmed by too many ideas? 
 With apologies for addressing you, 
 I am, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 MIRIAM SADLER. 
 
 She wrote this letter three times over, and finally, 
 despairing of making any improvement in its style, 
 put it up and addressed it to Mr. Gore at the Manor. 
 After the letter was posted, Miriam was, of course, as- 
 sailed by torments of shame how futile, how silly her 
 suggestion had been! What a fool Mr. Gore would 
 think her! She lay awake half the night worrying 
 over what she had done, and terrified by her own 
 audacity. 
 
 The subject which she had vaguely named " De- 
 mocracy " swam before her brain continually. She 
 
 76
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 meant by Democracy far more than the bare word im- 
 plied " A form of government in which the supreme 
 power is vested in the people collectively," the dic- 
 tionary defined the word; but to Miriam it meant 
 much more than this. She wanted histories of libera- 
 tions which, alas, have not yet been wrought which 
 probably never can be wrought. For though excep- 
 tional individuals rise above the restrictions of class, 
 such exceptions only prove the rule that the majority 
 must remain walled in and fettered by laws which they 
 have not sufficient force to nullify. All this seemed 
 unjust to the girl ; she began to try to arrange her ideas 
 on the subject, and, as untrained thinkers will, repeated 
 and contradicted herself constantly. At last she tried 
 to write down these chaotic thoughts. The first state- 
 ments came glibly enough to her pen, and she read 
 over the sentences which set them forth, with a thrill 
 of pride. But, after a little more consideration, Mir- 
 iam began to wonder if there was not another side 
 to the case. This led to writing down a further set 
 of statements exactly contrary to the first. Bewil- 
 dered between these conflicting views of the same sub- 
 ject, she sat and made vacant scribbles with her pen 
 across the large sheet of grocer's paper on which she 
 had been writing. Then she had a sudden illumination. 
 
 " This is the process I wish to learn," she cried. 
 " Between the two sides of an argument truth is born ; 
 this is how thinking is done. I must think out all that 
 can be said on both sides of every question, and then 
 find something that lies between them both." 
 
 It was a laborious process, and equally laborious 
 was that first " Treatise on Democracy," which Miriam 
 6 77
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 produced as the fruit of many days of toil. During 
 the production of this effort, she was deaf and blind 
 to the outer world ; she seemed to herself to be walk- 
 ing about in a dream ; she was, as Maggie Broadman 
 put it, " more intolerable than usual," nor could any 
 questioning from her cousins make her reveal the rea- 
 son of her preoccupation. 
 
 But one afternoon there came a letter from Miss 
 Foxe, inclosing a note from Alan Gore. It had, of 
 course, been addressed to The Old House. Miriam 
 read this letter in such a hurry that she scarcely took 
 in its simple contents ; then she reread it, experiencing 
 a slight thrill of disappointment because it was so un- 
 remarkable. 
 
 DEAR Miss SADLER: 
 
 I think your suggestion excellent. It is always best to read 
 about what interests us most. I have sent you to-day a number 
 of books on Democracy, and shall be interested to hear how you 
 get on with them. 
 
 Wishing you all success and pleasure in the work you 
 are undertaking, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 ALAN GORE. 
 
 Miriam wasted no time on the way to The Old 
 House that day. There she found the box of books 
 waiting, sure enough, and oh, how she fell upon them ! 
 Each book bore the owner's name on the title-page, 
 and this invested the volumes with a peculiar charm 
 in her eyes. To see Miriam read a book was like 
 seeing a hungry caterpillar fasten on a green leaf. 
 In the time that an ordinary person would take to read 
 a few chapters, she had read the book rejecting the 
 
 78
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 unessential bits of it, and sucking up the gist of the 
 work, in the way only your born reader can do. The 
 great pile of books on Democracy would have dis- 
 mayed most people, but she almost kissed them in her 
 ecstasy of pleasure. Day by day the pile of unread 
 volumes diminished, and the pile of read volumes in- 
 creased ; and in the same way every day added to the 
 stores of information that she acquired about her 
 chosen subject. 
 
 At the end of a month Miriam deliberately tore up 
 the laborious " Treatise on Democracy," which had so 
 absorbed and pleased her, and began to write it all 
 over again. It never occurred to her to give up the 
 attempt; but with increased knowledge her views had 
 undergone further change, and the whole treatise 
 must be rewritten. The delicious labor of this second 
 undertaking was considerably more arduous than the 
 labor of the first attempt had been. 
 
 She worked at it early and late ; wrote and rewrote, 
 till Mrs. Sadler, examining the items of the " Store 
 Book," exclaimed fretfully over her daughter's reck- 
 less expenditure on ink. 
 
 "Ink again, Miriam, sevenpence for ink! as if the 
 penny bottles weren't good enough; who's wanting 
 blue-black at sevenpence ? " 
 
 But at last the day came when Miriam felt that she 
 had written her last word on Democracy. She took 
 out the pile of manuscript from a drawer and fingered 
 it lovingly. The treatise had been written out on coarse, 
 yellowish grocer's paper ; it would make a considerable 
 parcel. Miriam found a bit of brown paper and some 
 string, but it cost her a pang to think of tying up the 
 
 79
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 parcel; she felt like a mother putting away her child 
 into its coffin, and wanted to have another and yet 
 another look at the work of her hands. When at last 
 she had finished making up the parcel, and had ad- 
 dressed it to Max Courteis, she stood holding it ir- 
 resolutely for a moment. She must take leave of this, 
 the first fruits of her labor. With a sudden impulse, 
 she caught up the parcel to her lips and gave the im- 
 passive brown paper surface a gentle kiss. 
 
 In imagination Miriam followed the fortunes of her 
 manuscript from the time it left her hands till it 
 reached the hands of Max Courteis. She then im- 
 agined his first glance over it; would he think it 
 wretchedly bad, or wonderfully good ? Sometimes she 
 fancied the one, sometimes the other verdict. But at 
 any rate she had to wait some time for it; for a fort- 
 night she heard nothing. Then at last, one morning, 
 as Miriam and Mrs. Sadler were at breakfast, the little 
 servant girl came in with a letter between her finger 
 and thumb, which she announced was for Miss 
 Sadler. 
 
 Letters were not very frequent events in this quiet 
 household, and Mrs. Sadler looked up in mild sur- 
 prise at the announcement. 
 
 " It is about something I have been writing," Mir- 
 iam explained. 
 
 " Something you have been writing ! " echoed Mrs. 
 Sadler. She laid down the sugar tongs which she had 
 just lifted, and looked earnestly at her daughter, with 
 a world of astonishment in her stupid face. 
 
 " Yes ; nothing important," said Miriam. She laid 
 the letter down unopened, and pretended to eat her 
 
 80
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 breakfast ; but even Mrs. Sadler saw the absurdity of 
 this pretense. 
 
 " Surely, you're going to read it, now it's there," 
 she asked. 
 
 " Not just now, mother ; I would rather have my 
 breakfast," said Miriam. She could not bear to open 
 the letter there and then, for if it contained bad news, 
 how could she endure the pain of it before her mother ? 
 if good news, surely the first joy would be better tasted 
 in solitude. But Mrs. Sadler was not at all pleased. 
 
 "Well, well," she muttered. "What with your 
 studies in other people's houses, and your letters from 
 no one knows who, that you won't read before your 
 own mother, I don't know what's to become of you, 
 I'm sure ! " 
 
 There was no reply possible to this attack. So 
 Miriam was silent and the meal ended uncomfortably. 
 She then ran upstairs to her own room, locked the 
 door, and sat down to read. The very handwriting of 
 the address was interesting to her, the sprawling illegi- 
 ble characters had the curious stamp of education upon 
 them, in spite of their illegibility. At first she found 
 it difficult to make out the contents of the letter, for 
 Courteis did not punctuate with anything save a series 
 of dashes. But at last she puzzled it out: 
 
 The stuff, of course, is as good as possible; but O Lord! why 
 choose to write a treatise on Democracy at this time of day? 
 Hasn't the world heard as much about it as it wants to know? 
 I can't publish it, because no one would read it not if it were 
 a hitherto unpublished Baconian Essay. Turn your excellent 
 ideas into lighter channels no, lighter channels would never suit 
 your peculiar gifts. I won't dictate. Try again. You must 
 
 81
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 make the world listen to your own kind of talking somehow. 
 You are far too logical for a woman; but it is a great gift. I dote 
 on your " Treatise on Democracy " myself; it's only my readers 
 that I don't sufficiently respect to try them with it. Where did you 
 get all these ideas, and where did you learn to arrange them so 
 formidably? 
 
 But still the work is useless to me impossible; and I am 
 sorry, but hope to have more and better work from you soon. 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 MAX COURTEIS. 
 
 The manuscript was returned. Miriam sat down to 
 think over the letter and decided that she was at once 
 disappointed and pleased by it. She read it over and 
 over and tried to suck all the sweetness possible from 
 it, but the hard fact remained, that the manuscript had 
 been sent back, " and all my work has been wasted," 
 she thought. Then her better judgment reasserted 
 itself, and she confessed that the toil had been pleasure, 
 and must bring gain in the end. 
 
 " I wonder if Mr. Gore would read it if I sent it 
 to him ? " she thought ; " it would show him better 
 than anything else how carefully I have read his 
 books." After all, Max Courteis was an excellent 
 critic, and did he not say that he " doted " on the poor, 
 returned " Treatise " ? It could not be altogether con- 
 temptible. 
 
 So once more it was folded up and dispatched this 
 time to Mr. Gore along with a stiff little note to tell 
 him what Courteis had written about it. 
 
 Miriam was far more excited by this sending off than 
 she had been by the other. It mattered more to her 
 that Alan Gore should think well of her work than if 
 
 82
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 a dozen editors had praised it. She regarded him 
 much as we poor earth dwellers regard some splendid 
 planet blazing down from the utmost heavens upon our 
 dark world. 
 
 In reality, it was far more important that she should 
 gain approval from Courteis, but it did not seem so 
 to her. As day after day passed, she became more and 
 more impatient. She watched the postman as he came 
 up the street, banging carelessly at the doors and hand- 
 ing letters into other houses he always passed her 
 door. 
 
 " Mr. Gore has thought my Treatise absurd, and has 
 decided not to take any notice of it," she thought dis- 
 consolately. And then one afternoon something hap- 
 pened all at once ; something that was to mean all the 
 world to her.
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 IT was Joan's " day out," so Miriam had been busy. 
 She had just removed the tea things from the parlor, 
 and Mrs. Sadler was beginning to wonder if it wasn't 
 nearly time for her to put on her bonnet, as she was 
 going out to the prayer meeting, when she saw a car- 
 riage stop at the gate, and an unknown lady come up 
 to the door. She looked about her in an inquiring, 
 perplexed way, and came hesitatingly up the path, as 
 if not certain whether she had come to the right house. 
 
 Miriam went to the door, which stood open, and 
 confronted the unknown visitor. 
 
 " Does Miss Sadler live here ? There seems to be 
 some mistake about her address," the stranger asked. 
 
 " I am Miss Sadler," said Miriam, wondering very 
 much, indeed, who this might be. 
 
 " Then I must introduce myself. I am Mr. Gore's 
 sister ; he sent me to see you." 
 
 She hesitated, and looked at the girl curiously. 
 
 " Won't you come in ? " said Miriam, her heart 
 beating fast with pleasure; but what to say was the 
 question. An overpowering shyness possessed her. 
 She ushered her visitor into the parlor and drew for- 
 ward a chair for her. Mrs. Sadler rose and courtesied 
 to the newcomer, flurried and surprised. 
 
 " This is my mother," Miriam explained ; " and 
 mother, this is Miss Gore." 
 
 "J'm sure you're very kind, ma'am," Mrs. Sadler
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 began, though it was hard to say what she meant to 
 thank Miss Gore for as yet. Miriam, in the meantime, 
 was realizing that her mother was sure to find out 
 about the books Mr. Gore had sent, and what would 
 she say? 
 
 Miss Gore turned to Mrs. Sadler and explained the 
 reason of her visit. 
 
 " My brother asked me to come and see your daugh- 
 ter," she began, " because he has been so much struck 
 by the article she has written on Democracy, and he 
 wished me to make her acquaintance. I am staying 
 at Hindcup Manor." 
 
 Mrs. Sadler was entirely bewildered by this explana- 
 tion. In the first place, who was the lady ; then, who 
 was the lady's brother; then, how had he heard about 
 anything that her daughter chose to write, and what 
 was this about an article on Democracy? Then she 
 hastily gathered up the fragments of memory, remem- 
 bering something Maggie Broadman had told her 
 about Mr. Gore and Miriam and books ; she had hoped 
 that it was all nonsense, as no more had been heard 
 about it ; but this must be the same thing turning up 
 again. 
 
 "I'm sure I scarcely know what to say," she ex- 
 claimed. " I suppose Miriam's been writing some- 
 thing, though I know nothing about it, and really I'm 
 often anxious over these ' studies ' she talks about. I 
 don't know what she studies, I'm sure; but I think 
 she might well be better employed." 
 
 This speech illuminated the whole situation to Delia 
 Gore. She glanced from the mother to the daughter. 
 Mrs. Sadler spoke hurriedly, in a sort of nervous vex- 
 
 85
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 ation ; Miriam sat and listened impassively, looking at 
 her mother in a curiously impersonal way, as if she 
 were saying, " She may say any folly she chooses ; I 
 am not responsible for it." 
 
 " Oh, you must not be anxious about your daugh- 
 ter's studies," Delia exclaimed, anxious to be a peace- 
 maker. " My brother sent her only the best known 
 books on the subject, books that could do no one any 
 harm only good." 
 
 There was an ominous silence. 
 
 " Miriam never told me about no books," said Mrs. 
 Sadler, very sorrowfully and ungrammatically. When- 
 ever she was agitated, Mrs. Sadler had a trick of 
 doubling the negative a trick she had conquered in 
 calmer moments. Delia looked beseechingly at Miriam 
 she must explain the situation. 
 
 " My mother thinks study will ' unsettle ' me, Miss 
 Gore," Miriam said, " and keep me from leading what 
 she thinks is a useful life ; so I never told her that Mr. 
 Gore had sent me books to study. I asked him to 
 send them to the house of a friend. That is how it 
 was." 
 
 " Oh, that's what it was," said Mrs. Sadler. " That's 
 what all the study at Miss Foxe's has been ! " 
 
 Delia Gore hastened to relieve the situation as well 
 as she could. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Sadler, your daughter has made the 
 cleverest use out of all her reading," she said. " I am 
 sure you would be pleased if you knew how much we 
 admire her article on Democracy; it is so new full 
 of all manner of fresh views of such a well-worn 
 subject." 
 
 86
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " What good is it ever to do anyone ? " Mrs. Sadler 
 inquired, a question which Miss Gore did not go into, 
 but opened fresh ground by her next remark. 
 
 " We wonder if you will allow your daughter to 
 come and pay us a visit in London," she said. " It 
 would be a great pleasure to us." 
 
 " Miriam visit you in London ! " echoed Mrs. Sad- 
 ler ; " but Miriam's not a lady," she added in a flat 
 way. 
 
 Delia Gore laid her hand for just a moment on the 
 girl's knee; the touch seemed to convey a world of 
 understanding. Then she turned again to Mrs. Sadler. 
 
 " Oh, please don't bring in these ideas at all," she 
 said. " I want your daughter to come and stay with 
 me, if she will, that is all." 
 
 This subversive woman was too much for Mrs. Sad- 
 ler altogether. She rose, as she would have expressed 
 it, " all in a flurry." 
 
 " I'm sure, ma'am, I don't understand about Mir- 
 iam. I don't understand the girl herself, though 
 she's my own child; or what you all find in her, 
 or what's to become of her. I'm just annoyed 
 about her in every way. I'm sure, being a friend 
 of her ladyship at the Manor, you mean kindly by 
 her; but whatever would she do visiting with fine 
 people like you ? " 
 
 Miriam sat listening to this speech, with a curious 
 smile on her lips. To Delia the scene was extremely 
 painful. She had come wishing to give pleasure, and 
 seemed to have done nothing but harm. 
 
 " Oh, we are not fine people in the least ! " she cried. 
 " We won't do any harm to your daughter we wish 
 
 87
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 to know her better, because we admire her powers of 
 mind." 
 
 " Miriam's powers of mind ! " echoed Mrs. Sadler. 
 Often she had lamented over what she considered the 
 hopeless stamp of her daughter's intellect. How fre- 
 quently, for instance, she had been unable to follow 
 Mr. Hobbes's more argumentative sermons in chapel, 
 and had not been ashamed to say so. As a rule, 
 mothers are apt to think too highly of the abilities 
 of their offspring; but there are exceptions to every 
 rule, and Mrs. Sadler was one of these. The dictum 
 of the Pillar connection had always been that Miriam 
 was " disappointing," and Mrs. Sadler had agreed in 
 this verdict. Now from the lips of a stranger she 
 heard the astonishing statement that her daughter had 
 powers of mind ; she could scarcely believe what she 
 heard. 
 
 Things were then at this disagreeable pass when 
 Mrs. Hobbes made her appearance coming up to the 
 door. Never had Mrs. Hobbes been so sincerely wel- 
 comed before by Miriam. " Mother, there is Mrs. 
 Hobbes coming to the door ; she probably wishes to see 
 you," she said. Mrs. Sadler did not need to hear this 
 twice ; she probably was feeling the situation difficult, 
 also. 
 
 " I'll just go and see what she wants, if you'll excuse 
 me," she said, rising, with an air of evident relief, to 
 leave the room. 
 
 As the door closed, Miriam turned to her visitor. 
 
 " My mother cannot understand," she said slowly. 
 " She does not understand me, or any of the things 
 I am interested in." 
 
 88
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " I see, I see," said Delia Gore quickly. " But you 
 will come, will you not ? " She hesitated a moment, 
 and then added, " You won't have these stupid feel- 
 ings about class, will you? We think it is possible 
 to forget them Alan and I we like to know people 
 for themselves, not for their circumstances." 
 
 Miriam had quite got over her momentary feeling 
 of constraint with Miss Gore; something about her 
 made her feel it easy to discuss even such a difficult 
 subject as this was. 
 
 " I am sure what you say should be true," she said ; 
 " but if it were only a question of knowing people 
 themselves, why don't you come and stay here with 
 me? We would really know each other better that 
 way; you know nothing at all about my kind of life, 
 I suppose." 
 
 " Oh, how nice you are ! " cried Delia, laughing. 
 Miriam laughed, too, but she added : 
 
 " We should then require to talk all the time about 
 books and ideas, because these would be the only things 
 we had in common." 
 
 " You do go to the very root of things ! " Delia ex- 
 claimed admiringly. 
 
 " I generally see the real truth about things, I think," 
 Miriam admitted ; " and that's the truth about this. I 
 want to come and stay with you, and be friends with 
 you, Miss Gore, but I wonder if such a friendship could 
 be possible ? " 
 
 " Well, will you come and try ? " Delia persisted. 
 
 Miriam sat and thought in silence for a minute or 
 two. She looked at Delia Gore, at her beautiful 
 clothes, then down at her own dress. It was not even 
 
 89
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 peculiar, just ordinary to the last degree it spoke 
 of class : not the dress of a working woman, not the 
 dress of a lady just midway between the two. 
 
 " I would have to come to you looking as I do to- 
 day," she said at last ; " and that is quite different from 
 you. I do not care about dress I wish I did. I do 
 not know what to wear, as women like you do." 
 
 Delia Gore laughed again. 
 
 " The author of the ' Treatise on Democracy ' 
 should not have all these scruples," she said. 
 
 Perhaps it was this final argument that won the day. 
 At any rate, when Delia left the house a few minutes 
 later, Miriam had promised to go to London and stay 
 with her. Mrs. Sadler came back to the parlor and 
 sank down into the armchair. 
 
 " I really don't know what to say or think," she 
 said. " I'm so put about I've given up the prayer 
 meeting. Whatever was this about your going to Lon- 
 don to visit people you never saw before ? " 
 
 Miriam drew her chair nearer to where her mother 
 sat, and endeavored to make the whole thing plain to 
 her. But even when she had grasped the facts of the 
 case, Mrs. Sadler shook her head. 
 
 " I don't know as I should let you think of it," she 
 said. " I must go over to the Manor to-morrow and 
 see Aunt Pillar about it. I think a great deal of her 
 advice, and she can tell me all about these Gores." 
 
 Miriam said nothing. She knew that as her aunt 
 decreed, for or against, so her fate would be decided. 
 From a certain vulgar strength of character, Aunt 
 Pillar had gained a great ascendancy over her rela- 
 tives. Combined with this, her position at the Manor 
 
 90
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 had given her what her family considered a great 
 knowledge of the world, and so her opinion was law 
 with them all. 
 
 Aunt Pillar had, as she would have expressed it, 
 " no opinion " of her niece Miriam. She considered 
 her a failure a woman not likely to marry, and not 
 able to make a place for herself in the world without 
 a husband. Once or twice, in a tentative sort of way, 
 she had suggested that Miriam might be the better 
 for having something to do, and had even hinted that 
 it would be possible to " speak to her ladyship for her." 
 But Miriam did not look upon Lady Joyce as the well- 
 spring of all things, as Aunt Pillar did, and had re- 
 ceived the suggestion coldly. She knew that the sort 
 of position her aunt wanted her to get, would never 
 satisfy her. 
 
 " I'll go over early to-morrow," Mrs. Sadler re- 
 peated ; " but I scarcely think Aunt Pillar will ap- 
 prove of it." 
 
 " Very well, mother ; but do you think it much mat- 
 ters whether she approves or not ? " Miriam asked 
 an unfortunate question which only provoked the usual 
 retort : 
 
 " Oh, dear ! Whatever will you say next ? "
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MRS. SADLER timed her visit to her sister better 
 than Miriam had done on that hot and momentous 
 Sunday afternoon when she first saw Mr. Alan Gore. 
 Aunt Pillar's after-dinner nap was over, and she was 
 therefore in a most amiable mood to receive visitors. 
 Domestic matters had been going smoothly, too, at 
 the Manor, so she greeted her sister very pleasantly. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you, Priscilla ; come and sit down ; 
 it's not often I've a visit from you. I'll be having my 
 tea directly," she said, drawing up a chair for her 
 sister. 
 
 Mrs. Sadler sat down and threw off her mantle, 
 exclaiming at the heat. 
 
 " I've come to consult you, Susan," she said then, 
 with an air of great importance. 
 
 Aunt Pillar drew her chair closer to the table, and 
 folded her fat hands on the bright magenta table- 
 cloth in an attitude of attention. 
 
 " Well, and what may it be not money matters, I 
 hope? I warned you against them building societies 
 years ago." 
 
 " No, no ; not money matters at all ; it's Miriam." 
 
 The family oracle pursed her lips with an air of 
 extraordinary wisdom. She had surmised that ere 
 long Miriam would " cause trouble." 
 
 " I'm not altogether surprised, Priscilla," she said. 
 92
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " I've always considered her a strange girl she's un- 
 natural. I wish I saw her more like Jim's girls see 
 how well they are going off." (By this phrase Aunt 
 Pillar signified marriage.) " But Miriam never seems 
 to take up with any young men. She's too fond of 
 books ; I wouldn't allow it ; you never have been firm 
 enough with the girl." 
 
 Aunt Pillar shook her head, looking very grave in- 
 deed. She had decided not to trouble her sister with 
 the story of Mr. Gore and the books; but now she 
 wondered if any whisper of it had reached her. 
 
 " You say you wouldn't allow it, Susan ; but the girl 
 does it in spite of me. She's been what she calls 
 ' studying ' three hours every day of late." 
 
 " Come, now, I call that intolerable," said Aunt 
 Pillar. She brought down her clinched hand on the 
 table with a thump. " Quite intolerable. Study is just 
 a luxury for rich people, like any other. If she wishes 
 to work (but she doesn't), let her be a school-teacher 
 and do work that will pay, work that there is some 
 money in. I have no patience with such nonsense ! " 
 
 " Well, but listen, Susan. This was bad enough ; 
 but didn't I find out yesterday that she's been writing." 
 
 "Writing!" echoed Aunt Pillar. "What has she 
 to write about ? But I'll tell you what it is, Priscilla, 
 the girl is very conceited. Things have come to my 
 knowledge you would scarcely believe. I didn't mean 
 to tell you ; but now perhaps I should " 
 
 " Is it about this Mr. Gore ? " Mrs. Sadler asked, 
 unable to restrain herself. 
 
 "That's it. So she has told you, has she? Two 
 months ago she met him in this room, and that same 
 7 93
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 week she had the presumption to speak to him on the 
 road, and ask him to lend her books. I'll warrant she 
 never told you that." 
 
 " O Susan, it can't be true ; my girl surely would 
 never be so forward ! " 
 
 " As I understand, it was this way : Mr. Gore came 
 to see me that same evening and asked most particu- 
 larly about Miriam, your circumstances and altogether. 
 But I've never heard since if he sent the books ; that's 
 another story." 
 
 " Yes, he did, but not to our house ; they were sent 
 to the house of that Miss Foxe that Miriam has made 
 up with, and it's there she has been studying ; and now 
 she has sent this that she wrote to Mr. Gore." 
 
 " You don't say so ! Tis downright disgraceful ! 
 Whatever can we do with the girl ? And Mr. Gore such 
 a fine gentleman, too ; own cousin to her ladyship ! " 
 
 " However did my Miriam think to do such a 
 thing ! " Mrs. Sadler moaned. 
 
 " Well, you shall have the truth, then," said Aunt 
 Pillar ; " and you may believe it or not, as you like. 
 Hoskins, the butler, told me that on the fete day, Mr. 
 Alan Gore brought Miriam into the house by the front 
 door, walked her through the hall and took her into 
 the library. There they were for close on half an hour, 
 and Goodness alone knows what the girl was saying 
 to him all that time. Now, that's gospel truth ; Hos- 
 kins told me, and Hoskins had it from the footmen 
 that saw them come in." 
 
 Mrs. Sadler was quite overcome by this bit of cir- 
 cumstantial evidence against her daughter. Dark con- 
 jectures flitted across her fancy. She leaned forward. 
 
 94
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " What I want to know, Susan, is what sort of a 
 gentleman may this Mr. Alan Gore be ? " 
 
 " Why, a very fine gentleman, indeed, Priscilla. 
 One of the Gores of Replands. You may see his name 
 in the papers any day, too, speakin' here and speakin' 
 there, and so much thought of. He's never here but 
 there's a big dinner and half the county to meet 
 him." 
 
 " That kind, I've often heard, are just the worst," 
 said Mrs. Sadler; and then dropping her voice to a 
 thrilling whisper she added, " for running after the 
 women." 
 
 But here Aunt Pillar burst into a huge, unrestrained 
 laugh. 
 
 " O Priscilla, Priscilla ! you may keep your silly 
 mind easy there ! Mr. Alan Gore running after Mir- 
 iam for bad ends ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Miriam that 
 hasn't a beau in her own rank ; the men never look at 
 her. No, no, it's not that that troubles me, it's the 
 presumption of the girl set her up ! " 
 
 Mrs. Sadler was hugely relieved. She had pic- 
 tured Alan Gore to herself as a sort of Don Juan. 
 
 " Tell me, then, why does he take this interest in my 
 Miriam ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, I'll be bound she has made up some fine story 
 to him about her love of study. Mr. Gore's great for 
 education and philanthropy. That's how she caught 
 him." 
 
 But Mrs. Sadler had reserved her best news to the 
 end. She now produced it. 
 
 " Miss Gore, his sister, is at the Manor just now, I 
 understand ? " 
 
 95
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Yes, Miss Delia ; what about her ? " 
 
 " Give me time, Susan. Well, she came to call at 
 our house yesterday afternoon, and before she left 
 she had it all arranged that Miriam is to visit her in 
 London." 
 
 The last clause of this sentence was whispered, and 
 Mrs. Sadler cast a frightened glance round as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Aunt Pillar made short work with this story. 
 
 " I don't believe it," she said ; " and that's flat." 
 
 " Well, my dear, you may believe it or not, as you 
 like, but my ears heard it, and my tongue's telling 
 what I heard," retorted Mrs. Sadler, a little nettled 
 by her sister's incredulity. 
 
 " Well, I never did ! Miriam to visit with the Gores 
 in London ! Are you sure, Priscilla, that you made 
 no mistake ? " 
 
 " None whatever. They seemed to have it all ar- 
 ranged ; but the question is, is she to be allowed to 
 gof" 
 
 Aunt Pillar leaned back in her chair and folded her 
 hands across her waist. She pushed out her under 
 lip in an expression of deep deliberation, and sat silent 
 for quite five minutes, till her sister cried out impa- 
 tiently : 
 
 " Can't you give me an answer, Susan ? " 
 
 " I'm just calculating back and forth," Aunt Pillar 
 replied. " This you've told me has altered my ideas 
 of the girl a good deal. You see, Priscilla, Mr. Gore's 
 no ordinary man, and if he thinks so highly of the 
 girl as to condescend to ask her to stay with them, 
 why, it's plain he must see more in her than we see. 
 
 96
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 It may be the making of her in some way. Mr. Gore 
 has influence, you see, in so many ways; but yet I 
 can't see Miriam visiting at that house ; why, the serv- 
 ants' suppers will be finer than the dinners she's used 
 to at home ! " 
 
 " Then, there's another thing," said Mrs. Sadler. 
 " I've heard Mr. Gore spoken of as a freethinker. I 
 fear at least he has very loose views on religion." 
 
 Aunt Pillar had not, however, the overreligiosity 
 of her sister ; in fact, she had more than once openly 
 expostulated with her on her overstrict notions. 
 
 " You'll never get that girl off your hands, bring- 
 ing her up so strict," she had said. So now she would 
 not hear a word of this new difficulty. 
 
 " No, no. Mr. Alan Gore won't hurt your daugh- 
 ter," she said. 
 
 " Then you think she should go? " 
 
 " I think so, Priscilla. I think so, on the whole. 
 Depend upon it, they have some scheme to help the 
 girl. But I must say of all the ideas Miriam to visit 
 with the Gores ! Well, well ! " 
 
 Had Mrs. Sadler had a scrap of motherly pride in 
 her nature, this openly expressed astonishment must 
 have roused it, but she had not. Miriam was the last 
 sort of daughter she would have chosen to possess; 
 their tastes were too radically different to meet at any 
 point; she viewed her with more bewilderment than 
 affection. 
 
 As Mrs. Sadler, a little later, rose to go, Aunt Pillar 
 asked her to wait a minute. She went over to a writ- 
 ing table which stood in the window, and unlocking 
 a drawer, took from it two five-pound notes. 
 
 97
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Here, Priscilla," she said. " Put this in your purse, 
 and give it to Miriam from me. Tell her I refused 
 her money to spend on study; but this is different. 
 Tell her to get a new dress and hat. A black cash- 
 mere with some beads would be quiet and dressy both. 
 She'll need it. See, put these in your purse." 
 
 " I'm sure you're very kind, Susan. Miriam won't 
 know what to say," the mother murmured, as she 
 squeezed the notes into her purse. " I must be off 
 now, and thank you for your advice and for this." 
 
 Aunt Pillar saw her sister to the door, and then re- 
 turned to the parlor, there to marvel afresh over the 
 visit that her niece was to pay to the Gores.
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 MIRIAM stood looking round her bedroom in the 
 Gores' London house. Her yellow tin trunk had been 
 brought upstairs, and lay forlornly on the luggage 
 stand, waiting to be unpacked. She felt very insig- 
 nificant in the large room ; a feeling of shy sadness 
 came over her; had she come here to stay with these 
 great, clever people, only to be mortified, and find out 
 her own worthlessness ? 
 
 Instead of unpacking the yellow trunk, she sat down 
 and covered her face with her hands. There she sat, 
 reviewing the position in which she found herself. 
 Here she was, among people whose world was so dif- 
 ferent from her own, that she sometimes scarcely knew 
 what they were talking about. The size of the house 
 bewildered her, the servants frightened her ; and above 
 all, oh, how she longed to please her entertainers, to 
 show them they had not been mistaken in her ! What 
 was the best way to face the situation, she wondered? 
 Miriam took from her pocket that little blank book we 
 have known her to write in before, and, after an inter- 
 val of deep thought, wrote down the following reso- 
 lutions : 
 
 I. To affect nothing: 
 
 a. No knowledge of things I know nothing about, how- 
 ever ignorant I may appear; let me rather confess 
 ignorance than pretend to knowledge I have not got. 
 
 99
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 b. Of manners or customs of society that I am ignorant of. 
 
 c. Of people I know nothing of. 
 
 II. I resolve to be ashamed of neither 
 
 a. My class; 
 
 b. My poverty; 
 
 c. My opinions; nor 
 
 d. My clothes. 
 
 I think if I can keep these resolutions, sensible people need 
 not be ashamed of me. 
 
 This extraordinary document she signed and dated. 
 
 Then she resolutely took out her keys and began to 
 unpack the yellow trunk. Clothes always look their 
 worst after a journey ; and though Miriam had no 
 quick eye for such details, the crushed, common-look- 
 ing garments seemed worse to her than ever before. 
 
 She had one shabby hairbrush to lay upon the 
 wide, beautiful toilet table; a thick cotton nightdress 
 trimmed with Swiss embroidery to put out on the mag- 
 nificent bed ; a pink cotton dressing gown to hang be- 
 side it. 
 
 When all these paltry belongings had been disposed 
 about the room, she looked round it and smiled and 
 shook her head ; they were not suited to such a place. 
 Then the question of what to wear that evening came 
 up to be considered. Miriam had no evening dress, 
 only a high black gown of thin woolen stuff, or a 
 prune-colored merino which had been a good deal 
 worn. She found herself regretting the foolish pride 
 which had made her refuse Emmie Pillar's kindly 
 meant offer of her one evening gown (" the one Dr. 
 Pratt had admired at the Smiths' little dance"). It 
 
 100
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 would have been much better than either of the two 
 dresses she had to choose between now. 
 
 Finally, she put on the black stuff dress and went 
 down in it; no one could have called her well-dressed 
 as she came into the drawing-room. Delia Gore had 
 not come down yet, but Mr. Gore was standing beside 
 the window reading a newspaper. He threw it down 
 and came to meet Miriam as she advanced rather 
 timidly into the room. Yes, it was the same man she 
 had met in Aunt Pillar's room, the same man she had 
 spoken to in the Hindcup meadows and here she was 
 in his house as his guest. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you ; I hope you had a com- 
 fortable journey from Hindcup ? " he said. Miriam 
 detected no least shade of class distinction in the way 
 he spoke to her. 
 
 " I have come to be one of their world for a little," 
 she thought, " and I am going to enjoy it, and forget 
 these hateful feelings." 
 
 " I feel so strange in this large house," she said. " I 
 have lived always in such a small one that the rooms 
 seem too big for me sort of empty. I wish to draw 
 the furniture nearer together." 
 
 " Oh, but you will forget that in about an hour,'' 
 said Gore, laughing. Delia came in then, and they 
 went down to dinner. Miriam wondered again if she 
 could keep her resolutions. At every turn she was 
 tempted to break them. She hoped the servants 
 those magnificent creatures did not think her a very 
 strange visitor. 
 
 " How contemptible of me to think such things," she 
 thought. " Of course the servants must know quite 
 
 101
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 well the sort of person I am ; everyone looks what they 
 are, pretty nearly ; if I wish to be thought better, I must 
 become better; these things must be from inside." 
 While she went on thinking these thoughts, she spoke 
 of all manner of other things. 
 
 " I have asked Mr. and Mrs. Courteis to dinner to- 
 morrow," Delia said. " Alan tells me he is a friend 
 of yours." 
 
 It pleased the girl to think that she had even this 
 slender link of connection with her entertainers, that 
 it should be possible for them to ask any acquaintance 
 of hers to dinner. 
 
 " I have never seen Mrs. Courteis ; what is she 
 like ? " Miriam asked. 
 
 " Oh, exactly the sort of wife you would have 
 thought Courteis would have avoided ! " Alan Gore 
 said, laughing. " Long ago she may have been at- 
 tractive, but she certainly isn't so now. They enter- 
 tain a great deal in a curious, haphazard kind of way ; 
 all the distinguished people that come to London pass 
 through their house at one time or another, and Mrs. 
 Courteis always amuses me by her mild toleration of 
 them all. She is so accustomed to celebrities, she 
 doesn't exert herself in the least for them just, as I 
 say, tolerates them ! " 
 
 " We shall go there one evening, I expect," said 
 Delia. 
 
 " Well, then, you must do your best to be stupid, 
 Miss Sadler," said Alan Gore, " just for the sake of 
 poor Mrs. Courteis ; she is quite as bored by clever peo- 
 ple as most of us are by the opposite." 
 
 " What else shall we do ? " Miriam asked timidly, 
 
 102
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 after a little. " Remember, everything in your life 
 is new to me." 
 
 " I shall take you to see Lallah Rhys. Don't you 
 think, Alan, I should take her to see Lallah ? " 
 
 " Do you fancy that sort of person ? " Alan asked, 
 and laughed again. " She's more than charming, of 
 course, but are you interested in her vocation ? " 
 
 " I don't know what it is," said Miriam, though it 
 cost her a good deal to say in words. 
 
 " She acts ; she is a very well-known actress just 
 now," said Delia, without betraying any surprise at 
 such strange ignorance. 
 
 " I should like to see her very much ; it is always 
 interesting to see new kinds of people," said Miriam. 
 
 " We shall go and see her act some night," said 
 Delia. " And there's Herman, too ; shall we go and 
 hear Herman ? Divine young man ! " Again poor 
 Miriam had to confess ignorance. 
 
 " Oh, he plays plays the violin ; a very wonderful 
 creature. He is a friend of the Courteises, I believe ; 
 they know him among their other celebrities." 
 
 " I know nothing about music," said Miriam, and 
 then, with a sudden impulse, she added : " All these 
 things that you know about are sealed to me; isn't it 
 dreadful ? Can I ever make up for my ignorance ? " 
 
 The servants had left the room, and the lights had 
 been put down; it seemed easier to speak naturally 
 now. 
 
 " I tell you it's a positive advantage," Alan Gore 
 said; "you come to these things with such a fresh 
 mind." 
 
 " It is an advantage I would be willing to forego," 
 103
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 said Miriam bitterly. " You can't imagine what it 
 feels like not to know what other people are talking 
 about; things that are so ordinary to them, the sort 
 of common coin of the world. Now what can I talk 
 about with you and Miss Gore? You do not know 
 any of my friends, and I know none of yours. If I 
 could talk about plays and music, and actors and com- 
 posers and musicians as ordinary women of the world 
 seem able to do, that would put everything right ; but 
 I cannot. It's like being left with no small change 
 in your purse. The sovereigns may be more valuable, 
 perhaps, but the shillings and sixpences are far more 
 useful ! " 
 
 Miriam's intensity of feeling had betrayed her into 
 this long speech, and as she became aware how long 
 it had been, she blushed and felt ashamed. Delia and 
 Alan Gore were looking at her with grave interest, 
 and when she stopped speaking, Alan made answer : 
 
 " I must carry on your own metaphor, Miss Sadler, 
 and tell you to remember that you can always get six- 
 pence for a sovereign, but I don't know any process by 
 which you can get a sovereign for sixpence ! So the 
 one is a safer capital to start with than the other." 
 Delia, with a woman's keen perceptions, agreed bluntly 
 with Miriam. 
 
 " I understand quite," she said. " But, you know, 
 it's all a sort of trick ; you can learn it just as you might 
 learn French or German a great deal of it." But 
 Miriam would not lay the flattering unction to her 
 soul. She knew better. 
 
 When she went up to bed that night, it was certainly 
 not to sleep. Fragments of conversation haunted her 
 
 104
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 memory, and every moment new and interesting chan- 
 nels of thought opened out for her. In the compara- 
 tive quiet that falls between two and four in a London 
 night, Miriam heard a far-off clock strike. To her 
 country imagination it tolled out an unholy hour at 
 which to be awake. 
 
 " I shall never get to sleep to-night," she thought, 
 tossing on her soft pillows. The church clock at Hind- 
 cup would be striking the same hour at that moment. 
 She seemed to hear its deep, tranquil note booming 
 across the quiet country. 
 
 " I almost wish I was at home again," she thought. 
 " Why did I come ? I have so many wonderful, ex- 
 citing things to do and see, and oh, how tired I am! 
 How extraordinary to live a life like this ; life must 
 be more valuable lived this way; they are not all of 
 the same value the life of Mr. Hobbes and the life 
 of Mr. Gore, for instance in the sight of God ? Yes, 
 even in His sight I wonder four o'clock there's 
 the daylight." 
 
 She turned once on her pillow and slept at last. 
 
 105
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE visit to Lallah Rhys was, as you will hear, a 
 turning point in Miriam's life; she was not in when 
 Delia and Miriam arrived, but had left a message that 
 they were to wait for her. Delia sat down on a sofa 
 and took up a magazine; but Miriam walked to the 
 end of the room and stood there, taking in all its ar- 
 rangements. She was still standing looking round 
 her when the door opened and Lallah Rhys came in. 
 With something of a stage manner, she made her en- 
 trance ; a huge bouquet of lilies and roses in one hand, 
 the other held out in welcome to Delia Gore. Lallah 
 was at that time at the very zenith of her fame and 
 beauty, her cup filled to the brim with the wine of life. 
 Miriam held her breath to watch her cross the room. 
 She tossed her bouquet down on a chair, and came 
 toward the girl, holding out both hands to her with a 
 beautiful, easy gesture of welcome. 
 
 " And this is the young woman who is going to set 
 the Thames on fire ! " she said. All at once, standing 
 beside this radiant creature who held her hands and 
 looked at her out of brilliant, wonderful eyes, Miriam 
 understood her own failure as a woman ; she was 
 abashed. 
 
 " Come and sit down," Lallah said, drawing Miriam 
 forward. She gave her visitors a seat one on each 
 side of her on the sofa, and, still holding Miriam's 
 hand, continued a steam of talk all the time. 
 
 106
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Yes, she had been opening a Bazaai- for Cripple 
 Children, that was where the bouquet came from; she 
 had so many flowers she didn't know what to do with 
 them; she wished people would get tired of giving 
 bouquets to her; and yet, it was sweet of them, too, 
 wasn't it?" As she spoke, Lallah would turn from 
 one of her visitors to the other, with sudden, exquisite 
 smiles and gestures that illuminated all she said. 
 
 Miriam's large somber eyes followed every move- 
 ment of this lovely creature ; she drank in every word 
 she uttered. Then gravely, in the first pause that fell, 
 she asked her : 
 
 " Have you a happy life ? Does it satisfy you ? " 
 
 Lallah flung herself back against the sofa cushions 
 with a little cry of amusement. 
 
 "Do I find life satisfying? Why not, black eyes? 
 Am I happy? Yes, yes, yes. I am young, and, they 
 say, beautiful and successful. What more would mor- 
 tal want ? " 
 
 " It must be strange to be so beautiful," said Mir- 
 iam. " Do you think a great deal about it ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am accustomed " Lallah began, and then, 
 with a sudden turning of the tables she inquired: 
 " And what are your pleasures ? " 
 
 Miriam did not answer this question immediately. 
 Then she said : " I have great pleasure in thought, and 
 in looking at what is beautiful, but I do not suppose 
 I have ever had what you call ' pleasure.' " 
 
 " You take life too seriously, my friend," Lallah 
 assured her; "think too much and enjoy too little. 
 Come into my room and see my new garments, which 
 are beautiful to behold ! "
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 She sprang up as if to dismiss such seriousness, 
 and led them into a room which opened off the one 
 they were in. There Miriam was treated to a display 
 of clothing such as her wildest dreams could not have 
 imagined. Lallah lay back in a chair, calling to her 
 maid to bring out the dresses one by one as they were 
 wanted. Sometimes she would clap her hands like a 
 child, in delight at the beauty of the dresses; some- 
 times she would pause and point out a defect in them. 
 Delia was scarcely less ecstatic than the owner of the 
 garments, but Miriam sat a silent witness of the dis- 
 play. Then suddenly Lallah jumped up and began to 
 tear off her hat, and call distractedly to her maid : 
 
 " Effie, Effie ! I shall be late ! my blue dress, quick ! 
 Good-by, dear Delia. Good-by, Sombre One; come 
 and see me act. I have some new stage gowns that 
 would enchant you ! " She began to whirl about the 
 room, pulling out drawers and tumbling their contents, 
 talking, laughing, and directing her maid all at once. 
 Miriam and Delia hurried away, laughing also, and 
 found their way downstairs. 
 
 " Well," Delia asked, as they gained the street, 
 " what are your impressions ? " 
 
 " I used to think that it was a hard fate to be a 
 woman," Miriam answered ; " but don't you think that 
 a woman like that has probably had more in her life, 
 take it all in all, than any man? more joy, more 
 gratification ? " 
 
 " Yes, gratification is the word ; she has certainly 
 supped full on that," Delia admitted. 
 
 " I think I shall always thank you for letting me 
 observe her," said Miriam. This glimpse of all that 
 
 108
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 a woman might be had indeed been a revelation to 
 her ; she pondered over it so long and deeply that Delia 
 had to speak to her several times before she answered, 
 and all that afternoon she was silent and preoccupied. 
 At last when they were alone in the drawing-room she 
 voiced her thoughts. 
 
 " Miss Gore/' she said, " will you help me about 
 something? I have been thinking " 
 
 " I should say you had ! " laughed Delia. 
 
 " I have been thinking. I see that dress and ap- 
 pearance are of more importance than I used to think 
 they were. I had not realized it before. I thought 
 only foolish women like my cousins were interested 
 in it." 
 
 Delia burst into a peal of laughter. 
 
