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 JEL1 A PAR K VOOLLEY
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Cclia J). 
 
 ROGER HUNT. A Novel. i6mo, $1.25. 
 RACHEL ARMSTRONG; OR, LOVE AND THE- 
 
 OLOGY. A Novel, izmo, $1.50; paper covers, 
 
 50 cents. 
 
 A GIRL GRADUATE. A Novel, izmo, $1.50. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
 
 ROGER HUNT 
 
 BY 
 
 CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY 
 
 AUTHOR OF "RACHEL ARMSTRONG; OR, LOVE AND THEOLOGY," 
 "A GIRL GRADUATE," ETC. 
 
 But God said, 
 I will have a purer gift ; 
 There is smoke in the flame. 
 EMERSON 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 Cbe RtuersiDe press, Cambrt&ge
 
 Copyright, 1892, 
 BY CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. 8. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
 
 PS 
 
 To 
 J. H. W.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 I. 
 
 IT was at the close of a dull November day, 
 with low-hanging skies and naked tree-branches 
 stretched mournfully up to meet them. There was 
 a touch of winter chill in the air. A few thin 
 streaks of red in the west failed either to cheer or 
 warm the scene, though bringing into stronger re- 
 lief two figures, a man's and a woman's, walking 
 down the long empty vista of M Street in the uni- 
 versity town of Xenophon. 
 
 The man kept close to his companion's side, and 
 talked in a low, hurried strain; while she, with 
 downcast eyes and a strangely troubled face, lis- 
 tened. She was nearly as tall as he, with slender 
 figure that had a look of fragility, heightened by 
 the way in which she wore her shawl, wrapped 
 closely about her and held in place with tightly- 
 clasped hands. Her face had a refined and rather 
 noble expression, but wore just now a pinched 
 look of care, while the large melancholy eyes be- 
 spoke depths of feeling and mental unrest below. 
 The manner and attitude of the two showed that
 
 2 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 intent preoccupation in themselves seen in avowed 
 lovers. 
 
 They halted before one of the frame houses 
 standing back from the street, but lingered at the 
 gate. The man talked on eagerly, almost angrily, 
 never turning his strong, clear gaze from his com- 
 panion, whose face still wore a look of struggling 
 doubt and longing. 
 
 "Oh, I dare not," she exclaimed, as he paused at 
 last for her to speak, and with a long shuddering 
 sigh. A dark look of disappointment swept over 
 his face, and he compressed his lips. 
 
 "Do not be angry with me," she pleaded, laying 
 her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own, 
 and turned his eyes upon her with a look of tender, 
 but sad upbraiding, before which her own wavered 
 and fell. 
 
 "I can say no more," he said mournfully, but 
 with a touch of impatience. "After all, it is not 
 a thing any word of mine should decide. Only 
 your feeling can do that." 
 
 "If it were only that! " The words were rather 
 breathed than spoken. A flash of triumph lighted 
 his face. "Very well, then." He clasped her 
 hand closer. Its touch was warm and tender, but 
 masterful. All her being thrilled to it, at the 
 same time that her heart was clutched with a deadly 
 chill. She could not take her eyes from his, which 
 looked both absolute devotion to and an imploring 
 fear of him ; but if the latter touched him, it was 
 not with pity for her.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 3 
 
 "You talk of 'right,'" lie began again, and* 
 speaking with the enforced patience we use with a 
 child who has heard our reasons for exacting his 
 obedience many times. "You and I believe that 
 right is determined by inward feeling and convic- 
 tion, do we not?" 
 
 She looked at him with the same eyes of worship- 
 ful pleading, while the subtle use of the words, 
 "You and I," made her flush and tremble. 
 
 "Then we accept the responsibility of an action 
 when we have admitted the wish to perform it. 
 You admit the wish to serve me?" She did not 
 answer in words, only looked at him. He knew 
 she would die for him. 
 
 "And you know my need of you." His voice 
 dropped here, and he released her hand. A more 
 delicate man would have refrained from an argu- 
 ment like the last; but Roger Hunt, though pos- 
 sessing an unusually refined and sensitive nature, 
 reaching to fastidiousness in matters of personal 
 taste and habit, often showed a failing insight in 
 other matters that bordered on dullness. 
 
 Roger Hunt belonged to that fanatical order of 
 mind which is never so sure it is right as when it is 
 standing alone. He had all a martyr's courage 
 with nothing of the martyr's meekness ; would have 
 submitted to burn at the stake for opinion's sake, 
 but would have made the fire-tender some trouble. 
 The feeling of others toward him generally went 
 to one or the other extreme of strong affection and 
 sympathy, or downright dislike and suspicion. He
 
 4 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 'was not a popular man, though capable of excit- 
 ing the warm, even partisan attachment of a few. 
 His friends praised his purity of purpose, his cour- 
 age and devotion to principle, while his critics 
 pronounced him arbitrary, unfeeling, and petty. 
 He was better liked by the opposite sex than by 
 his own, his virtues being such as men respected 
 without trying to emulate, his faults of a kind only 
 women would submit to. The woman before him 
 recognized his faults, but blamed him for them 
 scarcely more than she did for his defective eye- 
 sight. He suffered from what is known in techni- 
 cal phrase as hypermetropia, which he sometimes 
 wore spectacles to correct. He could see a distant 
 church steeple very well, but was continually 
 stumbling over the nearest obstacle in his path. 
 
 Though he would have stoutly denied it himself, 
 feeling, overlaid with a mass of argument, such as 
 he was now employing with the woman at his side, 
 ruled all his conduct. He was a man of keen and 
 brilliant intellect, which he used as remorselessly at 
 times as a physical giant does his superior muscular 
 strength. He had a gift at dialectical discourse, 
 which his equals often hesitated to encounter, but 
 which rendered the one he was now addressing 
 as helpless as a child. Eoger Hunt loved Eleanor 
 Thaxter with the intensity of a strong and impetu- 
 ous nature bent on the fulfillment of its own de- 
 sires, loved her the more because of her known 
 love for himself ; for he was not the man to suffer 
 from an unrequited attachment. The love that
 
 EOGEB HUNT. 5 
 
 seeks only to give was typified in the woman who 
 stood listening to him, there in the autumn twilight, 
 her soul in her eyes, longing to believe wholly and 
 only in him. 
 
 "What is it we lose?" he asked at length, with 
 another touch of impatience. "What is it any- 
 body loses?" 
 
 "Oh, if I could be sure of that! " she replied in 
 trembling tones. " If there were only ourselves to 
 think about! " 
 
 "Come now," he said, putting a restraint upon 
 himself. "Who else is there to think about? On 
 one side a churl of a brother," glancing towards the 
 house she was about to enter, "who grudges the 
 bread his sister eats." She made a deprecatory 
 motion of the hand, but he would not heed her. 
 "On the other, a woman at the inebriate hospital 
 who bears my name, and, in the place I call home," 
 with bitter emphasis, "her ill-tempered sister, who 
 has brought up my boy to fear and distrust his 
 father." 
 
 She trembled and turned pale at this pitiless 
 revelation of affairs she so well understood before. 
 
 "Dearest," he went on in altered tone, bend- 
 ing near until his face almost touched hers, "if I 
 meant to wrong or injure any one of them, if I did 
 not mean to make ample provision for each and all, 
 if I did not know my presence was as hateful to 
 them as theirs to me - What is it any one will 
 lose? " he repeated impetuously. 
 
 "Oh, I know, I know," she murmured. "You
 
 6 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 are wiser than I. You have thought deeply on all 
 these subjects; I try to understand, but" a long 
 tremulous sigh escaped her. "And and how 
 can you say no one will lose?" she began again, 
 speaking with difficulty. "There is the child. 
 Surely he will lose " She ended in painful em- 
 barrassment, which her companion did not seem to 
 share in the least, though he kept silent for a space, 
 bending accusing eyes on her. 
 
 "No, it is you who are wise," he said in a mourn- 
 ful tone, "very wise, very safe, and careful." Her 
 thin cheek flushed. 
 
 "It is too much," he exclaimed, "too much to 
 expect of any woman. I had begun to think there 
 was one who understood the essential values of 
 things, who could distinguish between the merely 
 conventional and that which is everlastingly right 
 and true, who had some power of just discrimina- 
 tion." He paused abruptly. She flushed again, 
 and deeper, but this time with less pain at the overt 
 reproach in his words than pride in their implied 
 praise. No woman willingly submits to see herself 
 lowered in the eyes of the man she cares for, either 
 as friend or lover, even when her own judgment 
 sustains her. 
 
 Eleanor Thaxter's acquaintance with Roger 
 Hunt had been the supreme event in a dry and col- 
 orless existence. The knowledge that he loved her, 
 was dependent on her for happiness, had not only 
 brought an intoxicating delight, but had aroused 
 the holier passion of self-sacrifice, which in such
 
 ROGER HUNT. 7 
 
 women is part of love. Roger's words rebuked, 
 but also uplifted her ; and though an unconvinced 
 judgment still lay like a stone in her breast, her 
 heart leaped forward in the wish to be all that he 
 required. She stood flushing and trembling be- 
 fore him. 
 