 " I know what has done this Lallah Rhys ! " 
 
 " Yes, exactly. I know I can never look pretty, be- 
 cause I am plain ; but I wish to forget my appearance, 
 and now I think about it because my clothes are all 
 wrong somehow. Will you help me to buy the right 
 kind?" 
 
 "Of course I will ; but they take such a horrible 
 amount of money." 
 
 " Aunt Pillar gave me ten pounds, and I have five 
 pounds of my own that I can spend; what do I need 
 most ? " 
 
 Delia was too honest to try to dissemble on this 
 point. 
 
 " Well, I think you do need a great deal," she said. 
 " You need a morning dress and an evening dress, and 
 a new hat, and new boots and shoes, and gloves, and 
 how are you to get all that for fifteen pounds ? " 
 8 109
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Miriam then began, with awful plainness of speech, 
 to discuss her own appearance. 
 
 " My present dresses are not those of a lady," she 
 said ; " but do you not think it is more me than the 
 clothes? If you were to put on my prune merino, 
 now, Miss Gore, I believe you would look beautiful 
 in it" 
 
 " No, I would not," said Delia bluntly. " No one 
 could look beautiful in a prune merino. I would look 
 much worse than you do; you wear it with a kind of 
 simplicity and unconsciousness that robs it of half its 
 terrors." 
 
 " I shall never be unconscious of it again," said 
 poor Miriam. Then, after a moment's pause : " Every- 
 thing I have is made too tightly, I see." 
 
 " Yes, that is bad making." 
 
 " And the black jacket I wear with my prune dress 
 is all wrong, somehow will you tell me why? Black 
 is very quiet, surely, and the jacket is made plainly, 
 then why does it look wrong? I think if I could find 
 a reason why some clothes look better than others it 
 would help me ; but it seems so arbitrary." 
 
 She could not have appealed to anyone better fitted 
 to advise her than Delia Gore, who was always well- 
 dressed though she did not follow fashion blindly, as 
 some women do. She sat down to the discussion of 
 the problem in earnest, trying to find some reasonable 
 basis for why one color or style looked better than 
 another. Her listener was intensely absorbed in it all. 
 There was nothing very original in the arguments 
 Delia brought forward, but Miriam had never heard 
 any of them before. 
 
 no
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Suitability/' she said musingly. " Well, now, why 
 are my clothes unsuitable just now? " 
 
 " Well, this is summer, and you are wearing thick, 
 stuffy materials that won't wash, and never look fresh ; 
 therefore they are unsuitable for the season." 
 
 " Then why does my black cloth gown look so bad 
 in the evening? Is it not suitable?" 
 
 " I think it looks bad because one feels you should 
 be wearing something cooler in the evening, when the 
 rooms are hot; something not made tight up to your 
 chin, and down to your wrists ! " 
 
 " I see ; and then why would it be unsuitable for me 
 to wear an evening dress at home ? " 
 
 Delia hesitated and thought for a minute. 
 
 " Perhaps you might be doing some sort of work 
 at home, clearing up supper, or something wouldn't 
 that seem to need another sort of dress ? " 
 
 Yes, Miriam admitted ; she began to see a little day- 
 light through things, she thought; but minor points 
 perplexed her. 
 
 " Why, Miss Gore, why are my shoes wrong? Why 
 should toe-caps stitched in white, quite neat, firm toe- 
 caps, make my shoes look so different from yours ? " 
 
 But Delia broke down here; she could not produce 
 any ethical reason why toe-caps stitched with white 
 should be wrong. 
 
 " You must just sometimes come back to the point 
 of admitting that things are wrong, though you can't 
 possibly say why," she said. They entered then upon 
 less abstract considerations, coming down to the ques- 
 tion of how much could be got for fifteen pounds. 
 Delia was fully more excited than Miriam ; she got a 
 
 in
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 sheet of paper and began to make calculations of an 
 abstruse nature. 
 
 " It must be moderately cheap stuff well made," 
 she announced at last. " I shall take you to my dress- 
 maker Helene ; you won't mind if I explain a little 
 to her, will you? She is quite an understanding per- 
 son. She will say she can't make the clothes for the 
 money, but I shall make her do it." 
 
 " I shall mind very much," said Miriam ; " but it 
 must be done, I suppose." 
 
 It was a terrible thought to the poor girl, this of 
 facing a fashionable dressmaker and having herself 
 " explained " about. She determined, however, that she 
 would go through with it, no matter how painful it 
 might be. 
 
 " / won't stop till I look like other women on the 
 outside," she said to herself, but the resolution cost 
 her dear. 
 
 " You see, Miss Gore," she explained, " I used to 
 think that nothing mattered except the things of the 
 mind; now I see that everything matters, the whole 
 includes the part. I must begin with outside things, 
 after all." 
 
 But Delia would not let her say this. 
 
 " You don't do yourself justice when you say you 
 must begin from the outside; it is because you have 
 got the things of your mind right, that you now want 
 the others adjusted, and they will come quite easily, 
 I'm sure. You have such a nice sense of proportion 
 and suitability." 
 
 Even with all the encouragement Delia could give, 
 Miriam found it very painful to go to Helene's and 
 
 112
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 confess that she wanted to be all put to rights. Delia 
 was very practical; she went into the subject of ex- 
 pense down to the uttermost farthing, stating to the 
 dressmaker exactly how much her friend could af- 
 ford to pay. Then the usual protestations ensued : it 
 was impossible to do it at that price ; the dresses could 
 not be satisfactory unless lined throughout with the 
 richest silk; madame could not expect such a sacri- 
 fice to be made. But Delia was inflexible. It was 
 quite possible to do them, and to do them well, and 
 without silk linings, and there would be no sacrifice 
 in the matter. 
 
 So the argument came and went till at last Helene 
 capitulated, and sent for the fitter. 
 
 O what a moment that was for Miriam when she 
 stood under the coldly critical eye of Helene and the 
 fitter ! Her poor, common garments seemed to shrivel 
 up under their appraising survey. Then Helene 
 stepped forward and laid her hands firmly on Miriam's 
 waist, feeling its line. 
 
 " Madame ! " she exclaimed, turning to Delia ; 
 " madame ! I cannot, no, I cannot ; it is as much as 
 my reputation is worth to try to turn out a satisfac- 
 tory costume over a corset like that. Just stop a 
 moment, Miss Jenner " (to the fitter) " we must go 
 into the subject before we go any further ! " 
 
 Such radical reforms had not suggested themselves 
 to Miriam, though Delia had seen the difficulty loom- 
 ing ahead she looked despairingly at her friend. 
 " I must have new ones," she whispered. Delia 
 nodded. 
 
 " You supply corsets, Helene," she said, in her calm 
 
 "3
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 voice. " Please send for some and fit the lady before 
 we go further." 
 
 Only a determination not to give in could have 
 sustained Miriam through the ordeal that followed, 
 when her simple undergarments were passed in review. 
 
 " What bodice could lie over that, madame ? " Hel- 
 ene inquired contemptuously; then, thinking she had 
 gone too far in her contempt of Miss Gore's friend, she 
 added : " And the young lady has good lines in her 
 figure, too, if it had been rightly fitted." 
 
 " Very good," said Delia. But this was small con- 
 solation to the subject of these criticisms, who felt 
 as if she were being skinned instead of undressed, and 
 would have taken the first corset offered to her, with 
 scarcely a thought of how it fitted. Delia, however, 
 was not in a hurry. She sat back in her chair, smiling, 
 and looking as if it all was the greatest fun, com- 
 mending and disparaging, insisting that the fitting 
 was to be perfect. 
 
 "There, now, that is just right; we shall have that 
 pair, Helene. Now, Miss Jenner, take the measures, 
 please," she said. Miriam drew a tremendous sigh 
 of relief when at last she was helped into her own gar- 
 ments again, and they left the shop. Her cheeks were 
 burning, tears were not far from her eyes. 
 
 " O Miss Gore, that was terrible ! " she exclaimed. 
 But the words gave scant expression to all she felt. 
 Delia looked at her in surprise. 
 
 " Shop people have such false standards about every- 
 thing," she said. " I never know why we mind them ; 
 they only care whether our clothes have cost a certain 
 amount, or whether we walk or come in a carriage to 
 
 114
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 the door. Why should we mind the opinion of people 
 like that? I've often thought of inaugurating a So- 
 ciety for the Elevation of the Ideals of Shopwomen ; 
 don't you think it is needed ? " So she tried to laugh 
 away her friend's mortification. But Miriam shook 
 her head ; this afternoon's work had been no laughing 
 matter to her.
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 MR. and Mrs. Courteis were coming to dinner, and 
 Miriam had no evening dress, for, of course, her new 
 garments could not be made in a day. This question 
 of clothes had suddenly assumed a pitiful importance 
 in her eyes; she would have bartered all her intellec- 
 tual powers, willingly, for that prosaic article, a hand- 
 some evening dress ! Standing before the mirror in 
 her room, she gazed at herself with feelings of despair. 
 She tried the effect of turning down the collar of her 
 dress to show her throat, and decided that this was 
 " wrong." Then she took out a locket a present 
 from her mother on her twentieth birthday and tried 
 the effect of putting it on. The locket was large, 
 coarsely gilded, and had a star of worthless pearls in 
 the center it only made matters worse. Miriam 
 replaced the locket in its box, resolutely fastened up 
 the collar of her black gown, and turned away from 
 the glass, with tears in her eyes. " I must, I shall con- 
 quer these outside things," she thought ; " but, oh, 
 they do hurt ! " 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Courteis had arrived when she went 
 downstairs. They were standing talking with Alan 
 Gore. Delia, as usual, was late. 
 
 As she came across the room to where they stood, 
 Miriam suffered a moment of acute misery. Tortured 
 by the sudden knowledge of her unsuitable clothes, 
 she would gladly have fled from the room instead of 
 
 116
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 coming forward to speak to these people. She glanced 
 at Alan Gore, and something in his face seemed to 
 reassure her. He understood, she felt sure, all the 
 misery she was enduring. 
 
 She pulled herself together with a great effort, de- 
 termined not to show what she suffered. 
 
 " I don't think that you and Mrs. Courteis have 
 met ? " Gore said ; and Miriam found courage to look 
 at Mrs. Courteis. The sight reassured her. This was 
 no vision of fashion, only an elderly woman, carelessly 
 dressed in a sloppy, black tea gown (a garment Miriam 
 had never seen before, and did not admire). Her hair 
 was very untidy, as if she had not taken the trouble to 
 brush it before coming out, and she gave Miriam a 
 lackluster stare that certainly did not express any 
 surprise at her dress. 
 
 " I'm glad to meet you, Miss Sadler," she said in 
 an apathetic voice. " Mr. Courteis has told me about 
 you ; you know Aunt Geraldine, I think, but I forget 
 what you write." 
 
 Miriam breathed more freely; she had nothing to 
 fear from the criticism of this woman, who looked 
 as if a costume of paint and feathers would scarcely 
 have surprised her out of her apathy. 
 
 But the feeling of relief was short-lived. For as 
 as they sat down to dinner, Courteis began to speak 
 about a public question which had, it appeared, incrim- 
 inated several persons known to him and to the Gores, 
 but, of course, unknown to Miriam. The kindest 
 hosts will not hold back from such a topic because one 
 of their guests cannot join in the conversation. Mir- 
 iam must sit silent. They all seemed to forget her 
 
 117
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 for a time ; even Mrs. Courteis was roused to interest, 
 and had plenty to say on the subject. " If I could 
 even put in one intelligent word," she thought; but 
 the intelligent word was not there to say. Suddenly 
 Gore paused in the heat of the discussion and turned 
 toward her. 
 
 " I'm afraid all this is not very interesting to you? " 
 he said apologetically. 
 
 She wondered for a moment if she would pretend 
 that it was. Then she remembered her resolutions 
 against pretense of any kind. 
 
 " No," she answered. " I really don't know what 
 you are talking about." 
 
 Delia and Courteis laughed, and Mrs. Courteis 
 turned a languid eye on her; she had not enough 
 humor to laugh at anything. As for Miriam, she 
 more nearly cried at that moment. 
 
 " How tiresome it must be for them to feel they 
 must talk about the few things I understand," she 
 thought. " And my subjects are so terribly limited. 
 I think if they begin to talk kindly about Hindcup, I 
 shall begin to cry." But no one was tactless enough 
 to do that. 
 
 " Can you tell me if Herman is playing anywhere 
 this week, Mr. Courteis ? " Delia asked. " We want 
 to go to hear him." 
 
 " Herman ? No, he isn't playing again in London ; 
 he's leaving on Saturday." 
 
 " Oh, what a pity ! Miss Sadler has never heard 
 him play." 
 
 " The most individual artist I know," Courteis pro- 
 nounced (he was fond of pronouncing on things and 
 
 118
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 people); "wonderfully individual; almost too much 
 so for my theories of Art. But that is why people love 
 him as they do." 
 
 " Do you think Art ought to be individual ? " Mir- 
 iam ventured to say. 
 
 " There's a difference between ' individual ' and 
 ' personal/ " Courteis began, in his laying-down-the- 
 law manner. " It's personality that I don't admit ; a 
 great snare with women, Miss Sadler ; remember that ; 
 they can't keep themselves out of what they try to do. 
 That ' Treatise on Democracy,' now, was all mixed 
 up with personal feeling, wasn't it ? " He leaned 
 across the table, looking hard at her as he spoke. 
 
 " Now, why did Democracy happen to interest you 
 so much ? " he asked, forgetting surely, as he asked 
 the question, all that he knew about the girl, and her 
 circumstances. 
 
 Miriam was helping herself to something at that 
 moment, and paused, the spoon lifted in her hand, 
 while she replied steadily : 
 
 " Because I belong to the so-called lower classes, Mr. 
 Courteis, and their struggles after something happier 
 and better interest me more than anything else just 
 now." 
 
 The man who was holding the dish toward Miriam 
 in the usual automatic way, looked down at her sud- 
 denly with interest and surprise. He told the story 
 afterwards to the other servants, and they agreed that 
 the new visitor was astonishingly honest, and a good 
 deal to be respected for it. Courteis, on his part, was 
 rather annoyed by his own want of tact in asking such 
 a question. Delia and Alan Gore only were unmoved. 
 
 119
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Now I call this very interesting," said Gore. " And 
 I must entirely and flatly disagree with you, Courteis, 
 and agree with Miss Sadler. It's the personal note 
 you condemn in the ' Treatise on Democracy ' that 
 makes the new, valuable quality in it. We want ex- 
 actly this people from each class to write about it 
 from the inside they know." 
 
 " You told me yourself, the first day you met me, 
 Mr. Courteis," said Miriam, " that I must write about 
 what I knew, and about nothing else." A little smile 
 dawned round the corners of her mouth ; she had for- 
 gotten her miseries of a short time ago. 
 
 " And can't you do that without being personal ? " 
 Courteis asked. He leaned forward, pushing his des- 
 sert plate and glasses to one side, as if they intercepted 
 his view. " Take any instance take me, if you like 
 I know a vast deal about the editing life. I could sit 
 down and write all about it; but need I make it per- 
 sonal because I know it all? You must generalize 
 personal experience before you get valuable results ; do 
 keep that in mind. Experience is only the raw mate- 
 rial that you have to manufacture into the right stuff. 
 As well say a cocoon is worth the same as a yard of 
 silk." 
 
 So the argument went and came. Miriam was her- 
 self again, happy and interested. After their guests 
 had gone, she came up to where Delia and Alan Gore 
 stood, and told them how much she had enjoyed the 
 evening : " Though I began it more miserably than 
 I can ever say " Her voice faltered, and she added : 
 " It was my dress, you know." 
 
 They both laughed, just a little, though, for the sin- 
 
 I2O
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 cerity of pain in her voice forbade too much merriment 
 on their part. 
 
 " Wait till the new gowns arrive," said Delia, " and 
 it will be worth all you have suffered. We are to dine 
 with the Courteises on Friday. I hope they will have 
 come by that time." 
 
 121
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 ON Friday the new gowns came, and Delia insisted 
 that Miriam's hair should be more becomingly ar- 
 ranged before they were tried on; but at this sug- 
 gestion she blushed hotly. 
 
 " O Miss Gore, I couldn't have your maid do my 
 hair ; she wouldn't like it ; she must know that I am not 
 a person who is accustomed to have other people wait 
 upon me," she cried. Delia considered for a moment ; 
 she had not thought of this difficulty. Then she sud- 
 denly bent down and kissed the girl's hot cheek. 
 
 " My dear, will you let me do it for you ? " she said 
 gently ; " and don't you think you might stop calling 
 me Miss Gore now?" 
 
 Miriam returned the kiss with lips that trembled. 
 " Yes," she said. " Of course I don't mind letting you 
 do it, if you will be so very kind Delia." 
 
 So her hair was well done for the first time in her 
 life, and then the new gowns were tried on. She 
 beheld the effect of the morning gown in silence ; with- 
 out a word she divested herself of it and donned the 
 evening dress ; but to Delia's surprise, as she led Mir- 
 iam toward the mirror, she saw that her eyes were full 
 of tears. 
 
 " Oh, do you not like them ? Have I made you 
 spend your money for things you don't admire ? " 
 Delia exclaimed in dismay, for Miriam had turned 
 
 122
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 away from the mirror, and, regardless of the fine new 
 dress, flung herself into the nearest chair and sobbed. 
 Delia knelt down beside her and took her hand in great 
 distress. 
 
 " It's wrong it's wrong and cruel that knowing 
 should make all the difference ! " Miriam sobbed out 
 at last. " Why can't we all know, and look right, and 
 feel happy ? " 
 
 " Oh, that would be quite dull," said Delia lamely. 
 " It is far more interesting to discover about things, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " No, it is not," said Miriam almost roughly. She 
 rose and gave herself a sort of shake, dried her eyes, 
 and walked across to the mirror again. 
 
 " I look altogether different," she said. " And if 
 I had only known before what to buy, and how to put 
 it on, I might have been spared so much ! " 
 
 It was undeniable, and recognizing this Delia went 
 away and left her alone to get more acquainted with 
 her new appearance. 
 
 Miriam stood gazing at her changed self for a long 
 time, with a mixture of pain and pleasure; she was 
 so changed! 
 
 " I don't think I mind Mr. Gore noticing, he is so 
 above everything, somehow," she thought. " But the 
 servants will notice. Oh, how I hate that they should 
 know that this is my first evening dress ! " 
 
 Delia came in again at that moment carrying an 
 opera cloak, which she insisted that Miriam must 
 put on. It was quite as painful to Delia to offer this 
 as for Miriam to accept it ; but it was obvious that she 
 could not assume her black cloth jacket over the new 
 
 123
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 dress, so she put on the borrowed cloak with as good 
 a grace as might be, and they went downstairs to- 
 gether. Alan Gore was waiting for them in the hall ; 
 Miriam wondered if he noticed the change in her ap- 
 pearance, and felt certain that if he did not the butler 
 did which was undoubtedly true. She gathered up 
 her voluminous new skirts with an unpracticed grip, 
 and scurried to the carriage. 
 
 " Now we must all be as intelligent as possible," 
 said Alan Gore, as the carriage drove off. " You es- 
 pecially, Miss Sadler, must be on your mettle ; you're 
 on approval for The Advance Guard, remember." 
 
 He leaned back in the carriage and looked at her 
 with an amused expression, which Miriam at once 
 construed into surprise at her changed appearance. 
 He was, after all, as she grudgingly admitted to her- 
 self at that moment, just a young man, like any other ; 
 not too kind to notice her embarrassment, and be a 
 little amused at it. Till now, she had put Alan Gore 
 so apart from the rest of the world in her admiring 
 thoughts that she had never considered him in this 
 light at all. It quite startled her to do so. 
 
 " He will love some woman and marry her," she 
 thought. " What would it be like to be honored by 
 the love of a man like him? Yet, doubtless, the world 
 contained even then the woman who was destined for 
 this honor." 
 
 " A penny for your thoughts ! " said Delia, and Mir- 
 iam told a direct lie. 
 
 " I am keeping all my thoughts for Mr. Courteis ; 
 I have none to spare," she answered. 
 
 " I always think Courteis has such an interesting 
 124
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 house," said Gore ; " as if all manner of stories looked 
 out of the windows." 
 
 " All the remarkable people who have gone in and 
 out of it have left a spiritual presence behind them," 
 said Delia, laughing. " See, here we are rather 
 grubby 7 call it, with these small windows ! " 
 
 As Miriam got out and went up the steps, she 
 turned quickly and nodded to Alan Gore : 
 
 " I see, I see just what you mean," she said. 
 " Things have happened here ; I should expect things 
 to happen here again." 
 
 " You see, Delia, you alone have no imagination. 
 Miss Sadler and I know all about this house ! " said 
 Alan. They were shown into the drawing-room, which 
 was dark, and shabbily furnished. The old Turkey 
 carpet was worn almost threadbare ; but the walls were 
 lined with bookcases, and this made the room home- 
 like. Mrs. Courteis gave them a listless greeting. 
 
 " I'll give you a seat opposite my new picture," 
 Courteis said to Miriam. " Tell me what you think 
 of it." 
 
 She looked in the direction he indicated, then sud- 
 denly rose, half-startled, resting her hand on the arm 
 of her chair. 
 
 " Oh, who is it, Mr. Courteis ? " she exclaimed. " I 
 think I wish to get away from him." 
 
 "There! isn't that a compliment to the painter?" 
 said Courteis. " Why, that's Herman, of course. I 
 forgot you had never seen him. Well, there he is; 
 don't the eyes follow you about the room ? " 
 
 Yes, Miriam thought, they did. She actually edged 
 her chair round as if to avoid them, and then turned 
 9 125
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 back again to look. The picture represented a very 
 young man with a sweet, boyish mouth and terrible 
 eyes. As she looked at it, Miriam instinctively drew 
 back and pressed her fingers against her own eyes, as 
 if she had seen something too brilliant for them. 
 
 " Very good ; a great deal of chic about it, isn't 
 there ? " said Courteis to Alan Gore. " He sent it to 
 me last week ; it's the work of that new French painter, 
 Larame ; excellent, I call it." 
 
 " Why does he look like that ? " Miriam asked. 
 
 " Because he is Herman, and there is none other 
 beside him ; that's all the reason I can give you for his 
 looks," said Courteis. " You'll find that people of very 
 exceptional talent generally look unlike the rest of the 
 world." 
 
 The random remark sent a pang to Miriam's heart ; 
 not that she considered herself a person of exceptional 
 talent, but she thought how unlike those other people 
 she must have looked before she got into the ordinary 
 garb of their world. Her self-consciousness came 
 back fourfold, and once again she writhed under the 
 sense of her own deficiencies. 
 
 When they went down to dinner, Miriam made the 
 usual mistake of all young sailors on the sea of life: 
 she tried to make interesting and clever talk, instead 
 of waiting and letting her remarks come of themselves. 
 Of course she did not talk well, and then, overcome 
 with mortification, she became entirely silent. 
 
 " I can't talk either their talk or my own," she told 
 herself in despair. However, it is very often only 
 after we have confessed defeat that we rise to conquer. 
 Miriam gave up the attempt to speak cleverly, and be- 
 
 126
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 fore she was aware of it, constraint had vanished and 
 she was talking her best. Hers, as you may imagine, 
 was not talk of the kind which is fatally easy among 
 people of a certain amount of cleverness and cultiva- 
 tion lightly speculative in tone, and helped out by 
 apposite quotations from modern writers. Of this sort 
 of talk Miriam was entirely innocent. All that she said 
 was the result of her own first-hand observation and 
 reflection; she had not read enough to quote other 
 people's ideas readily to her own destruction. Cour- 
 teis was delighted. Fresh " brain-stuff," as he called 
 it, was the material he was most anxious to secure 
 for his magazine, and he found it woefully difficult to 
 do so. But here was a young woman singularly un- 
 touched as yet by the paralyzing finger of culture; 
 would it be possible, he wondered, to get her to write 
 a good style without spoiling this freshness of out- 
 look? Uncultivated writing he could not endure for 
 a moment; but how was this delightful freshness to 
 be retained and cultivation added? It was a problem. 
 
 When dinner was over, Courteis led them into his 
 study, ostensibly to see some books. After these had 
 been admired he took up another large volume that 
 lay on his desk, and handed it to Miriam. 
 
 " See, Miss Sadler," he said. " I wish you to try 
 something. Look at this book pretty stiff reading, 
 and a lot of it. Will you take it home with you and 
 write out an abstract of it, chapter by chapter, using 
 the simplest, most lucid words you know to express 
 what you find in it? Then, when you have done this, 
 will you write an abstract of the whole, condensed as 
 much as possible, and send it to me ? Perhaps it won't 
 
 127
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 do. Perhaps it will. In any case, your work won't 
 be lost ; you will find you have gained an immense deal 
 by the time the thing is finished. Will you try ? " 
 
 " What would I gain ? " she asked. 
 
 " Lucidity, concentration of ideas, power of work. 
 You won't regret it, I tell you." 
 
 Miriam lifted the big book and turned over the 
 pages, reading a sentence here and there. Then she 
 laid it down. 
 
 " Yes, I will try. How long may I take? " 
 
 " Oh, I won't bind you down ; your own time, as 
 you are a beginner." 
 
 Gore had been standing beside them, listening with 
 frank interest to all they said. 
 
 " Now, then, there's a job for you ! " he said, turn- 
 ing to Miriam. 
 
 " Beautiful ! " she exclaimed suddenly, and both the 
 men laughed. 
 
 " She has the enthusiasm of the beginner for work," 
 said Courteis. " Wait until she has been in harness 
 a little longer." 
 
 The girl turned her large, somber eyes upon him 
 in surprise. 
 
 "Are you not fond of work, Mr. Courteis?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, love it and loathe it by turns. It's as neces- 
 sary as daily bread, of course; but have you never 
 loathed your food ? " 
 
 " Never, when I am well," she answered gravely. 
 
 " That's about it ; but one sometimes has a sick 
 mind, you know, or will know when you are older 
 and sadder." 
 
 128
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " It's a very grave symptom, indeed, when work 
 becomes loathsome," said Gore. 
 
 " Yes, the man who loathes his work had better go 
 down on his knees; he's past helping himself," said 
 Courteis. He turned away as he spoke, and began to 
 arrange the books he had taken down from the shelves. 
 Miriam carried the big volume back into the drawing- 
 room with her, to show it to Delia, nor would she be 
 parted from it, but insisted on taking it back that night 
 herself, instead of letting Courteis send it to her. In 
 the darkness, as they drove home, she held it against 
 her thumping heart, as tenderly as a mother holds her 
 first baby to the breast. 
 
 " At last, at last ; something tangible to try," she 
 said to herself. 
 
 Oh, effort, effort ! The staff, the hope of our race ! 
 
 129
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 BEFORE Miriam had been ten days in their house, 
 she had lost all feeling of constraint and shyness with 
 both Delia and Alan Gore. They had that sympathetic 
 quality which is the most charming characteristic that 
 man or woman can possess, and she found herself tell- 
 ing them all the petty details of her life. They seemed 
 never to tire of her judicious descriptions of pro- 
 vincial society. 
 
 " Don't ask me more about my stupid life in stupid 
 Hindcup," she would say, and then Delia would as- 
 sure her that it was infinitely more amusing than or- 
 dinary society life. Alan Gore was particularly fond 
 of her accounts of conversation in Hindcup. 
 
 " Tell me again of the young man who will never 
 speak of anything but hydropathics or photography," 
 he would say ; and, with a certain acid pleasure in the 
 task, she would reproduce some of Dr. Pratt's con- 
 versational tragedies. Miriam was not a vindictive 
 woman, but she had been laughed at and despised by 
 the natives of Hindcup for years, so it was perhaps 
 natural that she should take a little revenge now. 
 
 " Now, do Mrs. Hobbes on ' girls/ " Delia would 
 plead. " I'm so pleased with the term, I shall never 
 call my servants anything else now." 
 
 Miriam would comply with the request; but while 
 her audience swayed with laughter, her own heart felt 
 
 130
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 heavy enough. For, after all, this society she made 
 fun of was her society, her real sphere, and this happy 
 world where she now found herself, only an unreal, 
 delicious phase of existence. 
 
 " I'm not going to do it any more. I won't tell you 
 once again about Mrs. Hobbes and her ' girls,' or Dr. 
 Pratt on Photography, or Aunt Pillar on servants' 
 allowances. I shall be back among them all so soon," 
 she said at last. 
 
 " Scenes de la Vie de Province," said Gore, laugh- 
 ing. " You must begin a new Balzacian series." He 
 brought her a bundle of Balzac next day, and com- 
 mended them to her attention. " That's what one 
 mind made out of the provinces," he said. 
 
 It was a new and wonderful feeling to Miriam, this 
 of having people interested in her. For so long the 
 ugly duckling of her family, she had quite come to 
 think of herself as nothing else. Now her opinion was 
 treated with respect, and what was far more subtly 
 flattering, she felt herself interesting to the people in 
 the world she would have most longed to interest. She 
 began to believe in herself, with a sort of trembling 
 incredulity ; perhaps after all she was not such a poor 
 creature as they thought her in Hindcup! 
 
 The lonely soul, on first finding itself understood, 
 experiences a peculiar and exquisite rapture. The 
 whole world of sense seems to acquire a new reality 
 and vividness for it. " I am born again," it says, and 
 rightly ; for with appreciation every faculty is bright- 
 ened and strengthened; half-dormant characteristics 
 are roused into activity; the whole being grows and 
 blossoms out.
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 In the company of these two people who believed 
 in and understood her, you would never have recog- 
 nized the Miriam Sadler of Hindcup. She drank in 
 their talk and their ideas, as the thirsty ground drinks 
 in the rain. But her position was not only that of 
 a receiver; her contributions to the talk that went on 
 were really the valuable part of it, for it was she who 
 always started the topics and a good topic for con- 
 versation is as important as a fox for a hunt. Know- 
 ing her own ignorance, she always put her ideas in the 
 form of a question, and she would start an argument 
 thus: 
 
 " Do you think, Mr. Gore, that all the Arts are 
 transferable ; that everything expressed in painting 
 might be expressed in music or in words ? Or do you 
 think that there are some phases of feeling that can 
 only be expressed by one of the Arts, some by 
 another ? " 
 
 And then Gore would discuss the whole question 
 with her in his kind, interested way. It would be im- 
 possible to describe the joy these conversations were 
 to Miriam, or how much she gained by intercourse 
 for the first time with a man of powerful intellect and 
 cultivation. If Gore could not answer questions, he 
 would frankly admit his inability to do so; but when 
 they had talked the question over, it was always, 
 somehow or other, robbed of its stark terrors. Miriam, 
 like most young people, had tormented herself with 
 theological problems. The unintelligent religiosity of 
 her mother and Mr. Hobbes had been the worst pos- 
 sible influence in this direction, and she had despaired 
 of comfort. Now, with the sudden overwhelming re- 
 
 132
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 lief that a frightened .child feels when it can sob out 
 its terrors to some older person, she found herself tell- 
 ing Alan Gore all these fears and scruples. They were 
 not at all extraordinary ; nor were his suggestions for 
 their allaying extraordinary either; but they seemed 
 so to Miriam. This man, whom Mrs. Sadler had 
 somewhat rashly labeled a freethinker, appeared to 
 her daughter almost in the light of a divinity. That 
 he was a man like other men, with faults and weak- 
 nesses, she could scarcely believe; and yet Delia as- 
 sured her that this was the case. 
 
 " Alan is all very well," she said, with the awful 
 uncompromising knowledge of a sister ; " but, of 
 course, he is far from an angel." 
 
 It was late one night, or rather very early one morn- 
 ing, that Miriam woke up to a sudden realization of 
 her own feelings. 
 
 " Oh, I am making a mistake ! " she cried aloud, 
 sitting up in bed, and stretching out her hands, as if 
 toward some unseen helper. The sound of her own 
 voice speaking in the dark frightened her, and she 
 lay down again, wide-eyed, staring into the darkness, 
 staring into the future, into what might come to her. 
 That arch fear which eclipses every other had as- 
 sailed her; she was afraid of herself. 
 
 " Am I going to ruin my life, such as it is ? " she 
 asked herself. " Is the whole world after this going 
 to be empty and worthless to me ? Oh, surely not ! " 
 And then unflinchingly she set herself to face the 
 truth. She was no more to Alan Gore than any other 
 acquaintance ; he had been very kind to her, as he was 
 to everyone, that was all. Then surely she had enough 
 
 133
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 pride and self-respect to keep herself from loving him. 
 That was the situation no more or less. 
 
 With one of those magnificent rallies of pride which 
 are in women the equivalent of men's valor, Miriam 
 gathered all the strength of her nature to her aid. 
 
 " Love a man who does not love me ? Never, never, 
 never ! " she cried in her heart ; and then with clasped 
 hands she prayed in an agonized whisper, " O God, 
 help me not to make a fool of myself! help me, 
 help me ! " 
 
 It was not a very conventional prayer ; but, indeed, 
 it came from the heart. 
 
 " I'll fight every inch of the way," she said to her- 
 self. " I'll not give in, not if it kills me. I'll make an 
 excuse and leave here, and see no more of him. I'll 
 get books from Mr. Courteis. I'll not think about him, 
 nor try to hear of him." 
 
 She made herself look at the case as it would seem 
 from the outside the pitiable absurdity of Miriam 
 Sadler, Aunt Pillar's niece, loving Mr. Alan Gore! 
 The thought stung her and helped her. She recog- 
 nized the value of this treatment, and pursued it ; she 
 was almost laughing at herself. Persons of romantic 
 tendency will think worse of Miriam for thus rejecting 
 " the celestial crown " ; but perhaps she gained an- 
 other, even if not such a bright one. 
 
 It took her a long time to come to these painful con- 
 clusions. All the night through she lay awake, and 
 the first carts had begun to rumble past in the streets 
 before she had finally decided upon her course of 
 action. It would not do to propose to go home 
 abruptly, she must suggest it gradually. The end of 
 
 134
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 the week must be the conclusion of her long visit. At 
 last, having decided this date, she fell asleep. 
 
 When she came down to breakfast, a letter from 
 home lay beside her plate. 
 
 " Do read your letter," Delia said, and Miriam 
 opened the envelope. The communication it contained 
 was neither interesting nor dramatic; but Fate often 
 speaks in a rough tongue, and this unromantic letter 
 decided the date of her home-going. In her usual un- 
 mitigated style Mrs. Sadler wrote : 
 
 DEAR MIRIAM: 
 
 I have had one of my bad attacks of the bile, and have been 
 in bed for the last three days. Nothing will lie on my stomach. 
 I think you must come home and look after me. 
 
 " Mother is ill," Miriam said, turning to Delia. 
 " I'm afraid I must go home immediately." 
 
 Alan Gore laid down the bundle of letters he was 
 opening, and addressed her with that quickness of in- 
 terest that was his great charm. 
 
 " Why, how unfortunate ! I hope that there's noth- 
 ing seriously wrong? " 
 
 " No," she said ; " only biliousness, but it means my 
 going home just as surely as apoplexy." 
 
 They laughed at her solemn speech; but Delia was 
 much annoyed. 
 
 " There are so many things we wanted you to do 
 and see. Well, you must come again soon," she 
 said. 
 
 " It will never be the same," said Miriam. She 
 knew in her heart, though she could not say so to 
 them, that everything would be different because she 
 
 135
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 herself would be changed. But her friends would 
 not admit that things would alter, and made all man- 
 ner of delightful schemes for " the next time," to 
 which she listened with a grave smile on her lips, a 
 smile that did not mean cheerfulness. 
 
 " Why, the next time you will be well known I 
 hope," Gore said. " You are going home to write all 
 manner of remarkable things for our friend Courteis. 
 Your next visit to us should be much more interesting 
 than this has been." 
 
 Miriam listened, and shook her head. Then she 
 turned to the consideration of her journey. 
 
 " I must go home to-day, I'm afraid," she said. Alan 
 Gore brought out a railway guide and began to turn 
 over its mysterious pages in search of the Hindcup 
 trains. 
 
 "When do you wish to arrive?" he asked. The 
 question seemed to bring home to her the reality of her 
 departure; she winced as if some one had struck her 
 a blow. 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't wish to reach it at all, but I 
 think I should go as soon as possible," she said. 
 
 " Well, there's a train at half-past eleven ; will 
 that do?" 
 
 " Yes," she replied bluntly ; there seemed nothing 
 more to say. 
 
 " I'm so sorry I can't go down to the station with 
 you," said Delia. " I've some one coming to see me 
 at eleven." 
 
 " Oh, I can see myself off," said Miriam. Gore 
 rose and gathered up his letters from the table. 
 
 " I must go now," he said, " so I'll say good-by, 
 136
 
 Miss Sadler. Good-by, and all manner of luck no, 
 not luck, success in your efforts." 
 
 Miriam took his hand. She would have liked to 
 look straight into his kind, clever eyes, but she could 
 not. 
 
 " Good-by," she said, and he was gone. Delia fol- 
 lowed her upstairs, and sat down in her room while 
 she packed the yellow tin trunk. 
 
 " There go the poor, despised old frocks," Delia 
 said. " Why, I wouldn't crush them like that if I 
 were you ; you will probably want to wear them again 
 at Hindcup." 
 
 " Oh, I suppose I shall relapse into the primordial 
 slime whence I arose," Miriam said, trying to speak 
 lightly, but the bitterness she felt broke through in 
 her voice. Delia rose and came across to where the 
 girl stood, and laid her hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " Don't speak that way, my dear," she said. " You'll 
 never relapse, believe me ; you'll go on and on." 
 
 But at these kind words Miriam broke down. 
 
 " It's no use pretending to be happy ; I'm miserable, 
 and everything at home seems horrible," she sobbed. 
 
 Delia was much too uncompromising to attempt the 
 usual methods of comfort. She made Miriam sit down 
 beside her, and taking her hand, began to try to dis- 
 cover what she was feeling so miserable about. 
 
 " Do you feel as if it had been a mistake, your com- 
 ing here ? " she asked ; " please answer me straight out 
 what you feel. I'd rather know the truth, for it was 
 my fault, if the mistake was made." 
 
 This was a difficult question for Miriam to answer. 
 She sat looking down at the floor in silence. 
 
 137
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " No, I am glad I came," she said at last " very 
 glad. I think I see quite a different horizon all round 
 me. It's only painful to think of going back to the 
 more limited one ; how painful, you can never know." 
 
 " I don't suppose I can," Delia admitted. 
 
 " I seem to have learned such a number of 
 things " 
 
 " Well, you look quite different ; they won't know 
 you at home," said Delia, thinking she referred to her 
 initiation in dress. 
 
 But Miriam shook her head. 
 
 " If you knew how little that seems to me com- 
 pared with other things ! " she said. She might have 
 explained further, but her cab was announced at that 
 moment, and the remainder of her packing had to be 
 hurried. 
 
 Delia came down to the door with her, and standing 
 on the steps in the bright morning sunshine, they said 
 good-by to each other. 
 
 138
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 WHEN Miriam reached the station, she found there 
 was some time before the train left. The platform 
 was sparsely dotted as yet with passengers and their 
 luggage, and after the modest yellow trunk had been 
 labeled for Hindcup, she walked slowly up to the far 
 end of the platform. 
 
 To her surprise she saw that two familiar figures 
 from her Hindcup world were there also her cousin, 
 Mrs. Broadman, and young Dr. Pratt. They, too, had 
 caught sight of her, and with an exclamation of sur- 
 prise, Maggie came up to speak to her cousin. 
 
 " Why, I didn't know you for a minute ! " she ex- 
 claimed, passing Miriam's clothes in a rapid review 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " I never saw a girl more changed in such a short 
 time ; wherever did you get these clothes ? They're too 
 plain, somehow. I didn't know you were coming 
 home so soon. I've been at Maida Vale stopping with 
 Cousin May, so I'm not up to home news. I did hear 
 your mother had been ill, but I never supposed you 
 would come home for that. Really, you're quite al- 
 tered, somehow ! How long is it that you've been with 
 these swell people ? I forget." 
 
 She rattled on, giving Miriam no opportunity to 
 make a reply to the numerous questions. 
 
 " Here's Dr. Pratt, too," Maggie pursued, as the 
 young man came up to inquire, with an elaborate bow 
 
 139
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 and handshake, how Miss Sadler had enjoyed her time 
 in London. 
 
 " I have enjoyed it very much," she answered ; but 
 her tone was not encouraging. She did not wish to dis- 
 cuss her visit with him. Dr. Pratt, however, prided 
 himself on his conversational powers, so he went on: 
 
 " I suppose you have visited a number of theaters ? 
 ' Done them ' is, I believe, the proper expression just 
 now, if one wishes to be up-to-date." 
 
 " I did go once or twice," Miriam admitted. 
 
 " I daresay you have plenty to tell us, that's to say, 
 if you will tell us," said Maggie. " But perhaps we're 
 scarcely fine enough for you now. Come, doctor, we 
 had better get into this carriage by ourselves ; my 
 cousin seems to wish to be alone." 
 
 " O Maggie, don't. I don't wish to be alone," Mir- 
 iam exclaimed, though aware that she was saying what 
 was decidedly untrue. 
 
 " Well, come in here. Here's an empty ' second,' " 
 said Maggie. " Mr. Broadman is always wishing me to 
 travel ' first/ but, as I say to him, if I travel ' second ' 
 I save a good deal, and yet it makes a difference from 
 going with common people, so I always do it. I sup- 
 pose you do the same, Miriam, only the common peo- 
 ple come down ' third ' to Hindcup." 
 
 " Then I am one of them," said Miriam gleefully, 
 exhibiting her third-class ticket. But Maggie Broad- 
 man was not going to be disgraced by her cousin. She 
 pulled out a fat morocco purse with a silver monogram 
 on the back, and handed it to the attendant Dr. Pratt. 
 
 " See, doctor," she said. " Will you be so kind as 
 to see about changing my cousin's ticket? I'll pay the 
 
 140
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 difference." She liked to show that money was no 
 object to her. 
 
 Miriam resigned herself to her fate, and entered 
 the second-class carriage along with her cousin. She 
 leaned back into the window-corner, looking listlessly 
 out at the people passing by. Suddenly her heart 
 seemed to stop beating, for, in the distance, she saw 
 Alan Gore coming slowly along the platform, looking 
 into each carriage he passed. Her first impulse was 
 to cower back into the darkest corner of the carriage 
 and try to escape his notice, then she named herself a 
 coward and leaned forward instead as he approached. 
 
 " Ah, there you are ! " he said, pausing at the car- 
 riage door. " I brought you some books to while away 
 the hours with. Are you all right? Your luggage 
 labeled?" 
 
 Miriam received the books, almost dumb with pleas- 
 ure at the gift. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I'm all right. I have met my 
 cousin, Mrs. Broadman," she added, indicating who 
 her companion was. Maggie leaned forward, well 
 pleased to join in the conversation. She prided her- 
 self on what she considered her irresistibly arch man- 
 ners toward the other sex; often she had reproved 
 Miriam for her " dull ways with the men." So she 
 rallied Alan Gore brightly on having given Miriam 
 more books. 
 
 " My cousin's really too much taken up with books 
 already," she said. " I always tell her a young lady 
 should have other interests well, more natural ones. 
 Before I married, now, nothing interested me so much 
 as a dance, and a new dress, and perhaps the young 
 10 141
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 gentlemen I met in the evening; but Miriam here is 
 so learned, she never seems to care about these things 
 at least, she never did in Hindcup. Perhaps you 
 have taught her more in London." 
 
 Miriam's sufferings during this speech were very 
 grievous. She leant back into the corner of the car- 
 riage and flushed painfully. Alan Gore looked down 
 at his boots with a very noncommittal expression for 
 a minute. 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't share that feeling against books 
 with you," he said then. " I don't see why they should 
 confuse the natural interests of life in the least." He 
 looked up at Maggie Broadman as he spoke, with his 
 keen, frank glance that seemed to measure her capaci- 
 ties as a pair of scales measures defective weights 
 of sugar. 
 
 Maggie was struck with a sudden dumbness ; the 
 abstract was not her vein. She sat back into the cor- 
 ner and remarked that it was very warm. Dr. Pratt 
 appeared then to return Mrs. Broadman's purse. He 
 carried a bunch of comic papers. Gore stood aside 
 to let him get in, and then held out his hand to Miriam. 
 
 " Good-by ; I'm glad you have some one to look after 
 you," he said, and turned away into the crowd. For 
 one awful moment Miriam thought that she was going 
 to cry. Tears welled up in her eyes, her throat ached, 
 and she could not speak. Maggie and Dr. Pratt were 
 gazing at her. 
 
 " So that's Mr. Gore ! I should have known him, 
 too, for I saw him at the fete at the Manor. It was 
 very polite of him coming to see you off that way, 
 Miriam ; very polite. I felt a little de trap, really." 
 
 142
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Maggie tried to look archly suggestive, and Dr. 
 Pratt said: 
 
 " Yes ; when a gentleman comes to see a young lady 
 off on a train, he generally calculates on finding her 
 alone." 
 
 Their words stung Miriam like a whip. It was the 
 best thing that could have happened, for she was so 
 angry that she forgot to cry. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't have troubled yourself with feel- 
 ings like that," she said hotly. Mrs. Broadman smiled, 
 and Dr. Pratt began to read his papers. He was, in 
 some respects, a good-looking man, with well-cut 
 features and curly hair ; but Miriam seemed to-day to 
 see nothing but faults in him. She wondered why he 
 wore a ring on his thick finger, and why he scented 
 himself with musk. Yet Dr. Pratt was a good-natured 
 young man, not at all stupid in his profession, and the 
 adored of her cousin, Emmie Pillar. Miriam sat look- 
 ing at him, and wondering why Emmie liked him. 
 