 " I shall not try to answer your question about 
 the child," he said, coming bluntly back to this 
 point. "If you think there's such a lot of pre- 
 cious fatherhood going to waste in me, you had bet- 
 ter visit me in my home some time. Send me back 
 there if you like, if that suits your woman's notion 
 of things better ; but I tell you, you little know the 
 living hell the place is to me, nor how I am grow- 
 ing the fitter devil to live in it every day." 
 
 This outburst frightened her a little, and she 
 tried to quiet him. 
 
 "A man may correct any other mistake," he 
 went on passionately, "may repair his unformed 
 judgment on every other point but this one, in 
 which his honor and happiness are most concerned. 
 A mere boy is fooled by a pretty face, and you 
 tell him all his hopes of happiness are to be meas- 
 ured by that fact. You tell me to bear things I 
 think it wicked cowardice to bear. I suffer the 
 pangs of the damned, and grovel in shame every 
 day anew, and you tell me I have brought it on 
 myself." She tried to stop him, but could not. 
 "Then I put my heart, torn and bleeding, into 
 your hands, which might make it well and whole 
 again ; yet you can stand and hesitate, because of
 
 8 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 a lot of human donkeys, who will forget our exist- 
 ence in three days. Why should we care what 
 people will say? What is the world and its opin- 
 ion to us? Less than the sound of thunder in a 
 distant planet." 
 
 "Roger, Roger, I cannot bear it ! " Her voice 
 broke through his whirling talk like a distressed 
 cry. "It is not of myself I think. Why should 
 I care for myself ? It is of you. Can I help you 
 do yourself a wrong? Was my love meant for 
 that? I would give my life to make you happy ! " 
 
 "Give me yourself! " The words were at once 
 imperious and tender. His passionate force was 
 gaining ground. The little strength she had sum- 
 moned to resist him was spending itself fast. Her 
 face was raised to his in piteous appeal. His deep 
 glowing eyes burned through the growing dusk. 
 She had felt at times those eyes had power to draw 
 her soul from her body. He bent nearer to her. 
 "I have said they would lose nothing," he began 
 again in a low voice. " That is true ; but we 
 what is it we shall not gain? Think what it will 
 be to me, you strong, sweet woman who love me 
 so ! A free life, time and the will to work ; with 
 you, my best helper, the only being in the world 
 who understands me, you always at my side. 
 Misery and shame were driving me mad when I 
 met you; I was turning into a fiend. You came, 
 and had only looked at me once, with those dear, 
 pitying eyes, when I knew all hope was not over, 
 even for me. You were my good angel, sent to re-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 9 
 
 deem and restore me I My heart spoke the words 
 at once. You knew it ! There was but one feel- 
 ing between us. We understood each other as 
 well at that moment as we do now. Do you think 
 such things mean nothing? " 
 
 His wild impassioned words melted and fright- 
 ened her at once. Her fears and agitation in- 
 creased every moment, and she broke into tears, 
 trembling and clinging to him. 
 
 "You speak of other people's rights," he went 
 on! " Has love like ours no rights ? Do you dare 
 admit your love for me, and then leave me, tenfold 
 more desolate and despairing than before? We 
 love each other. Oh, my darling, think of nothing 
 but this, of this great blessed love that has come 
 to us! Put every other thought away! Let us 
 leave lies and misery and the preaching of fools 
 behind us." 
 
 She could not look into his face, it was so near, 
 and shut her eyes in an excess of trembling fear 
 and happiness, that might have overpowered her 
 had he not caught and held her in his arms, safe 
 in the descending dark. She felt his kisses on 
 her cheek and lips, heard his passionate words of 
 devotion, caught a whisper of advice and caution, 
 and felt herself released. He was gone. The 
 sound of his footsteps grew fainter in the distance, 
 but carried a ring of victory. Dizzily, like one in 
 a dream, she ascended the path to the house. She 
 had given no word of promise, but she knew what 
 she was going to do. Mind and sense were held
 
 10 EOGEE RUNT. 
 
 in the grasp of a will she had no further strength 
 to resist. She could only pray, in mercy for her- 
 self, that this feeling of dumb unaccountability 
 might last until the irrevocable step had been 
 taken.
 
 II. 
 
 ROGER HUNT'S home was a long distance from 
 M Street in a fashionable quarter of the city. It 
 was a large and handsome residence, but for the 
 past two years had worn the forbidding look a 
 house has when closed to visitors, and only partially 
 used. 
 
 He was late. Admitting himself with a night- 
 key, he stepped into the dimly-lighted hall, venting 
 an exclamation of impatience over the darkness, 
 and turned the gas jet, held by a bronze naiad 
 perched in airy attire on the newel post, to full 
 head ; then passed on into the dining-room, where 
 his sister-in-law and boy sat at table. 
 
 The two looked at him without a word as he took 
 his place, and until the servant in waiting had 
 placed the soup before him and retired, when his 
 sister-in-law spoke : 
 
 "We waited an hour," she said, regarding him 
 gloomily from behind the tea-urn. "Children 
 ought not to eat so late." 
 
 "I have told you never to wait for me," was the 
 reply. Another silence, broken only by an occa- 
 sional word between the boy and his aunt, followed 
 and lasted throughout the meal, Roger taking the 
 evening paper from his pocket and reading from it
 
 12 BOGEB HUNT. 
 
 between courses. When he had finished, the three 
 arose, and his sister-in-law spoke again. 
 
 "Are you going out this evening? " she asked, in 
 the same constrained manner as before. 
 
 "I am not." 
 
 "Then I should like to attend the evening meet- 
 ing. Children ought not to be left with servants." 
 Miss Watson never missed a chance of formulating 
 her principles. 
 
 "You can go," said Roger, cutting her short; 
 and turning away he passed from the room into the 
 library on the other side of the hall. 
 
 The boy followed his aunt upstairs, watching her 
 with a listless air as she put on her bonnet and 
 cloak, heavily trimmed with crape for a father who 
 had been dead seven years. He accompanied her 
 down again, to the outer door, where he received 
 her parting instructions about bed-time. When 
 the door closed behind her, he went back into the 
 dining-room, the only lighted room in the house, 
 except the library. 
 
 His aunt had not kissed him good-night, but he 
 had learned long since to dispense with attentions 
 of this kind. He knew she loved him, and though 
 she was very strict with him, in his strange, unchild- 
 like fashion, he loved her. Towards his father 
 the boy's feeling was one of mingled curiosity and 
 indifference. He knew him as a man of abstracted 
 looks and ways, and of independent habits tlrat 
 often set the entire household awry ; who seemed to 
 remember his child's existence only at intervals,
 
 ROGER HUNT. 13 
 
 at which times he gave him a good deal of pocket- 
 money, and even sometimes tried to romp and play 
 with him ; but he did this in an awkward way that 
 made the boy uncomfortable, so that he liked bet- 
 ter to be forgotten and unnoticed. 
 
 Roger Hunt was not wholly to blame that he 
 had so little power to win his child's confidence. 
 There was as little mental as physical likeness be- 
 tween them, the boy bearing a marked resemblance 
 to his mother's family, so that it always pained and 
 often displeased his father merely to look at him. 
 Roger had not the nature which enters readily into 
 the needs of others. He cared little for children, 
 any way, though he would have been both shocked 
 and offended at the thought that such a feeling 
 could extend to his own son. The circumstances of 
 his marriage have already been partly described 
 in the words he let fall to Eleanor Thaxter. 
 
 While still in college he had fallen under the 
 spell of one of those youthful infatuations which 
 pass for love. Annie Watson was the youngest 
 child of a stern Puritanic household, but who in- 
 herited none of the pious and orderly instincts of 
 the family. Her unruly disposition began to as- 
 sert itself from the first, and she was regarded 
 as a moral alien almost from babyhood. At the 
 boarding-school in Xenophon, where Roger first 
 met her, she was a participant in every piece of 
 mischief going on, holding in open ridicule the 
 stiff, old-fashioned discipline on which the school 
 prided itself. To Roger's callow fancy, himself
 
 14 ROGER HUNT, 
 
 no easy subject of rule, this lawlessness, covered 
 with girlish charm and grace, looked like moral 
 independence; and nothing could have persuaded 
 him then that he had not found his true spiritual 
 mate. They were married against the advice of 
 all of his friends and the direct command of her 
 father. A month had scarcely passed when Roger 
 discovered his terrible mistake. Life, that looked 
 so fair and promising, lay like a shattered vase at 
 his feet. He found himself bound for life to a 
 vain and conscienceless creature who had married 
 him partly through a spirit of mischievous defiance, 
 partly through flattered self-love at being sought 
 by one so manifestly her superior, but chiefly for 
 the reputed fortune he was to inherit from a bach- 
 elor uncle. This fortune came into their posses- 
 sion two years after their marriage, and was the 
 means of completing Roger's domestic ruin. Had 
 he followed his own wish, he would have continued 
 to live in the same quiet fashion as before ; but his 
 wife would submit to no such tame disposition of 
 affairs, and to please her he fitted out a fashionable 
 establishment on one of the avenues. The young 
 wife plunged into social life, the husband shut him- 
 self in his library, a moody and bitterly-disap- 
 pointed man. 
 