 When the train moved out of the station, Maggie 
 Broadman opened a fashion paper, and Miriam was at 
 liberty to look at the books Alan Gore had brought 
 her. And even to do this, to look at them, feel them, 
 turn over their pages, seemed to soothe and cheer her. 
 Here was a kingdom that she might enter undismayed, 
 the grandest, widest kingdom of the world, the realm 
 of thought. Here beauty dwelt, and such measure of 
 truth as we may know, and peace from all the petty 
 irk of living. 
 
 She did not read much; but she sat holding the 
 books all the way to Hindcup, and the journey, after 
 all, was not an unhappy one. 
 
 143
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 MIRIAM found her mother in bed and very sick and 
 sorry when she arrived at home. 
 
 The " girl " had reduced the kitchen to a state of 
 melancholy untidiness, and was, after the manner of 
 her kind, smeared to the eyes with black-lead, though 
 not a grate in the house seemed to have been polished. 
 The only food to be found in the larder was cold beef- 
 steak ; of this there was a large amount lying on a 
 dish, surrounded by cold, watery gravy coated with 
 grease. There seemed everything to do. 
 
 But there are worse predicaments in life than finding 
 everything to do. Miriam felt almost thankful for the 
 confusion that reigned in the house. It seemed natu- 
 ral to take off her London dress, reassume the prune 
 merino and an apron, and begin to put everything to 
 rights. All her ideas had undergone a profound 
 change in the three weeks she had been away from 
 home. Instead of thinking more of luxury and beauty 
 of surroundings, she had come to think much less of 
 them ; she had begun to realize that what lies behind 
 beauty and luxury and creates them, is of infinitely 
 more importance than they are. As she sat down at 
 last in the woefully ugly little parlor, now tidied up and 
 dusted, Miriam said to herself that even this hideous- 
 ness did not much matter if she could live the right 
 kind of life among it. But these abstractions were 
 
 144
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 broken in upon by a sharp tap at the door Aunt 
 Pillar's tap, as Miriam well knew and the next min- 
 ute her aunt's portly figure blocked the doorway. 
 
 " So you're home again ! " she said. " I must hear 
 all your news ; but, in the meantime, I've come to see 
 your mother. How do you find her? Is she able to 
 see me, do you think ? " 
 
 Miriam led the way to her mother's sick room, and 
 drew a chair near the bed, that Aunt Pillar might see 
 for herself her sister's condition. A few perfunctory 
 inquiries and condolences, however, were all that Aunt 
 Pillar wasted on the sufferer. As was quickly evident, 
 her whole interest centered upon hearing how Miriam 
 had got on in London. For, scarcely listening to Mrs. 
 Sadler's plaintive iteration of " Nothing will lie on my 
 stomach," she turned abruptly round to question her 
 niece about more interesting subjects. ' 
 
 " So you're back," she said. " And how did you get 
 on among the fine people in London ? " 
 
 " They were very kind to me. I have enjoyed my- 
 self very much." 
 
 " I'm told they keep a very fine establishment ; our 
 butler was with them before he came to us. I've heard 
 him say as the house was very handsome." 
 
 " I daresay it is." 
 
 Aunt Pillar brought down her fat foot with a stamp 
 upon the carpet. 
 
 " On my word, Miriam, you are a provoking girl ! 
 Did not just the fineness of it all not surprise you? " 
 
 " No ; I don't think that was what surprised me 
 most," said Miriam slowly. 
 
 " Then what was it? Can't you speak out? Really, 
 145
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 it's bad for your mother being aggravated in this way ; 
 nothing sets up the bile more; and if she's like me, 
 she must be fairly provoked with you." 
 
 " I think, Aunt Pillar, it was the fineness of their 
 minds, of their ideas, their ideals, that impressed me," 
 the girl said slowly, hesitating as if in search of the 
 exact words to express her meaning. 
 
 It was nonsense to mention the word " ideals " be- 
 fore such a listener; but Miriam really spoke more 
 to herself than to her aunt. Still, the admission that 
 anything had impressed her niece with fineness rather 
 mollified Aunt Pillar ; she looked Miriam up and down, 
 and nodded her head. 
 
 " I daresay it would ; I daresay it would. To be 
 sure, the ideas of the gentry are quite different from 
 ours. To show you what I mean, her ladyship thinks 
 nothing of laying down her ten or twelve shillings for 
 perfume, and Sarah, her maid, tells me each handker- 
 chief she has she pays her five shillings for the ones 
 with embroidery, that is. Yes, they're brought up to 
 large ideas, Miriam, as you say, and it's little wonder 
 you felt surprised by them." 
 
 Mrs. Sadler's feeble voice made itself heard from 
 behind the curtains at that point. 
 
 " I'm sure," she said, " it won't have done Miriam 
 any good to learn to pay five shillings for a pocket 
 handkerchief, if that's all she went to London to 
 learn." 
 
 Miriam might have done better to allow her rela- 
 tives to think that she had referred to the Gores' ideas 
 on expenditure ; but in justice to her late entertainers 
 she tried to explain her meaning a little more clearly. 
 
 146
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " It wasn't that sort of fineness I meant, in the 
 least," she said, hesitating how best to make her point 
 clear. " I meant that they took such high moral views 
 of everything, and regulated their lives by such fine 
 standards of living." 
 
 "I'm sure I'm glad to hear it. I was afraid from 
 \vhat Mr. Hobbes said, that they were very irreligious," 
 said Mrs. Sadler. 
 
 " Tut, tut, Priscilla. You're righteous overmuch," 
 said Aunt Pillar. She was provoked by Miriam's at- 
 titude to the Gores, provoked more than she could say. 
 She rose and prepared to go off, yet lingered to catch 
 an item or two from this unsatisfactory niece. 
 
 " Tell me this, at least ; did they treat you like one 
 of themselves, or did they dine separate, or what ? " 
 
 Miriam shook her head and laughed. 
 
 " No, no, Aunt Pillar ; I wasn't separated from 
 them in any way," she said. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure, then, I hope it won't have done you 
 more harm than good. I don't myself see the reason 
 of it all; what were you asked for if they weren't 
 going to do anything for you? It puzzles me alto- 
 gether." 
 
 " Perhaps something may come of it yet," suggested 
 Mrs. Sadler. 
 
 " Did they speak of doing anything for you ? " Aunt 
 Pillar went on. She liked definiteness in human 
 affairs. 
 
 " No, they never did. They are not like that ; they 
 do not want to do things for me ; they wish to help me 
 to help myself," said Miriam. " And isn't that the 
 truest kindness ? " 
 
 '47
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Umph ! " said Aunt Pillar. She held the good old 
 ideas of the overlord and the retainer the one the 
 giver, the other the receiver she did not hold with 
 these new-fangled views of self-help. 
 
 " All very well, Miriam, but those in high places 
 have a lot in their power, and, if I were you, I wouldn't 
 be above asking a good thing from them, seeing they've 
 been so affable. There was that young woman, Hitch- 
 cock, you remember Carrie Hitchcock ? a silly, useless 
 thing; I wouldn't have engaged her for any position 
 myself; well, didn't her ladyship take a fancy to her 
 and recommended her here, and recommended her 
 there among her friends, till she got her out as maid 
 to the Countess of Malvern going to Australia ! That's 
 what influence will do. There's nothing like it." 
 
 " I wouldn't be recommended to any position I 
 couldn't fill," said Miriam loftily. 
 
 Aunt Pillar smiled a grim smile. 
 
 " There's more than appears about the getting of 
 most positions, my girl," she said. " Merit has wonder- 
 fully little to do with it, and we must just take the 
 world as we find it. I'm afraid you have a number 
 of silly ideas, Miriam, that you'll live to see the folly 
 of yet. And this is just one of them. Don't be above 
 taking help where you can get it. I know the gentry. 
 They're idle, and want to be thought busy. There's 
 nothing they like better than philanthropy; so, take 
 whatever they'll give, and be thankful." 
 
 The girl thus admonished smiled, and kept silence; 
 a provoking thing to do, it must be admitted. Aunt 
 Pillar fastened her cloak, took up her umbrella, and 
 walked to the door. 
 
 148
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " You may smile, Miriam, and think you know more 
 than me that has lived a lifetime at the Manor, because 
 you've spent three weeks with the Gores. But what I 
 tell you is true, and, as I say, I know the gentry and 
 their ways, which is more than you do. Good night, 
 Priscilla; good night, Miriam. Make your mother a 
 good cup of beef tea ; that will lie on her stomach, if 
 anything will; and don't have your silly head turned 
 with a little attention from those above you. They'll 
 never think of you again. It's their way; anything 
 for novelty ; pet you one day, and the next throw you 
 over like an old shoe. I know them. Good night; I 
 must be off." 
 
 She bustled dow 7 n the staircase, that creaked under 
 her heavy step. Miriam watched the stout figure dis- 
 appear down the twilight street, and then turned back 
 into the house with a sigh. 
 
 149
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 SEVERAL days passed, and as Mrs. Sadler did not 
 show speedy enough signs of improvement, Miriam 
 sent for Dr. Pratt always a last resource with her. 
 
 He made his usual bright, musk-scented entrance 
 into the sick room, and in a very short time had fin- 
 ished his diagnosis of Mrs. Sadler's simple but trying 
 ailment. Miriam had listened to his suggestions, and 
 now sat wondering why the physician did not take his 
 leave. But this was explained when Dr. Pratt re- 
 marked : 
 
 " I must ask for your congratulations, Mrs. Sadler, 
 and I daresay you will be a good deal surprised " He 
 paused, with a jocular little attempt at hesitation, 
 though Miriam saw he was longing to go on with 
 his news. 
 
 " You're never going to be married, doctor ! " Mrs. 
 Sadler exclaimed, though why she should have been 
 surprised by such a natural step on his part is difficult 
 to explain. 
 
 " Indeed I am, and I daresay you can guess who 
 the lady is," he said. " I consider myself the luckiest 
 of men." Miriam knew that her cousin Emmie was 
 the lady in question ; but Mrs. Sadler guessed several 
 other names before Dr. Pratt smilingly supplied her 
 with the right one. 
 
 " You see, Mrs. Sadler, we have been prudence it- 
 150
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 self," he added. " I said long ago to Emmie that we 
 must remember everyone is watching us." 
 
 That curious self-importance which overtakes the 
 newly affianced almost like a disease, had fallen upon 
 Dr. Pratt. Mrs. Sadler could scarcely conceal her 
 mortification at his announcement. While Emmie 
 Pillar had remained unmarried, Miriam's loverless 
 condition seemed less noticeable ; but now that Emmie 
 had secured this eligible young man, what would the 
 Hindcup world say of Miriam? Mrs. Sadler asked 
 the question bitterly of herself, and gave brutal reply 
 in her own heart : 
 
 " They'll say she can't marry, and it's not far from 
 the truth. Dear, dear! Emmie getting married so 
 nicely, and my Miriam left. It's just as Aunt Pillar 
 told me long ago, the result of all this study ! " 
 
 Miriam, too, was silent for a moment, from far other 
 reasons ; she was wondering what it could be that made 
 her cousin Emmie want to marry Dr. Pratt. 
 
 " Am I not to have your congratulations, then ? " 
 Dr. Pratt said ; and she laughed and held out her hand 
 very pleasantly to him. 
 
 " I think you are to be congratulated," she said. 
 " Emmie, I am sure, will make the best of wives ; she 
 has always been my favorite cousin." This, if Dr. 
 Pratt had known the truth, was not saying much, but 
 it was the best that she could say. 
 
 " She is a little jewel," he said, swelling with self- 
 importance and delight. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Sadler bitterly ; " a fine, 
 womanly young girl, clever with her needle, such a 
 cook, and a born housewife."
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " As I said, I consider myself the luckiest of men," 
 Dr. Pratt repeated, and Miriam found herself wonder- 
 ing how often in the long annals of the human race 
 this phrase had been reiterated by intending husbands. 
 
 " Emmie and I have decided not to delay our mar- 
 riage for long," Dr. Pratt pursued ; " for everyone will 
 be talking so much." 
 
 " To be sure they will," said Mrs. Sadler. " You're 
 very wise. I daresay Emmie will be here soon to tell 
 us all about it." 
 
 " I daresay she will, so I must be off," said Dr. 
 Pratt. They watched him march away down the 
 street looking extraordinarily well pleased with him- 
 self. 
 
 " Well, I never did ! " Mrs. Sadler exclaimed in a 
 little while. " Emmie engaged ! How those girls 
 have gone off, to be sure." 
 
 " Yes, haven't they ? " Miriam agreed, and in an in- 
 advertent moment she added thoughtfully : " I wonder 
 now what Emmie sees in that man to make her wish 
 to marry him ? " No sooner had she spoken than she 
 saw her mistake and wished the words unsaid ; but 
 Mrs. Sadler unfortunately caught their import. She 
 sat up on the pillow and turned her yellow face an- 
 grily to her daughter. 
 
 " You'll drive me wild with your nonsense, Miriam ! " 
 she exclaimed. " What does she see in Dr. Pratt ! a 
 well-to-do, handsome young man, driving his own dog- 
 cart and getting into a good country practice. What 
 more would any girl want, I'd like to know ? It's un- 
 womanly the way you talk, and sometimes I'm down- 
 rightly ashamed of you." 
 
 152
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " I'm sorry I provoke you, mother," said Miriam, 
 wondering once again why she ever expressed what 
 she thought about anything. " I'll go downstairs and 
 get that mustard plaster the doctor advised you to 
 have," she added, glad of an excuse to leave the 
 room and let her mother's irritated feelings calm 
 down. 
 
 As she was coming downstairs the front door flew 
 open, and Emmie rushed in, flushed, and excited- 
 looking, wearing an air of triumph that almost made 
 her cousin laugh aloud. 
 
 " Good morning, Miriam. How's aunt ? It's a hor- 
 rid thing, biliousness. Have you heard the news? 
 I'm engaged ! You won't guess to whom ; no, you 
 never will; look at my ring. Mizpah; so sweet and 
 so original. Sydney but there I've let it out ; but it'll 
 be all over the town soon ! Look at my ring ; Sydney 
 likes Mizpah better than any other design; so do I. 
 We made it up at the Badminton Club yesterday you 
 never come there; Sydney plays so splendidly, you 
 might come just to see him play; now that he's my 
 fiance, you will have a double interest in him." 
 
 Miriam kissed the flushed young face, and suggested 
 that they should go into the kitchen while she pre- 
 pared the mustard plaster. " Sydney ordered it," she 
 said a little mischievously. It was really quite safe 
 to laugh at Emmie, who never noticed it. Miriam 
 fetched the mustard tin and began to mix the plaster; 
 then she asked Emmie suddenly if she had much in 
 common with Dr. Pratt. The question sprang to her 
 lips before she quite realized what she said, and Emmie 
 was naturally offended by it. She drew herself up 
 
 153
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 with a little bridling movement that was characteristic 
 of her. 
 
 " I am devoted to the doctor," she said with great 
 dignity. " We have a great deal in common we are 
 both musical ; he went six times running to hear Pina- 
 fore once, and so did I ; in fact, our tastes are 
 identical." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right, then," said Miriam cheerfully ; 
 and Emmie, who was very good-natured, was quite 
 placated. 
 
 " You see, it's because you scarcely understand 
 about love that you ask such silly questions," she said 
 in a confidential tone, perching herself on the corner 
 of the kitchen table. " I hope you'll have an admirer 
 some day, it's such fun being in love." 
 
 " Really ? " said Miriam, mixing away at the mus- 
 tard. Emmie's words recalled to her mind something 
 she had read in " Tristram Shandy " : 
 
 "I thought love had been a joyous thing," quoth my Uncle Toby. 
 " 'Tis the most serious thing, an' please your honour, (sometimes) 
 that is in the world." 
 
 But her reflections were broken in upon by Emmie's 
 prattle. 
 
 " Yes, what a man wants is a cheery sort of girl, 
 not one that will worry him with ideas and books, and 
 all that sort of thing. Since my engagement, I seem 
 to understand so much more about men. Sydney 
 says he wants a pretty little plaything, not some one to 
 talk philosophy with him." 
 
 " I didn't know he talked philosophy," said Miriam. 
 
 " Sydney can do anything. But, as he says, what 
 he wants is a wife, not a philosopher." 
 
 154
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " I daresay that's quite true," said her cousin. 
 
 " Well, to be quite frank with you," said Emmie, 
 " it was apropos of yourself that all this came out. It 
 was after he had traveled down from London with you 
 and Maggie; he had been noticing you all the way, 
 it seems how you had been reading. ' It's not rest- 
 ful, darling,' he said in his sweet way, ' to see a woman 
 reading in the way your cousin does. I don't wonder 
 the men are afraid of her ' ; and then he added a lot 
 of nonsense about myself that I cannot repeat " She 
 paused, wishing very much indeed to be asked to repeat 
 it all, but as Miriam did not encourage this confidence 
 she went on: 
 
 " Then I thought it so clever the way he added, 
 ' Emmie, what a man wants is a wife, not a philoso- 
 pher.' He is very brilliant. (I am telling you all this, 
 because I think it may do you good.) Now that I'm 
 engaged I hear so much from Sydney of what men 
 think and feel." 
 
 " But, then," Miriam interpolated, " all men are not 
 like Sydney." 
 
 " No, indeed ; very few are ; but if you get the opin- 
 ion of a very clever one like him, it is worth a great 
 deal." 
 
 Miriam smiled, spreading the mustard on the paper. 
 
 " I must go and administer this," she said. " I shall 
 want to hear all about your trousseau soon," she added, 
 with an effort to be sympathetic. 
 
 " Oh, I've decided on white satin for the wedding 
 gown Sydney likes it ; and the going-away dress is 
 to be blue. The bridesmaid's presents bothered me a 
 little, but curiously enough we both hit upon the same 
 
 155
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 idea, and it's quite original, I think you'll never guess 
 curb bracelets." 
 
 " It will be a surprise ! " echoed Miriam. " And who 
 are the bridesmaids to be ? " 
 
 Emmie named the honored maidens, adding 
 Miriam's own name to the list. 
 
 "There !" she said, "that's a surprise for you, for you 
 know you are just getting a weeny bit old for a brides- 
 maid nearly five-and-twenty. But Sydney wanted it. 
 He says he has known so many matches made up at 
 weddings, and he's just as anxious as I am that you 
 should get married. It's so nice to be engaged ! He 
 has a great friend, a doctor, too, who is to be a grooms- 
 man ; perhaps he might fancy you who knows ? " 
 
 "Who knows?" Miriam echoed, and she laughed 
 to herself all the way upstairs, and all the time her poor 
 mother lay groaning under the mustard plaster she 
 continued to laugh. 
 
 156
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 MIRIAM had been too busy for a fortnight after her 
 return home to look at the book Courteis had given 
 to her. But as Mrs. Sadler got better she found time 
 to begin her studies again. A few chapters sufficed 
 to show the trend of the book. She laid it down and 
 considered what she was going to do. For this author 
 went full tilt against many things churches, priests, 
 creeds, marriage, the whole social and religious frame- 
 work of English life. The book was very cleverly 
 written, and it amused her to read it; but, she asked 
 herself, if she were to write an abstract of it, and if 
 by any evil chance her mother were to see it, what 
 would happen ? 
 
 Of course, had she been a girl in a Sunday-school 
 story, she would at once have tied up the book in 
 brown paper and returned it whence it came. But 
 being a girl in real life, she decided to risk the danger 
 and do the work. After all, it was ten chances to one 
 that her mother never heard anything of it. Mrs. 
 Sadler never asked what her daughter was writing, 
 and it was almost impossible she should ever read the 
 article if it came out. 
 
 Having thus argued with herself, Miriam attacked 
 
 the bit of work with tremendous energy. It was far 
 
 from an easy task. The author started far back at the 
 
 beginning of things, inquiring into the origin of each 
 
 11 157
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 of the institutions which he attacked ; then he followed 
 up their growth, and finally began to pull them to 
 pieces again. Miriam's business was to assimilate all 
 this knowledge, and present it in an easy form for the 
 benefit of the general reader. 
 
 She steeped herself in the arguments of this revo- 
 lutionary, laughing sometimes to herself as she read 
 the more daring sentences. 
 
 Then came the work of writing the abstract. Week 
 after week she toiled at it, and found the days short 
 enough as they passed ; but at last the article was 
 concluded and sent off, and Miriam rested from her 
 labors. It seemed a long time till Courteis wrote, send- 
 ing her proofs of the article. She could scarcely be- 
 lieve her eyes when the great bundle of printed stuff 
 arrived; but she was happily alone in the house and 
 able to take the package up to her own room and study 
 it in private. She read the proofs through, corrected 
 one or two blunders, and then laid them away in a 
 drawer of her toilet table, for she did not yet possess 
 the luxury of a writing desk. This done, she went 
 out to have a walk, little dreaming of the blow that 
 would await her on her return. 
 
 It was a lovely evening in late autumn and Miriam 
 walked slowly along through the lanes enjoying the 
 beauty of the evening. She felt wonderfully peaceful 
 and happy, somehow, as if things had taken a turn for 
 the better in her life. The joy of doing actual work 
 work that she loved cheered and soothed her ; life 
 seemed worth living, even in Hindcup. The dusk was 
 falling as she turned her steps homeward ; in the dis- 
 tance the lights of the town came out one by one. 
 
 158
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Miriam quickened her steps and came in fresh and 
 brisk from the night air. She looked almost pretty, 
 had there been anyone to notice it. 
 
 But she found Mrs. Sadler far too busy with some- 
 thing else to observe her looks ; for, as she came into 
 the parlor, her mother was reading the proofs that 
 she had left safe in the drawer in her own room. 
 
 She stood stock still on the threshold of the door- 
 way, gazing at this terrible sight. There was a mo- 
 ment of tingling silence, and then Mrs. Sadler wailed 
 out: 
 
 " Oh, dear, did you write this ? " 
 
 Miriam closed the door, and came across to where 
 her mother sat. She knew that the time had come 
 to fight for freedom again. 
 
 " Yes, mother ; how did you get that ? I did not 
 mean you to see it," she asked. 
 
 " I went up to your room to find the key of the side- 
 board. I remembered I gave it to you last night, and 
 I could see it nowhere, so I opened your toilet drawer, 
 and I saw this, and began to read it ; and O Miriam ! 
 how wicked it is ! " Mrs. Sadler covered her face 
 with her hands and began to cry. It was natural 
 enough that she should do so, for she was fully under 
 the impression that her daughter had originated the 
 daring conclusions which were voiced in this article. 
 She had read so cursorily that only a jumble of ideas 
 remained with her, and these the most startling. 
 
 Miriam sat down and tried to explain her own in- 
 nocence in the matter ; but Mrs. Sadler would take no 
 comfort. 
 
 " No, no ; you've written it, and this is the end of 
 159
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 all these studies. I'll never be happy till you give them 
 up ; they'll lead you to no good," she said. 
 
 " Well, mother, I won't give them up. I am sorry 
 to grieve you, but I cannot. These are not my views, 
 they are the views of the man whose book I am de- 
 scribing to other people, that is all. Please read no 
 more of it, and think no more about it." 
 
 But she might as well have spoken to the wind ; 
 nothing would now convince Mrs. Sadler that these 
 were not her daughter's views. 
 
 " You wrote it, so you must believe it," she repeated 
 over and over again. 
 
 And the evil did not end here. The next day Mag- 
 gie Broadman came to remonstrate with Miriam on 
 the error of her ways, having heard a highly colored 
 version of the story from Mrs. Sadler. 
 
 " I'm glad to find you alone," she said. " I've come 
 to speak about something I daresay you know what 
 I mean " She stopped, almost daunted for a moment 
 by the glowering anger in her cousin's eyes. 
 
 " I daresay I can guess," Miriam said. 
 
 " Of course, it's about this writing of yours," Mag- 
 gie proceeded, in her patronizing voice. "You really 
 must be careful what subjects you choose. A young 
 woman like you perhaps scarcely understands about 
 these subjects. As I said to your mother: ' No doubt 
 it was ignorance made Miriam write that awful paper,' 
 and that seemed to comfort poor aunt a good deal." 
 
 " When I write something that you all have a right 
 to be ashamed of, you may come and speak to me," 
 said Miriam ; " but till then I can do without your 
 advice. Mother has made a mountain out of a mole- 
 
 160
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 hill, that is all." Her eyes blazed with anger; Maggie 
 had never known that her cousin possessed so much 
 temper. She rose rather hastily. 
 
 " Oh, well, I won't waste words upon you," she said. 
 " Take your own way." 
 
 " I certainly intend to do so," Miriam retorted. 
 
 This little interview was bad enough ; but exaspera- 
 tion reached a climax when Emmie came to remon- 
 strate. She found Miriam writing in her own room 
 a unique opportunity for advice as to the nature of 
 the composition. 
 
 " Oh, you're writing ! I've come to show you pat- 
 terns of my wedding-gown stuff," she said, scattering 
 papers to right and left without a thought of apology. 
 " I want the brocade, after all ; Sydney thinks it suits 
 my complexion better than the dead white. O Mir- 
 iam, I wish you would get married, and then perhaps 
 you would stop writing horrid things that everyone 
 is shocked at. It's much nicer to be married. Couldn't 
 you manage it? I used to think that young Evans at 
 the bank had an admiration for you ; but no man will 
 long admire a girl that doesn't respond to him at all. 
 Can't you go in there oftener? I saw you go into the 
 grocer's for change yesterday, when it would have 
 been quite as easy to cross over to the bank. You'll 
 be left an old maid if you don't take care ! Sydney 
 tells me he used to be quite afraid of you in what he 
 will call his ' bachelor days.' So silly of him." 
 
 She paused ; but as Miriam scarcely knew which of 
 these numerous suggestions she should reply to, she 
 left them all unanswered, and Emmie went on : 
 
 " Sydney is quite annoyed by these stories about you, 
 161
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Miriam ; about this article you've written, I mean. He 
 says it is so against a girl's chance of marrying. To 
 think that you should write against marriage; it was 
 so strange of you. What put such an idea into your 
 head? Sydney was saying he could not understand 
 it, unless it was that you hadn't any admirers and 
 were a little soured by it. But, then, as I said to Syd- 
 ney, you are quite young still, after all, so it can 
 scarcely be that; I think it must be because you've 
 never been in love. If you only knew what fun it is 
 being in love, I'm sure you would stop writing against 
 marriage." 
 
 " Perhaps some day even I may have that unique 
 experience," said Miriam ; but the sarcasm was entirely 
 wasted on Emmie. 
 
 " I am sure I hope you will ; it's not at all im- 
 possible yet, but it's time you began at five-and- 
 twenty. Why, I had three proposals before I was 
 twenty-one ! " 
 
 " Yes, I know that," said Miriam ; but again the 
 meaning of the remark was not apparent to Emmie. 
 
 " And when I remember what fun it all was, I don't 
 understand how you think marriage should cease," 
 Emmie went on. " Dear me ! I'd have had a dull 
 time in Hindcup if there hadn't been any talk of 
 marriage." 
 
 Miriam was glad to be able to laugh heartily at this 
 conclusion, and the laugh did her good. 
 
 " Come and let me see your patterns, Emmie," she 
 said, " and we won't talk any more about this storm in 
 a tea cup." 
 
 Aunt Pillar was the next to remonstrate. She came 
 162
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 over to Hindcup late one evening, and asked to see 
 Miriam alone. 
 
 " So this is the end of your visiting with the Gores," 
 she said, fixing her hard eye on her niece. " That you 
 come back to disgrace us all. It's the want of all 
 worldly wisdom in it that vexes me. Your poor 
 mother never had any, and you're like to follow in 
 her steps, writing nonsense, and worse than nonsense, 
 as I understand." 
 
 " I hope I'll never do that," said Miriam. 
 
 " Well, you've done it once, by all accounts, and once 
 is enough in a lifetime." Then, with a sudden quick 
 look at her niece, Aunt Pillar added : " Did you know 
 the Gores were coming to the Manor for Christmas? 
 It'll be awkward for you ; they won't be able to take 
 much notice of you here, though they were so inti- 
 mate with you in London; but after this that you've 
 written, perhaps they won't have anything more to 
 say to you." 
 
 Miriam's cheeks flamed. 
 
 " I am sure I shall be quite pleased with whatever 
 they do," she said. 
 
 163
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE pool of Bethesda, we are told, had no magic 
 quality until the angel had troubled it; and, in the 
 same way, that deep well of the human heart has to be 
 stirred and troubled before it gives forth the best that 
 is in it. Emotion of one kind or another has been the 
 begetter of every work of Art ; it does not matter very 
 much what the emotion is, provided it is strong 
 enough; hate will serve as well as love, bitterness as 
 well as joy; only let the pool be sufficiently troubled, 
 and behold the magic results ! 
 
 Miriam did not know this sweet use of adversity. 
 It seemed to her that all the petty irritations of her 
 life at present were for no good end at all, and could 
 never be turned to any account. And yet they were 
 surely leading her on to the larger events of life. 
 
 This is how it happened. She had come in one af- 
 ternoon feeling more than usually provoked by her 
 cousins ; they had all been offering her advice, criticis- 
 ing her writing (about which they knew nothing what- 
 ever), and generally irritating her. In anger and bit- 
 terness unbearable, Miriam sat down and wrote out 
 all the overflowing annoyance she was feeling. I can- 
 not say that what she wrote was kind ; for it was not. 
 But it was true, which many kind bits of writing are 
 not. If she had been badgered and irritated she would 
 at least hit back indirectly. Aha ! there was some sat- 
 isfaction in that. 
 
 164
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 What a gallery of female portraits she could draw ! 
 She knew so much about her sitters. She ran over a 
 list of them ; the engaged young woman, the young 
 matron, the young mother, the unmarried woman, the 
 old woman, the cousin, the aunt each had her de- 
 licious foibles, her exasperating traits, that might be 
 pitilessly written down for the world to laugh at. 
 
 " They don't think I know much about men," said 
 Miriam, grinning to herself ; " but I know enough and 
 to spare about women and their ways. If they are 
 so hard on me, I shall touch them up a little, for a 
 change ! " 
 
 With something of the scientific spirit, then, Miriam 
 approached her task. It was a species of vivisection, 
 cruel enough, but, oh! the delight of it! of that first 
 quite simple little description of an engaged young 
 woman Emmie, in other words. All the ineffable 
 silliness of poor Emmie's character was plainly set 
 forth, her ridiculous self-satisfaction and self-absorp- 
 tion, her deplorable tactlessness. "The Affianced One" 
 was a very pretty bit of writing, and Miriam was al- 
 most aware of the fact. Down in the bottom of her 
 heart she had a lurking feeling that it was unkind 
 to transfix poor Emmie thus, like a butterfly on a pin ; 
 but the artistic joy of seeing the work grow under her 
 hand quieted the pricks of conscience. Then she 
 turned her attention to a study of maternity as pre- 
 sented by her cousin Matilda, who had lately added 
 to the population of Hindcup. Matilda's attitude now 
 was the simple one that no such feat had ever been 
 accomplished before in the long annals of our race. 
 Eve contemplating Cain and Abel cannot have been 
 
 165
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 more enamored of her achievement. Matilda now con- 
 sidered herself competent to advise anyone on the 
 management of infants, and she seldom spoke on any 
 other subject. With an extraordinary ingenuity she 
 could bring conversation round to her child, start it 
 at any point you like to name. All this Miriam had 
 been noticing for long, and " Mater Triumphans " re- 
 produced these observations. 
 
 Grace Pillar, Miriam's only unmarried cousin, was 
 the next model. Grace was the most unfortunate type 
 of spinster. She was always skittishly alluding to her 
 age, and yet would be considered young at all costs ; 
 her agreeability was almost disgusting; in her exces- 
 sive desire to please, she forgot all dignity, and her 
 claim to have a life of her own. To see her slavish, 
 almost reverential, attitude toward her married sisters, 
 just because they were married nay, to Emmie, just 
 because she was engaged to be married was a sight 
 to make the heart ache. But it was also rather nau- 
 seating. Any man would have satisfied Grace ; only 
 to have been chosen out of the herd, and promoted to 
 wifehood, and allowed to become a mother, she would 
 have asked no more. It was curious why such an ap- 
 parently simple joy had not been granted to the heart 
 that so craved it ; but it was not in the scheme of things 
 that Grace should be married, so she remained un- 
 sought. O Miriam, you should have been kinder 
 here; the other victims of your revenge were at least 
 profoundly pleased with themselves; it is otherwise 
 with poor Grace. 
 
 " Apotheosis " had its origin in Maggie Broadman's 
 transparent and fatuous delight in all things pertain- 
 
 166
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 ing to herself, her house, her servants, her husband, 
 her children, her dress. Once she had been Maggie 
 Pillar; now she was Maggie Broadman all things 
 were hers. The fact that things belonged to her af- 
 forded Maggie a satisfaction that it is difficult even 
 to guess at. 
 
 These, and several other portraits, Miriam executed 
 with savage pleasure. At first she wrote them with 
 no thought of publication ; but gradually it dawned 
 upon her that they might find acceptance with the 
 public. 
 
 " Would it be safe ? " she wondered. " I don't sup- 
 pose that people ever recognize themselves. . . . I'll 
 send them to Mr. Courteis and see what he thinks. 
 . . . I might publish them anonymously." 
 
 JSo to Courteis they went; and, of course, were re- 
 ceived with approval, as every genuine human docu- 
 ment is sure to be. There was no doubt at all of their 
 quality ; they were quite excellent. 
 
 " I like the nip in them," Courteis wrote. " They 
 will make people laugh; send me as many as you 
 please. I shall publish one every week of course, 
 as you wish it anonymously." 
 
 Miriam did not dare to get those numbers of The 
 Advance Guard which contained her productions ; that 
 is to say, she did not dare to see them at home. But 
 at Miss Foxe's house she allowed herself the pleasure 
 of reading them. She and Miss Foxe laughed to- 
 gether over the character-sketches many an autumn 
 afternoon. 
 
 One day, shortly before Christmas, on her way back 
 from The Old House, she met Maggie Broadman and
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 stopped to speak to her. Maggie, however, showed no 
 inclination to stop, but merely nodded coldly and 
 passed on down the street. 
 
 " She must be in a hurry," Miriam thought. Then 
 a little farther on Matilda came in sight, with the per- 
 ambulator, of course, and again Miriam prepared to 
 greet her cousin. To her great surprise Matilda drove 
 the perambulator into the roadway and crossed to the 
 other side of the street with scarcely a sign of recog- 
 nition. War was declared without any doubt what- 
 ever, and conscience waking suddenly in Miriam's 
 breast, told her the reason of these hostilities. In the 
 evening Mrs. Sadler came, moist-eyed and in breath- 
 less haste, from the prayer meeting, cast herself down 
 in her armchair, and called to her daughter: 
 
 "Miriam, Miriam! I've heard it all! What's this 
 you've done now? It's all over Hindcup, and not one 
 of the family will ever speak to you again! " 
 
 " What have I done ? " Miriam asked bravely, but 
 her breath came a little short as she spoke. 
 
 " Written accounts of them all in a wicked London 
 paper, for money. Matilda told me she had read all 
 about herself and her little Thomas in it, and Emmie 
 and her trousseau too ; and, O Miriam ! what's to 
 be the end of it all ? " 
 
 Miriam, to tell the truth, was dismayed at last. She 
 had never dreamed that her cousins would see The 
 Advance Guard, or that seeing it, they would recog- 
 nize themselves there. 
 
 " Some one must have been trying to make mis- 
 chief," she said evasively. But Mrs. Sadler knew all 
 about it. 
 
 168
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " It's Herbert Pratt, the doctor's brother ; he's in a 
 printer's office in London, you know; the office as 
 prints this paper, it seems. He told the doctor it was 
 known who had written the papers, and he sent the 
 numbers down to him, so they all saw for themselves." 
 
 Miriam sat in silence for a little. 
 
 " Well, mother," she said at last, " it's a great pity ; 
 but seeing it's done, the best we can do is to laugh 
 about it. Don't take it too seriously ; that only makes 
 the matter worse." 
 
 Mrs. Sadler, however, as her daughter knew only 
 too well, might always be relied upon to do the worst 
 it was possible to do in any emergency; her instinct 
 in this way was unerring. 
 
 " Laugh at it ! " she cried. " Indeed, it's no laugh- 
 ing matter ; if you won't do so, I'll go myself and beg 
 pardon of every one of them ! " 
 
 " Oh, mother, don't; it's quite the best way to make 
 them think more about it," cried the girl. " Do leave 
 it alone, say no more about it, and let the whole thing 
 blow over." 
 
 But nothing would persuade Mrs. Sadler that this 
 was right, and Miriam saw that she was already rather 
 looking forward to the round of apology-making it 
 was the sort of thing she enjoyed. 
 
 Miriam was very much annoyed with herself for 
 having got into such a difficulty; surely she need not 
 have added this offense to her other sins; it is bad 
 enough to live among uncongenial people if you are 
 on good terms with them, but if you are at war with 
 them, life becomes almost impossibly difficult. 
 
 " I shall have to leave Hindcup," she told herself ; 
 169
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 and the thought was not altogether disagreeable. But 
 in the meantime she had to face a great deal that was 
 unpleasant. 
 
 The Pillars were not a family that took ridicule 
 well ; self-delight was their leading characteristic, and 
 this had been mightily offended by Miriam's shafts. 
 They held a family council, where it was decided that 
 they would continue to speak to their erring young 
 relative, but that she was never to be asked to any 
 of their houses, or included in any way in the family 
 life. They " owed it to themselves," as the delightful 
 phrase goes, to see that after such an offense, she was 
 not treated with too great leniency. 
 
 As Christmas drew near, this exclusion from the life 
 of the Pillar connection became very marked, for it was 
 their custom to make a great deal of the festive sea- 
 son. An immense amount of eating and drinking went 
 on in their various houses. On Christmas Day they 
 all dined with Maggie Broadman, because she was 
 the wealthiest of the family, and loved to display her 
 gear. On Christmas Eve they had a little dance at 
 Matilda's house, and the next evening Grace and 
 Emmie and Timothy always gave what they called 
 a " party " at the original Pillar homestead. 
 
 Mrs. Sadler was duly invited to all these entertain- 
 ments, but Miriam was excluded from them. At first, 
 with some faint maternal feeling, Mrs. Sadler had de- 
 clared she could go nowhere without her daughter, 
 but a little pressure made her reconsider this decision, 
 and she promised to attend all the gatherings. 
 
 Now youth is youth, be it never so intellectual, and 
 on Christmas Eve, after Mrs. Sadler had gone off to 
 
 170
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Matilda's dance, and even " the girl " had departed 
 on some little junketing of her own, Miriam sat by 
 the parlor fire feeling very lonely and sorry for her- 
 self. 
 
 " I've cut myself off from my own people, and I am 
 nothing to anyone else," she thought. 
 
 The book fell from her hand ; she sat staring into 
 the fire. Outside, the crisp night air was full of the 
 merry voices of young people bent on amusement the 
 whole little Hindcup world was abroad that night ; she 
 alone was dull and lonely. 
 
 Then Miriam heard a brisk step come up the path, 
 and a sharp knock upon the door. She opened it, 
 expecting to see the postman; it was not the 
 postman, however, but a footman from Hindcup 
 Manor. 
 
 "Good evenin'," said he. "Miss Sadler live 'ere? 
 Our Mrs. Pillar's niece? " 
 
 He was a young, rather jaunty-looking fellow, and 
 he stepped inside the door, as he spoke, so as to get 
 a better look at Miriam. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment. 
 
 " Yes, I am Miss Sadler. Have you brought me a 
 message from Mrs. Pillar ? " she asked. 
 
 " Well, no, Miss Sadler " he said, with a little 
 hesitation both in voice and look, " not just so to say 
 from Mrs. Pillar; but I've a letter for you 'ere from 
 Miss Gore as wants an answer." 
 
 Again Miriam hesitated. She was alone in the 
 house, so she decided to ask the man to wait at the door. 
 She turned into the parlor and opened the note. It 
 was from Delia, asking how they were to meet. " Shall 
 
 171
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 I come and see you to-morrow ? Or tell me which day 
 would suit best/' she wrote. 
 
 As she stood wondering which day and hour to ap- 
 point, the young man at the door became impatient. 
 He coughed slightly, and remarked from the door: 
 " Very cold evenin', Miss Sadler." 
 
 It was only natural. He knew this young woman 
 as Mrs. Pillar's niece ; why should he not make some 
 efforts at conversation with her ? For a moment Mir- 
 iam felt annoyed ; then she remembered how absurd 
 it was of her to be so. She decided to ask him to 
 come in. 
 
 " Will you come in and wait while I write this 
 note ? " she said, as simply and kindly as she could ; 
 but at the sound of her voice the young man seemed 
 to take a different view of the situation. 
 
 " Thanks, Miss Sadler, I'm very well here ; my boots 
 is a bit muddy," he said hastily. 
 
 Miriam scribbled her answer and handed it to him. 
 
 " I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long," she 
 said. The young man protested that he had not found 
 the time long; he could not understand Mrs. Pillar's 
 niece, somehow; she was unusual. He wished now 
 to be agreeable, yet scarcely knew how. 
 
 " Comin' to our dance on Friday evenin' ? " he asked 
 tentatively. " We're 'avin' it decorated very fine, in- 
 deed. If I might ask for the pleasure of a dance " 
 He paused and hesitated. 
 
 " Thank you," said Miriam, " but I'm not coming 
 to the dance. We are not tenants of Sir Samuel's ; it 
 is a tenants' ball." 
 
 " Oh, beg pardon ; thought perhaps being friends 
 172
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 to our Mrs. Pillar," he said ; " but there, you'd not 
 care about it, I expect, miss." 
 
 It was a tribute he found himself forced to pay to 
 this something there was in Miriam unlike her own 
 class. She smiled and shook her head. 
 
 " Perhaps not ; perhaps you're right," she said, as 
 she held the door open for him to pass out. But as 
 she came back into the empty room, she wondered if it 
 would have been impossible for her to enjoy the dance 
 at the Manor. 
 
 " Delia and Alan Gore will be there," she thought. 
 
 12 173
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE post next morning brought Miriam another 
 letter from Delia Gore. She read it over twice, and 
 then turned to her mother : 
 
 " This is from Miss Gore, mother," she said. " I 
 told you she wrote to me last night, and that I asked 
 her to come here to-day to see me ; well, it seems that 
 Lady Joyce has something else she wishes her to do 
 to-day, and so she Lady Joyce asks me to come to 
 the Tenants' Ball on Friday, instead. Do you think I 
 should go ? " 
 
 " I think, my dear, that you are a very fortunate 
 young woman, getting this chance for a little amuse- 
 ment when your own folly has cut you off from every- 
 thing else. I'm sure it's very kind of her ladyship ask- 
 ing you. I suppose you'll need a fly from the ' Green 
 Man.' Aunt Pillar will look after you ; of course she 
 isn't very well pleased with you just now, but she's not 
 as put out as the others, because you haven't written 
 anything about her yet, whatever you may do before 
 long, so I daresay she will not make any difficulty 
 about you. Yes, indeed, I think you ought to go." 
 
 Miriam was not so sure about it herself. Of course 
 she longed to go, but would it be prudent for her to 
 do so? Perhaps she might see Alan Gore, perhaps 
 oh, might that be possible ? even dance with him ! 
 
 Prudence had long ago told her that she should 
 174
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 avoid meeting Gore again, and she had listened to the 
 voice of this unloved adviser, and thought that she 
 would obey it. But Miriam would have been less than 
 a woman and wholly intolerable if she had listened 
 to it now. 
 
 " I shall be happy for once," she said, " whether it 
 makes me miserable afterwards or not." She could 
 have echoed the words of the old song: 
 
 Eh for Friday nicht, 
 Friday at the gloamin', 
 Eh for Friday nicht, 
 Friday's long in comin'! 
 
 For it seemed as if Friday would never arrive. 
 
 When it did, what a toilet Miriam made! Never 
 had she bestowed so much care and thought upon her 
 appearance; but it is gratifying to know that it was 
 to some good result. A musty-smelling fly came round 
 at eight o'clock from the " Green Man," and she 
 rumbled off in it toward the Manor. 
 
 It was only eight months since that spring evening, 
 that already seemed so far away, when she first met 
 Alan Gore in Aunt Pillar's parlor. Yet the whole 
 world was changed, and how changed she was her- 
 self since then ! 
 
 A great deal of commotion was going on in the 
 kitchen regions at the Manor. No one was there to 
 open the door for her, so she found her way as well as 
 she could along the passages to Aunt Pillar's room. 
 
 That good woman was lying back in her armchair 
 much exhausted. 
 
 " What with anxiety that cook should be successful 
 175
 
 I 1 HE LADDER 
 
 with dinner when there's so much else going on, and 
 worry as to whether them caterers from Goodhamp- 
 ton would put out the ball supper rightly, I'm all in 
 a perspiration," she ejaculated as Miriam came in. 
 She found energy, however, to survey the appearance 
 of her niece. 
 
 " That will be the dress you bought in London, I 
 suppose ; it's very plain ; but really I must say you've 
 improved ; you look quite the lady, somehow. Did you 
 say Miss Gore chose it for you ? " 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Pillar." 
 
 " Well, to my mind, that kind of plainness is another 
 form of pretension, when we put it on ; our class wear 
 trimmings naturally." 
 
 " But don't you think the plain things are nicer ? " 
 Miriam asked. 
 
 " Perhaps for the like of Miss Gore ; they seem up- 
 pish in you. Well, it was kind of her ladyship asking 
 you to-night. When I am a little rested we'll go down 
 to the hall. The dancing begins at nine o'clock. I'm 
 sure I hope the girls will behave well ; that under- 
 housemaid is a nice piece of goods, if ever there was 
 one, and I'm not too sure of the kitchenmaid, either." 
 
 After a little more in this vein, Aunt Pillar rose 
 from her chair, wiped her face, and adjusted her grand 
 lace cap at the glass. She wore her black trained silk 
 gown, " relieved," as she would have expressed it, by 
 collar and cuffs of Honiton lace, a gift from Lady 
 Joyce. A very large cameo brooch fastened the collar, 
 and a gold watch chain was festooned across her 
 bodice. Altogether Aunt Pillar was a figure to fill 
 the eye. 
 
 176
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Come away, then, Miriam ; I must be going down. 
 I hear the band tuning up. Lor' ! but I'm tired and 
 hot ! " she exclaimed, sweeping down through the 
 draughty back passages like a ship under full sail. 
 
 The hall was crowded when they came in; but a 
 way was made for Aunt Pillar through the crowd, and 
 she moved up to the top of the room, and took her 
 stand beside the butler, with whom she entered into 
 dignified conversation. 
 
 Miriam stood a little behind her aunt and looked 
 about her. She did not know all the people, by any 
 means, for they were tenants on the estate, not natives 
 of Hindcup ; but she knew most of the house servants. 
 After a minute or two the footman who had brought 
 the note came up rather shyly to address her. 
 
 " You've come, after all, Miss Sadler," he said. " I 
 'ope I may have the pleasure of a dance with you." 
 
 " Thank you," said Miriam, as pleasantly as she 
 could; but her heart sank. Was it for this sort of 
 thing that she had come to the Manor ball ? 
 
 She saw two of the housemaids nudge each other 
 and giggle. 
 
 " See James a-makin' up to Miss Sadler," one whis- 
 pered to the other. And then the door at the far end 
 of the hall opened, and Lady Joyce and her friends 
 came in. They were all laughing and talking together, 
 a bevy of men and women. It took Miriam a minute 
 or two to make out Delia and Alan Gore among them 
 all. She did not like to look hard at them, and with 
 a sudden consciousness of the difficulty of her position, 
 she shrank behind Aunt Pillar and hoped they would 
 not see her. Delia came slowly up the hall, looking 
 
 177
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 round her, then she saw Aunt Pillar and advanced to 
 where she stood. 
 
 "O Mrs. Pillar, has your niece come yet?" she 
 asked. Miriam stepped forward, and answered the 
 question in person. That curious ease which she al- 
 ways felt with Delia had taken the place of her mo- 
 mentary shyness ; she laughed with pleasure to see her 
 friend again. 
 
 " I was hiding behind Aunt Pillar," she said. " I 
 felt so shy and strange ; but now you are here it is all 
 right." 
 
 Even as she was speaking, Alan Gore came up to 
 where they stood. 
 
 " Are you going to dance with me ? " he said, look- 
 ing at her with an amused, pleased expression. 
 
 " O Mr. Gore, I'm sorry. I have just promised 
 to dance with Thomas, the footman," she answered. 
 
 " But I don't fancy you have promised to dance with 
 him all the night ? Perhaps I may come after him ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course you may," she said. 
 
 " And has the world been going well with you 
 lately ? " he inquired. " We have been immensely 
 amused by your sketches in The Advance Guard of 
 late." 
 
 " Oh, don't please speak about them ! " Miriam ex- 
 claimed. She would have explained further, but James 
 came up at that moment to claim his dance, and the 
 explanation had to be deferred. 
 
 He laid a large, heavy hand on her shoulder and 
 led her forward. 
 
 " There's a man for you ! '' he exclaimed as they 
 stood together ; he indicated that it was of Alan Gore 
 
 178
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 he spoke. " Not another like him don't tip as 
 heavy as many of the gentlemen that comes here, and 
 yet well, there's that in 'im that none of them has." 
 
 " Yes," said Miriam. " I know what you mean." 
 
 " Speaks to you different, somehow. And I'll tell 
 you what, Miss Sadler, it ain't just affability; they're 
 mostly all affable, or wish to be; there's not a more 
 affable gentleman than our Sir Samuel in England. 
 But Mr. Gore's not affable, 'ee's human." 
 
 " Yes." She agreed again, and the eulogist pur- 
 sued: 
 
 " Went into his room with a telegram this very 
 mornin'. I was a bit worried over something meself 
 to-day. You wouldn't suppose as anyone would notice 
 the way I looked, but 'ee did. Mr. Gore did, asked me 
 straight out ' Wat was the matter ? ' and 'ad me telling 
 of it all to him before I knew where I was." 
 
 " Ah ! " Miriam cried. " That's it ! Something no 
 one else has. If all the world was like Mr. Gore, there 
 would be an end of all this hateful class feeling." 
 
 James was surprised. He had been hearing about 
 Miriam from the other servants ; evidently what they 
 said was true; she was peculiar. 
 
 " Well, I ain't got no quarrel with my class, nor yet 
 with the gentry, when I'm treated decent," he said. 
 " But I hear you're a bit different, Miss Sadler, risin' 
 in the scale, so to say ? " 
 
 " It has been my misfortune to long for knowledge, 
 and desire expression," said Miriam gravely. 
 
 " O Lor' ! " said James, and the heartfelt exclama- 
 tion made her laugh. She had, indeed, forgotten to 
 whom she was speaking, and could readily understand 
 
 179
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 how ridiculous her remark must have made her ap- 
 pear to the young man. The laugh did something to 
 atone for the highfaluting sentiment that had preceded 
 it, and James, a little reassured, drew her in among the 
 dancers. But when his dance was over, he made no 
 effort to secure another with this strange young 
 woman ; he made his way across the hall to where one 
 of the smart young housemaids stood. 
 
 " Come, Ethel, 'ave the polka with me," he said 
 persuasively ; " Mrs. Pillar's niece 'as given me the 
 shivers up me back. That's not the 'orse for my 
 money ! " 
 
 180
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 RELEASED from the society of James, Miriam went 
 and sat down at the side of the room to wait until 
 it was time for her dance with Alan Gore ; she was not 
 anxious to have another partner in the meantime. It 
 was quite sufficiently amusing to sit there watching 
 all that went on ; she was content and happy. 
 
 When Gore came for their dance she could scarcely 
 speak for pleasure; to stand beside him, to hold his 
 hand was a rapture she had never guessed at before. 
 
 " I'm afraid you're thinking this all a great bore," 
 he said, misinterpreting her silence. 
 
 She looked up at him and smiled. 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed I am not," she assured him. 
 
 " Well, when our dance is over, we shall sit down 
 and talk; one can't dance and talk rationally at the 
 same time," he said. 
 
 Miriam laughed. " I have just frightened that 
 young man, the footman, James, so much. I said 
 something rational to him, and he thought I was 
 crazy." 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 " Only that I desired knowledge, and expression, or 
 words to that effect." 
 
 " Poor James ! And what did he say ? " 
 
 " He said, ' O Lor' ! ' and never spoke to me again." 
 
 " Well, be warned, and say nothing profound to me 
 until I sit down." 
 
 181
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 It was soon over, very soon it seemed to her, and then 
 they sat down on the benches at the end of the hall. 
 Miriam watched the crowd before them with somber, 
 intent eyes. 
 
 " What do you see in it all ? " Gore asked her. 
 
 " I have had little amusement or gayety in my life," 
 she began hesitatingly ; " and when I catch a glimpse 
 of it sometimes, I begin to wonder if it isn't, after all, 
 the most valuable real bit of life ; just to be alive and 
 amused and delighted. Is that not worth more than 
 anything else ? " 
 
 Gore sat looking down at the ground in silence ; 
 indeed, he was silent so long that Miriam thought he 
 could not have heard her question. 
 
 " Do you know," he said suddenly, " I've felt that, 
 too, as if all the aspirations and struggles of life 
 seemed empty nonsense compared with the emotional 
 side of it ' By all these things men live ' there's no 
 getting past that." 
 
 Just as he spoke, a woman passed close to where 
 they sat. Miriam had noticed her when she came in 
 with Lady Joyce. As she passed them, she made a 
 little fluttering gesture with her hand to Alan Gore. 
 
 " Oh, who is that ? " Miriam exclaimed. " How 
 beautiful she is. I have never seen anyone so beau- 
 tiful!" 
 
 " That is Sophia Hastings, the woman I am going 
 to marry," Gore answered. There was a short silence. 
 
 " I did not know," said Miriam. She could not say 
 a word of well-wishing or felicitation to him ; curiously 
 enough the words that passed through her mind were 
 those of poor Swift's epitaph she had been reading 
 
 182
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 and wondering at the day before : " Where fierce rage 
 can tear the heart no more." 
 
 She seemed to understand at that moment what the 
 terrible words meant. The injustice of things appeared 
 suddenly manifest to her ; the way in which everything 
 went to some favorite of the gods, while others as 
 good, but outcasts from their favor, were tossed only 
 the crumbs from the feast. Why should this woman 
 get everything? Had she done anything to deserve 
 such happiness? she asked herself stupidly, ignoring 
 the obvious fact that it is very seldom the deserving 
 who get their deserts. Young and beautiful, and 
 doubtless wealthy, why had this crowning blessedness 
 been given to Sophia Hastings ? A little more knowl- 
 edge of life would have taught her that it was just 
 because Sophia Hastings was young and beautiful and 
 wealthy, that the final blessedness was added to her 
 brimming cup. But, as yet, Miriam had not this 
 knowledge; she still thought that felicity should be 
 earned. 
 
 " You have not wished me joy," said Alan Gore. 
 (Almost the same words that Dr. Pratt had used, but 
 how differently they affected Miriam!) 
 
 " I am tired of wishing joy to other people ; I want 
 some of my own, for a change," she answered bitterly 
 and ungraciously. Her words made Gore look up in 
 surprise. 
 
 " I'm afraid things have not been going well with 
 you," he said. " Is anything specially the matter? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " something very special. I 
 happen to be very miserable to-night, and it seems the 
 last straw to hear about your her happiness." 
 
 183
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " I am so sorry that I told you," he said. Another 
 dance had begun, and the whirling figures passed and 
 repassed before them. The music, loud and pulsing, 
 rang in her ears ; it seemed intolerable to Miriam. 
 She longed to go away and leave all this noise and be 
 alone. But that was impossible. She pulled herself 
 together with a great effort. 
 
 " This isn't the time or the place to talk about one's 
 griefs," she said ; " nor to think about them, either. 
 And, O Mr. Gore, I hope you will be happy ! I don't 
 know how I could be so disagreeable just now." 
 
 She did not wait to hear his answer, but turned away 
 into the crowd and sought for Aunt Pillar. The night 
 would come to an end sometime ; she must get through 
 it as well as she could. 
 
 Aunt Pillar welcomed her with unwonted geniality. 
 
 " Here you are, Miriam, just when I was looking 
 for you; you're in luck to-night. I saw you going 
 round the room with Mr. Gore. Here's Mr. Spens, the 
 house steward, wanting a dance with you now." 
 
 So Miriam danced with Mr. Spens, and you may be 
 sure he found her a dull enough partner. Then Aunt 
 Pillar, in her capacity of chaperone, produced two or 
 three other men for her niece's benefit; and she had 
 to get through a dance with each of them. Twice in 
 the course of the night she suggested that she must be 
 going home, twice Aunt Pillar refused to let her go. 
 
 " Her ladyship would notice it," she said ; " after 
 getting the invitation, it would never do; she would 
 think you weren't enjoying yourself, and really it's 
 wonderful how many dances you've had. You've 
 scarcely sat down all the evening ! " 
 
 184
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 At last, however, Aunt Pillar allowed that the time 
 had come for her niece to go. 
 
 " You've a longish drive before you get home, so 
 you should be off now. I'll send James to get the fly 
 round to the door for you," she said. Miriam gladly 
 escaped into the cool air of the passages, and made her 
 way down to the door. 
 
 James, a little happy after various suppers, had pro- 
 duced the flyman. He came to put Miriam into the 
 fly, and took the opportunity of squeezing her hand 
 in a friendly way, as he helped her into the vehicle. 
 " Good night, Miss Sadler," he said ; " and a Merry 
 Christmas to you. And take my advice and leave them 
 haspirations alone, an' look out for a good 'usband." 
 
 He tucked the train of her dress in, and banged the 
 door of the fly. 
 
 Miriam sank back against the fusty-smelling cush- 
 ions and sobbed. Thus ended her Christmas ball, and 
 a chapter of her life with it. 
 
 185
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 AT breakfast next morning Miriam had to tell her 
 mother all about the ball, that is to say, she told her 
 precisely such things about it as mattered nothing at 
 all. Mrs. Sadler listened with great interest, and then, 
 in her turn, gave an account of the evening she had 
 spent at Matilda's. 
 
 " And a very pleasant party it was, all the cousins, 
 and myself, and Mr. Smaile " She paused and smiled. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Smaile?" Miriam asked. "I wonder 
 why Matilda asks him to her house a horrid old 
 man." 
 
 " O my dear ! such a way to speak of the best of 
 men," Mrs. Sadler exclaimed. 
 
 Mr. Smaile was an ex-schoolmaster living on a tiny 
 annuity in Hindcup. He had always been a pet aver- 
 sion of Miriam's, though she could not very well say 
 why she disliked him so much. She hated even to 
 meet him in the street, and turned away from him 
 instinctively. He was a short man with a profuse 
 white beard covering his face almost up to the eyes. 
 
 " I wish you didn't take them violent dislikes," Mrs. 
 Sadler remarked ; " and it's so often for those I re- 
 spect and like. There's Mr. Hobbes, too ; you've never 
 a good word to say for Mr. Hobbes." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure he's a good man," said Miriam eva- 
 sively, and changed the subject. 
 
 It was a cold, bright morning out of doors. A great 
 186
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 scarlet sun climbed up through the frost-fog, gained 
 the victory over it, and then shone down out of a 
 cloudless sky. In the meadows every blade of grass 
 was stiffened into a tiny white spear ; the whole world 
 was dazzling with light and stung into briskness by 
 the nip of the winter's breath. 
 
 Miriam worked away all the morning at various 
 household tasks, and only in the afternoon escaped for 
 a walk in the fields. She took the long, undulating 
 road which leads out of Hindcup to the higher coun- 
 try lying to the north. It was a beautiful road, dip- 
 ping now and then into hollows where beech trees 
 grew, and then mounting by long slopes bordered with 
 wild holly hedges. Here and there a row of ilex trees 
 had been planted, classic, un-English-looking trees that 
 gave a strange picturesqueness to the landscape. When 
 all the distance was hazy, they stood out black and 
 shapely against it. Miriam breathed a long sigh of 
 relief as she got out into the country, for she had 
 longed for solitude, and it is one of the special trials 
 of households such as she lived in, that solitude can 
 rarely be procured there. She stood and looked round 
 her at the calm, wide country, and a sudden sense 
 of relief and comfort stole over her. The frost of the 
 morning had disappeared before the strength of the 
 noonday sunshine, and now a soft white haze hung 
 over the land, heralding the quick winter dusk. How 
 beautiful it all was ! Among all the change and sad- 
 ness of life, here was one fixed point that nothing 
 moved the beauty of the world. It was a great, un- 
 deniable fact, as immense, as irrefutable as the fact 
 of sin and misery. 
 
 187
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " And in the same way," Miriam thought, " the hap- 
 piness there is in the world is a certainty as real as 
 the misery in it; even if I do not share in this happi- 
 ness, that is no reason for disbelieving in it; as well 
 might a blind man disbelieve in the light that other 
 men walk by." 
 
 As then, side by side with the barrenness of her own 
 life, Miriam realized the excellent beauty of the ma- 
 terial world, and the strange bliss that mortality may 
 enjoy, she seemed for the first time to catch sight of 
 the whole instead of only part of life. 
 
 " Oh, if I could only write it ! if I could write it ! " 
 she exclaimed aloud. She had walked on, her eyes 
 bent on the ground, looking neither to the right hand 
 nor to the left, and in this way had not noticed that 
 some one was standing beside a gate at the side of 
 the road. It was Max Courteis. He came forward 
 laughing, and held out his hand to her. 
 
 " Good people say your sin always finds you out ; 
 what do you wish so much to write ? " he said. 
 
 " O Mr. Courteis ! I I didn't know you were 
 here," she faltered. 
 
 " I came down till Monday to The Old House quite 
 unexpectedly. Well, you haven't told me what it is 
 you wish to write." 
 
 " The whole of life, instead of bits of it," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 " Rather an ambitious programme, eh ? Well, how 
 are you going to begin? You must make a curious 
 plum-pudding sort of thing, if you wish to get at the 
 truth (you see, one can't escape Christmas, it's in the 
 air and affects one's metaphors), a lot of stodgy stuff, 
 
 188
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 some plums and peel, and flaming brandy sauce added 
 a-top, if you're a clever cook." 
 
 " I think I recognize all the ingredients except the 
 brandy sauce ; what does that stand for ? " 
 
 " Passion, of course ; without which you will never 
 write a good book." 
 
 Miriam had been brought up in a prim school ; the 
 word brought a blush to her cheek, but she recognized 
 the truth of Courteis's words. 
 
 " Well ? " he pursued. " Do you think you can sup- 
 ply them all ? " He was very much amused by Mir- 
 iam's hot cheeks. 
 
 " I don't know ; perhaps I can't," she said. 
 
 They had gained the crest of the long hill, and 
 paused now to look down into that little green valley 
 which lies below the road. 
 
 " Halloo ! look at the hounds ! " Courteis exclaimed. 
 
 A knot of huntsmen in pink were gathered where a 
 low bridge crossed the road ; the hounds were questing 
 about to either side they seemed at fault. The hunts- 
 man was calling to them with strange cries. 
 
 Miriam and Courteis stood to watch the little scene ; 
 her sympathies, womanlike, went with the fox. 
 
 " I hope he'll get away," she said. 
 
 " Oh, bad luck if he does," said Courteis, true in 
 turn to his sex. 
 
 As they stood thus, two riders came swiftly across 
 the field, a man and a woman. The horses took the 
 fence and passed down the road like a flash ; Alan Gore 
 was one of the riders, Sophia Hastings the other. 
 
 As they passed, without noticing her, Miriam turned 
 aside ; her face went suddenly white. 
 13 189
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Why, that was Alan Gore ! " Courteis exclaimed, 
 glancing at the girl beside him. 
 
 She turned away hastily. 
 
 " Good-by, Mr. Courteis ; I don't wish to stay and 
 see that poor fox killed," she said, and walked away 
 down the hill so quickly that Courteis had no time to 
 reply. He stood looking after her for a minute and 
 whistled to himself. 
 
 " I wonder about that brandy sauce," he said. 
 
 By the time Miriam got home it was almost dark. 
 It was past tea time she knew, and she wondered if 
 her mother had waited for her; but Mrs. Sadler ap- 
 parently had not waited, for a clink of china and the 
 sound of voices announced that she was entertaining 
 visitors. 
 
 Now, as you may imagine, it was not pleasant for 
 Miriam pariah as she was when any of her cousins 
 and neighbors chose to come to the house. It would 
 never do, however, to give in to this feeling, so she 
 entered the parlor as bravely as might be. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes were there, and the detested 
 Mr. Smaile. So great was Miriam's aversion to the 
 man that she involuntarily stepped back at sight of 
 him, and stood for a moment irresolute in the door- 
 way. 
 
 " Come in, my dear ; you're very late," said Mrs. 
 Sadler. She looked flushed and excited; her cap was 
 slightly awry. 
 
 Miriam greeted her mother's guests and sat down 
 at the tea table. An ominous silence fell ; but she was 
 almost accustomed to this token of disapproval. 
 
 " Have you been out on one of your long walks ? " 
 190
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Mrs. Hobbes asked, and Miriam replied in the affirma- 
 tive, adding that it was too fine a day to be spent in- 
 doors. 
 
 " We have been cutting up the sandwiches for the 
 Christian Institute tea," Mrs. Hobbes said ; " but I 
 suppose you think that rather a waste of time ? " 
 
 Miriam made an evasive answer, and again silence 
 fell. Mr. Smaile was stirring his tea very carefully, 
 looking down into his cup and smiling. He cleared 
 his throat and slipped in a remark in his hurried, sly 
 manner : 
 
 " I'm afraid Miriam does not see eye to eye with us 
 all." The girl looked up at him, surprised and angry. 
 She had never heard him speak of her by her Chris- 
 tian name before, and she did not like that he should 
 do it. 
 
 " I am afraid not," she said very coldly. 
 
 " Your dear good mother, here, and I see eye to eye 
 in everything," Mr. Smaile went on, and then added : 
 " Our tastes, in fact, are identical." 
 
 Miriam looked round the little party in a mystified 
 way. Something seemed to be exciting them ; some- 
 thing she did not understand. 
 
 " I think we must explain to Miriam," said Mr. 
 Hobbes. 
 
 " Explain what ? Has anything happened that I 
 don't know about ? " she asked. 
 
 " Well, I daresay it will come as rather a surprise 
 to you," said Mr. Hobbes. " The fact is shall I go 
 on, Mrs. Sadler ? " 
 
 Mrs. Sadler sat back in her chair and smiled in a 
 curious way, and Mr. Hobbes went on : 
 
 191
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " The fact is, that Mr. Smaile and your mother are 
 going to be married. It's an old friendship, and a very 
 suitable marriage, and I'm sure will be for the hap- 
 piness of everyone concerned." 
 
 Miriam rose and stood upright by the table, trem- 
 bling with anger. It was a minute or two before she 
 could command her voice enough to speak, then she 
 turned to Mrs. Sadler. 
 
 " Mother," she said, " is this true ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite true, my dear. Smaile and I settled 
 it all last night," Mrs. Sadler replied, but not very 
 stoutly. A braver soul than hers would have quailed 
 before the anger that burned in her daughter's 
 eyes. 
 
 " It can't be true. You are my mother, aren't you ? 
 You can't mean to marry that creature ! " she cried, 
 regardless of all civility in her hot disgust. 
 
 " O Miriam ! what a way to speak ; indeed, if I 
 had had a better daughter perhaps I would have 
 thought twice about marrying again," cried Mrs. 
 Sadler. 
 
 Mr. Hobbes now tried to pour oil on the troubled 
 waters. He appealed by turns to Miriam and to Mrs. 
 Sadler, begging them to be calm ; but his words only 
 roused the girl to greater anger. 
 
 " I won't listen to anything any of you have to say," 
 she declared. " There is no other side to the case ; 
 the whole thing is odious." 
 
 " Now, Miriam, don't set yourself against your poor, 
 dear mother," Mrs. Hobbes broke in. " You might 
 all be so happy together, you and your mother and 
 Smaile ; what with the something he has, and the some- 
 
 192
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 thing she has, 'tis a most comfortable arrangement, 
 to my mind." 
 
 " There, you have told the truth at last, Mrs. 
 Hobbes," Miriam cried. " It's my mother's money, 
 such as it is, that he wants. Yes, Mr. Smaile, if my 
 mother were very poor you would not be so anxious 
 to marry her." 
 
 " This is more than I can stand," said Mr. Smaile, 
 rising hastily at Miriam's last words, and addressing 
 Mrs. Sadler. " If your daughter is going to insult me, 
 it will be better for me to go. Good night, my dear. 
 Good night, Mrs. Hobbes; I don't like to cause fam- 
 ily dissensions." He scuttled to the door as a cur flies 
 from a volley of stones. 
 
 " Miriam," said Mr. Hobbes very solemnly. " Mir- 
 iam, you are a firebrand." 
 
 Mrs. Hobbes was awed into silence, and Mrs. Sadler 
 wept. 
 
 " I think you had better go, too," said Miriam 
 to the remaining guests. " I don't see what outsiders 
 have to do with this. Mother and I must settle it 
 together." 
 
 " Oh, well, I'm not one to stay where I'm not 
 wanted," said Mrs. Hobbes, flouncing to the door. 
 
 Miriam waited till they were gone, and then came 
 and sat down by her mother. 
 
 " Now that you are alone with me, will you listen 
 to what I have to say ? " she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Sadler wiped her eyes. 
 
 " Where's the use, my dear ? You do take such 
 violent views ! " 
 
 Miriam began her argument. But before it was half 
 
 193
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 done, she recognized the futility of it. Mr. Smaile 
 had appealed to that strongest weakness of the female 
 heart vanity and nothing that could be said weighed 
 for a moment against his flattery. 
 
 " You must remember, mother, that you are elderly 
 now ; it is your money he wants," she repeated ; but 
 this plain statement did not in the least convince Mrs. 
 Sadler. 
 
 " You may say so ; but Smaile has often told me 
 he thought me a very handsome woman yet," said 
 Mrs. Sadler. 
 
 "O mother! he just said that to please you," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure your father often said the same," 
 poor Mrs. Sadler cried, in self-defense. 
 
 " But that was thirty years ago, mother " 
 
 " And then Smaile is such an earnest Christian " 
 Mrs. Sadler began, passing on to another plea. But 
 her daughter would not hear this for a moment. 
 
 " Mother, how can you take Christ's name in vain 
 like that ! " she cried. " Christians are those who fol- 
 low His example. Did Christ scheme and plot for 
 money, and flatter women ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear, you do say the most blasphemous 
 things as ever were said ! " cried Mrs. Sadler. 
 
 Thus to and fro their argument went, always com- 
 ing back to the same conclusion. Nothing would turn 
 Mrs. Sadler from her determination to marry again. 
 
 " Very well, then, mother ; I shall leave you. I 
 would never even try to live in the same house with 
 Mr. Smaile," said Miriam. 
 
 " Well, remember it's not me that turned you out, 
 194
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 nor yet Mr. Smaile, for he spoke very handsomely 
 about you, and how he hoped we'd all be happy to- 
 gether." 
 
 " I shall take the blame, mother," said Miriam. She 
 felt a sudden sense of relief. The place had been too 
 straight for her for years; now a decision had been 
 forced upon her she must leave home. 
 
 " I shall go out into the world and work and 
 and " she thought. 
 
 How often in conjecture we come up to this " and 
 and " the unknown, the unknowable that closed 
 door against which we beat ourselves in vain! 
 
 195
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 WHAT to do next? Where to go? Who to ask 
 advice from? All these questions crowded upon Mir- 
 iam. That she would go to London was obvious ; but 
 where in London? How could she live alone there? 
 Who would be her helper ? There was Delia Gore, of 
 course ; she was the first person to consult ; but then it 
 was so difficult to see Delia at the Manor. Miriam de- 
 cided to write to her instead. But in the meantime the 
 news of Miriam's conduct to Mr. Smaile had spread to 
 all the cousins, and each in turn came to remonstrate 
 with her. She scarcely made a pretense of listening to 
 these remonstrances, and replied to them all in the same 
 words : 
 
 " What you say may be true ; but I won't live on in 
 this house with Mr. Smaile. I am going to leave 
 home." 
 
 Aunt Pillar, with her brutal practicality, was the first 
 person who confronted Miriam with the simple ques- 
 tion : " And what are you going to live on ? Your own 
 twenty pounds a year, I suppose ? You won't manage 
 very well on that. I doubt you'll have to come back 
 to living with your mother and old Smaile before 
 long." 
 
 " I'd rather starve," said Miriam recklessly. 
 
 " You've not tried it yet," was Aunt Pillar's grimly 
 true retort. 
 
 196
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Thus brought to book, Miriam faced the difficulties 
 of her position. She had, as Aunt Pillar said, twenty 
 pounds a year of her own ; she had also made a certain 
 amount by the obnoxious contributions to The Advance 
 Guard; but she was too level-headed to suppose for a 
 moment that she could support herself by writing, es- 
 pecially if she tried to do so. 
 
 " Perhaps if I knew my living didn't depend upon it, 
 and if I might take my own time over the work, I 
 might make money ; but never if I felt I was depend- 
 ent on it," she said to herself. 
 
 The only thing to be done then was to get her 
 mother to consent to give her enough to live upon. 
 Miriam called in the help of a solicitor, who managed 
 their small money affairs, and represented to him that 
 it was impossible for her to live at home, and impos- 
 sible for her, as yet, to support herself ; could he pre- 
 vail upon Mrs. Sadler to allow her fifty pounds a year 
 to live upon in London? Mrs. Sadler's income was 
 two hundred and fifty pounds, not princely, but 
 as Miriam represented to the solicitor, if her board 
 were removed from the household expenses, surely she 
 might have fifty pounds to live upon elsewhere? It 
 did not seem much to ask of a parent, as the solicitor 
 agreed ; but the question was whether the parent would 
 see this? Not so long ago Mrs. Sadler had, equally 
 with Aunt Pillar, refused her daughter the means to 
 go away from home to study ; how was it to be sup- 
 posed that she would consent to this new scheme? 
 Miriam lived through several weeks of horrible sus- 
 pense; then, as is often the case, help came from 
 where it was least expected. But she would not have 
 
 197
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 been flattered if she could have heard the conversation 
 between her mother and Mr. Smaile which decided 
 her fate. 
 
 " Well, Priscilla, have you come to any agreement 
 with this daughter of yours ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed ; how could I come to any 
 decision? She's been and consulted Mr. Banks, the 
 solicitor ! " 
 
 " Well, Priscilla, if you take my advice you get rid 
 of Miriam as soon as possible. There will be no peace 
 in the house with her in it. I advise you to let her go." 
 
 " But fifty pounds a year is a large sum, and every- 
 thing so expensive nowadays ! " 
 
 " Peace is cheap at fifty pounds, Priscilla ; let the girl 
 go. We will do very well on your two hundred pounds 
 and my hundred and fifty put together. Let her go and 
 welcome." 
 
 Here Mrs. Sadler began to shed a few natural tears 
 at the thought of her daughter's departure. Moreover, 
 she began to see other lions in the way. Where was 
 Miriam to go? Who would look after her? She 
 was so self-willed, so unlike other young women of 
 her age. 
 
 " You have cousins in Maida Vale, have you not, 
 Priscilla ? " Mr. Smaile suggested. But this sugges- 
 tion was impracticable. 
 
 " To be sure I have ; but the girl don't get on so 
 well with her cousins in Hindcup that she should get 
 on better with cousins in Maida Vale," wailed Mrs. 
 Sadler. Still, the main point had been decided by this 
 conversation, and that night Mrs. Sadler told Miriam 
 she might have fifty pounds a year (" all through the 
 
 198
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 goodness of Mr. Smaile"), if she could live on that 
 sum. 
 
 Miriam, pending this decision, had been correspond- 
 ing with Delia Gore on the practical side of the case. 
 Delia suggested that an old maid of her aunt's would 
 take Miriam to board with her. Cochrane was the 
 woman's name, and Delia vouched for her entire re- 
 spectability. Her terms would be low, and her house 
 was comfortable. 
 
 Miriam had even written to Cochrane and found out 
 that she would be glad to receive her. So, when Mrs. 
 Sadler announced her decision, she had a plan to un- 
 fold. Her mother received it coldly, and went off to 
 consult with Maggie Broadman about it. 
 
 " There's really no saying what Miriam mayn't do 
 now," Maggie said, shaking her head. " Going off, no 
 one knows where, to live with no one knows who, and 
 write no one knows what." But Aunt Pillar contra- 
 dicted one clause of this indictment. 
 
 " I know Cochrane," she said. " She was maid to 
 old Lady Gore of Replands; one of them Scotch 
 women as haven't too many manners, but a good head 
 and a good heart. Miriam will do well enough with 
 her. She refused Jenkins, the Gores' old butler. I 
 never knew why. He retired on his money after being 
 thirty-five years in the family, and set up a temper- 
 ance hotel in Victoria somewhere. Well, it was then 
 he made Cochrane an offer, and she wouldn't have him, 
 and she'll die an old maid." 
 
 It was something to know this impeccably respect- 
 able life-history of the woman with whom Miriam 
 proposed to lodge; but it was, indeed, impossible, as 
 
 199
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Maggie had said, to foretell what she might choose 
 to write. " It must be about us," the cousins agreed. 
 And Emmie, who was more simple than her sisters, 
 and had more quickly forgiven Miriam's former of- 
 fense, tried to make her swear silence as to her and 
 Dr. Pratt's affairs. 
 
 " Won't you promise not to write all about me and 
 Sydney?" she entreated. "Sydney says he always 
 knows you are taking notes of what he says, and if you 
 published all about our courtship, all I've told you, I 
 wouldn't know where to look." 
 
 " Oh, don't be afraid, Emmie ; I won't write any- 
 thing about you," said Miriam ; and actually kissed the 
 empty little face that looked up so entreatingly. 
 
 But when it was definitely settled that she must leave 
 Hindcup, Miriam felt some twinges of homesickness. 
 When the old church bells broke suddenly into a crash 
 of delicious sound, or as she counted the heavy strokes 
 of the clock that measured out the hours of the placid 
 Hindcup days, a rush of tears would come to her eyes ; 
 for home is home. 
 
 London seemed far away and strange her only 
 friends in it the Gores and Max Courteis, and she 
 must not be too dependent on either of them. Would 
 it be possible for her to make some sort of foothold for 
 herself? And then, while these fears were crowding 
 over her mind, came a letter from Delia Gore which 
 added a new fear. Delia was going abroad with her 
 uncle, and would not be in London at all that year. 
 
 " So," thought Miriam, " I shall practically be alone. 
 I shall never see Mr. Gore when Delia is away, and 
 what are Mr. and Mrs. Courteis to me ? " Thus it 
 
 200
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 happens often in life. We say " This or that one will 
 help me," " This or that circumstance will aid me/' 
 and again and again we are flung back upon ourselves, 
 surprised and diffident, to learn the hard lesson of self- 
 dependence. 
 
 201
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 COCHRANE, the maid who had so rashly and proudly 
 refused a butler, lived in that region made classic by the 
 residence there of the Carlyles. Her house was very 
 small and dark, but not dismal, because it was old and 
 had none of the vulgarities of jerry building. Coch- 
 rane met Miriam at the door on the afternoon of her 
 arrival a dark February afternoon it was and held 
 out her hand in welcome. She was a tall woman, and 
 had a curious way of always looking down, even when 
 she addressed one, yet there was nothing furtive in 
 her appearance ; the dropped lids only gave her an in- 
 scrutable expression. 
 
 "I wonder why she refused the butler?" Miriam 
 thought, as they went into the dark little parlor to- 
 gether. 
 
 " You'll be ready for tea," said Cochrane. " It's a 
 tiresome journey from Hindcup; I used to take it 
 many a time long ago ; and how is Mrs. Pillar ? " 
 
 Miriam sat by the fire and sipped her tea, and felt 
 less forlorn. The sound of her aunt's well-known 
 name was reassuring. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Pillar is quite well," she said. " She 
 asked me to give you her ' regards.' " Unintention- 
 ally she spoke with a satirical intonation which did not 
 escape her listener. Cochrane looked up for just a 
 moment, and then let her eyelids drop again. 
 
 202
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " You haven't been getting on very well at home of 
 late, I hear ? " she said. Miriam did not know whether 
 to be glad or sorry that her character had been sent 
 before her in this way. She concluded that it was 
 perhaps best that Cochrane should understand how 
 things stood. 
 
 " I have been getting on very badly," she admitted. 
 
 " Well, I hope you'll succeed in what you've set out 
 to do. I don't like to see young people disappointed. 
 Mrs. Pillar wrote me that you had been writing for 
 magazines ; she seemed not very well pleased about it." 
 
 " Yes," said Miriam. " They were all displeased." 
 
 " And you think it will be better to live alone and 
 write, than be comfortably at home with your 
 mother ? " 
 
 " I can't be comfortable at home now." 
 
 " Home's home," said Cochrane laconically ; and she 
 added : " But I always think young people should be 
 allowed to try their own way; there's no getting ex- 
 perience secondhand." 
 
 It did not sound encouraging; but something about 
 the woman breathed a certain unspoken sympathy 
 to Miriam. Cochrane rose and laid down her cup, 
 saying : 
 
 " I was young myself once, and I don't forget it. 
 We all make our mistakes. Well, if you're ready, I'll 
 show you your room upstairs." She preceded Mir- 
 iam up the steep little staircase, and showed her into 
 a pleasant south-looking room. There was an old- 
 fashioned tent bed in one corner, and a table in the 
 window. 
 
 " That was one of her ladyship's beds at Replands," 
 203
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 said Cochrane, pausing and taking one of the faded 
 chintz hangings in her hand almost lovingly. " That 
 and the chest of drawers both came from Replands; 
 they give a fine look to the room. Well, I hope you'll 
 be comfortable. I'll leave you to unpack now." 
 
 Miriam did not unpack at once, however. She sat 
 down by the window and gazed out at the roofs, and 
 wondered what life would bring her in this little back- 
 water of a house. She wondered if she had been a fool 
 to come here. 
 
 " How can I write anything worth while ? " she 
 asked herself bitterly. " None of my poor little ex- 
 periences are worth putting down on paper. If God, 
 who holds life in His hand, would send me some of 
 the great experiences that other people have, I might 
 then do something with them. But now I am like a 
 sharp knife that has nothing to cut." 
 
 Well, at any rate, she thought, she had set her feet 
 free by this break with home. It would now be possible 
 to regulate her life as she chose, to do what she thought 
 right herself, and what it seemed worth while to 
 do. She took out her little blank book, in which so 
 many resolutions had been recorded, and wrote down 
 her thoughts : 
 
 " I am going in future to regulate my life and con- 
 duct entirely by what I believe to be right, without 
 reference to what other people believe to be right. For 
 it seems to me that we are too apt to live by rote, going 
 along commonly accepted lines, instead of thinking 
 out what we individually believe to be the best way 
 of living. I go to church, for instance, not because 
 I earnestly believe it right to do so, but because most 
 
 204
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 so-called respectable people are in the habit of going 
 there. In future I shall not go to church unless I 
 earnestly long to do so, and believe that there I shall 
 see God." 
 
 This revolutionary programme filled Miriam's 
 soul with a sort of solemn joy. Farther on she 
 wrote : 
 
 " To walk straightforward surely must always be 
 right; to follow our inner voice, instead of the voice 
 of other people. The worst sin that I seem to myself 
 to be in danger of committing is wasting life ; not 
 making the best of it. I may never be able to do any- 
 thing in the least valuable ; but if I have honestly at- 
 tempted all I can, I need not be ashamed to give in the 
 account of my stewardship. The story of the unjust 
 steward has always thrilled me; I have never heard 
 the words ' Give an account of thy stewardship ' 
 without the strangest feeling of longing. Oh, how I 
 wish to give in my account! My whole connections 
 are blaming me just now; calling me unnatural and 
 wrong-headed. I should not care; I am doing the 
 best I see to do." 
 
 But Miriam was to find that it was not so easy as 
 she imagined to live without reference to other people's 
 ideas. How familiar it seemed on Sunday morning 
 to hear Cochrane say to her : 
 
 " What church do you propose to attend ? Perhaps 
 you will come with me. I go to the City Temple." It 
 cost her quite a pang to reply as she did : 
 
 " I do not think I shall go to church at all just now. 
 I am not sure that I approve of churches, and until 
 I see clearly on the subject I shall stay at home." 
 14 205
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 "Ahem! well, perhaps you're right; but I've never 
 got any harm at the City Temple," was Cochrane's 
 rejoinder. 
 
 " That's a negative way of putting it," laughed Mir- 
 iam. She stood at the window and watched Cochrane 
 walk away down the little street. A feeling of slight 
 vacancy came over her. What would she do with her- 
 self for the next two or three hours? Just then a 
 messenger boy came along, ran up the steps and rat- 
 tled a letter into the box, and gave a huge pull at the 
 door bell. The little maidservant, who was dressing 
 for church, flew downstairs like a whirlwind, and ap- 
 peared at the parlor door a minute later with a letter, 
 which she handed to Miriam. 
 
 She opened the note in some surprise. It was from 
 Max Courteis, begging her to come to their house that 
 afternoon. 
 
 " There will be a lot of clever people here, people 
 you won't meet every day in Hindcup ; no, nor in Lon- 
 don, either. I've asked a friend of ours, Mrs. Hughes, 
 to drive you here ; she will call for you at four o'clock, 
 and take you home, too. Be sure to come," Courteis 
 wrote. 
 
 Oh, delightful, delightful ! to get away from her 
 solitary musings and her intercourse with the austere 
 Cochrane, into this interesting, clever world ! Mir- 
 iam was beginning to have more confidence in herself, 
 so she did not tremble as of yore at the prospect of 
 " a lot of people." 
 
 She gave a random thought to her clothes ; but 
 since Delia's reformation, her dress had been much 
 more presentable, so even this caused her no annoy- 
 
 206
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 ance. When Cochrane returned from church she 
 found Miriam quite animated. 
 
 " I am going to the Courteises' this afternoon," she 
 said ; " it will be interesting." 
 
 " What would your mother say to Sunday outings ? " 
 Cochrane asked severely. 
 
 " I am afraid she would not approve of them," Mir- 
 iam admitted. " But I don't you think one should 
 do what one thinks right one's self? not what other 
 people approve ? " 
 
 " My stars ! You are a queer girl," Cochrane ex- 
 claimed. " And perhaps you're in the right. I won- 
 der could I do your hair better for you ? " 
 
 "Oh, thank you. But isn't it all right?" Miriam 
 said absently. 
 
 " No, it's all wrong. I used to do their hair for 
 half of the young ladies that came to Replands. Her 
 ladyship had half a dozen young nieces too poor to 
 have maids, and I always did my best for every one of 
 them. Her ladyship always said it was me made the 
 match between Miss Elsie and Mr. Parke. Miss Elsie 
 had but a poor head of hair, but I made the most of 
 it. Well, shall I try my hand on you ? " 
 
 As she spoke, the good woman stepped up to Miriam 
 and passed a professional hand over her hair. 
 
 "Just stiff with hairpins tut, tut! and pulled that 
 tight and straight back ! Come upstairs, and I'll make 
 a different head of it. Not that I'm one that approves 
 of Sunday outings, mind, but let young people have 
 their chances, I say." 
 
 " When I was with Miss Gore," Miriam said, sub- 
 mitting her head into Cochrane's hands, " she did my 
 
 207
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 hair for me once, and made me look almost pretty; 
 but I can't manage it myself." 
 
 "Tut, tut! I'll soon teach you. Yes, it's mostly 
 dressing that makes half the ladies in society. Dress 
 them badly, and let them do their hair like yours, and 
 no one would look at them twice. Come a bit nearer 
 the light, please. I'd like to see you able to make the 
 most of yourself; another of the long hairpins, please. 
 There ! You're another woman altogether ! " 
 
 She held the glass to Miriam as she spoke, and 
 stepped backward to survey her handiwork. 
 
 The girl looked at herself solemnly. 
 
 " It's beautiful," she said ; " and thank you very 
 much for doing it ; but I must rely on what is inside 
 my head to please people, if I can do so. I shall never 
 learn to make the most of myself." 
 
 " Well, I've had a heap to do with the dressing of 
 ladies, in my day," mused Cochrane. " And sometimes 
 I've thought that a lady owed everything to her ap- 
 pearance, and another time I've thought them things 
 mattered no more than that." She snapped her fin- 
 gers contemptuously. 
 
 " Yes, I expect it's the mind that really matters 
 most," said Miriam. 
 
 Cochrane sat down and looked at her. 
 
 " Miss Sadler," she said, " I knew your Aunt Pillar, 
 and I've seen your mother, and I want to know where 
 you get your ideas from? I thought when Mrs. Pil- 
 lar wrote to me, that it would only be an obligement 
 to her to put you up for a time, for, thinks I, ' set her 
 up with her writing and dear knows what, I won't 
 stand her for long.' But you're different, some- 
 
 208
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 how, from what I expected. You're superior to your 
 class, and I'm glad you should be. You're not set up 
 nor disagreeable. It's the queerest thing I've ever 
 seen, and now you've hit the nail on the head with this 
 you say it's the mind makes the difference." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that, please," Miriam cried. She 
 felt it awkward to be thus labeled as superior to her 
 own people. 
 
 " It's true, all the same," Cochrane persisted. " And 
 I wonder what the end will be. Well, there's a ring 
 at the door bell. It will be your friend in her carriage. 
 See have you got a pocket handkerchief, and what 
 about gloves ? " 
 
 Satisfied on these points, Cochrane watched Miriam 
 downstairs, and then stood at the window until the 
 carriage had driven away. 
 
 " Mrs. Pillar's niece and Mrs. Sadler's daughter ! " 
 she muttered to herself. 
 
 209
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 IT would be hard to say whether this afternoon con- 
 tained more pleasure or pain for Miriam. 
 
 There were, as Courteis had said there would be, 
 many people at his house who were not to be met with 
 every day. Miriam gazed at them with profound in- 
 terest, and felt it a great privilege to be allowed to 
 speak to them. But, alas ! in the course of conversa- 
 tion, she came up in herself against that sort of bed- 
 rock of ignorance which is the sad inheritance of the 
 uncultivated classes. " I have nothing but my wits 
 to trust to," she thought sorrowfully, unheeding the 
 fact that culture may be acquired and wits never can 
 be. Depressed by this sense of her own ignorance on 
 points that seemed a matter of every-day life to other 
 people, she shrank into herself and looked and listened 
 instead of speaking. 
 
 There were several very clever, well-dressed women 
 there, brilliant talkers, after a fashion a fashion that 
 Miriam had never heard before. She listened to their 
 scintillations with surprise and admiration. Several 
 times her opinion was asked for upon some new book 
 or play, and each time she replied gravely that she 
 knew nothing about what they were discussing. 
 
 Then Courteis came to her assistance. 
 
 " Those who write books should never be expected 
 to read them," he said. " Miss Sadler is too busy writ- 
 
 210
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 ing down her thoughts for our amusement to read 
 what other people have written to amuse her, isn't 
 that it ? " 
 
 But Miriam would not accept his aid. She shook 
 her head. 
 
 " No, Mr. Courteis. I am afraid that isn't it at all. 
 I have not had many opportunities of reading new 
 books ; that is why I know so little about them," 
 she said, turning bravely to the little knot of lis- 
 teners. She would not sail under false colors any- 
 where. 
 