 Annie Hunt, however, had neither the talent 
 nor force of character to become a leader in the 
 gay world whose honors she coveted. Craving 
 always some fresh excitement, intent only on the 
 moment's gratification, her easy nature yielded
 
 ROGER HUNT. 15 
 
 readily to temptation, and soon she was floating 
 rapidly down the current of social folly and excess. 
 One form of this dissipation began to excite the 
 whispered comment of their friends long before it 
 became known to Roger, immersed in his books, 
 and living only in formal union with his wife. 
 When he discovered it, his horror and shame knew 
 no bounds. He pleaded, he threatened, he stormed. 
 There were tears and promised amendment on the 
 frightened wife's side, followed by weak attempts 
 at reform; but month by month the disgusting 
 evil grew, until it became an open scandal, and he 
 was forced to send her away from home. A 
 hypothetical cure was effected, which on a return 
 to the old scenes soon ended in a relapse, followed 
 by another banishment ; while Roger Hunt, as he 
 had said to Eleanor, groveled in shame and could 
 hardly look his fellow-creatures in the face. Since 
 then, poor, wrecked Annie Hunt, a creature all 
 instinct and weak desire, had spent her time alter- 
 nately in the Asylum and at her home, having now 
 been an inmate of the Asylum eight months, with 
 her name on the list of incurables. It was a sub- 
 ject of wondering comment among his friends that 
 Roger had sought no legal redress for his suffer- 
 ings, some censuring his conduct in this respect, 
 others praising it ; but to a nature like his, open 
 defiance expresses the highest courage. Since it 
 was law that held him in bondage, he woidd not 
 condescend to appeal to it for aid ; he would rather 
 resist and defeat it. He asked nothing at the
 
 16 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 hands of that glittering abstraction, called Society, 
 which had so injured him, as he conceived; he 
 repudiated it instead. 
 
 Some degree of self -extinction is involved in all 
 forms of compromise, and Roger Hunt did not 
 mean to be extinguished. On the contrary, he was 
 in the mood to assert himself more distinctly than 
 before. He had long since ceased to think of his 
 wife as a responsible creature, yet he felt no sen- 
 timent of pity save for himself, the victim of an 
 egregious and mortifying blunder. His love for 
 her dead, he was led by an insidious kind of rea- 
 soning to persuade himself that all feeling of re- 
 sponsibility in that direction was annulled, save 
 that of her material support, which was easy to 
 extend. She was his and a part of him no longer, 
 he proudly declared; and he put her as far away 
 as possible in his thoughts. His soul rebelled 
 at the thought that his entire future must be reg- 
 ulated by this heedless mistake of the past. He 
 was not yet thirty, with life spread before him 
 like a bounteous feast, tempting sense, imagination, 
 and the intellect alike, yet must consent to repress 
 all feeling, deny himself all exercise of a man's 
 natural instincts and desires, pass his days like 
 an anchorite in a desert, supported neither by 
 the anchorite's faith or conviction of duty. The 
 thought was monstrous. 
 
 Sympathy for Roger Hunt's position could not 
 but be felt even by those who liked him least, and 
 was heightened in his friends' minds by their know-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 17 
 
 ledge of the additional vexations of a small gnat- 
 like order, but the more unbearable to one of his 
 disposition he suffered in the presence of a 
 woman like Sarah Watson in his house, his com- 
 plete moral aiitipode. 
 
 Miss Watson had given up a life of useful inde- 
 pendence to assume her present position. She 
 could perform a difficult duty if need be, but with- 
 out cheerfulness or grace. She had many excellent 
 traits, but they were combined with a temperament 
 that made all her virtues appear exasperating 
 faults. She had few overt faults, however, unless 
 mental narrowness and a certain fierce pride of 
 character be counted such. She was one of those 
 whom contact with wrong - doing always hardens 
 more than it enlightens. She did not try to un- 
 derstand the wicked behavior of people, only feared 
 and condemned it. The thought of her sister, of 
 whom she had always disapproved, aroused scarcely 
 any other feeling than one of self -injury. 
 
 In this she was like Roger, yet the likeness 
 proved no bond of union between them. The in- 
 tense, exacting nature of each took an instant, yet 
 deep-rooted dislike of the other. The two had 
 lived together under one roof in forced mutual tol- 
 erance for three years, bound together only by 
 their common deep misfortune. Days often passed 
 with scarcely the exchange of a word, but it was 
 impossible that natures so hostile should not some- 
 times clash in a downright quarrel, whose immedi- 
 ate cause was generally the most trivial. The boy
 
 18 ROGEE HUNT. 
 
 Roger had more than once been a witness of these 
 scenes, more curious than disturbed, and leaning 
 usually to his aunt's side. 
 
 Had the thought ever presented itself to Roger 
 Hunt that any one's sacrifice except his own was 
 involved in his present domestic arrangements, he 
 would have brushed it impatiently aside. It seemed 
 to him he paid the debt of his sister-in-law's ser- 
 vices to the full in his forced submission to her 
 presence. Everything she did and said irritated 
 him ; the tones of her voice, the straight folds of 
 her bombazine dress, the set propriety of all her 
 ways offended him like a direct assault. Her en- 
 trance into, the room where he was filled him with 
 resentment, yet so thoroughly had her presence im- 
 pregnated the atmosphere of the house that he felt 
 hardly more relieved of it in her absence. The 
 truth was, as he had said to Eleanor, Roger Hunt 
 was growing to hate his home. It shut down on 
 him like a tomb every time he entered it. The 
 resolve he was about to execute, to leave it forever, 
 filled him, to-night, with nervous exaltation. 
 
 Seating himself at his desk in the library he 
 wrote several letters, then arose and began select- 
 ing a few books to pack in a valise that lay care- 
 lessly disclosed on the floor. While thus engaged 
 he caught sight of his son standing in the open 
 door, and paused abruptly. 
 
 "I think I will go to bed now," said the boy with 
 the undue gravity that marked his manner. 
 
 "Very well," his father replied, and stood look-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 19 
 
 ing at him helplessly. "Shall I go upstairs with 
 
 you?" 
 
 "It will not be necessary. Good-night." 
 
 "Good-night," Roger repeated mechanically, and 
 stood listening while the little feet slowly climbed 
 the stairs. He went back to his work, but it 
 seemed as if each of those small ascending footsteps 
 had fallen on his heart. The room was stifling 
 and he threw open a window, but the draught 
 chilled him and he closed it again. His heart 
 beat with excitement, and for a moment he could 
 see nothing clearly in the room. He went back to 
 his work, then stood still to listen. His fancy 
 caught an unusual sound, and he rushed from the 
 room and halfway up the carpeted stairway. He 
 stopped and listened again. All was quiet. He 
 had fancied he heard the boy crying softly to him- 
 self in the dark. After a moment he spoke : " Did 
 you call, Roger? " 
 
 "No," was the reply sleepily uttered from muf- 
 fling bedclothes. He lingered still. 
 
 "Do you want anything? " he asked again. 
 
 "You might bring me a drink of water," the 
 inevitable request of childhood gone to bed, from 
 young Astyanax downward. 
 
 His father carried a glass of water to the bed- 
 side. The room was unlighted save from the hall 
 below, and his hand shook. 
 
 "You've spilled it," said the boy in a peevish 
 tone. Roger tried in a man's clumsy fashion to 
 repair the mishap, while the boy lay drowsily back 
 on his pillow.
 
 20 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Good-night," said his father, again. 
 
 "Good-night." Roger hesitated, then bent over 
 the bed. 
 
 "Don't you want to kiss me?" He could feel 
 the surprise in his child's eyes, looking up at him 
 through the dark. A kiss was exchanged between 
 them. 
 
 "I am going away," Roger said, as if in explana- 
 tion of such a request. 
 
 "To-night?" 
 
 "No, not to-night." 
 
 "Then we could have said good-by to-morrow." 
 
 Roger smiled bitterly and turned away, but was 
 still reluctant to leave the room. At the door he 
 stopped and spoke again. 
 
 "Don't you want to go with me?" The ques- 
 tion was even more of a surprise to him than to the 
 boy. Suddenly the thought had darted into his 
 mind, Why not take the child? Eleanor would 
 be better pleased; it would serve to pacify her 
 conscience. 
 
 "Where to?" was the question from the bed. 
 
 " Oh, to a good many places ; across the ocean, 
 perhaps." 
 
 "Will aunt Sarah go, too? " 
 
 "No." The boy deliberated a moment. 
 
 " Then I had better stay here. I might get sick, 
 and there would be no one to mend my clothes." 
 
 Roger went out of the room and downstairs. 
 The impulse that had so suddenly seized him had as 
 quickly died. The utterly prosaic way in which
 
 ROGER HUNT. 21 
 
 his suggestion had been received, the absence of all 
 childlike interest or enthusiasm, struck his own 
 feeling cold. 
 
 "He cares nothing for me," he said to himself, 
 with more anger than sorrow. "He never will. 
 He will be better off without me. I am as useless 
 here as I am miserable;" and with resolve newly 
 strengthened, and knit brow and compressed lips, 
 he resumed his preparations. 
 