 "What a blessing!" ejaculated Courteis, and made 
 them all laugh; but somehow Miriam did not appre- 
 ciate the blessedness of her ignorance at that moment. 
 She would have forfeited all her native intelligence 
 and power of observation for that capacity for glib, 
 smart utterance on current subjects which the women 
 beside her possessed. They seemed to her to be amaz- 
 ingly clever and original, whereas their cleverness was 
 quite unoriginal, a sort of trick merely, caught and 
 kept up between them. 
 
 Mrs. Hughes, the lady who had driven Miriam there, 
 was specially lively. She was a plain, sallow little 
 woman, but extraordinarily vivacious, and a breeze of 
 laughter always followed her speeches. 
 
 " How delightful it would be to be vivacious," Mir- 
 iam thought enviously. " I see all the ridiculous side 
 of things, but I can't make other people see them when 
 I speak ; I need to write them down ; I am as solemn as 
 an owl when I talk." 
 
 Mrs. Hughes chose to be very agreeable to Miriam. 
 She complimented her on her clever work in The Ad- 
 
 211
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 vance Guard, and begged her to come and see her at 
 her own home. 
 
 " You must come and teach me to think instead of 
 talking and reading," she said, with a vivacious glance 
 at Courteis. " You must come to me next Sunday." 
 
 Miriam felt an instant wish to refuse the invitation, 
 but she did not know very well how to do so. 
 
 " Thank you, you are very kind," she said primly, 
 and then felt sure that Mrs. Hughes would mimic her 
 precise tones when she got home. She had heard her 
 mimicking some dear friend a few minutes before. 
 
 Just at that moment the door was thrown open, and 
 a man came in whom everyone turned to look at. It 
 seemed to Miriam that she had seen him before, and 
 yet she did not know who he was. His eyes were so 
 large and black as to look almost frightful in his boy- 
 ish face, which had an expression of painful concen- 
 tration. 
 
 "Who is it?" she asked Mrs. Hughes. 
 
 " Why, it's Herman, of course. Have you never 
 heard him play ? " she answered incredulously. 
 
 " Oh, I should have remembered ; the man in the 
 picture, of course," Miriam said, turning round to 
 compare it with the original as she spoke. When she 
 looked round again, Mrs. Hughes had left her seat, 
 and darted across the room to where Herman stood ; 
 then, with the air of one who has caught her prey, she 
 led him to a corner and began to talk to him. Miriam 
 was near enough to hear what they said, though it 
 was all Greek to her ; it was about music, the names of 
 unknown musicians unknown to her criticisms of 
 their work, and so on. The criticisms were very clever, 
 
 212
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 and showed a great knowledge of music, had Miriam 
 known enough to understand them ; but she did not. 
 
 She listened, however, with profound and envious 
 admiration of this woman's knowledge and cleverness, 
 wondering where she had learned it all. But sud- 
 denly she noticed that Herman was not listening to a 
 word that was said to him; and then he spoke out 
 across the room to his host, in a sweet, foreign- 
 sounding voice : 
 
 " Max ! Max ! I will play for you, if you wish." 
 
 Mrs. Hughes, for a moment, looked incredibly of- 
 fended, then she crossed over to where Miriam sat and 
 settled herself beside her on the sofa, saying in a 
 purring voice: 
 
 " Now we shall really enjoy ourselves. He's a won- 
 derful, wonderful creature, though he has such terrible 
 manners. I suppose they are one of the penalties of 
 genius." 
 
 Herman had sent for his violin, and was picking 
 away at the strings in an offhand way, as he waited 
 for the accompanist to get ready. He looked around 
 at the people gathered before him, in the funny, un- 
 concerned manner of a man who has lived constantly 
 before the public. Now and then he allowed his eyes 
 to rest curiously on one face or another for a moment, 
 but generally he passed them over with as little remark 
 as if they were so many chairs. 
 
 When the tuning-up was finished he began to play. 
 Miriam had, of course, never heard anything like it 
 in her whole life. The technical skill of this incom- 
 parable artist was entirely lost upon her supreme ig- 
 norance ; but perhaps, for that very reason, the mean- 
 
 213
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 ing of the music seemed extraordinarily plain to her. 
 While other people marveled over the impossibilities 
 of his bowing, she heard what it expressed. She did 
 not understand all the difficulties that were being 
 overcome by these clever fingers ; but she knew that 
 this man was expressing through this medium a thou- 
 sand things she had felt and never been able to say. 
 She listened and listened, and drop after drop two 
 great tears splashed down upon her dress, yet she 
 never knew that she was weeping. 
 
 The music stopped, and Mrs. Hughes began to say 
 something very clever and apposite about it, just what 
 most people would have liked to say if they had known 
 how to ; but Herman did not listen to a word that she 
 said. He walked straight up to where Miriam sat, and 
 stood before her, violin in hand. 
 
 " This lady understands," he said. " This is the 
 critique I like ; look there ! " He pointed down with 
 his bow to the tear-stain on Miriam's dress, and she, 
 overwhelmed with confusion, did not know where to 
 turn the eyes of the whole room were on her. 
 
 " I will play again for these tears," said Herman. 
 He turned away abruptly, took up his violin and 
 played a few notes, and Miriam felt that observation 
 was removed from her. Courteis nodded and smiled 
 across the room to reassure her. Mrs. Hughes bent 
 forward and whispered into her ear: 
 
 " How I wish I could cry easily like that ; so effec- 
 tive ! " 
 
 Cry easily ! thought Miriam. How little the woman 
 knew! These tears had flowed for all manner of 
 nameless griefs of the spirit. 
 
 214
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 The music stopped. Again Herman came across to 
 where Miriam sat. 
 
 " Well ! you enjoyed it ? " he asked. He stood beside 
 her, smiling, still holding his violin in his hand. 
 
 " Yes, completely," she answered. 
 
 " May I sit down here ? " he said. The remark was 
 so rude that Miriam did not know what to say, for it 
 implied that Mrs. Hughes should give up her chair to 
 Herman there was no other. " Mrs. Hughes will 
 talk her clever talk to Courteis, while we speak of 
 stupid things together," he said, smilingly accepting 
 the chair, which Mrs. Hughes rather hurriedly vacated. 
 She fussed away, leaving Miriam and Herman alone. 
 He turned and looked at her. 
 
 " Why did you cry for this little thing? " he asked. 
 
 " Because it said what I have felt so often," she an- 
 swered. Herman held his violin on his knee, and for 
 a moment he did not speak, but sat plucking ever so 
 gently at the strings of it ; it gave out a faint humming 
 sound under his fingers. Then he looked up and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Yes, it is my felicity to express what other men 
 only feel," he said. 
 
 " How did you learn ? " Miriam asked breathlessly. 
 
 " Learn ? " Herman cried, turning suddenly, almost 
 angrily, to her. " Learn it ! It is me I whichever 
 you call it. Me me in me here. I do not need to 
 learn." He struck his hand against his breast with a 
 passionate gesture. " I feel, I express the two go 
 hand in hand ! " 
 
 " But," Miriam objected, " you cannot have felt 
 everything ; yet to-day I have felt you express so much 
 
 215
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 things" (she hesitated, and then added) " things 
 I thought only I had felt." 
 
 " There is not much that I cannot express," he said. 
 Courteis passed near them just then, and Herman 
 called to him, as he had done before. 
 
 " Max ! Max ! come here ! " and when Courteis 
 paused beside them, he added : " Who am I speaking 
 to? She understands many things." 
 
 Courteis laughed. " Miss Miriam Sadler a name 
 not yet known to fame, Herman, but on the way 
 to it." 
 
 Herman turned and looked at Miriam inquiringly; 
 but he did not ask by what avenue she was going to 
 reach the temple of Fame. 
 
 " If you like to hear me play again you shall do so. 
 Max, I shall send tickets to your wife and this lady; 
 they shall go together to hear me if they choose." 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Miriam, " how I should like that ! " 
 
 " What would you like so much ? " said a voice at 
 her elbow. It was Mrs. Hughes, who had apparently 
 come to take Miriam away, for she was drawing on 
 her gloves, and Mrs. Courteis stood limply beside her, 
 waiting to bid her good-by. 
 
 " To hear him play again," Miriam answered. 
 
 Herman cast a frightfully scowling glance at Mrs. 
 Hughes, and turned away, saying over his shoulder: 
 
 " You shall have the tickets, Miss Sadler." 
 
 Mrs. Hughes bade farewell to her host and hostess 
 then, and took Miriam off. As they drove along she 
 said in her subacid way : 
 
 " You should be elated, Miss Sadler, the great Her- 
 man was so amiable to you ; but did you ever see such 
 
 216
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 manners ? " Like many of her sex, Mrs. Hughes 
 never allowed another woman to suppose her charms 
 were remarkable ; so, after having admitted that Her- 
 man had been amiable, she hastily added : 
 
 " Report says he is very susceptible, of course ; but 
 one can never tell the truth about celebrities." 
 
 " I suppose not," Miriam agreed. The woman of 
 the world, when she feels herself attacked in this subtle 
 way, has all her weapons of defense ready in a mo- 
 ment. But Miriam's case was far other from this. 
 She felt vaguely that Mrs. Hughes meant to be dis- 
 agreeable, and the only effect this had was to make 
 her awkward and silent. Her silence provoked her 
 companion to further waspishness. 
 
 " I wonder if he will remember anything about those 
 tickets he was so lavish with ? " she said. 
 
 " Only time can show that," the girl responded. 
 
 " I wouldn't set my heart on it, if I were you," Mrs. 
 Hughes suggested kindly. " Ten to one he never re- 
 members anything about it." The remark irritated 
 Miriam. It seemed to imply that she was counting 
 unduly upon Herman's promise. 
 
 Having shot this arrow, Mrs. Hughes now wished 
 to be agreeable, and again made allusion to next Sun- 
 day afternoon ; but Miriam had decided to refuse this 
 invitation. 
 
 " I shall write to you about it," she said, as she got 
 out of the carriage at Cochrane's door. 
 
 Supper was laid in the little parlor when she came 
 in, and Cochrane was there waiting for her. She went 
 upstairs and took off her walking dress, and then they 
 sat down to supper. 
 
 217
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Well, and did you enjoy your afternoon?" Coch- 
 rane inquired. 
 
 Miriam was silent for a minute. 
 
 " It was very eventful for me," she said slowly ; 
 " but I am not fit really for clever society like that." 
 
 " They must think you fit or they wouldn't ask 
 you," said Cochrane. 
 
 " ' Thou hast a name that thou livest, but art dead/ " 
 Miriam quoted. " I have written two or three clever- 
 ish things, and they think I will write more, that is all. 
 It is silly of them. I have not done enough ; I never 
 will, if I begin to count upon the little things I have 
 done." 
 
 Cochrane looked at her in surprise. " Well, I must 
 say you are a remarkable young woman," she said ; 
 " and to think that you are own niece to Mrs. Pillar ; 
 she that was so taken up with jams and jellies and 
 servants' allowances, and what not ! " 
 
 " That was her world. I have mine. It is all what 
 one happens to be interested in," was Miriam's answer, 
 an answer which didn't in the least solve the puzzle. 
 
 218
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 MIRIAM'S days very soon fell into a routine of ex- 
 traordinary invariability. The morning hours she de- 
 voted entirely to reading. She had long ago returned 
 her first supply of books to Alan Gore ; but, spite of 
 resolutions to the contrary, had not been able to resist 
 his kind offer of another supply, for she felt it pleas- 
 anter to read from his books than from any other 
 copies of the same works. Monotonous days are really 
 those which produce the events of the intellectual life. 
 In the stillness and intense application of these hours, 
 Miriam was laying up a store of knowledge such 
 as she had never hoped to have leisure to acquire. 
 After reading all morning, she went out in the after- 
 noon, generally escorted by Cochrane, who consented 
 rather unwillingly to be her guide to the historical bits 
 of old London that she delighted to visit. Being, how- 
 ever, an obliging woman, Cochrane never refused to 
 go on these exploring expeditions, and even began to 
 take a certain interest in them. 
 
 In the evening Miriam always went up to her own 
 room and tried to write. Even if she failed, the em- 
 ployment was a joy to her, as she told herself over and 
 over again. It was a lonely, unhuman sort of life for 
 a young person to live, shut in thus to books and ideas, 
 with little or no contact with the living world. Delia 
 Gore had gone abroad, and in her absence Miriam 
 
 219
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 never hoped to see Alan Gore. In the whole of Lon- 
 don, Mr. and Mrs. Courteis were her only acquaint- 
 ances, and she did not care much for either of them. 
 Still, she was glad to have their house to go to, and 
 glad to meet there people who interested her; it kept 
 her from feeling too lonely. 
 
 " I wish you had more diversion," Cochrane said 
 one morning, looking fixedly at the girl. " Young 
 people can have too much of their own thoughts." 
 
 Miriam laughed. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Courteis is going to take me to hear 
 Herman, the violinist, play to-morrow," she said ; " so 
 you should be pleased." 
 
 For the tickets had come, in spite of Mrs. Hughes's 
 insinuations to the contrary, and Mrs. Courteis, in her 
 lackluster way, had written to suggest that they should 
 go together to the concert. When the evening came 
 Miriam could have wished for a more joyous compan- 
 ion, one who seemed to care to hear the music, or who 
 even cared to look at the audience Mrs. Courteis did 
 neither, but leaned back in her seat, huddled in a 
 tashed-looking opera cloak, and yawned repeatedly. 
 
 " I'm sure I wish the audience would let him be 
 done. Did you ever hear anything so tiresome as these 
 encores ? " she remarked. 
 
 " Oh, but he is so wonderful ! Do you not wish to 
 hear him again ? " Miriam exclaimed. She had leaned 
 forward, flushed with excitement, to catch every note 
 that Herman played, and now, forgetful of her apa- 
 thetic companion, she cried out in the fullness of her 
 heart : 
 
 " Think what it would be to have a means of expres- 
 
 220
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 sion such as he has! to be able to compel the world 
 to listen ! " 
 
 Mrs. Courteis did not crave for expression appar- 
 ently, for she only shrugged her shoulders at Miriam's 
 enthusiasm, and said there was a draught in the hall. 
 
 " I have heard him play so often," she explained. 
 " He is constantly at our house. You had better come 
 and meet him again some day, if he interests you. 
 Indeed, I am rather tired of these geniuses my hus- 
 band is so fond of ; but I suppose they are new to you." 
 She was a good-natured woman, in her vapid way, and 
 the sight of the girl's enthusiasm rather amused her. 
 
 " Come and dine with us on Thursday," she said. 
 " I heard my husband ask him that day. It might in- 
 terest you." 
 
 Miriam accepted the invitation gladly. 
 
 " I can assure you that I am not tired of geniuses," 
 she said. 
 
 " He won't be at dinner," Mrs. Courteis pursued. 
 " I never give dinners ; one needs to be so particular 
 about the food ; so people only come in to our house 
 in the evenings; but I don't mind asking you, Miss 
 Sadler; I don't imagine you will mind much about 
 what you eat." 
 
 A little more knowledge of the Courteises' household 
 made Miriam understand this rather limp invitation. 
 It was always at sixes and sevens, the meals were un- 
 punctual and indifferently served, and Mrs. Courteis 
 never seemed to take any interest in how things were 
 done. Yet, in spite of all this, or perhaps just be- 
 cause of it, people came to the house in streams ; the 
 shabby drawing-room was never empty, and no one 
 
 15 221
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 refused to drink the indifferent coffee that was served 
 there. 
 
 This was because there was no feeling of effort 
 about such hospitality as the Courteises offered. Peo- 
 ple might come, if they chose ; they would not get 
 much food for the body, but there was always plenty 
 of good company to be had. 
 
 On the Thursday evening appointed, Miriam ate of 
 the ill-cooked dinner, and then they went into the draw- 
 ing-room to wait for anyone who chose to appear that 
 evening. Quite a number of people came, and each 
 time the door opened, she looked up expecting to see 
 Herman come in. When at last he came, the room 
 was full of people and buzzing with talk. He stood in 
 the doorway scowling at the crowded room a scowl 
 that sat ill on his boyish face then came forward to 
 speak to Mrs. Courteis. His words were not exces- 
 sively polite. 
 
 " There are too many people here to-night ; why 
 has Max told me to come to-night ? " he said. 
 
 " Oh, the people won't hurt you," said his hostess 
 in the soothing voice she would have used to a child. 
 " Here is Miss Sadler, whom you sent the tickets to ; 
 come and speak to her." Herman looked round at 
 Miriam, and then came up to where she stood, smiling 
 so charmingly that she could not believe it was the 
 same man who had stood scowling in the doorway a 
 minute before. 
 
 " Come ; this is better," he said. " Let us sit here 
 and talk; for it seems to me that we speak the same 
 language." 
 
 It seemed so to Miriam also, for she found herself 
 222
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 speaking to him without a shadow of constraint or 
 shyness in a very short time. That freemasonry which 
 exists between all artists, whatever their medium of 
 expression may happen to be, made itself felt be- 
 tween them. 
 
 " There are so many hindrances to all one tries to 
 do," she said. " I have had so many hindrances of 
 circumstance " She paused, wondering if Herman 
 understood. He looked at her in a surprised way. 
 
 " They have never existed for me, these hindrances 
 of circumstance that you speak of," he said. " Cir- 
 cumstance ? " He ended his sentence on an interroga- 
 tive note. Miriam was almost provoked. 
 
 " Well," she said, " have your circumstances al- 
 ways been so propitious ? " 
 
 " I never thought; let me consider; what is this you 
 call propitious? I was the son of a peasant; he used 
 to play the flute, and I cried for it before I knew one 
 note from another. And I grew older and learned 
 the notes, and got a little fiddle of my own, and made 
 new tunes, because the old ones were not enough for 
 me ; and I made more, and men heard them and wanted 
 to hear them again, and I made more and more; all 
 came to me as easily as the birds sing. Then I wanted 
 to learn skill, and I learned skill." He spread out his 
 fine hands toward Miriam in explanation, feeling down 
 the length of his fingers as he spoke. 
 
 " This, too, I have by nature, a curious facility. 
 But then I wanted to feel, and this is the hard labor 
 of the artist. We live by our emotions ; we dare not 
 starve them, or our art suffers." 
 
 Miriam, looking into his face, thought to herself that 
 223
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 he had indeed lived by his emotions; it was so young 
 and yet so passionate. 
 
 " What do you call starving your emotions ? " she 
 asked curiously. 
 
 " I do not grudge myself pleasure, and I do not 
 dread pain," he said. " I do not question, ' Is this 
 pleasure right or wrong? ' For me all emotion is right. 
 This is my work, to feel, so that I may express. This 
 is my conscience, and this only." 
 
 Miriam was intensely interested, though a chord 
 of hereditary conscience thrilled somewhere deep down 
 in her heart, and said, " False morals." Still the the- 
 ory had its attractions. She had thought a great deal 
 round this very subject, but had never heard anyone 
 profess the doctrine quite so plainly. 
 
 " Then you mean that things which are generally 
 held to be wrong for most of the world would not be 
 wrong for the artist ? " she asked. 
 
 " I say whatever furthers his instinct is right for 
 him. I do not speak of other men, I speak for myself." 
 
 Looking at and listening to him, Miriam half be- 
 lieved what he said to be true. Art like his, she 
 thought, would justify any conduct; but how bewil- 
 dering it all was, this conflict of art and morality; 
 must they always be divorced? Herman seemed to 
 read her thoughts; he looked at her and laughed, 
 tossing back the lock of hair that tumbled across his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Behold me ! " he laughed. " I stand before kings 
 now, and what has gained me all this ? I live and live. 
 Why do the people long to hear me? Because I have 
 so much to tell, I who have felt so much. I lift them 
 
 224
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 out of their dull lives into places of strange emotion 
 they know nothing of. I went once to play in the 
 Provinces ; you should have seen my audience ; such 
 quiet country folk came from distances to hear me, and 
 old ladies so many. I played but no, the names are 
 only names to you " He paused and laughed again. 
 
 " You need not tell me the names ; tell me what you 
 played about," Miriam said. 
 
 " Things they were ignorant of. I see them now, 
 so stiff and cold and proper, till I played them off their 
 seats on to their feet to wave their handkerchiefs for 
 me ! " 
 
 " Then you think people like to hear things they 
 know nothing about ? " Miriam asked. " Why, if that 
 is true, they will never care to hear me, all my subjects 
 are so hackneyed and well known. I only know about 
 humdrum days such as half the world lives." 
 
 " There ! " Herman cried ; " there ! You try to make 
 rules for Art, Art that knows no rule. I spoke of my 
 secret only. Yours will be different, and another's 
 different again, and it is never the same." 
 
 Miriam sat silent for a minute, and then she said, 
 " Thank you," in a quiet voice. The words made 
 Herman laugh again. 
 
 " You thank me," he said. " But you know all about 
 it already. You need only confidence to trust your 
 instinct. Let it work and produce what it chooses, and 
 the world will listen. I like in you your understanding 
 heart that few have." 
 
 " But I know nothing. I did not understand one 
 word of all the clever things that Mrs. Hughes said 
 to you that Sunday." 
 
 225
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " This Mrs. Hughes talks like a clever parrot. She 
 knows everything and understands nothing. You are 
 the opposite; you understand everything and know 
 nothing." 
 
 What Miriam knew at that moment was, that she 
 had for the first time met a fellow artist. She dis- 
 tinguished in her own mind between him and the other 
 two clever men she knew Alan Gore and Max Cour- 
 teis. They had intellect and cultivation ; but this man 
 was different from either of them; he did the things 
 that the other two only understood and admired. To 
 do ah, that was it! She could not look at Herman 
 and name him a good man ; but that he was great was 
 undeniable; he had that worshipful faculty of doing 
 supremely what other men could not even attempt. 
 She regarded him curiously; had he not attained to 
 his heaven already ? reached the stars that Alan Gore 
 told her no one ever reached. 
 
 " Are you satisfied, happy, you who have attained 
 to perfection ? " she asked him suddenly. 
 
 " I satisfied ! I attained to perfection ! The woman 
 is mad to ask me such a question," Herman exclaimed. 
 " Happy ! " he paused and added slowly : " I have 
 tasted great success ; but this happiness joy, ecstasy, 
 felicity they are names to me. I have not touched 
 the fringe of them. Some men must have felt them, 
 for have they not invented words to express them? 
 But not I ; they are dead names to me." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Miriam, drawing in her breath with 
 a long sigh. It was true, then, what Courteis said 
 to her long ago, that not one person in a thousand 
 knew the meaning of these beautiful terms ! Herman 
 
 226
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 sat covering his eyes with his hand, and did not speak 
 again. He seemed to have forgotten her presence. 
 After a minute or two of silence he rose and held out 
 his hand to her. 
 
 " I must go. I wish you good-by. I shall see you 
 again when I return to London in May. Good-by." 
 
 He was gone ; and no one in the room seemed to be 
 worth speaking to now, she thought. 
 
 227
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 SPRING came early that year, and May was a month 
 of intense heat. The pavements seemed as if they 
 would blister one's feet, so hot the asphalt had become, 
 and the air felt like the blast from an oven door. 
 Miriam sat indoors most of the day working. Some- 
 times her thoughts turned longingly to the fresh Hind- 
 cup meadows, and she wondered if she was a fool 
 to exile herself here in the breathless town, when she 
 might be there in the delicious country. And then the 
 thought of Mr. Smaile now her mother's husband 
 made it impossible for her to think of home, and she 
 would turn away from the beckoning memory of green 
 fields and resume her work. 
 
 One of these days she met Herman again. It had 
 been more than usually hot, and not a breath of air 
 came in through the wide-open windows in the Cour- 
 teises' dark, shabby drawing-room. Miriam stood close 
 to the window, looking out at the smoke-blackened 
 lilac bushes that grew in the garden below. She 
 turned round with a start to find Herman standing 
 beside her. 
 
 " Oh, you have come back again ! " she said. 
 
 " Yes, to this inferno, where I must stay to earn my 
 bread," he answered. " Feel this air, like soup. I am 
 sick of this town to-day. I want the country fields. 
 
 228
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 On Saturday I wish to play a pastoral symphony filled 
 with beautiful peace, and the peace is not in me. 
 Where can you find it here in London? " 
 
 " Nowhere," said Miriam shortly. " Why do you 
 not go into the country to look for it ? " 
 
 " Will you come with me into this green country? " 
 he asked suddenly, staring at Miriam with his great 
 black eyes. The proposal was so unconventional that 
 she did not know how to answer it. 
 
 " I should only bother you," she said evasively. 
 
 " I do not ask for the company of those who bother 
 me. Say you will come," he urged. 
 
 Miriam knew perfectly well that she should not en- 
 tertain the idea for a moment; but the suddenness of 
 the temptation carried her away. How beautiful it 
 would be to go into the country with Herman and talk 
 to him, and hear him talk, and listen to his strange ex- 
 periences ! She dallied with the idea for a dangerous 
 moment. Then her upbringing asserted itself and re- 
 proved the suggestion ; and yet again a remembrance 
 of her cousins and their contempt of her swept across 
 her mind. What would they say if they could hear 
 Herman urging her to come into the country with 
 him? Miriam, the woman of no account, whom they 
 said no man cared to speak to ! With incredible folly, 
 her decision was made by this thought. She could 
 go, she, too, could amuse herself; and better than any 
 of them, if she chose ! 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I'll come, and we will not talk one 
 tiresome word all day long." 
 
 Herman was delighted. 
 
 " We will go into Hampshire. Once I was sent 
 229
 
 there when I was ill. I lived at the village inn. The 
 place was divinely quiet, with this slow-running river, 
 and such bright green fields. When shall we start? 
 Not early, for I rise late ; say, twelve o'clock, and the 
 day Friday, and the station Waterloo." 
 
 " Only if the day is fine," said Miriam, to give her- 
 self a loophole of escape. 
 
 " Yes, if the sun shines ; but it will ; it shines often 
 for me. But what is wrong? You do not altogether 
 wish to come? " 
 
 " I do, indeed, but I do not know " she began. 
 
 " If you should ? the old question ! I have told you 
 my creed, to do the thing that pleases me; this is the 
 artist's food, his meat and drink." 
 
 " I will come," she said. 
 
 On Thursday night Miriam looked out and said to 
 herself that it would probably rain the next morn- 
 ing. She rather wished that it would. But it did 
 not rain. 
 
 " I must go ! " she said to herself, half in pleasure, 
 half in dismay. 
 
 At breakfast she told Cochrane of her plans for the 
 day ; but she did not mention Herman's name. 
 
 " I am going into the country to-day ; I won't be 
 home till eight o'clock," she said. 
 
 " I'll wait supper for you. But what's taking you 
 to the country ? " Cochrane asked. 
 
 " I feel as if I wanted some fresh air," said Miriam. 
 She took a 'bus to the station, and as she jolted along 
 she tried to tell herself that this expedition was quite 
 wise. 
 
 " No one will ever know about it," she said ; but 
 230
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 when she found herself standing beside Herman on 
 the platform and noticed how people pointed him out 
 and stared at him, she became increasingly uneasy. 
 
 " I forgot he was so well known," she thought, add- 
 ing aloud to him : 
 
 " How people stare at us ; do you not mind? " 
 
 " I ? No ; I'm accustomed," he said, with a little 
 shrug. " Come, let us get into our carriage, and that 
 will stop them." 
 
 Miriam, as you know, was not accustomed to much 
 gilded luxury. She was surprised to see that Herman 
 had engaged a carriage for themselves alone. 
 
 " Do you know," she said, " that I have never taken 
 even a short journey in a first-class carriage before ? " 
 
 "Did I, before I began to make my money?" he 
 asked. " Now I cannot spend enough, so I have all 
 luxuries. I take revenge on poverty, now that I have 
 escaped from it. Come now and give me your simple 
 tales of life; they make me amused." 
 
 The train moved out of the dingy station, out 
 through the smutty, endless suburban streets, into the 
 clean, green country. The air coming in through the 
 carriage window smelled fresh and delightful. Mir- 
 iam's spirits rose. After all, it was the first time in 
 her life that she had done anything so amusing. Her- 
 man, too, was in the best of tempers. He wanted to 
 hear all about her life at home and in London, and 
 listened to these " simple tales " with a mixture of 
 sympathy and amusement that beguiled her into easy 
 narration. When the train stopped and they got out 
 at the little country station, they felt curiously well 
 acquainted. 
 
 231
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Here I came last Easter when I was ill," he said. 
 " I came so ill and left it so well. We shall lunch 
 at the inn." 
 
 It was all gay and delightful. They sat at a little 
 round table at the window of the inn, and Herman 
 laughed and talked all the time, and in exchange for 
 Miriam's simple annals, told her extraordinary stories 
 of his short and brilliant past. 
 
 " They used to point me out in the streets when I 
 was a boy, as I passed to my lessons. ' That is the 
 wonderful little Herman,' they said. And then the 
 first night when I played at Vienna " he stopped 
 and passed his hand across his eyes " I think I hear 
 the shouts still, the first I earned. I have heard many 
 since then, but none like these ! " Miriam's eyes 
 brimmed up with sudden tears of sympathy, and Her- 
 man, looking at her, exclaimed, as if to a third person, 
 " How she understands ! " 
 
 He rose hastily, crumpling up his napkin on the 
 table. " Come ; we shall go and walk by the river ; we 
 waste the sunshine indoors." 
 
 They left the village behind them, and strolled off 
 across the fields toward the river. It meandered along, 
 almost level with its banks one of those slow-running 
 English streams the poets have sung from time im- 
 memorial, and yet the songs have not all been sung 
 yet; fresh measures linger still in the gentle lapping 
 of their waters. 
 
 Miriam stood among the flower-starred grass in 
 ecstasy. 
 
 " There is an old hymn they sing in the meeting- 
 house at Hindcup that is just like this," she said. 
 
 232
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " ' Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
 Stand decked in living green.' 
 
 When I was a child I used to think I would have 
 to wade through the river, and it frightened me, but 
 the thought of the flowers on the other bank consoled 
 me a little." 
 
 They sat down by the edge of the river, and fell 
 into talk almost as if they were old friends reunited. 
 There seemed so much to hear, so much to tell. One 
 of the divine attributes of humanity is its craving for 
 sympathy : the lonely soul is ever incomplete, and on 
 its solitary path is always watching for another soul 
 that can bear it company. 
 
 There was something in Herman's passionately re- 
 sponsive nature that made it seem easy and natural 
 for Miriam to talk to him of things which were too 
 painful for her to mention to other people. 
 
 " It has been my fate to make friends in quite an- 
 other rank from my own," she told him ; " and I some- 
 times wonder if it has given me more pleasure or 
 pain." Herman looked at her, a long, searching look, 
 and nodded. 
 
 " You have loved a man of another rank, I think ? " 
 he said, without taking his eyes off her face as he 
 asked the question. 
 
 " Oh, I have not allowed myself to love him ! " Mir- 
 iam cried; but in spite of herself her eyes filled with 
 tears, and she gave a little sob that she could not stifle. 
 
 Herman nodded again. 
 
 " Do not regret it ; but I know how it is with us, 
 we who have imagination. It is not altogether the in- 
 
 233
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 dividuals we love, it is what we imagine them to be. 
 A thousand times I have cursed this imagination by 
 which I live and am famous. You, too, will do the 
 same; the price is heavy. But this is you and this is 
 me, and wanting it, we would want our occupations, 
 yours and mine." 
 
 Miriam looked up at his face, so young and cruelly 
 expressive ; a shadow seemed to have fallen across it, 
 as dark as a thundercloud. 
 
 " What harm has imagination done you ? " she asked 
 him. 
 
 " I married a woman and thought her divine, as im- 
 aginative fools will ; now I cannot bear to look at her." 
 
 " Oh," she said, " and you are so young ! " Herman 
 nodded in reply, and flung a stone into the river. 
 
 " I shall get rid of her some day," he said, " when I 
 have time." 
 
 She looked at him in surprise. These were not the 
 morals of Hindcup. 
 
 " Do you think that would be right ? " she asked. 
 
 Herman seemed scarcely to understand her question. 
 " Right ? " he repeated. " I have told you what is 
 right for me ; this which furthers my art. She spoils 
 it; she worries me. I shall be quit of her when I can." 
 
 Miriam almost envied the directness of his convic- 
 tion, whether mistaken or not. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," she said. " But, of course, 
 I was brought up to think quite the other way." 
 
 " It is all quite simple for me," Herman said. " ' Do 
 you love her?' I ask, and my heart says 'No,' and 
 there it ends. No love, no marriage for me." 
 
 " I wish you were happy," Miriam said earnestly. 
 234
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " It seems all wrong that you who give so much pleas- 
 ure to other people should not be happy yourself." 
 
 Herman laughed and shook his head. 
 
 " Come ; we shall move on farther up the river," he 
 said. " We came down here to search for peace and 
 happiness, and instead we speak of the things which 
 hurt us most. We shall stop such talk and go in 
 search of peace." 
 
 235
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE search proved to be a long one. At least they 
 sauntered on by the river's bank, following its delicious 
 meanderings, through field after field, till they came to 
 where the water gathered in a great black pool, still 
 and deep. Herman flung himself down on the bank 
 and closed his eyes. 
 
 " I shall listen now," he said. " If one sits very 
 still, sometimes the Earth speaks to one." 
 
 Miriam sat down and listened. Ever so many tiny, 
 unnoticed sounds came to her ears. She began to 
 count them. The ripple of the water, one ; the sound 
 of the breeze overhead, two ; the rustle of the grasses, 
 three; the chirrup of the grasshopper, four; the note 
 of a bird, five; the cropping of a sheep near them, 
 six ; a fish jumping in the pool, seven. She wondered 
 if Herman was counting the sounds also. He was ly- 
 ing on the grass, his hands clasped under his head, his 
 eyes shut. 
 
 " I daresay he hears a great many that I am too 
 stupid to notice," she thought. " I wish that I had per- 
 ceptions like his ; he enjoys sounds as I enjoy sights." 
 
 In the stillness a bird gave the most enchanting 
 little note, almost conversational in its intelligence, and 
 Herman smiled. Far away across the meadows the 
 church clock struck five. Miriam started ; she had not 
 thought it was so late. She ventured to speak. 
 
 236
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Did you hear the clock strike ? Should we not 
 be turning back ? There is some way to go," she said. 
 
 Herman opened his eyes, but did not stir. 
 
 " Go, then, if you wish to. How can you so inter- 
 rupt me? I am learning," he said, so crossly that she 
 drew in her breath in dismay: she was not accus- 
 tomed to men of genius and their ways. Rather per- 
 turbed as to what was the best thing to do, she sat 
 still for a little longer, and then rose without saying 
 anything and walked slowly off in the direction of the 
 village. Miriam knew that the London train left at 
 half-past six, and it must now be well after five. There 
 was a long way to be gone over before, the village was 
 reached, and trains, like tides, wait for no man. She 
 looked back once or twice, but Herman did not stir; 
 she lingered and loitered along, calculating the time 
 as well as she could. Then at last Herman rose and 
 came sauntering along. Surely even he could not be 
 careless enough to forget the hour of the return train. 
 Miriam waited till he came up, and then asked rather 
 timidly about their return journey, 
 
 " It is nearly six o'clock, I am sure," she said. 
 
 " Is it ? " Herman asked. " Can it be that you wear 
 a watch? I cannot stand the feeling of one; some- 
 thing alive and ticking, such a little distracting beat 
 in the pocket ; it seems to play contrary motion to the 
 beat of my heart. I never carry one. I take no note 
 of time." 
 
 " But," said Miriam almost severely, " one must take 
 note of time ! Trains do not wait. Come ; we must be 
 quick." 
 
 " Oh, do not annoy yourself. Here we are very well 
 16 237
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 in the country. Maybe we shall catch this train ; but 
 if not, then we shall be very well at the inn; I have 
 money enough," he added absently, putting his hand 
 into his pocket and bringing out a handful of sov- 
 ereigns. " See, this would pay even in London, and 
 country inns are cheap ; do not worry." 
 
 " But you don't seem to see that I must get home 
 to-night," the girl cried. " What would Cochrane 
 think? She would think something had happened to 
 me!" 
 
 " Oh, we shall send her a message," Herman said 
 easily ; " but we shall catch the train ; without doubt 
 we shall catch the train." 
 
 Miriam could not face, with any show of compo- 
 sure, the possibility of having to stay all night at the 
 inn. She walked along in a perfect anguish of anx- 
 iety, counting every step they took. Field after field 
 seemed to stretch before them, each longer than the 
 last. 
 
 " Oh, do hurry ! " she cried. And Herman laughed, 
 and hurried to please her. 
 
 " We have to go to the inn for our wraps," he said, 
 as they neared the village ; " but we will catch the train, 
 without doubt." 
 
 " Have you any idea what the exact hour of the 
 train is ? " 
 
 " Seven o'clock, I fancy. Pray do not vex so," 
 he answered. " Even if we miss this valuable train, 
 I have learned so much it has been well worth 
 while. 
 
 Miriam saw that it was impossible for her to make 
 him see her point of view ; she could only hope for the 
 
 238
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 best. As they came in sight of the inn, they saw a 
 puff of smoke at the station, and a minute later a train 
 went steaming out in the London direction. 
 
 " Oh, I am sure that was our train ! " she cried. 
 "Oh, what shall we do?" 
 
 Herman went into the inn and made inquiries, while 
 Miriam, wild with impatience, waited to hear the result. 
 He came sauntering out to the door in a few minutes, 
 opening a cigarette case and counting over its con- 
 tents. 
 
 " Three, four, five, six it is indeed true that we 
 have lost the train, my friend," he said, " by but a few 
 minutes. Come, let us sit in the porch while I smoke. 
 I only fear I have not enough of these to last me com- 
 fortably over the night. It is my bad habit to smoke 
 if I cannot sleep. Perhaps the country air will make 
 me sleepy." He sat down and felt in his pockets for 
 a match case ; it was no matter to him, evidently, to 
 have lost the train. 
 
 " Surely, surely there is another train to-night ! " 
 poor Miriam cried, in perfect despair and aggravation 
 at his coolness. 
 
 She ran into the house, and sought out the landlady 
 to explain to a feminine ear the perplexity she was 
 in. But Mrs. Hicks could offer no comfort; it was 
 impossible to get to London till the next morning. 
 The woman was sorry for her, and came out to the 
 door to discuss the difficulty with Herman. 
 
 " Why, sir," she said, " I'm sorry the lady's in such 
 a way about it, but we'll do our best for you, sir. 
 You'll have your old room, sir, and the lady " She 
 paused, and glanced at Miriam before she added in a 
 
 239
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 tentative way : " You've gone and got married since 
 Easter last, sir ? " 
 
 " Not since Easter," said Herman, without moving 
 a muscle. " I was married long before that." Mrs. 
 Hicks could not understand Miriam's agonized blush, 
 and was further perplexed when she cried out : " I am 
 not Mrs. Herman ; you are quite mistaken." 
 
 In discussing the situation a little later with her 
 husband, Mrs. Hicks confessed herself completely in 
 the dark. 
 
 " Tisn't as if the young woman weren't completely 
 respectable, George; she's not the other kind, not in 
 the least. Yet she's left to 'erself, indeed, coming 
 down into the country with him, as if they were man 
 and wife, and 'im so musical, too ! " 
 
 " Well, then," said George stoutly, " looks very 
 much as if she weren't so respectable as you say." 
 
 " Lor' now, George ! You go an' 'ave a look at her ; 
 see the flat heels to 'er shoes, and the plain looks of 'er 
 clothes ; she never were disrespectable, that one, never. 
 But I'll say for it, she should be careful with 'im." 
 
 Miriam, in the meanwhile, had walked over to the 
 post office and telegraphed the news of her involun- 
 tary delay to Cochrane. She felt happier after this 
 was done. After all, Cochrane did not know that she 
 was not alone, and would only commiserate her ill 
 luck in missing the train. No harm would come of 
 the adventure, in the end; no one could even hear 
 about it. 
 
 " I suppose you very seldom have people stopping 
 here ? " she asked Mrs. Hicks. 
 
 " Scarcely anyone, miss ma'am I beg your par- 
 240
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 don," said Mrs. Hicks, not quite sure by which title 
 to address this anomalous person; then, to cover her 
 confusion, she went on to explain, " Scarcely a soul, 
 unless 'tis a commercial gentleman now and again. 
 We've one to-night; not that he'll disturb you at din- 
 ner, seein' as he only comes in late for an 'ot supper." 
 
 " Oh, nothing will disturb us," said Miriam, feeling 
 not altogether sorry that the inn was so little fre- 
 quented. 
 
 " We shall enjoy the evening," Herman said. " Af- 
 ter we have dined we shall have a concert. Mrs. Hicks 
 has once before borrowed for me a fiddle from the 
 cobbler ; she shall do it again, and I will play for the 
 people. How they will enjoy it, you cannot think ! " 
 He laughed with pleasure; all his dull mood of the 
 afternoon was gone. " Then, indeed, you shall know 
 how clever I am," he said to Miriam, " when you hear 
 me play on this little devil of a village fiddle ! " 
 
 " I shall also learn how vain you are," said she 
 demurely. Herman held out his hand toward her sud- 
 denly as if he wished her to examine it. 
 
 " See ! " he cried. " See how it has been formed 
 from the beginning for this ; have / made it ? I am not 
 religious, I have not been at Mass or confession these 
 dozen years, but I hold this from God ; it is given to 
 me only. I am not proud of myself, but of it of the 
 thing that is in me." 
 
 And Miriam, listening, understood and believed his 
 words. 
 
 241
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 HERMAN decreed that his concert was to be held in 
 the kitchen, so that the stable men and laborers might 
 come to hear him in their working dress. 
 
 So, after dinner, when the dusk was falling, he and 
 Miriam went along to the kitchen where the audience 
 was already assembled. 
 
 It was a large old room, with a stone-flagged floor, 
 and a long window looking out into the yard. Men in 
 stained corduroys and women in sunbonnets were 
 standing there laughing and whispering. Herman 
 came in among them all, so curiously different from 
 them, holding the shabby little borrowed fiddle in his 
 hand. He stood and looked round the room, amused 
 and pleased by the rustic audience, while Miriam was 
 given a chair in the place of honor by Mrs. Hicks. 
 She noticed with keen interest the contrast presented 
 by Herman and his audience; the faces crowding 
 round him had, for the most part, that curious vacancy 
 of expression that is so marked in the agricultural 
 laborers of England. Life writes little on such faces, 
 unless it is a look of almost animal suffering, or dull 
 endurance of irremediable hardships. Among the 
 younger women, some were comely enough, in their 
 way, but it was an inexpressive comeliness ; animal, too, 
 in its entire dependence on youth and health. They 
 smiled with wide red lips at the young men who 
 
 242
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 stood awkwardly beside them, and shouldered them 
 as crowded cattle in a pen shoulder their companions. 
 
 And there among them Herman stood, erect and 
 smiling, waiting for the shuffle of their feet to be quiet 
 before he began to play. The poise of his figure was 
 extraordinarily graceful as he stood among these un- 
 trained rustics, waiting with that incomparable com- 
 posure of his for the noise to subside. His face, 
 among their vacant faces, seemed to radiate expres- 
 sion ; it became a point of interest to which every eye 
 was drawn. 
 
 When silence was at last obtained, Herman spoke 
 a word or two of explanation before he began to play. 
 
 " I will play to you to-night two love songs ; the 
 first the most hopeless I know, the second the hap- 
 piest," he said. 
 
 Then he began to draw the most divinely simple, 
 sobbing little tune out of the borrowed fiddle. In the 
 silence you could have heard the proverbial pin fall. 
 Not the most untrained listener in the room could 
 misunderstand what the tune said it was a bit of the 
 universal language that all men know. The happy 
 tune which followed was so happy that a ripple of 
 laughter passed over the crowd, and Miriam laughed 
 with them in admiration and delight. 
 
 Herman played on thus, one thing after another, for 
 an hour ; then he bowed to the people, stepped across 
 to where Miriam sat and held out his hand to her, 
 to lead her from the room, after the traditional stage 
 manner. She was unacquainted with this usage, and 
 gave him her hand rather awkwardly, and he led her 
 out through the audience into the passage beyond. 
 
 243
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " There," he said, pausing for a moment to look 
 back into the kitchen. " How the poverini enjoyed 
 it! And I have but just escaped from such a life as 
 theirs. But for this " (and he patted the fiddle), " but 
 for this and I would have been as they are." 
 
 He turned and walked away through the dark pas- 
 sage toward the coffee room. In the dim light, Mir- 
 iam saw him raise the shabby little fiddle to his lips and 
 kiss it passionately. 
 
 She understood (who better?) why he did so. 
 Hadn't she kissed a heavy, brown paper parcel of man- 
 uscript, with just such a kiss? 
 
 They came into the coffee room and sat down to 
 wait till some refreshment was brought to them 
 " some of this vile English coffee," as Herman ex- 
 pressed it. 
 
 The room was dimly lighted, and at a table at the 
 other end of it the commercial gentleman was con- 
 suming his hot supper. His back was turned to them, 
 and he scarcely looked round, when they came into the 
 room. But a few minutes later, his supper having 
 come to an end, the commercial gentleman rose and 
 walked slowly down the room. 
 
 Miriam glanced up as he passed, and with a thrill 
 of entire dismay recognized her cousin Timothy Pillar. 
 He stood still beside their table in sheer surprise, gaz- 
 ing first at Miriam, then at Herman, without uttering 
 a single word. Herman leaned back in his chair and 
 played with the spoon that lay in the saucer of his 
 coffee cup. Then, as Timothy still stood gazing at 
 them, he raised his eyes in an inquiring return stare 
 at this rude stranger, and at last remarked : 
 
 244
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 "Well, sir?" as if to discover the reason of his 
 curiosity. The question brought Timothy to his 
 senses. 
 
 " Why, Miriam, who would have thought of meet- 
 ing you here, of all places ? " he said. " Who's with 
 you ? What friends have you got here ? " The girl 
 was altogether too much dismayed to speak for a mo- 
 ment, and Herman, with imperturbable composure, 
 made answer for her. 
 
 " I am Miss Sadler's friend here. I am with her. 
 We have missed the London train." 
 
 " And who may you be ? " Timothy blurted out. 
 
 " My name is not altogether unknown. It is Her- 
 man, Francis Herman, if this enlightens you," said he. 
 
 Timothy drew a step nearer to the table, his eyes 
 fixed on his cousin, who now began to falter out some 
 words of introduction between the two men. 
 
 " This is my cousin, Mr. Pillar," she explained ; and 
 at these words Herman rose politely and begged Tim- 
 othy to join them at their coffee. 
 
 " I never drink coffee ; it's beastly stuff, only fit for 
 foreigners," was Timothy's gentle reply to this over- 
 ture. 
 
 Herman did not take any notice of the remark 
 beyond slightly raising his eyebrows ; but Miriam 
 shuddered; she knew from this what she might 
 expect. 
 
 " Now, then, sir," said Timothy, " I would like to 
 speak to my cousin alone, if it isn't asking too much 
 of you to give me your chair for a few minutes." 
 
 " Most certainly you shall have it. I shall smoke at 
 the door while you speak with Miss Sadler," said Her- 
 
 245
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 man. He bowed slightly to Miriam and sauntered off 
 toward the door, looking very much amused. 
 
 Timothy sat heavily down on the chair thus vacated, 
 twirled the gold watch chain that decorated his person, 
 and then leaned across the table toward his cousin. 
 
 " Now, Miriam, will you kindly explain this to 
 me?" he said. "As your cousin, one of the Pillars, 
 I must have an explanation of what, on the face of it, 
 seems very unsuitable conduct ; indeed, I'll say more, 
 it's disreputable." 
 
 Miriam had always disliked her cousin Timothy, and 
 his interference just then was intolerable to her. 
 
 " There's nothing to explain," she said hotly, " ex- 
 cept what Mr. Herman has told you already. I came 
 down here to spend the afternoon with him, and we 
 missed the train; that's all, and if you choose to call 
 that disreputable, I am sorry for you." 
 
 " You always were a foolish sort of girl," Timothy 
 went on ; " and, of course, you can't be expected to 
 know anything of life ; but you might know better than 
 to throw away your good name altogether by acting 
 in this way." 
 
 " You are making a great deal out of nothing," 
 Miriam said doggedly. " I have explained to you 
 about missing the train, and surely anyone is liable 
 to do that without losing their good name ? " 
 
 " Missed the train ! That's an odd excuse. I wonder 
 how often that foreign-looking fellow has ' missed a 
 train ' before, in similar circumstances ! And how 
 many trains will he miss to-morrow? How did you 
 come to know him, I'd like to know?" 
 
 Miriam rose from her chair, hot with indignation. 
 246
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " I won't stay here to hear you say things like that, 
 Timothy," she said. " You are not only insulting my 
 friend, but insulting me, and I won't listen to you." 
 
 " Stop a minute ; wait and speak to me," Timothy 
 called after her ; but she did not wait to hear another 
 word from him. She ran upstairs, shut and locked 
 the door of her room, and flung herself down by the 
 open window, leaning her arms on the ledge. Only 
 too well she knew the story that Timothy would carry 
 back to Hindcup, and the sting of the whole affair was 
 that he could scarcely be blamed for thinking what he 
 did about her. 
 
 In imagination she already heard the cousins gos- 
 siping over her conduct. 
 
 " I won't have a rag of a character left among them 
 all," she thought. One by one her links with her own 
 people had been broken ; here was another gone. They 
 had distrusted her ideas before, they would distrust 
 her conduct now. 
 
 Down below the window Miriam could just dis- 
 tinguish Herman's figure as he paced up and down 
 before the inn door smoking. Sometimes he would 
 whistle a bar or two of one of the tunes he had been 
 playing. He whistled with a wonderfully full, liquid 
 note, like the song of a blackbird ; and sometimes he 
 would introduce little grace notes and flourishes into 
 the tune so deftly and exquisitely that it almost made 
 her laugh to hear them. 
 
 Then Timothy came out to the door and joined 
 Herman. 
 
 " May I have a word with you ? " she heard him ask ; 
 and Herman's reply also reached her ears : 
 
 247
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 "As many as you wish! Shall we walk down the 
 road?" 
 
 Further than this she could not hear; but shortly 
 after a heavy step ascended the stair, a door was closed 
 with a bang and opened again a few minutes later as 
 Timothy put his boots out into the passage. Then 
 another bang and all was quiet. 
 
 248
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 MIRIAM never heard what had transpired between 
 Herman and her cousin Timothy. When she came 
 down to breakfast the next morning, Herman seemed 
 to be in a very good humor, and Timothy had not yet 
 appeared. 
 
 " I wanted to apologize to you for my cousin's rude- 
 ness to you last night," she said, as she sat down. 
 Herman shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 
 
 " Do not annoy yourself," he said. " It is no good. 
 Here is breakfast; better far to eat it and think no 
 more of the ugly cousin." 
 
 She took his advice and ate her breakfast as well 
 as she could. But as soon as the meal was over, she 
 insisted on starting for the railway station in case they 
 should again miss the train. This, of course, resulted 
 in a wait of twenty minutes' duration, and Miriam, 
 glancing along the platform, descried a pile of cases, 
 which she knew must belong to Timothy. He must 
 be going to travel by the same train with them. Mir- 
 iam walked as far away from the boxes as she could, 
 and kept looking apprehensively in their direction 
 while she talked to Herman. 
 
 At the last moment Timothy arrived, but he did not 
 even glance up the platform, and she saw him get into 
 a carriage at the other end of the train. 
 
 " Now, perhaps you will be cheerful, now that the 
 249
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 ugly cousin is out of the way," said Herman, as he 
 shut the door of their carriage. But Miriam did not 
 feel cheerful, she could not speak, and at last Her- 
 man told her that she was cross, and began to read a 
 newspaper. She sat back into the corner of the car- 
 riage and felt very unhappy indeed. As they came 
 near London, Herman put down his newspaper and 
 came and sat beside her. 
 
 " You will think of me this afternoon, when I 
 play ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, I will," Miriam answered. She made the 
 promise readily enough, knowing that she would prob- 
 ably think of him several times before that. 
 
 " And you ? What will you do the rest of the long 
 day ? " he asked. 
 
 " I shall sit in my little room, looking out over the 
 roofs, and write some of my worthless pages that never 
 please me, and then perhaps tear them up, and go 
 downstairs and have tea and buttered muffins with 
 Cochrane ; that will be my interesting day," she said. 
 
 " I blush for you ! " Herman said. " I hear you 
 speak evil of your trade ; this dear trade which indeed 
 is the interest and value of life for you " 
 
 Miriam shook her head. 
 
 " It's just a moment of discouragement," she told 
 him ; " of not thinking it worth while." 
 
 " So I have felt many times," he said quickly. He 
 lifted Miriam's hand, and held it in his as he spoke. 
 " I wonder how often I have said : ' Let this music be 
 drowned in the deep seas, so that I may live and be 
 merry.' But a hundred years hence what will it mat- 
 ter to the world whether I have been happy or sad? 
 
 250
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 But it may matter if I made some little tune for men 
 to dance to, one song for them to sing." 
 
 Miriam turned and looked into his face. For just 
 a moment their eyes met, and the next moment Her- 
 man bent down and kissed her. 
 
 It seemed to Miriam that years of life separated her 
 in one moment from all her past. 
 
 " The thing has happened to me that I have heard 
 other women speak about," she thought. " This man 
 wants me, and me alone; and I am not beautiful, or 
 attractive; so it is my own self that he wants; just 
 what other people do not like." 
 
 But, then, Herman was married ; and there was the 
 end of it all. 
 
 The train ran into the station, and Miriam rose 
 mechanically. Neither of them had spoken a word. 
 Herman jumped out and held out his hand to help her 
 to alight. She took it, and then stood there for a mo- 
 ment, feeling stupefied. She heard people round them 
 utter Herman's name, and saw them point him out; 
 they looked curiously at her, too, and under their gaze 
 she blushed hotly. It seemed to her that everyone on 
 that platform must see that Herman had just kissed 
 her. She put up her hand to her cheek, feeling as if a 
 scarlet patch must mark the place where the kiss had 
 fallen. 
 
 In the distance she saw Timothy advancing up the 
 platform. 
 
 " Come," said Herman ; " why do we stand still ? 
 The crowd gets thicker where we stand." 
 
 They passed along to the cabstand, and he stood still 
 there for a minute, looking at her. 
 
 251
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " It is good-by just now, then," he said, " and I 
 come to see you when ? " 
 
 " Oh, never, never ! I mean good-by," cried Mir- 
 iam ; and hurried into the nearest vehicle without even 
 giving him her hand. 
 
 Cochrane met her at the door when the cab drew 
 up ; she seemed to have been on the lookout for her. 
 
 " It was unfortunate your losing the train," she said, 
 with a grave glance at Miriam's still flushed face, and 
 adding, " it'll have cost you something, too ? " 
 
 There was a moment of silence while Miriam made 
 up her mind. Was she going to tell Cochrane or not ? 
 She decided to be silent. Time enough, if the story 
 reached her ears from any other source. 
 
 " It was very provoking," she replied, taking no 
 direct notice of the question. " I wanted to get home 
 in time to do some work that Mr. Courteis wanted." 
 
 " Maybe a rest from all that writing was good for 
 you ; but you don't look very well," said Cochrane. 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right. I'll just go upstairs and see 
 if I can get the work done before dinner," said Miriam. 
 
 But when she reached her own room she found she 
 could not write. 
 
 " He kissed me kissed me kissed me ! " she re- 
 peated over and over to herself incredulously. " How 
 strange it was, and he is married. He had no right to 
 do it ; but he has different ideas about right and wrong. 
 I wonder if they can possibly be true? Could it pos- 
 sibly be right? Must I refuse ever to see him again, 
 as the good women in books do? But books are not 
 life; what do women in real life do? It seems wrong, 
 and yet how am I going to shut him out of my life 
 
 252
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 when he interests me so profoundly ? He is wonderful, 
 and unlike everyone else and yet I would not be a 
 fool to care for him; he has come up out of the dust 
 just as I have, into a world of his own making." 
 
 Herman's face, his fearful black eyes, the charming 
 smile on his young mouth haunted her memory per- 
 sistently. She took up her pen and tried to write, but 
 it was not any use to do so; always Herman's face 
 came between. When the bell rang for dinner at two 
 o'clock, she went downstairs without having written 
 a single line. 
 
 " I hope you got on with your work ? " Cochrane 
 asked. 
 
 " No ; I couldn't write a word," she confessed. 
 
 " Dear me ! the country air hasn't agreed with you." 
 
 " I think I shall try to sleep after dinner, and then 
 perhaps have a walk ; it may clear up my ideas," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 Sleep, however, was not to be any more successfully 
 wooed than art; and in the late afternoon she went 
 out. Without saying definitely to herself where she 
 meant to go, or what she meant to do, somehow her 
 steps turned toward Piccadilly, and she found herself 
 wondering if St. James's Hall was very far away. 
 She walked quickly along until she came to it. There 
 the street was blocked with a row of carriages, and a 
 crowd filled the pavement. Miriam stood among them 
 and looked and listened. She saw the carriages being 
 filled and sent quickly off by the policemen, one after 
 another; but still a little knot of people lingered near 
 the door of the Hall. She turned to two shopgirls be- 
 side her and asked what everyone was waiting for now. 
 17 253
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Some one still to come out, I suppose," the girl an- 
 swered, and turned to speak to her companion. Mir- 
 iam fell behind the two girls, and watched to see who 
 would come. Then a little brougham came along and 
 drew up by the curb. After a minute or two a man 
 came out and put a violin case into the carriage, and 
 the people who were waiting drew nearer together and 
 looked impatiently toward the door. A policeman 
 asked them to step back, and then Herman came out. 
 He looked ten years older, she thought, since the 
 morning ; his face was white and tired-looking, his eyes 
 blacker than ever. He wore a soft felt hat crushed 
 down over his brow, and without looking to one side 
 or the other he walked through the crowd to his car- 
 riage, got in, and drew up the window. The carriage 
 immediately drove off, and the crowd of people soon 
 melted away. 
 
 " Wouldn't like 'im to kiss me," laughed one of the 
 shopgirls, as they walked on ; " fairly gives me the 
 shivers to look at 'im." 
 
 Miriam turned away, a little smile lurking at the 
 corners of her mouth. 
 
 " Perhaps it's not as disagreeable as she thinks," 
 she said to herself. 
 
 All that evening she was very silent. Cochrane tried 
 to get her to talk, by direct questioning. 
 
 " Are you going to any of your Sunday tea parties 
 to-morrow ? " she asked ; " or are you coming to the 
 City Temple with me ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am going to shut myself up and write all 
 day." 
 
 " Well, to my mind the Sabbath should be a day 
 254
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 of rest; but you've a right to your own opinions, of 
 course," said Cochrane. 
 
 " I think my work is the one good thing about me ; 
 the one thing that God can possibly look on with satis- 
 faction," said Miriam gravely. 
 
 " Well, well ! I wonder often what you'll make of 
 your life," said the older woman, as she gathered up 
 her work and began to tidy up the room for the night. 
 She knew that something was troubling Miriam, but 
 had too much good sense to try to force her confidence. 
 
 " It's a pity I wasn't younger," she thought. " She 
 might have told a younger person ; and I've a dry, stiff 
 way with me that doesn't show what I'm feeling. I'm 
 sure I'm sorry for her ; so unlike her people, and that 
 clever she's separated from most of the world by it. 
 I'm sure it's a misfortune to a woman to be born 
 clever, and no mistake." 
 
 But Miriam, unaware of all this unexpressed sym- 
 pathy, kept the trouble and perplexity to herself. 
 
 255
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 TIMOTHY PILLAR generally went home to Hindcup 
 from Saturday to Monday each week, so Miriam's re- 
 lations heard, without much delay, the story he had to 
 tell- about her. 
 
 Sunday was a grilling day, and Timothy, tired with 
 business, did not rise early or go to church. But in 
 the afternoon, very fine in a white waistcoat, he set 
 out to call upon his sister, Maggie Broadman. 
 
 Maggie, as the " best married," most prosperous Pil- 
 lar, was always supposed to be the one whose advice 
 was most to be regarded ; for, with many people, pros- 
 perity is considered synonymous with wisdom, though 
 it is hard to say why it should be. 
 
 Maggie had sent her husband out for his Sabbatic 
 walk with the children, and she was sitting dozing in 
 a plush armchair when Timothy was " shown in " (as 
 she would have herself expressed it) to the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 They had not spoken many words to each other be- 
 fore Maggie divined that her brother had something 
 of interest to tell her. His mouth was pursed, his eye 
 bright ; he pushed aside as trivial several topics which 
 on another occasion would have interested him. 
 
 " The fact is, Maggie, I've something very extraor- 
 dinary to tell you," he said at last ; " extraordinary and 
 very sad ; it's Miriam again." 
 
 256
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Maggie drew her chair nearer to his, in an ecstasy 
 of curiosity. 
 
 " Miriam ! Whatever has she been up to next, 
 Tim ? " she asked. 
 
 Timothy leaned back in his chair (which was one of 
 those wretched three-cornered seats, the very acme of 
 discomfort to a man of his size, but he did not seem 
 to notice its angles at that moment), folded his fat 
 hands across his white waistcoat, and pursed up his 
 mouth still more, as if to keep back the flood of news 
 that nearly overwhelmed his speech. And at last, 
 when the auspicious moment seemed to have arrived, 
 he burst forth: 
 
 " She appears to have formed an illicit connection 
 with " He paused, and Maggie, whose curiosity now 
 amounted to agony, cried out : 
 
 " Whom ? Whom, Timothy ? " 
 
 " With Herman, the well-known violinist." It was, 
 indeed, no anticlimax. 
 
 Maggie flung herself back into the plush armchair. 
 
 " Timothy, it's impossible ! " she cried ; and then, 
 true to her nature, instead of pitying poor Miriam's 
 fall, she exclaimed : 
 
 " I didn't think any man would look at her ; I don't 
 believe it ; men all hate her ; you've been mistaken. It 
 can't be." 
 
 " There's no mistake. I met them staying alone to- 
 gether at a village inn in Hampshire. I confronted 
 her. I told her her conduct was disreputable, and as 
 a cousin I must have some explanation. But all she 
 did was to offer the old explanation of ' missing the 
 train ' ; and when I said that cock wouldn't fight, she 
 
 257
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 said I was insulting her and him, and left the room. 
 I saw them go off to London together next morning 
 private first-class carriage, no less. I never looked 
 at her after what had passed between us the night be- 
 fore; but I watched them, you may be sure." 
 
 Maggie leaned back in her chair perfectly overcome 
 by this story. 
 
 " I never did hear anything like it," she said. If 
 she had been quite honest, Maggie would have con- 
 fessed that her respect for Miriam, instead of being 
 lessened, was increased by the fact that any man should 
 care to go about with her. 
 
 But few people are quite honest, even with them- 
 selves; and Maggie assumed an appearance of entire 
 dismay. 
 
 " How do you suppose she ever got speaking with a 
 man like that? And then, to think that he cared 
 with Miriam ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " It's very remarkable," Timothy admitted. " For 
 my own part, cousin though she is, I never found a 
 word to say to her and plain-looking too." 
 
 " Who will tell her mother ? " Maggie asked. " She 
 must be told. I've no doubt she will go up to London 
 and try to do her best for her." 
 
 " I think you should tell her. You could do it very 
 delicately," said Timothy. " And I will take a walk 
 across to the Manor and tell Aunt Pillar ; she may as 
 well hear it soon as late. But you must tell her 
 mother." 
 
 " I'm sure it's a terrible thing to have to do," said 
 Maggie, who was in reality casting about in her mind 
 for the most effective words in which to convey the 
 
 258
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 news to Miriam's mother, and quite enjoying the pros- 
 pect of telling such a dramatic story. 
 
 " Tell me, Timothy, how did she look ? Had she on 
 very fine clothes? I suppose they always keep them 
 in the greatest luxury." 
 
 " Well, I can't say I noticed anything the least dif- 
 ferent about her dress," Timothy admitted. " But I 
 wouldn't be likely to." 
 
 " Dress was never any temptation to Miriam," said 
 her cousin, and then she added : " You know, Tim, if 
 anyone is to go and deal with her it must be Aunt 
 Pillar. Aunt Priscilla never could deal with anyone ; 
 she's far too soft." 
 
 Timothy quite agreed with this. Aunt Pillar had al- 
 ways been the family oracle to whom everything was 
 referred, and she, if anyone, must make a pilgrimage 
 to London to remonstrate with this erring young rela- 
 tive. It seemed as if Aunt Pillar had in a remote way 
 been the reason of Miriam's going to London ; for was 
 it not under her eye that she had first met these Gores 
 who had so completely " turned her head," by lending 
 her unsuitable books, and doubtless introducing her to 
 unsuitable people? Remembering all this, Timothy 
 and Maggie agreed between them that Aunt Pillar 
 must be the chosen instrument of expressing the 
 family indignation. 
 
 " I almost think you should take a fly this afternoon, 
 Timothy," Maggie said ; and again the brother and 
 sister agreed. It seemed to add solemnity to this pil- 
 grimage that Timothy should arrive at the Manor 
 gates in a fly. 
 
 Timothy was a great favorite with Aunt Pillar, and 
 259
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 she contrived that all the wineglasses used in the 
 Joyce establishment were bought from that firm of 
 glass and china merchants which he represented. 
 Timothy, in his turn, contrived that the wineglasses 
 were got at " a low figure, considering the crests ; as 
 low," he would say, " as we can possibly do." Ah, 
 what an Eden this world would be if all families could 
 thus play into each other's hands ! 
 
 Aunt Pillar, then, received her nephew warmly. 
 She would have sent at once for Mr. Hoskins, the 
 butler, but Timothy stopped her with a wave of the 
 hand. 
 
 " Not at once, aunt," he said. " I'll have some 
 private talk with you first." 
 
 " Nothing wrong with any of my little investments, 
 I hope ? " asked Aunt Pillar, whose affairs were under 
 Timothy's eye. 
 
 " Nothing at all. I'd better go straight to the point 
 and tell you it's Miriam Sadler once again." 
 
 " I'm not surprised," said Aunt Pillar. But she was 
 fain to admit, when Timothy had told his story, that 
 she was very much surprised, indeed. 
 
 " It's nothing short of a disaster to our family," she 
 said. " If I hadn't been for thirty years at the Manor 
 it might even have cost me my situation here. A fam- 
 ily like the Joyce family like to have all their subordi- 
 nates above reproach. There was that head housemaid 
 we had for five years, her sister, the kitchenmaid, had 
 a child to the head groom; and after that nothing 
 would please her ladyship but the whole boiling must 
 go Emma, as had been such a comfort to me these 
 five years, just as surely as poor silly Hannah, and 
 
 260
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Evans the groom. You've no idea how particular 
 they are." 
 
 Timothy listened with some impatience to this long 
 case in point, as Aunt Pillar supposed it to be ; then he 
 returned to the original theme. 
 
 " Now, aunt, I've talked the subject over with 
 Maggie, and we both feel that you are the person to 
 go up to London and look after Miriam. Aunt Pris- 
 cilla is too weak to do it, and Miriam would pay no 
 attention to any of us. As I told you, she paid none 
 to me." 
 
 " I haven't asked for a holiday for many a year. 
 I wonder could I be spared? The very thick of the 
 jelly season, and a new cook, too," Aunt Pillar said, 
 hesitating. 
 
 " Well, surely our reputation as a family is more 
 worth preserving than fruit is," said Timothy, with 
 an unusual essay at wit. 
 
 " You scarcely understand the business preserving 
 is in a house like ours," Aunt Pillar protested. And 
 then compressing her lips, she added : " And maybe 
 it's too late to save her, and the best we can do is to 
 say nothing and just let her disappear." 
 
 Aunt Pillar threw an awful emphasis and significa- 
 tion into this last word. It seemed to describe poor 
 Miriam's descent into the fearful pit and the miry 
 clay. 
 
 " Well, that is what we must find out, and whether 
 this was a casual connection, or if she is living openly 
 with him," said Timothy briskly. " You know Miss 
 Cochrane, aunt ; you can find out the truth easily from 
 her ; she must know if Miriam has left her house." 
 
 261
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " That's true. A telegram will do that." 
 
 " And if she hasn't left the house, the sooner she's 
 brought home and looked after, the better. If she has, 
 if she's gone off with him, there's very little can be 
 done." 
 
 " She won't come home, not since Priscilla mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " Make her come," said Timothy. 
 
 But Aunt Pillar shook her head. 
 
 " Miriam's a grown woman, Timothy, and not any 
 one of us can take her home against her will. Of 
 course her mother might refuse to give her money to 
 live on, but that only might make the matter worse. 
 I'll go and do my best; and if that fails, I'll get the 
 Gores to help me." 
 
 To any hearing ear or understanding heart, it had 
 been almost pitiful the tone in which Aunt Pillar 
 mentioned the Gores. The aristocracy were her 
 divinities ; so might a more faithful heart have called 
 in its extremity to the Almighty. 
 
 With commendable prudence, the aunt and nephew 
 decided that what must be a slightly incriminating tele- 
 gram to Cochrane should not pass through the Hind- 
 cup office. Timothy would dispatch the message from 
 Birmingham the next day. 
 
 It was only after this decision had been arrived at 
 that Hoskins was summoned for a long conversation 
 on wineglasses. He accompanied Timothy to the 
 door after half an hour of this exhilarating topic, say- 
 ing as they parted : 
 
 " We could do with another dozen of the crested 
 champagnes, Pillar, at thirty-two shillings ; and if 
 
 262
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 you can do them at thirty shillings, so much the 
 better." 
 
 " I'll do my best, you may be sure," said Timothy, 
 and no one guessed that any other errand had brought 
 him that hot afternoon to the Manor. 
 
 263
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 MIRIAM was sitting reading on Monday morning 
 when Cochrane came in with a telegram in her hand. 
 
 " Whatever does this mean ? " she asked. " Here's 
 a telegram from your aunt, Mrs. Pillar, asking if you 
 are still with me. It's been sent from Birmingham, 
 too, not from Hindcup, and I'm to wire reply. Had 
 you any word of leaving me, my dear, that they should 
 ask?" 
 
 Miriam read the telegram and shook her head. 
 
 " I never once thought of leaving you," she assured 
 Cochrane ; but she blushed hotly as she spoke, for the 
 real meaning of the telegram was quite plain to her. 
 
 " What am I to say, then ? " Cochrane asked. 
 
 " Oh, just say, ' Never thought of leaving ' ; that will 
 put it right. There must be some mistake, surely," 
 the girl replied. 
 
 But in spite of this reassuring message, she was 
 scarcely surprised the next afternoon to be told that 
 her Aunt Pillar was in the parlor, and wished to see 
 her. 
 
 " I hope there's no family affliction of any kind," 
 Cochrane added. " She looks real solemn." 
 
 " I hope not," said Miriam, laying aside her work. 
 She knew pretty well what she would have to face 
 now. 
 
 Aunt Pillar was sitting on the sofa, her fat feet well 
 264
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 stretched out before her. She wore a black silk gown, 
 and, in spite of the heat, a black velvet cloak heavily 
 trimmed with beads. In her hand she carried a little 
 maroon leather reticule. She had just opened this and 
 taken out her handkerchief to wipe off the beads of 
 perspiration from her forehead. 
 
 " Why, Aunt Pillar, I never expected to see you here. 
 What has brought you to London ? " Miriam said, 
 rushing upon disaster in this her first sentence. 
 
 " You should know," Aunt Pillar replied grimly. 
 There was going to be no beating about the bush be- 
 tween her and her niece. 
 
 " I suppose Timothy has made up some story about 
 me, and that you believe it, and probably my cousins 
 believe it; and perhaps even my mother does so? " 
 
 " I've never had any reason to doubt Timothy's 
 word yet," said Aunt Pillar. 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " He said as he had met you staying alone at an inn 
 with a foreigner, Miriam Sadler; and I defy you to 
 deny it." 
 
 " I don't deny it, Aunt Pillar ; because it is true. I 
 did go down to the country with a friend, and lost my 
 train, and had to stay all night at the inn ; but I don't 
 see why all my people should think evil of me because 
 of that." 
 
 " I do," said Aunt Pillar. " Respectable young 
 women don't lose their trains, or their characters in 
 that way." 
 
 " The truth is that you and all my family have al- 
 ways disliked me, and wanted to make me out in the 
 wrong ever since I was a child," said Miriam bitterly. 
 
 265
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 The pained sound in her voice made Aunt Pillar 
 think for a moment that she had perhaps spoken too 
 harshly to her niece. 
 
 " Come," she said, " you're speaking nonsense. 
 We're not a family that like to run each other down, 
 as you know ; we're all anxious to keep up the credit 
 of the connection. There's perhaps been a little feel- 
 ing between you and your cousins that was natural 
 enough on your side ; they all marrying so well, and 
 being so much thought of, and you a bit in the shade ; 
 but that's no reason for you to be so bitter." 
 
 Miriam smiled, but said nothing, and Aunt Pillar 
 went on: 
 
 " Now, just to show you the truth of what I say, 
 I've come to make you an offer. We talked it over 
 yesterday, your mother and your cousins and me, and 
 here it is: you're to come home " 
 
 " But," Miriam began. Aunt Pillar waved her 
 down and continued : 
 
 " We knew what you would say, that you couldn't 
 and wouldn't come back to your mother's house now 
 she's married Smaile. So we considered, and Mat- 
 tie has offered to take you in. She's expecting again 
 in autumn, is Mattie, and so you would have some oc- 
 cupation looking after number one while Mattie looked 
 after number two. There's always plenty to do where 
 there's two young children ; sewing needed, and what 
 not. It would keep you employed and out of mischief ; 
 and Mattie said to tell you with her love that bygones 
 would be bygones." 
 
 Miriam essayed speech once more, and once more 
 was silenced by Aunt Pillar's torrent of words. 
 
 266
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Now, don't say you won't, Miriam ; for a young 
 woman in the position you find yourself in now, it's 
 a wonderful offer. Here you get the offer to be re- 
 ceived back again into a respectable connection as if 
 nothing had happened, and many a family would never 
 have owned you again." 
 
 " Nothing has ' happened,' as you express it, Aunt 
 Pillar," said Miriam. " My life is exactly what it has 
 always been, and Mattie need not trouble to offer me 
 an asylum." 
 
 " You mean to refuse her offer, then ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Then you mean to stay in London and have more 
 of these on-goings with this Frenchman, or whatever 
 he is?" 
 
 " I mean to stay in London." 
 
 " And what about the Frenchman ? " Aunt Pillar 
 urged. 
 
 " He has never said a word to me that might not 
 have been said before the whole world," she said. 
 
 " Don't sit there and tell me there's nothing between 
 you and him, for I won't believe it, and it would be 
 better for you to tell me honestly from the beginning." 
 
 Miriam rose, and stood leaning one hand on the 
 table and looked straight at Aunt Pillar. 
 
 " I'll tell you what there is between us," she said. 
 " It is what there will never be between me and any 
 of my own people understanding. Perhaps it's a 
 dangerous feeling; but I'm glad to have felt it, what- 
 ever trouble it brings to me." 
 
 " There, I knew it ! " Aunt Pillar exclaimed. For, 
 as she said when describing the scene to Maggie 
 
 267
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Broadman, " Things have gone pretty far when it 
 comes to that silly talk about understanding. Who 
 wants to be ' understood,' unless it's a fool like 
 Miriam ? " 
 
 Aunt Pillar's deep distrust of her niece's charms led 
 her to ask further : 
 
 " He hasn't made you a direct offer, I suppose, from 
 what you say? That talk about understanding gener- 
 ally means nothing." 
 
 " Mr. Herman is married already," Miriam an- 
 swered. " So you have given yourself a great deal 
 of trouble about nothing." 
 
 She felt as if she had come off victorious in this 
 conflict when she saw her aunt's nonplused expression. 
 Yet, deep down in her heart, she felt that she had de- 
 ceived Aunt Pillar by that statement, and her instinc- 
 tively honest nature was troubled by this feeling. 
 
 " The truth is not always true," she told herself. 
 
 Aunt Pillar, however, was a woman of strong com- 
 mon sense ; she sat silent only for a moment before she 
 said: 
 
 " If he's a married man, as you say, Miriam, it's only 
 so much the worse for you to be carrying on with him 
 this way. Where's his wife these days when you go 
 traipsing off to the country with her husband ? " 
 
 It was a perfectly pertinent question, and Miriam 
 knew that it was ; but nothing is more provoking than 
 having thus to confess the truth. She turned hotly 
 upon her aunt. 
 
 " I have heard all I am going to hear about this," 
 she said. " Either you speak about something else, 
 or I leave the room." 
 
 268
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Aunt Pillar was not accustomed to have her nieces 
 take the high tone with her ; she rose up in wrath. 
 
 " Miriam," she said, " you were always an intoler- 
 able, set-up piece ; set-up because of what you consid- 
 ered your cleverness. But, believe me, it'll be the ruin 
 of you, setting up your own wisdom against the expe- 
 rience of older people. I'll not stay here to be spoken 
 to like this. I meant to stop for a cup of tea with 
 Cochrane ; but not in your company after this ! " 
 
 " I'm sorry you won't stay and have tea, Aunt Pil- 
 lar, and I'm sure Cochrane will be sorry too." 
 
 " I'm sure of it ; we would have had a good deal to 
 talk over, her having been so long with the Gores, who 
 are so intimate with the Joyce family, and altogether 
 I had several things to tell her. But I won't stay. 
 Good-by, and I won't have much of comfort to tell 
 your mother." 
 
 Miriam opened the door and let her relative pass 
 out through it. She did not attempt to part with her 
 on more friendly terms. In the passage she heard 
 Cochrane encounter her: 
 
 " What, Mrs. Pillar ! Surely you are not away 
 without a cup of tea ? " 
 
 " Thank you, Cochrane ; another day I'd be more 
 than pleased ; but I must be off now my business with 
 Miriam is over." 
 
 " I'm really sorry, Mrs. Pillar ; where are you to be 
 to-night?" 
 
 " At Jenkins's Temperance Hotel. You remember 
 Jenkins, I daresay. You knew he had set up for him- 
 self in the Temperance line? I told him myself I 
 thought it a mistake and him such a good judge of 
 18 269
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 wine. Well, it's there I'm to be to-night ; it's near 
 Victoria." 
 
 " You'll get a 'bus easy, Mrs. Pillar." 
 
 " Well, I daresay ; but I'm not too sure of them 
 'buses ; which will be the best? " 
 
 " I'll put on my bonnet and just see you into the 
 right one ; quite a pleasure to me to do so." 
 
 Aunt Pillar subsided on to one of the hall chairs, 
 and a few minutes later Miriam watched the worthy 
 couple go off together down the street. 
 
 270
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 THEIR figures had scarcely disappeared round the 
 corner when Miriam, standing aimlessly at the win- 
 dow, saw a carriage draw up before the door. It was 
 a little, tight-looking brougham. She had seen it 
 before. 
 
 Herman got out, looked up at the window, and 
 catching sight of her, smiled and ran up the steps to 
 the door. 
 
 Miriam stood paralyzed for a moment. 
 
 Would she send him away? There was still time 
 to do so. She ran to the door, her heart beating very 
 fast, stood still again, turned and walked back to the 
 window ; in that minute of irresolution the battle was 
 lost and Herman came in. 
 
 " I have found where you live," he began, and then 
 with a sudden rush of words he went on : 
 
 " Miriam, I have come ; I want you I need you ; I 
 cannot live without you." 
 
 She had given him both her hands. He stood there 
 holding them and looking down at her, waiting for her 
 to speak. A dozen random thoughts chased each other 
 through her brain as she stood there in silence and 
 Herman held her hands in his. Aunt Pillar's flushed, 
 angry face (it would be angrier and more flushed 
 could she look in on her now) ; her cousin Timothy; 
 
 271
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Alan Gore ; one after the other she seemed to see them, 
 and then, because, in spite of her unorthodoxy, she 
 was profoundly religious at heart, came the thought 
 of God ; would His face, too, be turned against her 
 now? 
 
 " You do not speak," Herman said at last. His 
 voice broke in upon her thoughts and compelled her 
 to speak. 
 
 " I can't," she said. " I do not know what to say." 
 
 " I find in you something my heart has sought for 
 all my life and never found till now ; is not this enough ? 
 Does much still lack ? " Herman asked. 
 
 " Yes. You told me that you were married," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 Herman let her hands fall from his, and sat down on 
 the sofa so lately tenanted by Aunt Pillar. 
 
 " Come," he said, " we will talk of it all." Miriam 
 sat down beside him, and turned her large troubled 
 eyes upon him. 
 
 " If I could see it right myself, I would not mind 
 what other people thought about it," she told him. 
 " But just now it seems wrong to me even to let you 
 talk this way to me. Do you think this foolish of me ? " 
 
 " But yes ; it seems to me the merest superstition ! 
 This woman has, indeed, my name, and by bad luck 
 much of my money ; but for any other claim on me 
 no I married her in my foolish boyhood, or, rather, 
 she married me. She has no more hold on my heart 
 than has this cushion." He brought down his hand 
 on one of Cochrane's stiff wool-work cushions with 
 a sharp slap, as he spoke. 
 
 " Did you not live with her? " Miriam asked. Her- 
 272
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 man seemed to search back into the recesses of his 
 memory before he answered. 
 
 " I have nearly forgotten ; yes, for a time, but what 
 of that?" 
 
 " It seems to me to make a difference." 
 
 " Not to me," Herman said. " This living with her 
 only proved to me how separate we were in heart. I 
 have said adieu to her six seven years ago, and hope 
 never to see her again. This is not to be married ; this 
 is to have a yoke on one's neck only, a thing to 
 throw off." 
 
 It was not the first time that Miriam had heard 
 these doctrines. She had, as you know, stated the 
 whole arguments for and against a more flexible mar- 
 riage law in the pages of The Advance Guard; but 
 it was a very different matter to be confronted with 
 the question in her own life. 
 
 " But do you mean that you that you want to be 
 divorced from her ? " she hesitated. 
 
 Herman tossed back the hair that fell across his 
 eyes with a gesture of wild impatience. 
 
 " Here, indeed, is the very mischief," he said. 
 " Hasn't she vowed to me she will never divorce me ; 
 never make it possible for me to take another wife? 
 She is jealous as a tiger." 
 
 " How ugly ! " Miriam cried, shrinking back into 
 the corner of the sofa. Herman leaned forward and 
 lifted the flaccid little hand that lay on the cushion be- 
 side him. 
 
 " Miriam," he said, " do not feel this way. I wish 
 to be done with this ugly world where I have lived 
 until now ; where men and women fight for each other, 
 
 273
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 and hate one another. I wish to be done with it all, 
 and to have life serene and beautiful with you if you 
 will come to me." 
 
 " But if I could not be your wife," she said slowly, 
 " I would not be considered respectable." 
 
 Herman laughed aloud at these words and the 
 grave way in which they were spoken. 
 
 " Dear child," he said, " it is the woman herself 
 who is respectable or not. I have seen so many a mar- 
 ried woman to whom I would grudge this good word 
 ' respectable.' I know, too, women whose connections 
 are not regular but whose hearts are still like snow." 
 
 " You have seen much more of the world than I 
 have," Miriam admitted. Her knowledge of those 
 persons who had transgressed the social laws in the 
 community of Hindcup had been limited to two in- 
 stances: the kitchenmaid at the Manor, whose seduc- 
 tion had so annoyed Aunt Pillar, and another young 
 woman whose name had been solemnly effaced from 
 the communicants' roll of the chapel, for the same 
 offense. 
 
 " Would I," she asked herself, " if I went to live 
 with Herman, would I be like them? " 
 
 The thought made her hot and cold all over. 
 
 " I can't listen to what you are saying," she said 
 hurriedly. " We would not be happy ; people who do 
 these things are miserable " 
 
 " But, Miriam, listen to me ; what you say is perhaps 
 true of those liaisons these miserable sordid affairs. 
 But you I want so differently. I want you for always, 
 till death parts us; till the soul of me has perished I 
 shall want you ! " 
 
 274
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 He caught Miriam in his arms and covered her with 
 kisses. The urgency of his passion swept away her 
 scruples as a rising flood carries before it all the straws 
 and sticks that have gathered in the side eddies of a 
 stream. She was loved fondly and dearly, loved and 
 understood at last, after the long repression and 
 blighting influences of her girlhood. The man who 
 loved her thus was no enigma to her, as the young men 
 of Hindcup had been ; she had to make no effort 
 to understand the workings of his mind, or to explain 
 to him what she felt about anything. Between them 
 there was a perfection of sympathy that scarcely 
 needed words. Neither of them was ordinary ; and in 
 this their extraordinary attraction for each other con- 
 sisted. Just in proportion as Miriam had found it 
 impossible to get on with the average youth of Hind- 
 cup, she now found it easy to get on with Herman. 
 Just as she had nothing to say to them, she had every- 
 thing to say to him. 
 
 " Say that you will come to me," Herman urged ; 
 for while she realized all this Miriam had been 
 silent. 
 
 " I can't," she said at last. " Not yet ; my mind is 
 not enough made up yet." 
 
 " You do not care enough," said he. 
 
 " I must have time to think. You cannot expect me 
 to make a decision like this all at once." 
 
 Did she care enough? That was the question in 
 her mind ; care enough to throw away reputation and 
 the esteem, such as it was, of her own people, and be- 
 come an outcast from them forever. " I must wait 
 and find out," she thought. 
 
 275
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " And how long will this decision take you? " Her- 
 man asked. 
 
 " I do not know ; I cannot say. You must know 
 how difficult it is for me " Her eyes were full of tears 
 as she looked at him, and she went on : " It is so diffi- 
 cult to distinguish. I am more than happy when I am 
 with you. I love to listen to every word you say ; 
 I wish to tell you everything in my heart ; but is 
 this love? I do not know. I must wait and be 
 sure." 
 
 " And if you were sure ? " 
 
 There was a long silence before she answered. 
 
 " If I were quite sure, if I knew that I had found 
 this wonderful thing, I do not think that I would hesi- 
 tate." Herman flung himself back against the wool- 
 work cushion with something between a laugh and a 
 sigh. 
 
 " See you are quick about it, little one," he said. 
 " It is of my nature to be greatly impatient. I shall 
 write to you each week to know how the decision 
 prospers." 
 
 " You must not be unreasonable," said Miriam 
 gently. " For you know if it is your nature to be 
 ' greatly impatient,' it is mine to think a long time 
 about everything. I have to see both sides of every 
 question. Just now I am inclined only to see one side 
 of this how happy I might be with you ; but I know 
 there is another, and I must look at it also." 
 
 "That you might be miserable with me? You 
 speak, no doubt, of this hot temper of mine, which is 
 notorious ? " 
 
 " No, I never heard about it. I only guessed that it 
 276
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 was there when I spoke to you by the river," she said, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " I was indeed cross. I have frightened you." 
 
 " I never thought of it again. It has nothing to do 
 with my hesitation. I scarcely think I should care, 
 however cross you were to me," she said. 
 
 " What then ? You have heard that I am extrava- 
 gant, that I do not hoard my money ? " She shook her 
 head and smiled again. 
 
 " I have never heard any stories about you ; all my 
 scruples come from my own mind. You must give 
 me time." 
 
 " You will at least write to me. I do not stay after 
 this week in London." 
 
 " No," she answered slowly. " I do not think that 
 I will write to you. I wish to live my life entirely with- 
 out you, as it was only a few short weeks ago. How 
 short our knowledge of each other is, after all, and 
 it seems so long ! " 
 
 Herman got up and walked to and fro across the 
 little room. 
 
 " Now you speak like a fool," he said. " So well 
 you might turn back the hands of that clock to twelve 
 and say you wished to think it noon again ! You can- 
 not get me out of your life now. I am in it forever." 
 
 Miriam was silent ; she knew that what he said was 
 true. 
 
 " Go, please, I want to be alone," she said. But 
 when he had gone the room felt cold and dark. She 
 shivered and glanced at the empty grate, not realizing 
 for a moment what it was that she missed. 
 
 A terrible temptation assailed her: here she was, 
 277
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 at war with her own people, misjudged and misunder- 
 stood by them, and now Herman offered her love, 
 understanding, companionship those wonderful gifts. 
 But then " Oh, how bitter it is ! " she cried. 
 " Where I could have given love I did not dare to en- 
 tertain the least thought of it and now when love is 
 offered to me, must I reject it?" Miriam fully realized 
 at that moment the dilemma she had arrived at, and 
 confessed it openly to her own heart at last. She 
 could never feel to Herman as she felt to Alan Gore 
 but yet how he understood her, how he charmed her ! 
 Surely for companionship such as his she would be 
 wise to forfeit everything, even her good name itself. 
 And then he loved her and no one had ever loved 
 her before. In time perhaps she would forget the old, 
 foolish wound and be happy and contented with the 
 love of this wonderful man who was so unlike every- 
 one else. . . . Thus the Tempter whispered in her ear. 
 
 278
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 COCHRANE walked back from Victoria very slowly. 
 She had a good deal to think about, for Aunt Pillar 
 had found it necessary to pour out all Miriam's story 
 to her old acquaintance on the way to the 'bus. Coch- 
 rane had received the tale, as she received most things, 
 in silence. She scarcely knew what to think of it. 
 " But one thing's certain," she said to herself, " and 
 that is, the girl needs a friend." 
 
 She had detected the hostile ring in Aunt Pillar's 
 voice, and the fact that she seemed anxious to put the 
 worst instead of the best construction upon the story. 
 
 " The Pillars always had a coarse streak somewhere 
 in them," she thought. " There's a way and a way of 
 telling a thing. I remember in the days when Jen- 
 kins was courting me, Mrs. Pillar had a way of no- 
 ticing everything that went against me. Well, well, 
 Miriam is a queer girl to come from that stock." 
 
 Cochrane had resolved to adhere to her former reso- 
 lution and ask no confidence from Miriam. But when 
 she reached home the little maidservant Gavina met 
 her at the door in a state of huge excitement. 
 
 " May I speak a minnit, ma'am ? There was a gen- 
 tleman with orful eyes up in the parlor with Miss 
 Sadler. Came in a carriage and kep' it at the door, 
 a real carriage, ma'am." 
 
 " Well, Gavina, what of it ? " said Cochrane in a 
 repressive voice. " Is the gentleman still upstairs ? " 
 
 279
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " No, ma'am ; gone, ma'am. I watched at the 'ead 
 of the backstairs all the time to make sure." 
 
 " I well believe it, Gavina ; get away downstairs now 
 to your work," said Cochrane severely. She would 
 not encourage gossip about her boarder. But this an- 
 nouncement of Gavina's had brought her to a decision. 
 She must speak about this visitor. Going slowly up- 
 stairs, Cochrane entered the parlor and shut the door. 
 Miriam was sitting by the window; she had no pre- 
 tense of employment. Cochrane came and stood be- 
 hind her chair, and laid a kind though heavy hand 
 on her shoulder. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " your Aunt Pillar has been 
 telling me you're in some trouble with them at home, 
 about some man ; and now Gaviria tells me he has 
 been here while I was out." She came and sat down 
 beside her, then, and waited that she should reply ; 
 but, instead of speaking, Miriam suddenly laid her 
 head down on Cochrane's hard, uninviting-looking 
 shoulder, and wept bitterly. 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " said Cochrane, commenting, mean- 
 while, on the smell of tobacco that clung to Miriam's 
 face, " and very good tobacco ; not servants' hall stuff, 
 in the least," she said to herself. 
 