 Half an hour later Miss Watson returned and, 
 passing the library door, paused a moment on the 
 threshold. Her eyes fell on the open valise with 
 some surprise, but she would ask no questions. 
 Her brother-in-law, she supposed, was about to 
 take another of those sudden, unexplained journeys 
 from home, which formed part of the ill-regulated 
 behavior she so strongly disapproved of. Roger 
 felt all his old antipathies arise when he saw her. 
 He returned her look with a full clear gaze. 
 
 "I am going away," he said at last. 
 
 She made no reply, only stood regarding him 
 with her usual expression of gloomy disapproval. 
 
 "It is likely to be a longer journey than usual," 
 he went on with a peculiar look she recalled after- 
 wards. 
 
 "If anything should happen," he spoke with slow 
 distinctness here, "you know my business adviser, 
 Mr. Somers. He will give you necessary instruc- 
 tions." 
 
 He took a strange satisfaction which experimen- 
 tal natures always feel, in this daring half-reve-
 
 22 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 lation of his plans, picturing the retroactive indig- 
 nation with which his words would cover him in 
 her mind. She listened to his further directions 
 without speaking, and when he had finished, she 
 proffered but one request. 
 
 "If you are likely to be away until after 
 Thanksgiving, I should like to take Roger with me 
 to Milton." This was the name of the town in 
 which the old homestead stood, rightly selected, 
 Roger thought ironically, for its pious appellation 
 and Arctic climate. He smiled a little as he gave 
 the required permission, thinking how useless all 
 commands and wishes of his would have become 
 by that time. Miss Watson had a word to say on 
 another subject. 
 
 " I saw Dr. Manf ord to-night. " A frown crossed 
 her listener's face. Dr. Manford was one of the 
 consulting staff in the institution that sheltered 
 Annie Hunt. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "She has had another attack. She escaped 
 from her room last Monday, and before they could 
 find her she had broken into the medicine closet 
 and"- 
 
 "That will do," said Roger with a motion of 
 displeasure. "We are familiar with that story." 
 She turned and left him. 
 
 Under the impulse of this latest news he wheeled 
 suddenly about and faced a portrait that hung 
 above the mantel, which until now he had avoided 
 looking at. It was life-size, a two-thirds figure of
 
 ROGER HUNT. 23 
 
 a young woman dressed in ball-room attire, with 
 uncovered neck and arms, and a face that combined 
 some remaining childlikeness with an insolent grace 
 and abandon. Roger knew not why he kept it 
 there, unless to justify the dislike he had always 
 had of it. The gaze of the bright, shallow eyes 
 fell on him mockingly. 
 
 "Heartless and brainless! " he exclaimed in his 
 thoughts. "A doll! A butterfly! Why'do such 
 creatures exist to tempt and murder honest man- 
 hood? What harm can I do to her equal to that 
 she has done me? The man that will bear such 
 shame as mine deserves to ! I thank heaven I am 
 a free man at last ! " 
 
 The eyes in the portrait eyes he had once 
 praised with all a lover's terms of fond endear- 
 ment fell on him with the same mocking smile, 
 while his flashed back eternal defiance. 
 
 Turning away, another object caught his look; 
 an open letter lying among the loose papers on the 
 table, directed in a woman's hand. It was from 
 Eleanor; he seized and covered it with kisses. 
 Sinking down into a large, leather-covered chair, 
 he leaned back with closed eyes and deliberately let 
 the image of this other woman fill his soul. Judg- 
 ment and will were soon in a blissful trance, and 
 imagination had full sway. A troop of tempting 
 thoughts and fancies bore him far away into a 
 dream world of his own, where two figures moved 
 at will, holding sweet converse together ; where dar- 
 ing impulse ruled in place of law, and where feel-
 
 24 ROGEE HUNT. 
 
 ing was the measure not of happiness alone, but of 
 duty. 
 
 There are men of more sturdy ethical con- 
 sciousness than this one, if not so aspiring and 
 self-determined, who recognize the true nature of 
 experiences of this kind ; who know that the self- 
 indulgence thus practiced is as demoralizing as any 
 act of physical greed or passion. Roger Hunt in- 
 dulged his emotions as other men do appetites. He 
 did not know that the vain, ignorant woman, whose 
 portrait he had turned his back upon, who had 
 formed the habit of resorting to the wine-cup to 
 ward off a headache, to steady failing nerves, or 
 arouse a dejected spirit, was less culpable than the 
 man who deliberately yields himself up to the nar- 
 cotizing influence of his unhallowed dreams and 
 longings. His mind was carefully trained, and 
 stored with wisdom from many sources, but it was 
 not open to comparisons of this kind. His spirit 
 sped on its enamored flight. Conscious that he 
 was impelled by no vulgar or sordid aims, his 
 methods seemed, therefore, above reproach. It was 
 nothing to him that men would abuse and misjudge 
 him. There was not a person living whose opinion 
 he valued on a subject of this kind as much as his 
 own. "Every man is the arbiter of his own des- 
 tiny," he was fond of saying. He was not afraid 
 of the thing he was about to do.
 
 in. 
 
 ROGER HUNT and Eleanor were on their way 
 across the Atlantic when the news of their secret 
 flight from home reached the public, through the 
 large -lettered head-lines of a morning newspaper. 
 It gave a severe shock to the community in which 
 Hunt had lived so long in high esteem, though 
 personally known to but few. Investigation into 
 the affair revealed the whole dark history of his 
 home life, and public opinion wavered a little, try- 
 ing to strike a balance between the sufferings and 
 faults of one whose career now seemed closed. 
 Roger Hunt's friends had always been more or less 
 his apologists, and now felt themselves more se- 
 verely taxed than ever before for this relationship. 
 Some of them tried, in makeshift fashion, to ex- 
 plain his conduct on the ground of the near kin- 
 ship a man of his talent and attainments bears to 
 genius, with its known eccentricities. A few of 
 these friends had come together, through a mixture 
 of chance and intention, at the house of his most 
 intimate one, George Somers, who was also his 
 lawyer. 
 
 It was here that Roger first saw Eleanor Thax- 
 ter, in attendance on a small literary gathering that 
 met weekly under the superintendence of Mrs.
 
 26 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Somers, for the study of Plato. Mrs. Somers 
 knew Roger before her husband did; she had been 
 acquainted with him since his college days, and 
 was entirely familiar with his history, understand- 
 ing his faults and virtues better than any other ac- 
 quaintance. She had a sisterly fondness for and 
 pride in him, aided by a generous feeling that the 
 knowledge of his general unpopularity aroused. 
 The other members of the little company were 
 Henry Hamilton and his wife, and Mortimer Gray, 
 a young journalist and Mrs. Somers 's chief assist- 
 ant in the Plato class. Mr. Hamilton was a man 
 of shy, retiring manners, who gained a substantial 
 living for himself and family in wholesale hard- 
 ware, but who had always cherished a secret pas- 
 sion for literature, which expressed itself in one 
 form in a worshipful admiration for Roger Hunt. 
 Mrs. Hamilton was a woman of upright stature and 
 opinions, prominent in church work and the city 
 charities, whose conservative instincts led her to 
 look askance at the Plato class. She had always 
 disliked Roger Hunt as much as her husband liked 
 him. 
 
 "It doesn't surprise me so much, now that I 've 
 recovered from the first shock," said George Som- 
 ers, in the judicial tone that suited his professional 
 standing and growing physical built. His wife 
 laughed sarcastically, and with a suspicion of hys- 
 teria. 
 
 "It is just the sort of thing a man like Hunt, 
 situated as he was and with his peculiar notions, 
 could easily persuade himself to do."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 27 
 
 "What were his 'peculiar notions'?" Gray 
 asked. He did not know Hunt very well, had 
 never been able to approach him, but he had fallen 
 into the habit of noticing Miss Thaxter of late. 
 
 " Oh, the sort your incipient revolutionist always 
 carries concealed about him. He had a fierce be- 
 lief in liberty, for one thing" 
 
 "Liberty! " exclaimed Gray, in a puzzled tone. 
 "Is there any one nowadays who does n't believe 
 in liberty? " 
 
 "Ah, but you see how Hunt defines it. Then 
 he had a moral courage that was sublime, though 
 it was apt to mistake its object." 
 
 "Yes, I 've often noticed that," Hamilton put in 
 eagerly, leaning forward with a slight flush on his 
 delicate skin. "There was a singular combination 
 of purity and daring in him. It it reminded me 
 of Shelley." 
 
 "I should think so," his wife replied, and Mr. 
 Hamilton's spirits drooped a little, while the rest 
 of the company looked abashed. 
 
 "He seems to have been a rather queer mixture 
 of the hero and the crank," said Gray, to fill in the 
 pause. 
 
 "Well, most of your heroes have their cranky 
 side, you know," Mr. Somers replied, leaning 
 back in his great chair. 
 
 "I never saw much of the hero in him," said 
 Mrs. Hamilton. 
 
 "He had many fine traits, though," her husband 
 said, plucking up his courage. "It won't do to
 
 28 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 judge a man like Hunt as you would a common 
 adventurer. The public will condemn him without 
 reserve, but we should discriminate. We should 
 think of the motive that lay behind. Hunt is not 
 the man to act from a low motive." 
 
 His wife regarded him pityingly. "Mr. Ham- 
 ilton always overrates his friends," she said in 
 apology for his weakness. 
 
 "I think that is a very good fault," said Mrs. 
 Somers, looking at him encouragingly. "I should 
 like to be counted among his friends." 
 
 "You wouldn't have to ask me twice," put in 
 the young journalist, coming to the other's relief. 
 He had the modesty of his years and sex and 
 felt uncomfortable, thinking perhaps he ought to 
 make his excuses and go, but yielding to the wish 
 to stay. Mrs. Somers smiled weakly. 
 
 "Mr. Hunt thought a great deal of Mr. Hamil- 
 ton," she said, in continued kindness to the latter. 
 
 "That was because Mr. Hamilton is such a good 
 listener," his wife answered, mercilessly. Her hus- 
 band flushed, but rallied again. 
 
 "Mr. Hunt was worth listening to," he said. 
 "He was one of the finest conversationalists I ever 
 met." 
 
 "I don't know, I 'm sure," his tormentor replied. 
 "I never heard Mr. Hunt converse. I've heard 
 him talk. He was perfect at monologue. Your 
 good conversationalist knows how to listen as well 
 as talk ; but Mr. Hunt never listened, at least he 
 never listened to me."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 29 
 
 Mrs. Somers looked as if she knew why. "His 
 manner was rather fitful," she said apologetically, 
 "but to those who understood him he seemed not 
 only a brave but a generous man. I have known 
 him to do the kindest things " 
 
 "And I have known him to do the rudest, and 
 the most selfish," the other quickly interrupted. 
 
 "I am sure Roger Hunt was never intentionally 
 selfish," said Mrs. Somers warmly. 
 
 "Oh, 'intentionally'!" her listener repeated, 
 scornfully. 
 
 "He would make any sacrifice for a friend" 
 
 " ' For a friend ' ! Very likely. How much 
 sacrifice and kindness has that woman experienced 
 who has taken charge of his house for three years ? " 
 
 "The testimony seems a little conflicting," said 
 Gray, turning to the master of the house. 
 
 "Xot at all," was the reply. "Both ladies are 
 right. They are looking at different sides of the 
 shield, that is all. Hunt is a man whose manners 
 are, determined by his feelings, and his feelings 
 are always strong." 
 
 "It's perfectly scandalous," said Mrs. Hamil- 
 ton, coming back to the main issue. "It makes 
 one feel as if the very foundations were giving way. 
 I don't know what you can expect of the lower 
 orders " 
 
 "Yes, it 's a dead give-away to the lower orders," 
 said Mr. Somers. His visitor looked at him in 
 stony incomprehension. 
 
 "I must say. George, I don't think this is a sub-
 
 30 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 ject for weak-minded jesting," said his wife in mar- 
 ital reproof. "I don't care anything about the 
 lower orders," she went on, in some excitement. 
 "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hamilton, but I don't. 
 But I do care for my friends," catching her breath. 
 
 " I thought Miss Thaxter was only a recent ac- 
 quaintance," said the other woman. 
 
 "I 'm not speaking of Miss Thaxter." 
 
 "You see there was an old attachment between 
 Hunt and my wife," Mr. Somers explained, with 
 husbandly freedom, "but she happened to be en- 
 gaged to me " 
 
 "George, you know that isn't true," his victim 
 broke in, with heightened color and visible annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 "Not true that you were engaged to me? And 
 so they 've kept up a kind of Platonic friendship 
 ever since." 
 
 The injured wife sank helplessly back in her 
 chair, and the guests looked sympathetic discom- 
 fort, while the speaker laughed and took another 
 tone. 
 
 "Oh, well. Hunt wasn't altogether a bad fellow. 
 I admit I had a sneaking fondness for him myself. 
 But I 've always known a dynamite bomb was about 
 as safe a piece of furniture in the house as he was. 
 He has made a nice mess of it now, but the con- 
 sjequences will fall on his own head." 
 
 "Not so severely as they will on hers; they 
 never do," said Mrs. Hamilton severely. 
 
 Young Gray looked newly disturbed and inter- 
 ested here, but listened attentively.
 
 EOGER HUNT. 31 
 
 "I 'm afraid that 's so. I suppose it will prove 
 in this case, as in others, that the woman will come 
 in for the severest blame, especially from her affec- 
 tionate sex." 
 
 "No, Mr. Somers, not from me. Of course I 
 blame Miss Thaxter, but it is easy to see she was 
 like wax in his hands. There was always some- 
 thing uncanny about the man to me. I declare, 
 if I didn't know it was nonsense, I should say he 
 had gained some queer kind of influence over her. 
 Did you ever notice his eyes? " turning to her host- 
 ess. The latter looked a little conscious and said 
 she did n't know. 
 
 "I don't believe in such things, of course," Mrs. 
 Hamilton went on, "but I distrusted him the 
 moment I saw him." Young Gray rose from his 
 chair. He shook hands with Mrs. Hamilton and 
 thanked her she could not conceive why then 
 bowed his adieux to the gentlemen. Mrs. Som- 
 ers followed him in sisterly fashion to the door. 
 
 "If it had n't been for the presence of the 
 ladies I could have characterized that fellow's 
 conduct without half this trouble," he said, as he 
 took her hand at parting. 
 
 "Roger Hunt isn't a 'fellow; ' but never mind 
 the ladies. Say what you wish." 
 
 "Very well, then, I say he is a damned scoun- 
 drel." He spoke without heat, but with a gravity 
 that gave his words a religious sound. She smiled 
 sadly, and shook her head. 
 
 "It 's all right if it makes you feel any better,
 
 32 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 but it is n't a bit philosophical. Of course I feel 
 sorry for her too," she added in some afterthought. 
 The young man reddened a little. 
 
 "I think I shall forego philosophy," he said, and 
 opening the door passed out. 
 
 "It is n't necessary to resort to the supernatural 
 to explain Hunt," Mrs. Somers heard her husband 
 say as she returned to the parlor. "Call him an 
 egotist. Most men admit they should pay some 
 regard to the laws of the social universe, but oc- 
 casionally a man arises who feels it his mission to 
 present the world with a new pattern. Now every- 
 body admits the need of new patterns. You should 
 hear the way Hunt reasons it out in the letter he 
 wrote me the night before he went away." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Somers, leaning forward from 
 the chair in which she had seated herself. "His 
 letter is really quite remarkable. And it is only 
 fair to look at it from his side. Of course his rea- 
 soning is as wrong and ridiculous as can be," in 
 deferential aside to Mrs. Hamilton, "but it is only 
 just to remember how he looks at it. He believes 
 his to be an exceptional case ; we know there are 
 exceptional cases. Shelley thought his was," turn- 
 ing this time to Mr. Hamilton, "but I never cared 
 much about Shelley." 
 
 "Which proves it wasn't, I suppose," her hus- 
 band put in. 
 
 "Then there was George Eliot. We all admit 
 that hers was an exceptional case." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Somers, not all of
 
 ROGER HUNT. 33 
 
 us," and Mrs. Hamilton straightened her figure to 
 a more upright position than before. 
 
 "I 'm very narrow-minded," she went on with a 
 chilly smile. "I 'm not an agnostic; I leave specu- 
 lation to Mr. Hamilton. There are a few things 
 I feel I 've gained pretty complete knowledge of. 
 One is that a man's responsibility is measured by 
 his intelligence." 
 
 "What do you mean by 'intelligence'?" Mr. 
 Somers asked. "Hunt had a fair degree of book- 
 ish knowledge ; he was well up in the classics and 
 mediaeval art, but in some other respects he was a 
 perfect ignoramus. I often used to say the same 
 thing to him," he added defensively. None of 
 them seemed to notice they were speaking in the 
 past tense. 
 
 "I suppose he was like most specialists," said 
 Mr. Hamilton. "His range of information was 
 high rather than broad. I am in sympathy with 
 Mrs. Somers. Her generous defense " 
 
 "Oh, I'm not defending him," Mrs. Somers 
 broke in, in some alarm. " I only think we should 
 look at a subject on all sides." 
 
 Her husband laughed, in irritating fashion. 
 
 "Kitty prides herself on her ability to think as 
 every one else does. She has n't led the class in 
 Plato two years for nothing. But there 's no dan- 
 ger her practice will run ahead of other people's. 
 It 's all summed up in the word I 've selected," 
 he went on, showing he liked to theorize as well 
 as his wife. "Hunt is a born egotist. Nothing
 
 34 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 would offend him more than to think gravitation 
 had anything to do with his power to stand up- 
 risrht. He likes to think it 's all due to his own 
 
 O 
 
 will and intention. Did you ever notice that trick 
 he has of standing very straight at times, so that 
 he tips a little backward?" to. Mr. Hamilton. 
 "That expresses very well his notion of moral in- 
 dependence." 
 
 " Well, he has tipped backward a good ways this 
 time," said Mrs. Hamilton rising from her chair. 
 