 " There, now, tell me about it, my dear," she said, 
 when her sobs had quieted a little. " I'm afraid you 
 and your aunt had a few words ; she seemed put about 
 and warm a little." 
 
 It did not take long, however, for Cochrane to dis- 
 cover that these tears were not flowing for Aunt Pil- 
 lar's displeasure. 
 
 " Now, Miriam," she said, " it's happily a case where 
 280
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 there's no two ways. What you have to do is never 
 to see him again, or hear from him, or of him, or look 
 his way. If he writes to you, put the letter in the fire ; 
 and if he comes to see you, leave word you won't see 
 him. As sure as death, my dear, if you do anything 
 else, you'll get into trouble." 
 
 But " 
 
 " There now, never say the word. There's no two 
 ways about it." 
 
 " I shall never see another man like him," said 
 Miriam. 
 
 " I daresay not." 
 
 " Do you not think that makes a difference ? He is 
 not like other men, he can't be judged by their 
 standards." 
 
 " I think right's right, and wrong's wrong ; and no 
 good can ever come of mixing them." 
 
 " And what about the color and interest of life ? " 
 Miriam said, speaking out her thoughts aloud, for- 
 getting who her listener was. 
 
 For answer, the good woman stepped to the book- 
 case and took a Bible down from the shelf. She licked 
 her thumb, and slowly turned page after page in search 
 of some passage. Then she brought the book over 
 to where Miriam sat, and laid it on her knee, pointing 
 to a verse. 
 
 " Read that," she said, and she slowly repeated the 
 stern and terrible words aloud: 
 
 " And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast 
 it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life 
 with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast 
 into hell fire." 
 
 281
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " That's it, Miriam. I've seen women go into hell 
 in this world, with both eyes, because they were afraid 
 to pluck out the one. See that you don't do the same." 
 
 She closed the Bible and went quietly out of the 
 room, and Miriam sat looking out into the glaring 
 street, and repeated the terrible words over and over 
 to herself shuddering.
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IT was characteristic of both of these women that 
 after this day they never mentioned Herman's name 
 again to each other. Miriam applied herself more than 
 ever to her work, and only saw Cochrane at meal times. 
 The breathless summer days passed one by one; the 
 air began to feel used up, and as if there was no vital- 
 ity left in it. The grass in the parks became brown 
 and juiceless ; the trees were powdered over with dust, 
 and all the fashionable world, which makes the bravery 
 and show of London streets, went out of town, leaving 
 only a shabby million or two of poor people behind 
 in the torrid wilderness of stone and lime. 
 
 In this parched-up, weary town, Miriam lived on 
 and worked, learning some of the unteachable secrets 
 of her trade. From writing descriptions of individ- 
 uals, she advanced to creating types, an immense step 
 in artistic achievement. She learned also to forget 
 Courteis and his maxims, and to trust to her own intu- 
 ition. She began to let her characters take their own 
 way, and followed their leading blindly. At her heart 
 she felt a stirring which told her that these children 
 of her imagination lived ; but could Cochrane be ex- 
 pected to understand the interest, the misgiving, or 
 the rapture, that by turns possessed her about them? 
 and there was not another soul in London just then 
 with whom Miriam could hold converse. So she 
 
 283
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 worked on without encouragement ; probably the best 
 way in which to work. She had few letters in these 
 days. Correspondence with Hindcup consisted in a 
 biweekly letter from her mother which contained very 
 little of any interest. The cousins never wrote, and 
 Miss Foxe was a poor correspondent. So it would 
 have been ridiculous of Cochrane to seem unconscious 
 of a startling-looking envelope which lay on the break- 
 fast table one September morning, addressed to Mir- 
 iam. It bore the name of a hotel, a Vienna hotel, 
 printed largely across it, and the very handwriting of 
 the address was curious. It was sealed, too, with 
 white sealing wax, and stamped with a strange seal. 
 
 As it was impossible to ignore the letter, Cochrane 
 sensibly decided to speak about it. 
 
 " That's a letter you should burn, my dear," she 
 said, as she passed it across the table. Miriam held 
 out her hand for the letter, blushing hotly. 
 
 " There isn't any fire," she said, glancing at the 
 grate, which was empty. 
 
 " Oh, there's always the range downstairs. Ga- 
 vina's making the beds just now ; you could step down 
 easy and burn it in a minute." 
 
 " Oh," Miriam cried, " I want to read it so much ! " 
 She had laid the letter on the table, and now she cov- 
 ered it with her hand, as if to protect it from harm. 
 To her imagination the envelope felt warm and sen- 
 tient; it would have been cruel to burn it. 
 
 " Take my advice and put it in the range," said 
 Cochrane. She had begun a pretense of making tea, 
 but was really too deeply interested in the fate of 
 the letter to attend to what she was doing, so she set 
 
 284
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 down the teapot again and waited to see what would 
 happen. 
 
 Miriam rose, holding the letter in her hand and 
 stood irresolute for a minute, then she turned and ran 
 out of the room. Down the dark little backstair she 
 ran, across the kitchen, and without giving herself 
 time to hesitate again, thrust the letter between the 
 bars of the stove. It caught fire at one corner and 
 fell down from the bars on to the hearth. Miriam 
 caught it up and, flaming as it was, pushed it back into 
 the fire. 
 
 " There, there ! it's done ! " she cried out aloud, rub- 
 bing her fingers, which were all scorched at the tips. 
 
 Gavina's hurrying step came down the stair, and 
 Miriam turned away from the fire. 
 
 " I've burned my fingers, Gavina," she said. " I 
 was burning a letter." 
 
 " Lor', miss, that's bad. 'Ave some soap to it. 
 Whatever made you do that ? " 
 
 " I was in a hurry," said Miriam. But she did not 
 seem in such a hurry to reclimb the kitchen stair. 
 She came up it very slowly, as if every step were an 
 effort, and sat down listlessly at the breakfast table; 
 for it was sure to be such an eventless meal now! 
 
 " There's a Hindcup letter there too," said Coch- 
 rane. " But better have your breakfast first ; the 
 bacon is getting cold." 
 
 " Yes, Hindcup letters are seldom exciting," said 
 Miriam, sipping her tea in an absent sort of way. 
 What had been in Herman's letter? she wondered. 
 Certainly nothing tiresome or ordinary of that she 
 was sure enough. More probably much that was in- 
 19 285
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 teresting and unusual. Had it been a love letter, such 
 as other women spoke of getting? such as she had 
 never received in her life? Surely she might have al- 
 lowed herself to keep it ; perhaps in old age she would 
 regret having destroyed this evidence that she, too, 
 had once been loved and desired like other women. 
 Then breaking in upon these thoughts, she opened her 
 other letter. It was from her cousin Emmie; an un- 
 usual occurrence. 
 
 Emmie had no great art as a letter writer, and her 
 announcement that it was Miriam's clear duty to come 
 home at once was made without much circumlocution. 
 
 " Your mother has been ailing for a long time, but 
 none of us thought there was anything seriously the 
 matter, and as you had had such words with Mr. 
 Smaile your mother hesitated to ask you to come home, 
 and went on hoping she would soon be better. Now 
 Sydney has been called in, and he finds that she has a 
 mortal complaint, and says you must come home at 
 once to look after her. If you return and try to do 
 your duty, Miriam, we will all try to forget the past. 
 We always were a family that thought a great deal 
 of duty." Thus the artless epistle ran. 
 
 It was the first intimation Miriam had had of any 
 failure in her mother's health. She was startled by the 
 news, and more startled to feel how sadly little her 
 mother's death would mean to her. They had never 
 been anything to each other, and the remarriage with 
 Mr. Smaile had alienated them more and more. 
 " How dreadful that I should feel so little ! I must do 
 everything that I possibly can to make up for my want 
 of love," she thought. For she knew that the duty 
 
 286
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 exacted by want of affection is far more inexorable 
 than the joyful service of love; no jot or tittle may 
 be omitted by it, till the whole be fulfilled. Back to 
 Hindcup she must go, cost her what it might, and do 
 her duty to the uttermost. 
 
 " It's a sudden call," Cochrane pronounced. " Bet- 
 ter start to-day. You'll never regret doing the best 
 you can." She noticed the girl's dry eyes, and drew 
 her own conclusions. 
 
 So a few hours saw Miriam off again to Hindcup, 
 her life in London over for the present. Just eight 
 months since she had left home, and all the world 
 different to her already. A new thought in her heart, 
 a thought that would not be put by; she had seemed 
 till now to be helplessly in the grasp of circumstance ; 
 now circumstance seemed to be in her own hands. 
 She might go to Herman and change her whole life 
 forever, if she chose. 
 
 Emmie met Miriam at the station. Her manner was 
 a curious blend of curiosity and condolence. Mrs. 
 Smaile's illness was the only subject she mentioned; 
 but an ungovernable curiosity shone from her every 
 glance. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, Miriam ; I knew it would be a great 
 shock to you ; but Sydney says it will be a long case. 
 You'll feel it very much, and I daresay you were re- 
 luctant to leave London too; but I felt I was only 
 doing my duty as the doctor's wife when I wrote you 
 all the truth." 
 
 " Yes, thank you, Emmie, I am very glad you told 
 me at once. Mother had given me no idea she 
 was ill." 
 
 287
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Well, you and Smaile had such a dispute, I sup- 
 pose she felt it would be difficult having you at home 
 again." 
 
 " It will be difficult," Miriam agreed. 
 
 " You're not looking at all well. I'm sure you are 
 writing too much. As Sydney said to me the other 
 day : ' I wish,' he said, ' that she would be done with 
 all that writing and get married.' " 
 
 " I know you all think that," said Miriam, smiling 
 to hear the well-worn sentence trotted out once more. 
 Somehow it had lost its sting now, " Though, after 
 all," she thought to herself with a rueful smile, " I'm 
 less likely than I ever was to get married." 
 
 " I'm afraid you will have a very trying time with 
 poor Aunt Priscilla," Emmie went on. " She is very 
 fractious. Sydney says it's the nature of these com- 
 plaints, so you must try to bear with her. And then 
 old Smaile is always hanging about. We don't think 
 him very satisfactory." 
 
 " That is no surprise to me. I'm glad if you all have 
 found it out at last." 
 
 " Well, at any rate it was your duty to come, and 
 I'm glad you've done it. Here we are at the door. 
 Sydney will be up to-morrow morning. Good night, 
 Miriam." 
 
 Yes, here she was, walking up to the well-known 
 door, as if she had never been away from Hindcup. 
 The door stood open, and Miriam walked in and en- 
 tered the parlor where she knew her mother would 
 be sitting. 
 
 Mrs. Smaile sat by the fire doing nothing. She did 
 not look very ill. Miriam stooped down and kissed 
 
 288
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 her, as a sign that peace was restored, for they had 
 parted in anger. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you don't look so ill as I expected, 
 mother," she said, after the preliminary explanations 
 and exclamations had been gone through. Mrs. 
 Smaile gave a petulant sigh. 
 
 " It's very hard everyone telling me I am not look- 
 ing ill, and me suffering as I do," she said. She be- 
 gan then to pour into her daughter's ear all the symp- 
 toms of her illness how she felt this, and how she 
 felt that; how Mrs. Hobbes had a friend that died of 
 the same not long ago, and had felt just the same ; 
 how Aunt Pillar had heard of yet another sufferer 
 whose symptoms were identical. 
 
 Miriam listened to it all, realizing mutely what lay 
 before her. To this pitiful, wandering, disgusting 
 chronicle she must listen uncomplainingly till the end 
 came. She wondered, as she had occasion to wonder 
 a hundred times in days to come, at that want of the 
 acceptance of the inevitable which characterized her 
 poor mother. Mrs. Smaile was always wondering why 
 she must suffer thus; wouldn't it be possible to do 
 anything more for her than had been done? just as 
 in former days she used to wonder why she had been 
 given a queer daughter like Miriam, instead of an or- 
 dinary, marrying young woman, and whether nothing 
 could be done to alter the disposition of this unlikely 
 daughter of hers? 
 
 When at last Miriam went up to her own room to 
 unpack, she felt the dear lamp of hope burn very low 
 in her heart. She took out the pile of manuscript 
 which represented the work of the last six months, 
 
 289
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 and looked at it fondly. But as she looked, she de- 
 spaired. How would it be possible for her, here and 
 now, to finish it? She put it away in a drawer, and 
 came downstairs again. 
 
 Mr. Smaile had come in, and thought to propitiate 
 his stepdaughter by offering her a fatherly salute. She 
 shrank away from him as if he had been a toad ; but he 
 drew her to him, and planted a hairy kiss on her brow. 
 
 " Welcome home, my dear," he said, and the cordial 
 words had an insincere sound to her. Miriam was 
 disgusted by his kiss. She remembered with a sudden 
 sense of contrast the feeling of Herman's smooth 
 brown cheek against her own, and the remembrance 
 sent a wave of color across her white face. 
 
 Mrs. Smaile had been ordered a milk diet; but she 
 " fancied something fried " ; so there ensued the first 
 of endless scenes where Miriam had to coax her 
 mother to eat the prescribed food, and hear a dozen 
 reasons why she could not or would not do so. At 
 last, when her own meal was quite cold, she was al- 
 lowed to begin to eat it. But before she had eaten 
 many mouthfuls her mother wished to be taken up- 
 stairs to bed. Thus began Miriam's initiation. She 
 had entered on one of those slow martyrdoms that 
 women are called to, compared with which the brief 
 terrors of the stake and fagot sometimes seem an easy 
 path to glory. 
 
 290
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 FOR the first few months of her illness, Mrs. Smaile 
 was not entirely confined to her bed ; but she suffered, 
 poor woman, from an incurable restlessness which 
 made her undecided as to whether she wished to lie 
 down or get up. These vacillations were always re- 
 ferred to her daughter for settlement, but the advice 
 she gave was seldom accepted; for if Miriam decided 
 that her mother should stay in bed, she at once wished 
 to get up; or if the decision was in favor of getting 
 up, she at once wished to stay in bed. Aunt Pillar 
 came frequently to see her sister, and to offer advice 
 to her niece. 
 
 " You should be firmer with her," she would say, 
 planting her fat foot on the carpet, as if to illustrate 
 how her poor sister's invalid fancies should be crushed 
 down. And Miriam at such times used to envy that 
 callous nature, which was the almost priceless posses- 
 sion of Aunt Pillar. It would have been no difficulty 
 to her to refuse to comply with any number of sick 
 fancies. Indeed, she would rather have enjoyed the 
 process of denial. 
 
 " There's no good giving in to whimsies, just be- 
 cause a person's on their deathbed," was one of her 
 aphorisms. " It may be a long time yet ; she's wasting 
 very slowly." Miriam shuddered at such remarks ; 
 
 291
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 but Aunt Pillar would have been much surprised to 
 hear that her words had been considered callous. 
 
 " Poor mother, I can do sadly little for her after 
 all," Miriam would say, in defense of her own sys- 
 tem. She saw very little of her cousins in these days. 
 Emmie, in her capacity of the doctor's wife, came 
 over when she heard from her husband that Mrs. 
 Smaile was particularly ill. She was more good- 
 natured than her sisters, and was really sorry for her 
 cousin just now, so she would sometimes offer to sit 
 with the invalid for an hour while she went out. But 
 on her return Miriam always found Emmie very im- 
 patient to get away, and she would whisper to her : 
 
 " Really, I don't know how you stand it, dear ; an 
 hour is all I am fit for. Sydney doesn't like me to be 
 overtired ; he takes such care of me. It's so nice to 
 be taken care of. Well, good night, and take care of 
 yourself, as you haven't a husband to look after you." 
 
 Miriam generally found her mother considerably the 
 worse for Emmie's well-meant intentions, so, after a 
 few such experiments, she got into the way of refusing 
 her cousin's aid. 
 
 Never had time seemed so endless. The dismal 
 days, punctuated by nothing but the fluctuations of 
 illness, might have had twenty-four hours instead of 
 twelve; the dreadful nights, when pain seemed more 
 unbearable in the darkness ; the melancholy dawns that 
 were the saddest time of any. For with returning 
 consciousness there came to the sufferer a terror of 
 all the pain she must endure, and she would mutter, 
 " Another day," with an intonation that Miriam 
 could scarcely bear to listen to; so about the time 
 
 292
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 that her mother generally wakened, she used to slip 
 out of the room that she might not hear that terrible 
 whisper. 
 
 As Christmas drew near there were many consulta- 
 tions among the cousins as to how they were to observe 
 the festival. In deference to Mrs. Smaile's illness, 
 the usual junketings were put off ; but Maggie Broad- 
 man gave a " very quiet " dinner to her relations on 
 Christmas Day, giving the invitations in a voice which 
 seemed to indicate that the meal was to be eaten in 
 silence. Miriam, of course, never thought of going 
 to it; her duties at home were far too arduous to let 
 her think of such a thing. Mrs. Smaile was now al- 
 ways in bed, and suffered intensely. Miriam watched 
 beside her in an anguish of pity, the old tremendous 
 puzzle that has at one time or another assailed most 
 of us plucking at her heart. 
 
 " How can God permit it ? I wouldn't let a dog 
 suffer like this if I could help it. Is God less tender 
 than man ? How terrible ! How cruel ! " 
 
 In these long days she did " a deal of thinking," 
 as the country people say. 
 
 " I, too, shall some day be lying on my deathbed. 
 What shall I most regret then ? What will seem worth 
 while ? " And her heart always gave the same answer : 
 " To have missed love would be the bitterest thought. 
 The only thing that can seem worth while then will 
 be love." 
 
 As she came to this conclusion, she looked at her 
 mother and wondered. She had never heard her men- 
 tion her first husband, Miriam's father, with anything 
 that could be termed more than tepid affection. It is 
 
 293
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 certain that Mr. Smaile had inspired no deeper feel- 
 ing, while for herself Miriam knew that her mother 
 had always felt more anxiety than love. Alas, what 
 a shipwreck of life ! There are natures of this kind 
 (they are less infrequent than is popularly supposed) 
 who are incapable of deep feeling toward anyone. 
 The great experiences of life pass over them, leaving 
 them practically the same as they were in extreme 
 youth. Such a person had poor Mrs. Smaile been. 
 She had married twice, probably only because she had 
 been asked twice to marry. She had borne a child 
 and reared it, yet to the last her heart was empty, and 
 her affections undeveloped. 
 
 Mr. Hobbes came often to pray by the sick bed, 
 and used generally to try to improve the occasion 
 to Miriam. 
 
 " How little any earthly thing can do for your 
 mother now," he used to say, and Miriam kept silence, 
 for her heart said : 
 
 " How terrible to leave the world without having 
 made more of it. When I come to die, I should like 
 to have felt all that my heart could feel of earthly 
 happiness." Thus by a strange inversion she thought 
 exactly the opposite of what Mr. Hobbes wished her 
 to think. Instead of thinking how fleeting and worth- 
 less the things of earth were, she thought, " How 
 valuable they are! How terribly worth while! The 
 future world is all a vast uncertainty ; therefore, what 
 one should grasp at are the best things of this world. 
 Perhaps, after all, the soul only lives once. . . ." 
 
 Little did Mr. Hobbes know of all this as he sat 
 by poor Mrs. Smaile's side one dark afternoon, and 
 
 294
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 repeated to her the beautiful old hymn which tells of 
 the passage of the river of death. 
 
 Miriam sat beside them, her head bowed, and lis- 
 tened to the words those she had quoted to Herman : 
 
 "Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
 Stand decked in living green." 
 
 She forgot that sad death chamber where she sat, and 
 seemed to be back again in the smiling summer mead- 
 ows with Herman. The young life in her heart 
 bounded up toward happiness, as a lark leaps from the 
 cold earth to meet the sun. " Surely," she told herself, 
 " surely death and pain and misery are not what we 
 are made for. Surely God will not blame us if we seek 
 the brightness ? " When brought into the near pres- 
 ence of death, youth will always feel this revulsion 
 from it, this craving for life and happiness. And this 
 from no hardness of heart, or want of feeling; but 
 from a deeply planted instinct as urgent as the growth 
 of a plant toward the light. 
 
 Can you blame Miriam, then, when you hear that 
 she did not leave Herman's next letter unopened? 
 It arrived on one of those dark days, dark with a 
 double gloom. Outside, the winter sky was black and 
 lowering, and inside the house there was that awful 
 oppression which broods over a household in which 
 some one is drawing near to death. 
 
 It was a dramatic moment for the arrival of a love- 
 letter, and as Miriam broke the seal (unheeding 
 Cochrane's urgent note inclosing the letter, and ad- 
 vising, " Burn this one, too, my dear ") she seemed to 
 feel a breath of hope and life and joy. Herman wrote : 
 
 295
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 It is now four months, Miriam, since I sent to you a still 
 unanswered letter. I have waited with a newly acquired pa- 
 tience, which has now broken down, and I write again. Why 
 do you not answer me? Have you ceased to think of me? or do 
 you still look round and round this subject as you said you must? 
 
 I have been to Russia, where I played before the Czar, and 
 have received from him a gold cigarette case of great grandeur. 
 I have been also to Rome, and from the King of Italy have a 
 diamond scarf-pin which may some day be yours, if you will. 
 I have been to Lisbon, too, and to Paris, where I now am. I do 
 not come to London till Easter. There I play for three weeks, 
 and then shall I have worked hard enough? Shall I have 
 earned my rest? If by that time this book of yours is finished, 
 if, too, these scruples are overcome, we shall go abroad. I do 
 not care where, so you are with me. For this is love; with you 
 I could be happy no matter where or how, rich or poor, or 
 famous or unknown. Write to me soon to tell these scruples 
 have faded away. 
 
 HERMAN. 
 
 Miriam read the letter and went upstairs to her 
 mother's room, carrying it still in her hand; but as 
 she entered she slipped the letter into her pocket, for 
 Aunt Pillar was in the sick room. She had insisted 
 on coming to spend the night, much against the wishes 
 of her niece. 
 
 " I know you'll be helpless when the death really 
 occurs, Miriam," she remarked. " Not that you have 
 not done very well by your mother through her 
 illness I'll say that for you ; but a death is different. 
 I've seen a good many in my day. I know sister 
 would have liked me to see to everything. I daresay 
 you've never thought now of having a handsome 
 nightdress ready ? No, I thought not; well, I sent 
 
 296
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 to Goodhampton yesterday so as to have everything 
 ready ; so you won't need to trouble." 
 
 " I'm sure it was very kind of you," Miriam said. 
 She sat down by the bedside to resume her watching, 
 and her thoughts. Aunt Pillar stood looking calmly 
 at her sister. 
 
 " Dear me ! poor Priscilla, how she has gone away, 
 to be sure ! " she said, laying her hand on the uncon- 
 scious brow for a moment, and then adding in a whis- 
 per : " She's as good as gone ; just breathing and no 
 more." 
 
 " Yes," Miriam said. She scarcely dared to look 
 at her poor mother's face; the anguish of weariness 
 written there made her tremble. But the sight moved 
 Aunt Pillar only to a faint compassion ; she was sorry 
 to see her sister dying, to be sure ; but she did not see 
 in this deathbed scene a reflection of countless deaths 
 as painful. Blessed are the unimaginative, for un- 
 doubtedly they shall inherit the earth ! After a brief 
 survey, then, Aunt Pillar decided what it was best 
 to do. 
 
 " It was such a bustle getting away from the Manor 
 this afternoon. What between one thing and another, 
 I'm fairly tired out," she announced. " So I'll just 
 go and lie down on your bed, Miriam, just as I am, 
 taking off my boots ; they're elastic-sided and I can 
 draw them on in a minute if you call me." 
 
 " Yes, thank you, Aunt Pillar," said Miriam, and 
 with a sigh of relief she heard the door close behind 
 her relative ; for it had seemed unbearable to her that 
 that untender eye should rest upon the last moments 
 of her mother's life. 
 
 297
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 Sitting with her head bowed, only looking up now 
 and then to assure herself that the breath still came 
 and went from her mother's lips, Miriam watched the 
 long night through. 
 
 In the shadow of Death, Life kept whispering in 
 her ear : " This is the end of all things; to this we 
 shall all come; eat, drink, and be merry before the 
 evil days come." She took Herman's letter out and 
 held it in her hand; it seemed to bring a breath of 
 comfort into the solemn darkness that surrounded and 
 terrified her. 
 
 With the dawn the end came. Aunt Pillar had 
 never stirred, and Miriam felt she must summon her 
 now. She stepped across the passage into her own 
 room. 
 
 " Aunt Pillar," she said, standing beside her, and 
 then a little louder : " Aunt Pillar ! Mother is gone." 
 
 The good lady started up, flushed with sleep, and a 
 little confused. 
 
 " Why ! you don't say so ! and I sleeping so sound. 
 Give me my elastic-sided boots, my dear, and I'll be 
 with you immediately. Dear, dear ! " Miriam turned 
 away and wept not, alas ! for the mother she had lost ; 
 but for that old " woe o' the world " of which this 
 death had been a typical instance. On every side, turn 
 where she might, some misery was going on: pain, 
 terrible and unrelenting ; mental anguish, crueler still ; 
 and death, awful and omnipotent, the end of all flesh. 
 
 298
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 AFTER her mother's death Miriam went to stay with 
 her cousin Emmie for a few weeks. Emmie was the 
 only one of the cousins she could get on with at all ; 
 and, though they had little in common, her easy good- 
 nature counted for a good deal. 
 
 Emmie made a duty of feeding Miriam on strong 
 soups and urging her to rest in the afternoons, and 
 all the time she was watching her closely and drawing 
 her own conclusions. 
 
 " There's more wrong with her than ' run down- 
 ness,' Sydney," she told her husband. " She has some- 
 thing on her mind ; I know how it was with me just 
 before we got engaged. I wasn't entirely sure if you 
 meant to propose, and I worried myself quite thin. 
 I'm sure you remember ? I do ; one night at the Bad- 
 minton Club you said : ' Why, Miss Emmie, your 
 shadow does grow less nowadays ! ' and I thought it 
 such a poetical way of expressing that I was losing 
 flesh ; I suppose it was your own ? " 
 
 " Well, no, Emmie ; I think some one else said it ; 
 probably Shakespeare." 
 
 " Well, never mind ; it's quite as clever to know 
 Shakespeare as to say things out of one's own head ; 
 anyway, that was what happened to me, I got thin, 
 and Miriam is getting thin, too, and it's about that 
 man, I'm sure." 
 
 299
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " Remember the girl has just nursed her mother 
 through a long and painful illness," said Dr. Pratt, 
 who, not being a Pillar, was able to see some other 
 reason than a love affair for the girl's worn-out ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 " No, no ! men are stupid ; yes, even you, Sydney, 
 dear. I know it's that she is in love ; you may say 
 what you like," Emmie persisted. 
 
 She tried in a good-natured, clumsy way to gain her 
 cousin's confidence, but all in vain. Miriam never al- 
 lowed Herman's name to cross her lips. 
 
 By her mother's will, Miriam, rather to her own 
 surprise, found herself independent ; that is to say, 
 she had a small yearly income which would be quite 
 sufficient for all her wants, and a little margin over. 
 
 " Of course you will just settle down sensibly in 
 Hindcup beside us all," Emmie said. But Miriam 
 had no idea of doing anything of the kind. As soon 
 as her affairs were settled she intended to return to 
 London, and then ? Ah, that was the question of ques- 
 tions which was never long absent from her mind. 
 She had not answered Herman's letter; she did not 
 mean to do so. " I shall wait and speak to him," she 
 thought. 
 
 Easter was early that year, and after Easter Herman 
 was to be in England. Miriam decided to go back to 
 her old quarters at Cochrane's about that time. In 
 the meanwhile she was more of a puzzle than ever to 
 her cousins. They acknowledged that she was gentler, 
 easier to live with than of yore, but more secretive, 
 even less possible to understand than she used to be. 
 
 " Well, you're your own mistress now, and none of 
 300
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 us can say a word to you," Aunt Pillar said, when Mir- 
 iam told her she was going to London ; but her tone 
 expressed grave disapproval of the decision. Had 
 she known all that was passing in her niece's mind, 
 she would have looked graver still. 
 
 "Would it be doing wrong?" Miriam asked her- 
 self a dozen times a day. " It seems to me that to 
 throw away youth and love for so-called ' principle,' 
 is like the old fable of the dog with the bone and 
 the reflection. Let me keep hold of what I'm sure of. 
 If I give Herman up, my life will moulder on for 
 valueless years, and then I shall die. If I go to him, 
 I may be miserable, I may repent it, but I shall have 
 had my moments of joy. Surely, even God would 
 forgive me. He remembereth that we are but dust ! " 
 
 Herman's easy creed recurred to her more attrac- 
 tive, more workable for poor human nature, it seemed 
 to her, than the old inexorable doctrine of right and 
 wrong ! So, pondering these things in her heart, Mir- 
 iam returned to London; and as she drove from the 
 station she saw big-lettered bills on the hoardings: 
 
 HERMAN 
 
 ON THE I4TH INST. 
 
 AT 3 O'CLOCK. 
 
 It seemed to her that she could not escape his name. 
 
 Each day the date of his coming to London drew 
 nearer. Miriam marked the passing of each day, till 
 at last she said to herself, " He is here to-night," and 
 the thought made her tremble. She knew that he 
 could always find out her address from Max Courteis, 
 20 3 01
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 and she expected that it would not be long till 
 she heard from him. Cochrane was out when the 
 eventful letter came, and Miriam could open it un- 
 observed. 
 
 " When can I see you ? " Herman wrote. " Say 
 where you are, and which hour to come, and I shall 
 come." She sat holding the letter in her hand and 
 gazing at it, lost in thought. What was she going 
 to do? She could not ask him to come and see her 
 here, when Cochrane felt as she did about him. 
 Equally she shrank from going to see him by herself, 
 and yet she thought : 
 
 " Why should I shrink from doing this, when per- 
 haps I am going to consent to live with him ? I need 
 not be so particular about proprieties." 
 
 Having come to this conclusion, she wrote, telling 
 him that she would come to see him the next after- 
 noon. Miriam thought she had realized what this 
 meant ; but when she found herself at the door of the 
 hotel, her courage suddenly failed. How extraor- 
 dinary it seemed that she should come there alone 
 to call upon Herman! The hall porter and the man 
 in the lift looked curiously at her, she thought, as she 
 uttered his name. 
 
 " I'll just see if Mr. Herman is in," the man said, 
 preceding her along the passage. Miriam knew with- 
 out being told that he was, for she heard the sound of 
 his violin in the distance. The playing broke off as 
 the man tapped at the door, and she heard Herman 
 answer impatiently : 
 
 " At home ? Not to the King himself just now. 
 No, no, no, no, no ! I will have none of them to-day ! " 
 
 302
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " It's a lady, sir," the man insisted. 
 
 " Not Miriam ? " Herman exclaimed. He pushed 
 past the man, and ignoring his presence, came forward, 
 holding out his hands to her. 
 
 " He says 'a visitor'; how am I to know? Come, 
 Miriam, come in," he said, leading her into the room 
 and closing the door. 
 
 " This is how it is with me to-day," he went on, sit- 
 ting down sideways on a chair, and giving an impa- 
 tient backward toss to the hair which fell across his 
 eyes. " This is how it is, Miriam. I wake at dawn with 
 the divinest of tunes in my brain (you have no doubt 
 experienced these dream inspirations?) 'Aha, Her- 
 man, at last you have heard this tune you have waited 
 for so long ! ' I thought. And then I essay to play the 
 tune, and where is it? Gone, vanished, singing some- 
 where ahead of me ; so far ahead that I only catch an 
 echo now and then. All this day I have labored to 
 catch it, and now it is farther off than ever. Tell me, 
 have you, too, felt this ? " He passed his hand across 
 his eyes with a weary gesture. 
 
 Miriam smiled. 
 
 " I have awakened with the most divine verses in 
 my head, and when I tried to write them down, they 
 were gone. I know how it feels so cruelly disappoint- 
 ing." It was characteristic of both of them that they 
 should sit down to talk in this way, when they had 
 met really to make the most passionate decision of 
 their lives. Neither of them felt any incongruity in 
 it; it seemed the most natural thing to do. Miriam 
 spoke again. 
 
 " I fancy," she said, speaking very gently, " that 
 303
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 you have labored too much." Herman lifted his violin 
 and played a few notes on it. 
 
 " It went something- like this," he said fretfully. 
 " So far I go, and no farther. But, mon Dieu! how 
 tired I am ! " He laid down the violin again and 
 turned to her much as a weary child might have done. 
 
 " Can't you rest me ? Can't you help me ? " he 
 asked. All the woman in her stirred in answer to his 
 appeal. She took his hand in hers and stroked it 
 gently. " Often," she told him, " when one leaves off 
 thinking and puzzling over a thing it comes right of 
 itself, because one's mind has been given a rest. It's 
 like trying to catch a timid creature the best way is 
 to pretend you are never thinking of catching it." 
 
 " We'll pretend, then," said Herman. He took his 
 violin and laid it carefully away in its case. When this 
 was done, the cloud had passed away from his face, 
 and he looked another man. 
 
 " She always gives good advice," he said, laughing. 
 
 " Perhaps to other people." 
 
 " I see, I see ; my battle is won ! " Herman cried 
 delightedly. " You have come to tell me that all is 
 well? And see how you will help me, will comfort 
 me ! Half an hour ago I was beside myself. You 
 come in and put all to right. There are those, Miriam, 
 who are meant for each other, if the very stars fight 
 against them." 
 
 Miriam rose and held out both her hands to him, 
 and standing there she looked straight into his eyes 
 black, and lit up as if a fire burned behind them. 
 
 " O Herman ! " she cried, calling him quite uncon- 
 sciously by the name the world called him by, " if I 
 
 304
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 were to do this for you, would you indeed be true to 
 me forever and ever ? " 
 
 Her voice quivered, and she turned her face away. 
 
 " Of what use are vows, Miriam, made just to be 
 broken ? Vows will make no man true. It is from the 
 heart fidelity comes, not from the lips. Do not ask 
 me for vows ! I cannot give them. This is the best 
 I can give you." He bent down and kissed her trem- 
 bling lips as he spoke. Miriam was silent, and he 
 went on : 
 
 " Where shall we live, my heart ? I shall give you 
 a villa in Italy, or a castle on the Rhine, why, or a 
 chateau en Espagne, if that is your pleasure! You 
 shall choose." 
 
 Miriam shook her head. 
 
 " I should not want any of these fine things. A 
 very small house, where I could live very quietly with 
 you, would be all I wanted," she said. 
 
 Herman laughed his gentle, sweet-sounding laugh. 
 
 " Very bourgeois, indeed, Miriam," he said, " would 
 be this little house with, I suppose, two old maidserv- 
 ants, and a little carriage with fat horses and a fat 
 coachman? and I to come in and eat with you roast 
 mutton and this atrocious milk pudding which your 
 English doctors delight to order me? This will be a 
 bourgeois paradise, indeed ! " 
 
 " Oh, how can you laugh ? " she cried. It seemed 
 to her that Herman thought of all her hesitation as 
 merely a joke. He did not, for once, seem to be able 
 to understand what she felt. She sat in miserable 
 silence for a minute, and then suddenly hid her face 
 against his shoulder and wept. 
 
 305
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " I seem to be throwing away my whole life," she 
 sobbed. " I might have been so happy with you, but 
 I can't do it, I can't." 
 
 " This respectability, the god of the Englishwom- 
 an ! " Herman exclaimed. " This is what hinders you, 
 for this you will throw away our happiness ! " He put 
 his arm round Miriam, half-angry with her, wholly 
 tender, and kissed her tear-stained face. And as she 
 leaned her head upon his breast and felt the sweetness 
 of his kisses, it seemed impossible to Miriam that she 
 could renounce his love. Was she not a fool for her 
 pains? Was not happiness, at whatever cost it might 
 be purchased, indeed the " inalienable right of hu- 
 manity " ? 
 
 But as she felt all this, she also felt suddenly and 
 unmistakably that nothing could make her do this 
 thing. She might argue round and round the point 
 in her own mind ; but she could never get past the 
 fact of right and wrong. It had seemed as if she 
 might; now she found it was impossible. That im- 
 mense force which lurks in every one of us, alternately 
 making or marring, saving or damning us the force 
 of inherited tendencies rose up in Miriam and clutch- 
 ed her from the tide of circumstance like a strong hand 
 catching hold of a spent swimmer. She had thought 
 herself different, in every imagination of her heart, 
 from her own people those dull, respectable, law- 
 abiding, unimaginative natives of Hindcup ; but she 
 was not. The past is too strong for us, and holds 
 us in a firmer grasp than we know. At every crisis in 
 life this determining factor is beside us, urging us 
 in one direction or another, so that we are never really 
 
 306
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 left to make our decisions quite unaided, or, as the 
 case may be, unhindered. In Miriam's case the bal- 
 ance that had trembled so long, fell to the side of 
 morality, weighted by this force she did not even name 
 to herself. 
 
 " I cannot do it," she said. " I must say good-by ; 
 my mind is quite, quite made up at last." 
 
 But when she went out again, it was into such an 
 empty world. 
 
 " Alan Gore is going to be married ; and I have said 
 good-by to Herman forever ; and nothing interesting 
 or remarkable remains for me in the whole world," 
 she told herself. 
 
 307
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 ONE day, not very long after this, Miriam went 
 down to the city to see Max Courteis at his office. 
 He was always glad to see her, and always received 
 her with the same question: 
 
 " Well, your book done yet ? " and got the invariable 
 reply that it was not. This afternoon he seemed even 
 more interested than usual in Miriam. He looked at 
 her, quite closely for him, for a moment. 
 
 " I have come to see you on business, Mr. Courteis," 
 she said. " I want your help. I want you to give me 
 some work anything. I don't very much mind what 
 it is, but something that has got to be done every day 
 without fail." 
 
 " Why do you want that ? " he asked. 
 
 " Because I don't seem able to do my own kind of 
 work just now, and I want the other." 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 " A great waste of your abilities to do drudgery," 
 said Courteis, taking up a paper knife and beginning 
 to slash open the leaves of a magazine while he spoke. 
 
 " They are not being used in any better way," said 
 Miriam. " I can't work just now." 
 
 Courteis slashed away at the magazine, then sud- 
 denly held it out toward her. 
 
 " Very like him ; very good, isn't it ? " 
 
 She looked down at the page. There was a por- 
 308
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 trait of Herman on it, so lifelike that she started as 
 she saw it. 
 
 " Oh, don't ! " she cried, as if something hurt her. 
 She covered her eyes with her hand. Courteis smiled 
 and laid the magazine aside. 
 
 " You've quarreled with him, I see and hear ; I 
 saw him yesterday." 
 
 " Yes ? " said Miriam almost inaudibly. 
 
 " He's ill, you know. He has given up all his en- 
 gagements and is going to Paris whenever he is able 
 for the journey. You knew this? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Courteis leaned back in his chair, fixing his eyes on 
 the opposite wall with a dreamy stare. 
 
 " It's a tremendous responsibility to upset a tem- 
 perament like his," he said. " Have you weighed the 
 subject properly ? " 
 
 " I suppose I know what you mean," said Miriam. 
 " Do you think it's a subject I would be likely to dis- 
 miss without much thought ? " 
 
 " He doesn't bear to be thwarted," Courteis went 
 on, without heeding her question. " And, after all, 
 why should he be ? " He paused and looked at her 
 again curiously. 
 
 " God thwarts us," said Miriam, shortly and bitterly. 
 She felt just then ungrateful for the conscience that 
 seemed to have ruined her life. Courteis was silent 
 again for a minute or two. 
 
 " Well, Miss Sadler," he said at last, " you know 
 my views of life by this time. I've a tremendous re- 
 spect for genius; it's the lever of the world. Let it 
 have its way, I say. If I were a woman, I would be 
 
 309
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 honored to sacrifice my good name for Herman. But 
 you don't see it that way, and you've got genius your- 
 self, so you must take your own bent, too, and trust 
 yourself. Perhaps you're right." 
 
 " Genius has nothing to do with this question ; it's 
 a clear case of right and wrong," said Miriam. 
 
 " Yours, that is to say, is the moral temperament ; 
 Herman's is not ; that's all," said Courteis. " It's a sad 
 pity they crossed. If your genius is going to be hin- 
 dered by him, you were right to be done with him. 
 He said his would have been helpful to you ; but that's 
 another question. Well, why do you want this work 
 you speak of ? " 
 
 " Because I am miserable," she said bluntly. She 
 hated to sit there in broad daylight, discussing the 
 deepest feelings of her heart with this man, as she 
 might have discussed the symptoms of illness with a 
 physician. Yet Courteis seemed to have been so in- 
 strumental in shaping her life, that she could not re- 
 fuse him her confidence now; but for him she would 
 never have met Herman. 
 
 " You think work like this will help you ? " Courteis 
 pursued. 
 
 " It might," she answered. 
 
 " Perhaps it will," Courteis admitted. " It may 
 but I'll tell you one thing ; try as you will, you'll never 
 be able to forget Herman, if that's what you want to 
 do." He rose and walked across to his desk, searched 
 among his papers, and lifted a pile of letters. 
 
 " Look at that," he said. " Look at that for a cor- 
 respondence! It grows and grows, yet few paid per- 
 sons would be clever enough to help me with it ; help 
 
 310
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 me, mind without always referring to me to do the 
 thinking. I'll let you try if you can. If you make 
 any fatal blunders, you'll have to give up the job. 
 Perhaps you may prove better at this sort of thing 
 than I am myself. Do you think you know good 
 stuff when you see it? If you do, I'll have to pay 
 you well, I suppose ; but you won't expect anything 
 till I see what you are worth? When will you 
 begin?" 
 
 " To-morrow, if you like, Mr. Courteis." 
 " Very well, to-morrow at ten o'clock." Miriam 
 rose and held out her hand to say good-by, and hesi- 
 tated for a moment, as if she wished to say something. 
 " Well ? " Courteis said. " Anything else ? " 
 " Yes ; one other thing. Mr. Courteis, might I ask 
 you never to speak to me about Francis Herman 
 again ? It it hurts me," she said. She turned away 
 quickly as she spoke, and did not wait for his answer. 
 The next morning Miriam began her work. She 
 very soon saw that there was a great deal of interest 
 to be got out of it. For when she found something 
 really good among the " unsolicited contributions," her 
 joy was immense ; while a sorrowful interest attached 
 to even the most piteous attempts at composition. It 
 was her snare at first to look at every manuscript in 
 too personal a light. She seemed to see the contribu- 
 tor before the contribution, and was harrowed by the 
 thought of the disappointment that was in store for 
 so many of these would-be authors. She longed to 
 find something good to say for the worst of them. 
 But from this overkindliness her taste and judgment 
 held her back. She could not commend bad, any more
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 than she could ignore good, work. Courteis began 
 to find that he had an ally in Miriam, one on whose 
 judgment he could depend. The book-taster, like the 
 collector of pictures, is born, not made. 
 
 " Where d'you get it ? " he would say, rubbing his 
 hands together delightedly. " Where d'you get it ? 
 When I remember you two or three is it ? years ago 
 at that fete at Hindcup, what a raw young thing you 
 were, to be sure! Didn't know Shakespeare from 
 Smollett and here you are, as good a judge of style 
 as I am myself; and that's saying a good deal. It's 
 the old story, it can't be taught; no, nor caught, nor 
 bought, either. It's in the blood; a germ that grows 
 and fulfills itself like any other." 
 
 Miriam would laugh and shake her head. 
 
 " You forget that I have been working hard all 
 these years, Mr. Courteis. Reading enough (accord- 
 ing to your theories) to make me dull for the rest of 
 life, and learning by the faults in my own writing to 
 notice the faults of other people and their virtues 
 too." 
 
 Miriam's connection with The Advance Guard in- 
 evitably made her more intimate with both Max Cour- 
 teis and his wife. She went every Thursday evening 
 to their house and helped them to receive the motley 
 assemblage of guests that appeared there weekly. 
 Miriam confessed to a weakness for aspirants, though 
 she told Courteis she had never discovered one as 
 aspiring as she used to be herself. The greater lights 
 of literature she stood in awe of; but it was a joy 
 to her to be in the same room with them. Mrs. Cour- 
 teis in her flabby way grew fond of the girl, and wel- 
 
 312
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 corned her to the house. She generally found some 
 domestic difficulty to lay before her. 
 
 " The lamps won't burn to-night, Miriam ; what can 
 be the matter with them? And Mr. Courteis was 
 quite cross last week because the tea and coffee were 
 mixed somehow in the pouring out. Will you try 
 to keep them from getting mixed to-night ? " 
 
 Miriam, who had been considered so unpractical 
 and undomestic by her cousins, generally found a rem- 
 edy for these minor evils. One autumn evening when 
 she arrived, the house seemed dingier than usual. All 
 the lamps were burning badly, and smelling of paraf- 
 fin, a state of matters which Mrs. Courteis exclaimed 
 at, but was powerless to remedy. 
 
 " Ah, here you are, Miriam ; do show Bertha about 
 these lamps! I expect quite a number of people to- 
 night," the good lady said, drifting about the room, 
 sniffing the paraffin-laden air, and catching the lace 
 of her floppy gown on the backs of the chairs as she 
 moved about. Miriam removed the lamps one by one 
 to be refilled, opened the windows, and sat down to 
 await the coming of the guests. Max Courteis came 
 sauntering in. " Your friend, Alan Gore, is coming 
 this evening, Miss Sadler," he said. " I met him in 
 town and asked him to come. Have you seen him 
 lately?" 
 
 " No, not for more than a year," she said. " His 
 sister is abroad, and I never see him when she is not 
 here." 
 
 " Ah, well, you'll see him to-night. It seemed to me 
 there was something wrong with him ; he looked 
 changed a little since I last saw him." 
 