 "Yes, that's true," her host assented, as he 
 rose also, but with somewhat greater effort. 
 
 " But he did everything that was honorable about 
 it," Mrs. Somers put in anxiously. "He provided 
 for his child very handsomely, the larger half 
 of all he had, didn't you say?" turning to her 
 husband. 
 
 "I don't know as I said the larger half; one 
 half is as large as the other in all the arithmetic I 
 ever studied." 
 
 "That is nothing," replied Mrs. Hamilton. 
 " What is money when coupled with a disgraced 
 name?" 
 
 Mrs. Somers tried to murmur something polite 
 and conciliatory, but the uncompromising plain- 
 ness of her guest's words offended her. It was with 
 great relief she saw the two depart. Her disturbed 
 feelings found a natural vent in the first words 
 addressed to her husband when they were alone. 
 
 "Well, George, I don't know how you can call 
 yourself Roger Hunt's friend, and talk about him 
 as you have to-night ! "
 
 ROGER HUNT. 85 
 
 "I don't know as I 'm anxious to prove that 
 relationship, just now. I would sacrifice as much 
 for a friend as most people, but not my gift for 
 psychological analysis. No one would in this age." 
 
 He drew out his watch and pronounced it bed- 
 time, then went below to attend to the furnace. 
 Their income was modest, and they lived simply 
 with a single servant, who took most of her even- 
 ings "out." 
 
 Mrs. Somers climbed the stairs to their room 
 above, marveling with some irritation over those 
 self-sustained qualities in the masculine mind which 
 enable it to stand upright, on its two feet, so to 
 speak, under circumstances that reduce the femi- 
 nine consciousness to meaningless pulp. It was 
 ridiculous, she knew, but it did seem the sign of a 
 hardened nature that in the midst of trouble like 
 this, and with that uneasy sense of complicity 
 which their long intimacy with Roger Hunt 
 aroused, George should remember to fill the fur- 
 nace. For herself, she had wandered in and out 
 of the house all day in a maze of gloomy absent- 
 mindedness, committing all the mistakes within 
 reach. She had dusted the library with the hearth- 
 brush, watered the geraniums in the dining-room 
 window with the remaining contents of the milk- 
 jug, and given the grocer's order to the postman. 
 She was standing before the dressing-bureau, re- 
 moving her hairpins when her husband joined her. 
 
 "That girl left the back door unbolted again," 
 he said.
 
 36 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 "Did she?" she replied, indifferently. She 
 shook her loosened hair over her shoulders, then 
 began brushing it. 
 
 "I can't help it," she exclaimed, after the braid- 
 ing process had begun. "I did like him," catch- 
 ing her breath a little. "I can't bear to give him 
 up like this. I don't see what he was thinking of ! 
 And Eleanor Thaxter ! Mark my words, George, 
 she will be perfectly miserable! " 
 
 "No, she will be imperfectly miserable; but 
 that 's worse." 
 
 "Oh, I wish you wouldn't try to talk like one 
 of Henry James's novels," she exclaimed pettishly. 
 He attempted no answer to this, winding his watch 
 and placing it under his pillow. 
 
 " How long have you seen this thing * going 
 on? r " he asked her, when he had taken off his coat 
 and hung it over a chair. She wheeled about and 
 looked at him. 
 
 "Do you mean to say you've seen it 'going 
 on?' " she asked him sharply. He smiled and 
 looked a little foolish. 
 
 "I saw him kiss her once." , 
 
 "George! " she gasped. 
 
 "With his eyes, I mean." 
 
 She seemed still more displeased with this, and 
 turned back to the mirror. 
 
 " Your way of talking about this will put us all 
 in the wrong," she replied a moment after. "I 
 wish you would be more careful. I know you 've 
 set Mrs. Hamilton thinking. She 's the most ex-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 37 
 
 asperating woman I know! " flinging the finished 
 braid over her shoulder. "'The trouble with such 
 people is they haven't a particle of imagination! " 
 "Then they '11 help preserve the balance against 
 Hunt. He hasn't anything else." 
 
 "Oh, don't speak of it," she groaned. "When 
 I think of the questions that will be asked us! It 
 will ruin the Plato class! " 
 
 "Yes; you see what such things come to." 
 She made no reply. Seated on a low ottoman, 
 forgetful of her surroundings, she fell into a per- 
 plexed and dreamful reverie, in which her old sym- 
 pathetic understanding of the friend, thus lost, 
 came back to her, with sorrow for the disappoint- 
 ments he had suffered, and blame of fate that had 
 imposed them. She thought of his wrecked career, 
 then of the real use, source of deserved joy and 
 happiness, this new love might have been, had it 
 been honestly obtained. Pity for their great mis- 
 take, the suffering that must have been theirs in 
 any case, softened harsher thoughts for a moment. 
 "I feel so sorry for them both," she sighed. 
 "Any one can see they are just made for each 
 other." 
 
 "Well, Kitty, you 've sunk pretty low." 
 "Oh, I know it," springing to her feet. "I 
 feel as if there was n't a single moral fibre left in 
 me." 
 
 "You 'd better get into bed and go to sleep." 
 "Sleep! " she exclaimed scornfully; but she went 
 on with her preparations. Soon she paused again
 
 38 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 to give expression to another remembrance that 
 darted across her mind. 
 
 "George, it's as I thought. Mortimer Gray 
 was beginning to care about her." 
 
 "He ought not to find it hard to stop now. I 
 wouldn't worry about Mortimer Gray." 
 
 "It's awful!" she moaned, "perfectly awful! 
 If we only knew how it would end! " 
 
 " What do you want to know that for ? For my 
 part, when a thing begins as bad as this, I am con- 
 tent to have my knowledge stop there." 
 
 "Yes, yes; you are right," she replied quickly. 
 "I shudder to think of it." 
 
 " Well, I 've got through thinking about it, at 
 least for to-night. I 'm tired of both of them. 
 I 'm going to sleep." 
 
 He got into bed and pulled the clothes up over 
 his ears. She sighed and knew he would be as 
 good as his word. Slipping into her place by his 
 side, his regular and not very gentle breathing 
 soon told her that for him the day's cares and vex- 
 ations were forgotten. She listened with envy, 
 mixed with a slight feeling of umbrage. For her- 
 self, she knew she should lie awake half the night, 
 fretting about other people's troubles she was not 
 expected to help.
 
 IV. 
 
 THERE was a reason why Mrs. Somers should 
 feel more disturbed over this affair than her hus- 
 band did. Roger Hunt had called to see her the 
 day of his flight from home. The ostensible pur- 
 pose of this visit she now saw covered another, half 
 revealed, impossible for her to conjecture at the 
 time, and which she reflected on indignantly. He 
 meant, she believed, or at least wished, to make 
 her his confidant, but had not quite dared to ; being 
 deterred also by a failing sympathy in her own 
 manner he had then complained of. She asked 
 herself with some displeasure what reason she had 
 ever given him to think she had any sympathy to 
 bestow in such a cause ? The remembrance of the 
 interview was so unpleasant that she could not in- 
 crease its discomfort by speaking of it to any one, 
 not even to her husband. 
 
 Roger called in the forenoon, and found her in 
 the library, which was also the living-room. The 
 pretended object of his visit was to fetch her a set 
 of engravings illustrating the Acropolis, which he 
 had come across the evening before; remembering 
 to have heard her express a wish for something of 
 the kind, he at once resolved to take them to her, 
 glad of an excuse to see her again, and hoping for 
 other results.
 
 40 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 She received the gift with delight, thanking him, 
 running through the pages, and exclaiming over 
 each in her animated fashion; while he, seated 
 opposite her, watched and listened to her with half- 
 pleased, half -moody expression. 
 
 Roger Hunt had a singular feeling towards Kitty 
 Somers! There had been times when he almost 
 fancied he was in love with her. They had known 
 each other since his entrance into the university, 
 when he made his home with herself and widowed 
 father, the university chaplain. 
 
 Hunt was no more popular among his college as- 
 sociates than those of after-life, and from the first 
 Kitty Platt, as she was then known, and a favor- 
 ite with all the college folk, found herself in a po- 
 sition of defense towards the new-comer. Roger 
 never knew how many slights and impish tricks he 
 escaped through the watchful intervention of this 
 friend. Compelled thus to try to understand him, 
 she soon came to feel a sincere admiration and af- 
 fection for him. She was one of those women who 
 know how to form friendships with men, without 
 letting the relation degenerate into that weak imi- 
 tation of a stronger passion, disguised under the 
 name "Platonic," a word she disliked, and had 
 justly resented her husband's use of. She and 
 Roger Hunt soon became excellent friends. His 
 more ardent temperament, the way he had, and 
 still kept, of entering into every fresh relation as 
 if it were the newly -discovered end of existence, led 
 many to predict a still nearer bond of union be-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 41 
 
 tween them, which, for all that the present biogra- 
 pher knows of the potentialities in such matters, 
 might have been fulfilled, had not a sudden move 
 in the human chess-board taken place, which al- 
 tered everything. 
 
 Roger Hunt had no sooner met Annie Watson 
 than that current of wild, swift passion was set 
 flowing, in which the quiet stream of a noble, up- 
 lifting friendship was engulfed and lost sight of. 
 Kitty Platt was made the confidant of this fresh 
 experience as of every other, and could not forbear 
 signs of her dismayed surprise. She unwisely at- 
 tempted to remonstrate, and was rewarded with a 
 month's coldness and withdrawal of favor for her 
 pains. She then learned what Eoger Hunt's pro- 
 fessions of friendship were worth, the real measure 
 of regard in which she, his nearest and most trusted 
 counselor, so he had often told her, was to be held, 
 now that her opinion had run counter to his on a 
 matter of vital concern to himself. 
 
 A woman is never in a fair position to reason her 
 friend of the other sex out of a mistake of this 
 kind ; and it takes a very modest man to refrain 
 from putting his own construction on the interfer- 
 ence he encounters in such matters from such a 
 source. Roger Hunt was not a modest man, and 
 had ever since cherished certain illusions respecting 
 this particular episode in his life, which even the 
 circumstance of his friend's marriage to another 
 had not seriously disturbed. Though he made a 
 companion of George Somers and had come to
 
 42 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 depend on him a good deal in practical affairs, to 
 himself he never pretended to regard Kitty Platt's 
 marriage with any other feelings than mingled pity 
 and contempt. The two men were but slightly at- 
 tracted at first, and had it not been for the re- 
 strained nature of the one, and the fact that a wo- 
 man stood between them, their acquaintance would 
 probably never have passed the most formal limits. 
 George Somers appeared on the scene about the 
 same time as Annie Watson. He was one of the 
 "specials," and regarded with the usual feeling of 
 patronage that class arouses in university life ; so 
 here, too, the generous instincts in Kitty Platt's 
 nature, always active, found an object. In her 
 fresh vexation over Roger's folly it is probable that 
 the contrast appeared more plainly between her 
 gifted but erratic friend and this newer acquaint- 
 ance, the quiet, muscular young man, with his 
 steady eyes and plain sensible talk, and a mental 
 balance always preserved. Roger's headlong woo- 
 ing had quickly culminated in the marriage which 
 was so soon to lead to ruin and misery on both 
 sides, while the courtship of these two was still 
 slowly progressing. When their marriage followed, 
 it was but the public sanction of a relation that 
 had been given two years to ripen in and had long 
 passed the stage of quivering nerves and thrill- 
 ing pulses. That was why it seemed so prosaic an 
 affair to Roger, who by this time was something of 
 a scoffer at marriage. He was soon on an intimate 
 footing in the new household, though his restored
 
 ROGER HUNT. 43 
 
 relations with the mistress were based on no admis- 
 sion of a mistake on his part. He admitted a mis- 
 take, but had his own way of explaining it, which 
 made it rather redound to his credit than otherwise ; 
 and he still nourished a little feeling against Kitty 
 Somers. On the other hand, pity for his misfor- 
 tunes, and knowledge of those peculiarities other 
 people blamed so unsparingly, combined to soften 
 judgment with these friends, who felt they had 
 something to spare out of their own married con- 
 tent to one so severely used as Roger Hunt. 
 
 It was Roger's misfortune, more than his fault, 
 perhaps, that he was so seldom able to emulate 
 another's generous estimate of himself. Opinion 
 rarely went beyond its first preconception with 
 him, unless personal interest became strongly en- 
 gaged. He still held to his first view of Kitty 
 Platt's marriage, but it was not a subject of much 
 concern to him, and he found it less difficult there- 
 fore to conceal his feeling. The spirit of frank 
 camaraderie which existed between husband and 
 wife, the spirit of badinage which entered into most 
 of their talk, the absence of demonstration in their 
 manner, were the signs, to Roger's romantic fancy, 
 of indifference and mental disparity. He knew 
 they sometimes differed seriously, exchanging opin- 
 ions with entire candor and some warmth quar- 
 reled ; an impossible circumstance in true marriage, 
 he argued, which to be tolerated at all must be 
 perfect, its success and happiness being measured 
 by the first transported feeling leading to it.
 
 44 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Had Mrs. Somers known the kind of speculation 
 she was made the subject of in her unhappy friend's 
 mind, she would have been, first, indignant, then 
 amused. She had learned to indulge and bear 
 with much she disapproved of in this direction. 
 Intellectually she honored and looked up to Roger 
 Hunt as to no other friend ; and because she knew 
 his faults so well she understood other traits few 
 would take the pains to understand. She had a 
 judicial head, though essentially feminine, with 
 her blonde hair and slender figure. The habit she 
 cultivated of looking on all sides of a question, and, 
 as her husband said, of trying to think as every 
 one else did, discredited her in many minds with 
 the usual degree of womanly sensibility ; in Roger's 
 also, sometimes. She herself, however, was often 
 conscious of a mental perspective blurred by feel- 
 ing. Could she always stop liking people when 
 obliged to disapprove of them, or like only those she 
 approved, human analysis would be easier. As it 
 was, pity melted her on one side, while reason up- 
 braided her on the other ; and the strain was never 
 more severe than when trying to reach some fresh 
 conclusion about Roger Hunt. 
 
 As they sat together on the occasion of his last 
 visit, and she thanked him again for his friendly 
 remembrance of her, he called her attention to the 
 inscription on the inside of the cover, holding the 
 prints in place ; her name, with the date and his 
 own initials. 
 
 "I wrote it in pencil, so that you can erase it 
 whenever you wish."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 45 
 
 She looked at him questioningly, but smiling 
 also. 
 
 "Why should I wish to erase it?" she asked, 
 laying the volume aside and taking up a piece of 
 croL-het work near by. 
 
 "You may some time." There was something 
 in his tone that made her glance at him again. 
 He sat sideways on his chair, his arm resting on 
 the back, his head leaning dejectedly on his hand. 
 
 She saw he was out of sorts, but experience had 
 taught her that certain moods of his deserved less 
 attention than neglect. She was beginning to dread 
 the responsibility of her position, and was in daily 
 fear lest Roger should seek her advice about pro- 
 curing a divorce. She had not as strong preju- 
 dices on this subjeat as many New Englanders, 
 her general theory being that people who are too 
 weak to bear their marital troubles and spare the 
 world the sorry exhibition of them, may be excused 
 for seeking a formal remedy ; but she did not like 
 to class her friends with these. 
 
 " Are you coming to the Plato class Friday even- 
 ing? " she asked, turning the talk to a safe topic. 
 
 "No." 
 
 She looked at him in a little surprise. 
 
 "I shall not be in town," he added. 
 
 She, too, was accustomed to his habit of fre- 
 quent journeyings from home, and asked nothing 
 more on this point just then, her mind being occu- 
 pied with something else. 
 
 "Then I am giad you came in. I want some
 
 46 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 advice. I have written a letter to Miss Thaxter, 
 asking her to take a topic next month. Do you 
 think she will consent?" 
 
 As she spoke she took the letter from the table 
 near by, sealed and directed, then dropped it back 
 again, resuming her work. She was not looking at 
 her visitor, and did not see the burning flush that 
 swept over his face. 
 
 "I have been thinking about her a good deal," 
 she went on. "She interests me. She is intelli- 
 gent. You can tell that by the way she listens; 
 but she is very shy. She needs drawing out." 
 
 Roger covered his eyes with his hand to hide the 
 intelligence which seemed to blaze from them. His 
 heart beat rapidly. 
 
 "Then you like her," he said at last. 
 
 "I said I was interested in her. I don't permit 
 myself to like people any more until I am sure of 
 them," with an experienced air. "I feel sorry for 
 her. George says he does n't see the use of being 
 sorry for people until we 're asked, but I can't help 
 it. She seems so alone, some way. She has one of 
 those faces that stay by you. Don't you think so? " 
 
 It was impossible to answer such a question, and 
 he drew his hand several times over his own face, to 
 compose the expression tumultuous feelings within 
 seemed to have placed there. 
 
 "I don't believe she is very happily situated with 
 her brother " 
 
 "He is a brute!" 
 
 She looked up at him in surprise.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 47 
 
 "Do you know him? " 
 
 He made some indirect reply. 
 
 "Well, I don't know as it will do any good, but 
 I 've asked her to give us something on the Phsedo. 
 I hope I shan't frighten her." 
 
 "Give me the letter," said Roger, extending his 
 hand; "I will post it for you." She murmured 
 something about not troubling him, but he leaned 
 forward and took the letter, placing it in his inside 
 pocket. She viewed this disappearance with fem- 
 inine distrust, born of unlucky experience. 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll forget it;" but he assured 
 her he would not. 
 
 "I am glad you like her," he added with a hesi- 
 tancy unusual in him. "Two such women as you 
 ought to be friends." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I fancy we are not much 
 alike; Miss Thaxter is one of the timid, depen- 
 dent kind." 
 
 "That should make you like her all the better," 
 with some warmth. 
 
 "Yes, if I were a man. Where are you going? " 
 coming back to the subject they had left. He 
 waited a moment before replying. 
 
 "To New York." He paused, then added, 
 "From there across the water." 
 