 313
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " He is going to be married," Miriam said, quite 
 without cynical intention. But Courteis laughed, of 
 course, at the threadbare joke against matrimony. 
 
 A little later in the evening Gore arrived. He came 
 up to where Miriam stood, and even before she had 
 spoken to him, she noticed the change that Courteis 
 had alluded to. He looked very much older and 
 graver. 
 
 " Why, Miss Sadler, I have not seen you for a long 
 time ; and I hear you have become Mr. Courteis's right 
 hand, and are a very important person, indeed ! " he 
 said, as they shook hands. He was noticing the change 
 wrought in Miriam by the last year, just as she was 
 noticing his changed appearance ; and he was won- 
 dering, like her, what had caused the change. 
 
 Now that she had more money at her command, 
 Miriam dressed quite differently, which was partly the 
 reason why she looked different. But her whole ex- 
 pression had altered, intensified, fined down. And her 
 manner had gained a pleasant composure that it used 
 to want. 
 
 " I have not reached the stars yet," she said, smil- 
 ing. " And I think I begin to believe you now, that 
 they are never reached." 
 
 As she stood there beside him, Miriam felt, as she 
 had always done, from the first day they met years 
 before in Aunt Pillar's parlor, a childish desire to lay 
 all her life before him, to tell him everything in her 
 heart. 
 
 " Oh, I have been through such trouble, such per- 
 plexity since I saw you last," she said, yielding to the 
 childish impulse for a moment. 
 
 3H
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Yes, I heard ; I heard that your mother died. Was 
 it your affairs, your money matters that were the per- 
 plexity ? " he asked. 
 
 " No ; oh, no ; money had nothing to do with it. But 
 I can't tell you what it was, not here, in this crowded 
 room, with people talking all round. Tell me about 
 Delia, Mr. Gore what she is doing, and where 
 she is." 
 
 Their talk drifted off on to less personal topics, but 
 all the time Miriam kept wondering what was the 
 matter with Alan Gore. She found out quite by ac- 
 cident what it was. 
 
 " I have scarcely seen Delia since that ball at the 
 Manor a year and a half ago," Miriam said. " I saw 
 her just for a few minutes then, and you and Miss 
 Hastings " She stopped suddenly. Instinctively 
 she felt that she should not have mentioned Sophia 
 Hastings. There was an awkward little silence for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Did you know that I was not going to be mar- 
 ried ? " Gore said. He looked down at the ground as 
 he spoke. Miriam drew a long breath of surprise. 
 
 " Is that what is the matter ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes ; I thought you would have heard. Shall we 
 talk about something else ? " said Gore quickly. And 
 Miriam began in a great hurry to tell him about her 
 work. 
 
 315
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 MIRIAM'S book had never been finished yet ; all this 
 daily work for Courteis had taken up both her time 
 and her thoughts ; but quite suddenly one day the im- 
 pulse to finish the book came over her. She jumped 
 up and pulled out from its resting place the long dis- 
 carded manuscript, ran to the table and found a pen- 
 cil, looked for a knife to mend the point with, and 
 failing to find one, sat down and began to write rap- 
 idly with a very bad point indeed. 
 
 Where the impulse came from, she could not have 
 said, but there it was. She found it difficult to write the 
 sentences quickly enough ; it was as if some one stood 
 beside her dictating into her ear. Everything was 
 easy, the right words came unsought, and the ideas 
 jostled each other in her brain. 
 
 " That's right ; that is what I have wanted to express 
 for so long ; how did I not do it before ? " she thought 
 as she wrote on. Cochrane came and told her that it 
 was time she started for her work in the city, but 
 Miriam never looked up. 
 
 " I'm not going," she said curtly. She could not 
 bear to stop; the work must just be allowed to take 
 care of itself, and Miriam admitted that Courteis 
 would be the last person to blame her for this decision. 
 
 Dinner had been on the table for half an hour before 
 316
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 she came down, very untidy but very cheerful, to eat 
 the neglected meal. 
 
 " Why, Miriam, whatever have you been doing ? 
 Your hair is very untidy-like," said Cochrane, who 
 kept a stern eye on the personal appearance of her 
 boarder. 
 
 " Oh, I know. Yes, I am late." 
 
 Cochrane pushed in a few protruding hairpins, and 
 remarked that she was glad to see her look so cheerful 
 again. 
 
 " My book has moved on," said Miriam in explana- 
 tion. She sat down and gulped the tepid soup, quite 
 unconscious of its tepidity. 
 
 "Oh, that's it, is it?" said Cochrane. "Well, I'm 
 glad to hear it; after you're done with dinner, maybe 
 you can wash the streaks of lead pencil off your face ; 
 they're no improvement." 
 
 Miriam did not pay much attention to such details, 
 however, for many days to come. She was terribly 
 afraid that the happy mood would fail her; she must 
 make the most of the golden days when they were 
 with her. 
 
 " It's just going too well," she sometimes thought. 
 She wrote to Courteis unceremoniously, asking for a 
 holiday. 
 
 " You had better grant it me, for I shall take it 
 if you don't," she added. The letter pleased Courteis 
 more than she knew. 
 
 But when at last the book was done, rewritten, 
 corrected and sent off, there came a terrible pause in 
 her life; it felt like the day after some one has died 
 in a house. 
 
 21 317
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " I don't know what to do with myself," she said. 
 She did not feel any wish to work, yet she wearied 
 without employment. 
 
 " If you take my advice," said Cochrane, " you'll 
 take a change down to Hindcup and see your rela- 
 tions." She stopped by the window, as she spoke, to 
 adjust the blind and to look out. 
 
 " There's a gentleman at the door in a hansom," 
 she said. " It must be some one to see you." 
 
 " What is he like ? " Miriam asked, from her 
 chair by the fire; she felt a very languid interest in 
 him. 
 
 " Gray hair, stoops a bit from the shoulder, and 
 worried-like," Cochrane reported. 
 
 " Oh, that's Mr. Courteis himself ; I expect he has 
 come to speak to me about my book," said Miriam, 
 her interest aflame again. 
 
 " I'll be off to the kitchen then," quoth Cochrane. 
 " Gavina is never the worse of a looking after, and 
 I won't interrupt your conversation." 
 
 Miriam at once conjectured that there must be 
 something wrong with the book, and steeled herself 
 to bear a stringent criticism. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Courteis, is it deplorably bad ? " she 
 asked him as he came in. 
 
 " Which ? the book ? I haven't come about that," 
 Courteis said. He looked very grave. 
 
 " Won't you sit down ? " she said, wondering what 
 his business could possibly be. 
 
 Courteis sat down, felt in his pocket, and took out 
 a telegram, rubbed his hand across his eyes, and said 
 nothing.
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 "Is anything the matter?" Miriam asked. "Has 
 anything happened ? " 
 
 Courteis still hesitated. He began to speak and 
 could not. 
 
 " I've had a telegram several telegrams. The fact 
 is it's poor Herman," he blurted out at last. 
 
 " What ? Please tell me right out what it is ! " she 
 said. 
 
 "He is ill, very ill; very unlikely to recover; he 
 wishes you to come and see him." 
 
 " Oh," said Miriam. Her face whitened, but it 
 hardened, too, and in a minute she added : " His wife 
 is the person to go to him if he is so ill." 
 
 " His wife ! " Courteis exclaimed. " Good Lord ! 
 it's his wife who has done it; she shot him on the 
 steps of the Opera House in Paris yesterday." 
 
 Miriam sat back in her chair and covered her face 
 with her hands. She could not speak, she could not 
 think ; the whole world had suddenly become black to 
 her. Courteis, too, sat silent for a minute or two, 
 then he touched her arm. 
 
 " He wants you. Won't you go and see him? I'll 
 take you across to Paris if you will come." 
 
 She uncovered her eyes and stared at him blankly. 
 
 " But he Herman isn't dying," she said in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Courteis shook his head. 
 
 " I gather that he is. Lord ! what a waste of good 
 things ! " 
 
 " Could that vivid spirit ever die ? " she asked slowly. 
 He glanced at her in surprise. 
 
 " That's as people believe," he said. " But this 
 319
 
 doesn't seem to be the time for speculations on im- 
 mortality; the body is mortal only too surely. Are 
 you coming to Paris with me ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Miriam, rising from her chair as she 
 spoke. " I'll go and get ready at once ; I'll go with 
 you whenever you like." 
 
 Courteis only waited to arrange the details of the 
 journey with her ; then she went to find Cochrane and 
 tell her of this intended departure. She listened 
 quietly, her hand on the girl's shoulder. 
 
 " There now," she said ; " it's the end of a long 
 temptation if it is the end." 
 
 They arrived in Paris that night and drove straight 
 to the hotel where Herman lay. Courteis went to get 
 the last report of his condition and came with it to 
 Miriam. 
 
 " He is likely to live for a day, or perhaps two ; 
 and he wishes to see you to-night. You must take 
 some food first and then go up to see him," he told her. 
 
 Miriam did not want the food ; but she took it with- 
 out protest, and then went with Courteis along the 
 corridors to Herman's rooms. His servant opened 
 the door to them and led them into a sitting room. 
 
 " I'll wait here if you go and see him," Courteis 
 whispered. 
 
 She followed the servant into the other room. It 
 was dark, except for a little shaded lamp which stood 
 beside the bed on which Herman lay. 
 
 " This is the lady who has come from England, sir," 
 the man said ; and both he and the nurse, who rose from 
 her seat by the bedside, looked curiously at Miriam. 
 
 "She has come? Bring her here, Charles," said 
 320
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Herman. His voice was little changed; every into- 
 nation of it was familiar to her. She drew nearer to 
 the circle of dim light and stood beside him. 
 
 " I am here, Herman," she said. The servant man 
 and the nurse went out together into the room where 
 Courteis sat, and they were left alone. 
 
 As she stood there, Miriam noticed all the ridiculous 
 luxury of Herman's surroundings the lace-trimmed 
 pillows he lay upon, the silk shirt he wore, the em- 
 broidered sheets that covered the bed; she was far 
 from Hindcup that night, she thought, with a sudden 
 flicker of a smile across her grave lips. But the 
 smile died away as she looked again. Herman lay 
 there straight and rigid as if he were carved out of 
 stone; he did not stir at the sound of her voice, only 
 turned his great black eyes to gaze up at her. 
 
 " Sit down, Miriam," he said. " There, beside me, 
 and put your hand in mine, for I cannot move." 
 
 She did as he directed, and waited that he should 
 speak again. 
 
 " So this is the end of me," he said. " I lie here to 
 realize it ; by to-morrow perhaps I am not here ; all the 
 skill gone from this hand you hold; gone where? 
 My God, Miriam, I am not dull, I have much to spec- 
 ulate upon ! " 
 
 " Are you afraid ? " she asked, in an awed voice. 
 Herman smiled. 
 
 "No, no; why should I fear? I have none, only 
 a great curiosity fills me, and a vast regret." 
 
 " Regret ? " she questioned. 
 
 " To leave the brave world so soon, the wonderful 
 world." 
 
 321
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 His eyes closed, and he lay still ; but Miriam felt 
 a strange thrill pass down the hand she held in hers; 
 as if, she thought, the hand tried to speak. 
 
 Herman opened his eyes again after a little. 
 
 " Have you finished your book ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes; just finished it; but what does that matter? " 
 she answered. 
 
 " I am glad to know ; I hindered it long. I wish 
 you a hundred felicities." 
 
 " O Herman ! " she cried, with a sudden uncon- 
 trollable burst of tears. " Felicity isn't for me ; what 
 do I care for that wretched book ? I want to see you 
 live ; that is all I care about." 
 
 Again she felt that strange tremor pass down 
 through the lifeless hand she held; but he did not 
 speak. She was beside herself with grief, with pity 
 for his weakness, with an anguish of regret and 
 bitterness. 
 
 Millions of men and women, as soulless as the clods 
 of the valley, would live and multiply to make the 
 world duller than it was; and Herman, with his su- 
 preme gifts, his exquisite faculties, lay there perishing 
 before her eyes. In the cities where he had played, 
 perhaps some echo of his music might linger in the 
 hearts of men, but of the man himself, his vividness 
 and charm, the delight of his presence, what trace 
 would remain for the time to come ? 
 
 " O Herman, don't die, don't leave the world ! " 
 she cried, bending down over him, and then burying 
 her face in the pillow she sobbed aloud, unable to 
 control her grief. 
 
 " My poor girl ! " he said gently. 
 322
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 With a great effort Miriam steadied herself. 
 
 " I'll go away for a little, till I feel quieter," she 
 said ; " then I will come back again." 
 
 She went into the room where Courteis sat; the 
 nurse stood there talking to him ; she turned at once 
 to ask if anything was wanted in the sick room. 
 
 " I think you had better go there for a little, till 
 I feel calmer," Miriam explained. She sat down on 
 the sofa, and leaned her head back against the cush- 
 ions. Courteis came and sat beside her; he looked 
 sharply at her. 
 
 " Did you hear that his wife had killed herself 
 also ? " he asked. 
 
 She sat forward, gazing at him, trembling with agi- 
 tation. 
 
 "Is it really true?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, quite true. Poor fellow, rid of her too late, 
 I fear." Miriam did not answer; she sat with her 
 head bowed, and said nothing. At last Courteis broke 
 the silence: 
 
 " Make him live," he said. " Go and ask him to 
 stay for you; it's my belief that the soul commands 
 the body more than it appears to do. Tell him any- 
 thing you like, so you only make him stay ! " 
 
 Miriam looked at him in surprise. 
 
 " What do you want me to tell him ? " she asked. 
 
 " That his wife is gone, that you will marry him," 
 Courteis said bluntly. " I've known good news snatch 
 people from the very gates of death." 
 
 " Mr. Courteis, you have been very kind to me," 
 Miriam said, " but I can't let you talk to me like this. 
 Do you think it's decent to speak of the death of a 
 
 323
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 man's wife as ' good news ' ? a dreadful death like 
 that, too, however little he cared for her ? " 
 
 " In some circumstances, I do." 
 
 " Well, I do not," said she. 
 
 Courteis rose and stood before her. 
 
 " I've a right to my opinions, and a right to practice 
 them too. I'll take the risk on myself, and tell him, if 
 you won't. I know more of his temperament than a 
 dozen doctors and nurses." 
 
 There was about Courteis a sort of callousness, a 
 disbelief in those primary moralities by which the 
 world is kept going, that revealed itself sometimes in 
 a startling way. Just now he did not seem to be 
 shocked by the tragic end of Herman's wife ; he re- 
 garded it only as a possible benefit to Herman, as a 
 good riddance of useless lumber. 
 
 " I ask you again, will you, or will you not, tell 
 him this ? " he asked impatiently, tapping the polished 
 floor with his foot as he spoke. 
 
 " No, I will tell him nothing about it," she answered. 
 
 Courteis turned and walked across to the door which 
 led into Herman's room. Without even knocking at 
 the door, he opened it and passed in. He stood still 
 for just a moment, then stepped up to the bed and 
 leaned down, bringing his lips close to the ear of the 
 dying man. 
 
 " Herman, if you live, Miriam will marry you ; your 
 wife is dead," he whispered. 
 
 Then without waiting to see the effect of his words, 
 or heeding the nurse's hand uplifted in horrified pro- 
 test, he turned away and came back to where Miriam 
 sat in the next room. 
 
 324
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " There," he said, " my soul is free of responsi- 
 bility. If he dies, he has at least had the best chance 
 I know of to make him live." 
 
 Miriam did not look up, but she said : 
 
 " I think it is most likely that you have killed him." 
 
 " Do you mean to sit up all night ? " Courteis said, 
 looking at his watch. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Courteis turned the shade of the lamp to screen her 
 face from the light, asked if there was anything else 
 he could do for her, and then selected a novel from a 
 pile that lay on the table, and went away to his own 
 room. Left to herself, Miriam looked about her. The 
 room was all littered with Herman's possessions 
 heaps of music untidily piled together, his violin case, 
 the cigarette case she remembered seeing in his hand 
 as he smoked at the inn door long ago; letters, some 
 of them still unopened, newspapers, telegrams, novels 
 all the accumulations of a busy and untidy existence. 
 
 As she sat there in the dim light, she began to won- 
 der if it were all a dream. Was she indeed Miriam 
 Sadler? Her old life seemed so distant and unreal. 
 Somewhere far away in England, there was a little 
 town called Hindcup-in-the-Fields, where a family of 
 the name of Pillar lived, and where years ago, in an- 
 other life it seemed, a girl named Miriam Sadler had 
 also dwelt. Could it be that Hindcup still stood there 
 among the meadows, its church tower, old and gray, 
 pointing heavenward, the bells, sweet and silvery, 
 ringing in the evening air? Did the Pillars indeed 
 walk the Hindcup streets still unchanged, self-cen- 
 tered, self-delighted as of yore? While for herself, 
 
 325
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 everything seemed changing, dissolving round her, 
 crumbling away ; no foothold anywhere. An hour 
 passed thus, and then the nurse came and beckoned 
 to Miriam. She went into the next room and stood 
 beside the bed where Herman lay. The nurse looked 
 at him and shook her head. As they stood there the 
 dying man opened his eyes and smiled, a strange, won- 
 dering smile ; turned his head to one side as if listen- 
 ing to some distant sound, and then with a quick 
 movement leaned forward, crying out with an in- 
 describable accent of surprise, " I hear ! I hear ! 
 O Miriam, what is this that I hear ? " 
 
 The nurse sprang forward to support him, and he 
 fell back against her arm. 
 
 " Ah ! let me help him," Miriam cried. The woman 
 shook her head. 
 
 " Neither you nor I can help him now," she said, 
 laying him back gently on the pillows. For a few 
 minutes he still breathed. Miriam stood silent be- 
 fore the supreme mystery enacting itself there. With 
 averted eyes, and scarcely daring to breathe, she 
 awaited the final moment. 
 
 " He is gone," the other woman said at last, and 
 added in a whisper, " I wonder what he heard ? " 
 
 Miriam knew. She stepped forward and laid her 
 hand on Herman's brow, smoothing out the lines that 
 pain had written across it. Words she had known 
 from childhood sounded in her ears, words of awe and 
 import : 
 
 " Great God! what do I see and hear? 
 The end of things created." 
 
 326
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 MIRIAM made a good deal of money and no incon- 
 siderable amount of fame by her book. It was a 
 mystery never solved in Hindcup, however, why she 
 did not, or rather how she could help coming down to 
 her native place, to flaunt her successes before the 
 relations and friends who had known her in the days 
 of her obscurity. 
 
 They were all dying to see her now ; Emmie wrote, 
 begging her to come and stay with them. 
 
 " We are growing out of all acquaintance now," 
 she said ; "and we want to hear all about you ; we read 
 things in newspapers, but, of course, we don't quite 
 believe them ; how you dined with this and that per- 
 son people you never heard of, I am sure. If half 
 of it were true, it must make you want to go on writ- 
 ing. Really, it's wonderful how you've got on, and it's 
 so well you have this to amuse you. I remember I 
 found poker-work a resource myself before I mar- 
 ried." 
 
 The candor of this home appreciation made Miriam 
 smile; but she did not accept Emmie's invitation. 
 
 " I cannot come to Hindcup just now," she wrote, 
 " because I am going abroad for a long time with Delia 
 Gore." 
 
 " Set her up ! Going abroad with Miss Gore, in- 
 deed ! There won't be any speaking to her when she 
 
 327
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 returns," was Aunt Pillar's comment on this piece of 
 news. It was commented on upstairs at the Manor 
 as well as downstairs, and with equal severity : 
 
 " Do you know, Samuel, that Delia is taking that 
 curious Miriam Sadler abroad with her?" said Lady 
 Joyce. " Of course she has made quite a name for 
 herself with this book; but she is Mrs. Pillar's niece 
 just as surely as she used to be, and it seems a little 
 strange, does it not ? " 
 
 " Not a little," puffed Sir Samuel ; " but the Gores 
 always had curious views about things revolutionary, 
 I call them ; would upset the whole order of things if 
 we all practiced them." 
 
 When, at the end of another year, Miriam still de- 
 clined to return to Hindcup, the cousins were angry. 
 
 " I don't suppose we are fine enough for her now," 
 Maggie Broadman said, tossing her head. " It has 
 turned out as Aunt Pillar said it would ; she has been 
 going about too much with those Gores." 
 
 " And making a lot of money is spoiling her, too," 
 Emmie suggested. " Sydney says it isn't natural 
 for women to be independent. I daresay she gives 
 herself great airs with it all now." 
 
 But when at long last Miriam returned to Hindcup, 
 the cousins were forced to confess that all their con- 
 jectures had been false: she had none of the "airs" 
 they had hoped to observe in her; she seldom men- 
 tioned the Gores ; and indeed Emmie had to screw out 
 any information about them by a series of direct 
 questions. 
 
 " Miriam, did you see anything of that brother of 
 Miss Gore's?" 
 
 328
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " Yes, I saw him." 
 
 " When, then ? Was he abroad, too ? " 
 
 " He came to Italy for a few weeks when we were 
 there." 
 
 " Then he isn't married yet ? Aunt Pillar said he 
 was going to be married." 
 
 " No, he is not married." 
 
 " Why not, then ? Is he still engaged ? " 
 
 " I believe not." 
 
 " O Miriam, how provoking you are ! Why did he 
 break it off? Surely, you know." 
 
 " I believe they quarreled ; the reason why most en- 
 gagements are broken off." 
 
 " What did they quarrel about, though ? Has she 
 married some one else, or what ? " 
 
 " Really, Emmie, I didn't catechise Mr. Gore as you 
 catechise me," said Miriam, impatient of her ques- 
 tioning; and Emmie retorted that she never had been 
 like other women, with a natural interest in love 
 affairs. 
 
 " I wouldn't have lived as long as you did with them 
 and not found out all about that," she said ; " but I 
 believe you know more than you say." Which was 
 probably true. 
 
 Miriam, it must be confessed, looked much, much 
 older. She had to undergo a fire of criticism on this 
 point from all her relations. 
 
 " Well now, Miriam, I must say you look your age ; 
 and more," was Aunt Pillar's plain-spoken verdict 
 when she beheld her niece for the first time. A family 
 dinner at Maggie Broadman's was the occasion ; all the 
 cousins were there Emmie and Dr. Pratt, Matilda 
 
 329
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 and her husband, Grace, the (alas!) still unmated one, 
 Timothy, and Aunt Pillar. 
 
 Miriam had never seen Timothy since that evening 
 which now seemed so long ago, the evening at the inn 
 in Hampshire. A stab seemed to go right through her 
 heart as she took his fat red hand at the moment of 
 greeting. Why should this big, common lump of clay 
 still cumber the ground, and Herman be gone from 
 the world ? She gave such a shiver that Maggie bade 
 her come nearer the fire, as if that could warm her! 
 Timothy, too, as he shook hands with his cousin had 
 a vision of that strange scene at the inn, a vision 
 which he tried to forget. Some rumor of Herman's 
 death had penetrated to Hindcup, but that Miriam had 
 gone to see him had never been revealed by Cochrane's 
 folded lips. 
 
 " We are all quite afraid of our famous cousin," 
 quoth Timothy, with attempted jocularity, and Aunt 
 Pillar took another long stare at Miriam through her 
 spectacles. 
 
 " Famous or not," she said, " you've gone off a lot, 
 for a woman of your age." 
 
 " You forget how old I am getting," Miriam said. 
 But in Hindcup circles any open mention of a woman's 
 age is considered a heinous transgression. On all 
 sides there was a chorus of: 
 
 " Hush, hush, Miriam ! Fie, Miriam ! We don't 
 mention the age of ladies." 
 
 " Oh, do remember you're shaming us all when you 
 speak that way ! " And from Grace, the spinster, 
 came a pained giggle and a cry of " I never speak 
 about my age ! " 
 
 330
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Fortunately the dinner bell rang at this moment and 
 created a welcome diversion. 
 
 Miriam sat between Mr. Broadman and Aunt Pillar, 
 a target for their remarks. 
 
 " Well, I've read your book," Aunt Pillar began, 
 between great spoonfuls of soup, sucked in with great 
 appreciation ; " I've read your book. When I've heard 
 that all's well with the dinner at the Manor, you may 
 say my day's work is done, and I have an hour of quiet 
 (I'll thank you for another helping of that soup, Mag- 
 gie; it's excellent). Well, as I was saying, there's 
 generally a free hour in the evening, and though I 
 generally reckon it a waste of time to take a book, I 
 made an exception and read yours. Her ladyship 
 asked me herself had I read it. It was wonderful she 
 should take any notice of it, I thought ; so I bought it. 
 ' Yes,' I said, ' if her own fam'ly won't buy her books, 
 who will?' So I bought it, though I considered it 
 dear." 
 
 " I'm sure it is," the author admitted, " for all there 
 is in it." 
 
 " Well, of course, being written by you, it interested 
 us," Aunt Pillar said, meaning to be genial, " but no 
 doubt it wouldn't have so much interest for other 
 people." 
 
 She leaned back in her chair, clasping her fat hands 
 over her satin-clad person. 
 
 " What's coming, Maggie ? " she asked. " I've 
 really done so well with that soup, I hope it's some- 
 thing light." 
 
 " Quite light, aunt ; only roast pork," said Maggie ; 
 and no one seemed to question the truth of the reply. 
 
 331
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 " I'm very fond of pork, but you should have warned 
 me, my dear; it's scarcely doing it justice to have two 
 platefuls of that ox-tail beforehand. Well, as I was 
 saying, Miriam, that book interested me because you 
 wrote it ; I wondered where you learned many a thing 
 there was in it ; it isn't as if you were a young woman 
 of any experience." 
 
 Miriam attempted no explanation, and here Emmie, 
 from across the table, struck in: 
 
 " We bought a copy, too, and Sydney read it aloud 
 to me ; but really there was a lot of it we didn't under- 
 stand. There were so many strange ideas in it ; where 
 did you get them ? I suppose you got them from these 
 Gores that you think so much of? " 
 
 " The Gores are coming to the Manor next week, 
 did you know ? " Aunt Pillar asked. She had finished 
 the roast pork, wiped her glistening lips with the ex- 
 treme end of her table napkin, and now leaned back 
 to rest from her labors and cast a questioning glance 
 at the sideboard to see what the next course was 
 to be. 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Miriam. 
 
 " Perhaps her ladyship may ask you to tea while 
 they are there; there's no saying but she might. It 
 would be a great honor," said Aunt Pillar. 
 
 " I hope not ; I wouldn't in the least care to go," 
 said Miriam inadvertently. 
 
 " Not care to go ! " Aunt Pillar echoed. 
 
 " Well, honestly, Aunt Pillar, Sir Samuel and Lady 
 Joyce have always seemed to me very ordinary, rather 
 tiresome sort of people," said Miriam, fool that she 
 was. 
 
 332
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 Aunt Pillar turned right round in her seat to take 
 a good look at her niece. 
 
 " Well, if that's all your travels have taught you, 
 it's a pity you went on them ; to call the fam'ly at the 
 Manor ordinary ! " Her face flushed with anger at 
 the impertinence of the word. 
 
 Miriam was anxious to justify herself ; she could not 
 realize that it was impossible for Aunt Pillar to see 
 things as she saw them. 
 
 " I have come to see that it is what people are in 
 themselves that makes them worth knowing, not their 
 position," she said ; " and once or twice at the Gores I 
 have met Lady Joyce and Sir Samuel, and they did 
 not seem to have anything new or interesting to say, 
 and they did not seem to be interested in anything ex- 
 cept their own little bit of the world ; that was what I 
 meant by calling them ordinary." 
 
 But Aunt Pillar was not to be appeased. Long ago 
 she had formed her estimate of her niece, and time was 
 only bearing it out now. 
 
 " I shall be very thankful if I don't live to be 
 ashamed of her," she had said to Alan Gore years ago ; 
 now she felt that the words had been prophetic: she 
 was ashamed of Miriam. Always an enigma to her 
 relations, she was now an impossible problem to them, 
 a problem that Aunt Pillar for one frankly gave up 
 trying to solve, from the hour she heard the family at 
 the Manor called ordinary. 
 
 22 , 333
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 MIRIAM had come to Hindcup as the guest of Em- 
 mie and Dr. Pratt, so it was in their company that most 
 of her time was spent. The house faced southward 
 and streetward, commanding in this way all the sun- 
 shine and gossip that was going ; it was not one of the 
 old houses, nor one of the aggressively new ones, but 
 a middle-aged building, square, solid, and painted 
 white, so that it shone from afar among the dingier 
 houses of the straggling uphill street. A trimly kept 
 garden, with a straight path running through it up 
 to the door, separated the house from the road ; this 
 path offered good opportunities to Emmie's gossip- 
 loving soul, for from a vantage ground behind the 
 Venetian blinds she could observe everyone who came 
 up to her husband's surgery as well as most of the 
 passers-by in the street. The drawing-room window 
 looked out across the garden to the road, and while 
 sitting at the window you felt as if you were camped 
 on the roadside. This feeling of publicity which 
 would have been a trial to most people was Emmie's 
 chiefest joy. 
 
 " Isn't it delightful seeing everything that goes on ? " 
 she would say. " Really, I waste my time at this win- 
 dow ! " She did indeed ; but what was more provok- 
 ing, she wasted the time of other people. Miriam had 
 brought a lot of books down from town, hoping to get 
 
 334
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 them read in " the quiet of the country " ; though she 
 might have known better. 
 
 " Miriam ! Stop reading for a minute and look at 
 Fanny Jones's new hat ! " 
 
 Miriam would glance up and murmur a half-hearted 
 comment on the hat. Then two or three minutes of 
 silence would follow, till Emmie saw fresh subject for 
 interest : 
 
 " There's Abbot's cart stopping at Mrs. Hobbes's 
 door; look, he's taking in a small sirloin. T am glad 
 they can afford sirloin, I'm sure." 
 
 Another silence ; then in a whisper, though why Em- 
 mie thought it better to interrupt by a whisper, it is 
 difficult to imagine. 
 
 " Miriam ! I'm sorry to interrupt again, but if you 
 look up quickly you'll see Louie Evans going into the 
 bank ; she is flirting with Tom Beech ; I daresay they'll 
 make it out before next year." 
 
 Finally Miriam laid aside all pretense of reading, 
 and drew her chair frankly up to the windows to watch 
 the passers-by it was better than being forced to do 
 it against her will. 
 
 As she sat thus, listening to Emmie's remarks, a 
 very absurd thing happened, which happens oftener 
 than any of us are aware of : both these young women 
 were pitying each other profoundly ! Miriam pitied 
 her cousin because her whole life seemed to consist 
 of nothing but this sort of peddling interest in the af- 
 fairs of other people; while Emmie's pity for Miriam 
 was stirred by the thought that she had no husband, 
 or house of her own, or any prospect of getting either, 
 "only ideas and unsatisfactory things like that," as she 
 
 335
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 contemptuously phrased it. Miriam was longing to be 
 back in London, busy with work she loved, and meet- 
 ing people who interested her; while Emmie in her 
 really kind little heart kept hoping that her cousin was 
 not feeling too envious of her life with Sydney Pratt 
 in Hindcup ! 
 
 " She can't help envying me, Sydney," she would 
 say to Dr. Pratt, " seeing me with you, and my house, 
 and everything." 
 
 Dr. Pratt, however, was not quite certain about 
 this. 
 
 " I do not know that either I or my house would 
 satisfy her," he said darkly. 
 
 Once every week Emmie had what she called an " at 
 home " day. She spent the morning in dusting the 
 drawing-room and " arranging the flowers." By this 
 last expression she meant gathering close off by the 
 head a profusion of blossoms, and packing them tightly 
 into fancy vases. Lunch was always rather hurried 
 on the " at home " day, and immediately after the meal 
 Emmie ran upstairs to dress. Half an hour later she 
 came down to the newly dusted drawing-room wearing 
 her last " Sunday " dress ; then drawing her chair up 
 to the window, she adjusted the blind so that she might, 
 without being seen, T>e able to see who was coming in. 
 By three o'clock Hindcup visitors began to arrive, and 
 at half-past three Emmie did not think it too early to 
 offer them a cup of tea. This was brought in, ready 
 poured out in the cups, and handed round by the hotly 
 blushing young maidservant, who looked as if she 
 would drop the heavy tray from her trembling hands 
 every minute. Emmie then, herself, passed round a 
 
 336
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 wicker tea stand containing a plate of crumbly bread 
 and butter, and another plate of very rich plum cake. 
 As each visitor departed, she ran to the window, and 
 from behind the blinds watched the guest go down the 
 path to the gate. But at sight of another guest arriv- 
 ing, she would skip back to her seat, and be ready to 
 rise from it in well-feigned surprise when the visitor 
 was announced. 
 
 Of course all the neighbors came to see Miriam, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes, just as of old, being among the 
 first to arrive. It hurt Miriam to notice that they 
 were a little in awe of her; she did not like to see it. 
 Somehow the Hobbeses did not seem so objectionable 
 as of yore ; for memory, like a bright mist, covers up 
 many an unlovely object, changing and sanctifying it 
 almost beyond recognition. People that in the long 
 ago were wearisome and distasteful to us, are changed 
 by time and distance into classic figures we would not 
 willingly miss from the background of our lives. 
 
 Miriam found it quite pleasant to sit and listen to 
 Mrs. Hobbes's wandering talk on domestic affairs, and 
 Mrs. Hobbes, in her turn, was touched by the sym- 
 pathetic attention shown in her affairs. She laid her 
 hand on Miriam's knee a trifle timidly, saying: 
 
 " I was so afraid to come to see you, but indeed 
 I need not have been afraid ; I think you're much im- 
 proved, my dear." 
 
 The Broadmans came in then, and Timothy ; and the 
 little room was quite filled up. 
 
 Timothy had decided he must try to efface the un- 
 pleasant memory that he felt sure still lingered in his 
 cousin's mind. He came and sat down beside her, 
 
 337
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 balancing one of Emmie's uncomfortably small tea- 
 cups in his large red hands, and began to try to be 
 pleasant. Mr. Hobbes, too, drew his chair up to the 
 sofa and essayed conversation. But just as Miriam 
 was wondering what she would say to them, she saw 
 the door open again, and heard the little maidservant 
 announce in her frightened, piping voice: 
 " Mr. Gore, ma'am, to call on Miss Sadler." 
 There was a moment of tense silence. Emmie stood 
 up, not very sure what to do or say, and Miriam 
 struggled out of her corner between Timothy and 
 Mr. Hobbes, and went across the room to meet her 
 visitor. 
 
 Emmie, much embarrassed, begged this unexpected 
 and distinguished visitor to sit down and have some 
 tea. The tea was accepted, but the plum cake was re- 
 fused, at which Emmie repeated several times : 
 " Oh, do be persuaded ; let me persuade you ! " 
 Silence had fallen among the other guests ; they were 
 all listening and looking. Miriam had a sudden mo- 
 ment of intolerable discomfort ; everything seemed 
 wrong. She wished Alan Gore had not come ; it would 
 be only a pain to see him here. 
 
 But the next minute all these painful feelings dis- 
 appeared, for Alan Gore sat down and began to talk 
 to Emmie as if he had always known her, and Emmie 
 seemed to forget to be shy, and answered his remarks 
 quite coherently. Timothy, too, drawn as if by a 
 magnet, was coming gradually nearer to where Gore 
 sat, till suddenly he joined in the conversation with 
 what seemed to Miriam a surprisingly intelligent re- 
 mark. 
 
 338
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 It was the old story of the man who carried a talis- 
 man under his tongue. Miriam could scarcely be- 
 lieve what she saw. Without apparent effort, Alan 
 Gore had actually beguiled her cousin Timothy into 
 conversation that was quite interesting, and made Em- 
 mie forget her shyness altogether; she remembered 
 how he had done the same years ago with her, in the 
 library at Hindcup how her shyness and constraint 
 had fallen away, and she had blurted out all her raw 
 young ambitions and unremarkable difficulties to him. 
 
 Could it be her cousin Timothy, the traveler in 
 wineglasses, who sat there talking like that? Tim- 
 othy, it appeared then, had thoughts not original 
 ones in the least, but quite fairly intelligent thoughts 
 and could express them, too, in quite respectable lan- 
 guage ! 
 
 How ashamed she felt all of a sudden ; why could 
 she not find this great secret of true living which Alan 
 Gore had the key to? All her life she had missed it. 
 She could enter with eager sympathy into the interests 
 of people who were congenial to her; but from those 
 who were uncongenial she must always hold herself 
 aloof. Once again Miriam confessed in her heart 
 the old confession that she was " all wrong some- 
 where." 
 
 In ten minutes Alan Gore had found out more of 
 the nature of her cousin Timothy than she had been 
 able to discover in all the years of her life ; and Em- 
 mie Emmie sat there telling him how the curate's 
 wife had wanted to get up a Reading Society, " to im- 
 prove our minds, you know," but she had " no time to 
 read," and " did he think reading was as necessary as 
 
 339
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 clever people thought it? people like Miriam?" 
 (That was another stab to poor Miriam.) 
 
 By some matchless art, or tact, or gift, Alan Gore 
 drew Emmie and Timothy so out of themselves that 
 their conversation was entirely natural ; he seemed to 
 be able to get at that core of reality which is some- 
 where to be found in the dullest natures, and arrived 
 at this, past all the unrealities, he discovered some in- 
 terest in them almost in spite of themselves. 
 
 Miriam drew her chair in beside Emmie. She, too, 
 wanted to join in their conversation. But in a mo- 
 ment Emmie and Timothy shut up like oysters. Tim- 
 othy pulled at his watch and declared that he must be 
 off to catch a train, and Emmie suddenly reassumed 
 her constrained manner and began to apologize pro- 
 fusely to Alan Gore for the fact that she must go and 
 speak to Mrs. Hobbes at the other side of the room. 
 
 " Do you see," Miriam said, when Emmie had gone, 
 " I can't do it. I can't get on to the right lines with 
 them, try as I may." 
 
 Gore put down the toy teacup with which Emmie 
 had burdened him, and looked at her. His pleasant 
 eyes laughed, though he kept unsmiling lips. 
 
 " Why," he said, " it seems to me that your relations 
 are exceedingly easy to get on with. I wish all of 
 mine were as easy." He paused and smiled, adding: 
 " I wonder now if you would get on better with my 
 people than I do, and vice versa? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't suppose I should. I very seldom get 
 on well with anyone, it seems to me," said Miriam, 
 who was suffering a great discouragement just at that 
 moment. 
 
 340
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 " I think too much Hindcup must be the reason for 
 this low view of things," said he. " What do you do 
 all day here ? " 
 
 " Very little ; which perhaps accounts for the de- 
 spondency." 
 
 " Do you not go out in the fields now, as you used 
 to do? I remember do you remember, long ago 
 when I met you there, and you asked me about the 
 books?" 
 
 " Remember ? O Mr. Gore, how could I forget ? 
 Life only began for me with those books ! " Miriam 
 cried. 
 
 " Well, why don't you walk there to-morrow, shall 
 we say about this time ? " Gore said. He leaned for- 
 ward, looking straight at her as he spoke; for a 
 moment she met his glance, and then she turned 
 away. 
 
 The little room seemed to spin round and round. 
 Snatches of talk between Emmie and Mrs. Hobbes 
 floated across to where they sat. " She, now, was 
 what I would call a thoroughly well-trained girl." 
 ..." No, Mrs. Hobbes, I can't say I've a great idea 
 of Abbot's meat," etc., etc. 
 
 Alan Gore rose and held out his hand to Miriam: 
 
 " Shall I see you to-morrow, then, about this time ? " 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, and turned away. 
 
 " Dear me ! " Emmie exclaimed as the door closed 
 behind him, " I'd no idea Mr. Gore was like that ; he's 
 very agreeable. I wonder what ever made him come 
 in this afternoon? I was quite flustered, for Jemima 
 gave him a cup of tea Mr. Hobbes had refused, so I 
 
 341
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 knew it must have been cold. Well, it was very polite 
 in him, and he made me forget all about his being so 
 fine and well known. I declare I said a lot of silly 
 things to him, now I come to remember what we talked 
 about." 
 
 342
 
 TO THE STARS 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 " I AM sure I don't see why anyone should wish to 
 take country walks," Emmie said as she walked down 
 to the garden gate with her cousin the next afternoon. 
 " It's so much more amusing to pop in to tea with one's 
 neighbors than to tramp over these damp fields you 
 are so fond of, Miriam." 
 
 " I've always loved the fields, Emmie, and you know 
 I hate going out to tea," said Miriam ; but her excuse 
 was not accepted. 
 
 " I believe that about not going out to tea is some- 
 thing you learned from the Gores," she said ; " it isn't 
 possible that anyone can really dislike tea parties. I 
 believe it's a fashion, for some reason or other, and yet 
 that Mr. Gore didn't seem to object yesterday, and I'm 
 sure he would be an addition to any party." 
 
 Miriam laughed and walked away down the street. 
 She passed her old home, and stood at the gate for a 
 moment to look in. Behind these uninteresting little 
 windows she had transacted so much of life! The 
 branches of the elm tree still scraped against the sill 
 of her bedroom window as of old ; the flowering cur- 
 rant bush at the door was coming out and she smelled 
 its spicy breath that she used to love in childhood ; she 
 almost expected to see her mother come to the door, 
 watering-can in hand, to water the tulips in the bor- 
 der; but another face looked out at the well-known 
 
 343
 
 THE LADDER 
 
 door, and Miriam walked on quickly, with that feel- 
 ing of injury we feel to see strangers occupying our 
 old homes. Is it some premonition of the day cer- 
 tainly coming for each of us, when our place shall 
 neither know us nor miss us more? 
 
 She walked on, past The Old House where Miss 
 Foxe used to live. Miss Foxe had died a year ago, 
 and the house was shut up and deserted-looking, with 
 closed shutters and tags of last year's creeper hanging 
 untidily from the walls. 
 
 But out in the spring meadows there was no 
 strangeness or desolation to face. No change passes 
 over the kindly earth from year to year; the flowers 
 and grasses we knew in childhood come up as green 
 and fair to-day as they did then. 
 
 Miriam knew where to look for every plant some 
 were just coming up, some not yet in blossom. She 
 remembered where a plant of pink primroses used to 
 grow, and there they were, punctual to the season's 
 call, poking up through the moist brown earth. As 
 she walked along the little meandering path that led 
 to the stile where she had sat that eventful day when 
 she met Alan Gore, the whole scene came back so 
 vividly to her mind that for a moment she wondered 
 if all the intervening years had been a long dream that 
 she had dreamed sitting there on the stile. Miriam 
 had heard of dreams that seemed to extend over eons 
 of time; had this been one of them? Had she ever 
 gone to London to visit the Gores? Had she strug- 
 gled and failed, and struggled again and succeeded? 
 Had poor Herman been nothing but a brilliant phan- 
 tasm, his tragic death a nightmare bit of the dream ? 
 
 344
 
 TO THE S 
 
 Miriam looked down at her dress; it was a hand- 
 some, well-made garment, and she half expected to 
 see it turn into the blue calico she used to wear. She 
 drew off her gloves and fingered them, expecting to 
 see their soft leathern surface change into the well- 
 remembered white cotton glove of her girlhood. 
 
 But far less believable than these outside things 
 was something else : Why had she come here this af- 
 ternoon? Why had Alan Gore asked her to meet 
 him? No; the past with all its pains and difficulties 
 might be true, but this could be nothing but some curi- 
 ous delusion that had overtaken her. Perhaps she 
 had dreamed it vividly last night? Yet it wasn't a 
 dream that Alan Gore had come to see her yesterday ; 
 that was certain enough; it was his asking her to 
 meet him that was the dream. . . . Miriam leaned back 
 against the rail of the stile with half-closed eyes; all 
 round her the spring world was bursting into leaf and 
 blossom stirring and stretching itself as it were, after 
 the long despair of winter. The air was full of the 
 fragrance of young leaves ; in the blossoming thickets 
 the birds sang loud and clear. A sense of renewal was 
 everywhere grass growing fresh and green out of the 
 brown earth ; tender shoots appearing from the dry, 
 dead-looking stumps of the hedgerows that had been 
 ruthlessly pruned away; sheets of blossom covering 
 the thorn bushes everywhere life and sap and strength 
 a goodly world. 
 
 As Miriam sat there and looked and listened, some- 
 thing of this spirit of renewal seemed to waken in her 
 heart. For as we die many deaths before the last, so 
 by gracious processes of healing the spirit may be born 
 
 345
 
 THE LADDER TO THE STARS 
 
 again into a newer and brighter life. Miriam looked 
 back across the dark years of her life, much as one 
 looks back at a thundercloud which has rolled away 
 behind one. They had been dark, but the sun was 
 shining overhead now, and life was sweet again. She 
 was young still, in spite of Aunt Pillar's plain words 
 to the contrary; young and, yes, happy. The word 
 came to her almost as a surprise. 
 
 Far off across the fields Miriam saw Alan Gore 
 coming. He walked quickly, as if impatient of the dis- 
 tance to be got over. She rose to meet him; but a 
 wave of joy, a premonition of happiness, such as she 
 had never dreamed of, held her silent. 
 
 (i) 
 
 THE END 
 
 346
 
 A GREAT FRENCH DETECTIVE'S ADVENTURES. 
 
 The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont. 
 
 By ROBERT BARR, author of "The Midst of 
 Alarms," etc. Illustrated. $1.50. 
 
 " The most marvellous series of detective adventures 
 written in many a day." St. Louis Republic. 
 
 "Much more ingenious than the Sherlock Holmes 
 tales." New York Sun. 
 
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 is all the more interesting for that reason." 
 
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 "A TALE OF OLD EGYPT AND LITTLE OLD NEW YORK/ 
 
 The False Gods. 
 
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 tale of ' The False Gods,' and it is good for a number of 
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