 "Across the water! Again? You went abroad 
 last year! " 
 
 " ' Abroad ' is the only place for a man like me. 
 I can breathe over there. I suffocate here." She 
 knew what this meant, but chose to disregard it.
 
 48 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Happy man! " she exclaimed enviously, "who 
 talks of a trip to Europe as I would of a visit to 
 Boston! When will George and I go, I wonder. 
 Will you take little Roger with you? " 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 "I think you ought, Roger," speaking more se- 
 riously. "Such a boy needs his father." His 
 face darkened still more. 
 
 "He has his precious aunt, and doesn't care for 
 his father. We are better off apart. I offered to 
 take him with me, but he declined," satirically. 
 
 " Nonsense ! What does a child like that know 
 of such matters? You should keep him with you; 
 he would do you good. And why do you dislike 
 Miss Watson so much? She is not very agreeable, 
 I know; " and she shrugged her shoulders in mem- 
 ory of the single visit she had paid Roger's sis- 
 ter-in-law, from which she came away feeling, as 
 she told her husband, as if she had been lunching 
 on an iceberg. "But what would you have done 
 without her? " 
 
 "Hanged myself, perhaps, and so escaped worse 
 misery." 
 
 "I see you are in one of your black moods." 
 
 "No; on the contrary I am in one of my best. 
 I never felt stronger or happier than I do to-day." 
 She looked at him attentively. His eyes met hers 
 with an unfaltering, yet unfathomable gaze she 
 long remembered. He leaned suddenly towards 
 her. 
 
 "I wish I dared tell you something," he said im- 
 petuously.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 49 
 
 " If you dare not it must be either because you 
 do not trust me " 
 
 "I trust you always up to a certain point." 
 
 She smiled, rather enjoying a home thrust of 
 this kind. 
 
 " Or because it is something that had better not 
 be told." 
 
 This was not so encouraging, and he fell back in 
 his chair with a vexed look on his face. 
 
 "You disappoint me terribly sometimes," he 
 said. "I don't suppose you realize what an unfeel- 
 ing remark that was." 
 
 "A wise one, though. There are many things 
 that had better remain untold." 
 
 "A man seeks sympathy in a woman, not wis- 
 dom." 
 
 "And usually gets too much sympathy. I con- 
 sider myself born to counteract the general ten- 
 dency," holding up her work to measure its length, 
 then letting it fall into her lap again. "I give my 
 friends what I think they need, not what they want. 
 If my judgment fails " 
 
 "It is your heart that fails." 
 
 "It is time men leariied to value women for 
 something besides what they call 'heart.' But let 
 us come back to our muttons. What are you go- 
 ing to Europe for ? " 
 
 "That is part of the 'thing that had better not 
 be told,' " ironically. She looked at him now with 
 some anxiety. 
 
 "Roger, what are you going to do?"
 
 50 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Something you will mightily disapprove of." 
 
 "Is is it about Annie? " 
 
 "I wish I might never hear her name again." 
 
 "Koger, that is wicked, and perfectly senseless 
 besides. Why are you so rebellious? It is so 
 unworthy of you. I don't say you have not suf- 
 fered, have not been wronged even, but you make 
 everything harder for yourself. You think only 
 of how you can escape things. We are not put 
 here to escape but to bear things." 
 
 "You may talk that kind of pious cant to those 
 who believe it. As for her " his face darkening 
 again. 
 
 " Roger, hush ! You loved her once. Think 
 what a child she was ! She was not wicked, only 
 weak. Such things are a disease. Oh, I have 
 blamed myself a thousand times that I did not go 
 to her at once and help her. No one tried to help 
 her. I am not blaming you," in reply to some 
 word of angry interruption from him. 
 
 "I loved her, as you say," with a proud look, 
 "and she killed my love." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," feeling it useless to argue 
 this point. 
 
 "And when love is dead, marriage is dead." 
 
 She shook her head. " There is where you make 
 a fatal mistake, Roger. Love is the only reason 
 for entering marriage, but is only one for continu- 
 ing in it." 
 
 "You are growing very subtle." 
 
 " I only believe that in marriage as in everything
 
 ROGER HUNT. 51 
 
 else we must be willing to abide the consequences of 
 our own actions. We cannot take people into our 
 lives, and then thrust them out, because they are 
 not everything our first fancy pictured." 
 
 "I was deceived." She regarded him with a 
 mournful smile. 
 
 "Don't think I do not feel for you too," she re- 
 plied, "but, Roger, don't you see, it is those who 
 are weak and go wrong who need our help most, 
 not those who only suffer from others' wrong-doing. 
 You think you are the chief sufferer, that your life 
 has been wrecked, but it is only the sense of blame 
 in ourselves brings real suffering. It is her life 
 that is wrecked." 
 
 "I was mistaken in saying you had no sym- 
 pathy," he said coldly. "You have, but not for 
 me." 
 
 " It is for both, but you are the stronger ; you 
 need less than she does. Think how many re- 
 sources of happiness are still left you." 
 
 "You think the man who falls into a pit deserves 
 less compassion than the one who dug it for him?" 
 
 "One has physical hurts to heal, the other 
 moral," she said softly. 
 
 "That 's all very fine, but what man has deeper 
 moral hurts than mine?" 
 
 "I speak of the moral hurts caused by our own 
 mistakes, but I see I have offended you." 
 
 "No; only disappointed." 
 
 "It's the same thing, I fear," with a rueful 
 smile.
 
 52 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "No," after a pause. "I choose not to be of- 
 fended. I want to part friends," rising and extend- 
 ing his hand. 
 
 "Part? Oh, yes; but you have not told me why 
 you are going." 
 
 "Why?" He bent a pair of large reproachful 
 eyes on her in which a gleam of defiance flashed 
 out. 
 
 " Say it is because I think the guilty alone should 
 bear the penalty of their misdeeds; that the man 
 who has fallen into the pit need not go forever 
 maimed and disfigured in consequence " 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " Say it is because life is too rich and sweet for 
 a man not to profit by all his chances of happiness, 
 and because Roger Hunt means to let no human 
 creature or circumstance debar him from his natural 
 rights. Now your disapproval of me is heightened 
 tenfold, I suppose." 
 
 "My bewilderment certainly is. Roger," with 
 that anxious note again in her voice, "are are 
 you going to get a divorce?" 
 
 He laughed 'scornfully. " What do I want with 
 a divorce ? If you knew in what contempt I hold 
 all man-made regulations on some things " 
 
 "There, there ! no more wild talk," breathing 
 more freely. 
 
 "I think you are not feeling very well," she 
 went on, dropping back to the commonplace, "and 
 I hope the sea voyage will do you good." 
 
 " Thank you ; those words are very suitable ; but
 
 ROGER HUNT. 53 
 
 when a starving man comes to your door, you 
 should give him something more than a clean nap- 
 kin and a silver teaspoon." 
 
 "I will give you more when I find out what it is 
 you want." 
 
 "What I want I shall take." 
 
 "That is what the house burglar does." 
 
 "I am not afraid of your comparisons," and he 
 looked, she afterward remembered, as if he were 
 afraid of nothing. "The house burglar has not 
 my motive." 
 
 "I don't know, I am sure," shaking her head 
 wearily. "He wants what doesn't belong to him." 
 
 " Precisely ! And I want what does belong to 
 me, what nature and reason say I have a right to, 
 what no one but a coward would hesitate to take. 
 I puzzle you more than ever, I see. But I free all 
 my friends from responsibility. Remember," with 
 a glance at his gift lying on the table, "you have 
 my permission to rub out the name whenever you 
 like." 
 
 "You deserve I should do so now." She fol- 
 lowed him to the outer door. 
 
 " Good-by," he said, turning and taking her hand 
 again. 
 
 "It is a real 'good-by,' then?" she asked with 
 an incredulous smile. He deliberated a moment. 
 
 " That is for you to say. What will you say, I 
 wonder," bending that same inscrutable look on 
 her. "You are the most courageous woman I 
 know, but, after all, that is not saying much."
 
 54 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "No, not much." 
 
 "And so, I fear it is a real 'good-by,' but it is 
 for you to say for you to say," and he released 
 her hand and passed through the door. 
 
 Afterward, when she looked back on this visit, 
 she said to herself, after her first indignation over 
 its presumption had passed, that it was like Roger 
 Hunt to talk and act in this way, he who was al- 
 ways playing with fire, and was bent on developing 
 all the dramatic possibilities of every situation in 
 which he was placed. She went back to the li- 
 brary more weary than excited over the discussion 
 that had just ended. It could not be anything 
 very bad that he was going to do, if he did not 
 mean to get a divorce. It was only fair, she 
 thought, he should praise her courage. It required 
 some to be the friend of such a man.
 
 V. 
 
 WHEN Sarah Watson learned what had hap- 
 pened, she felt that the sum of her undeserved 
 wrongs was now complete. A bitter moral wrath 
 possessed her. She resented all attempts at con- 
 dolence or assistance from others, encasing herself 
 in a cold inflexibility of manner that aroused a 
 feeling of sympathy for Hunt. Calling the boy to 
 her in her room, she placed him before her and 
 fixed her stern eyes upon him, not to frighten him, 
 only to compel attention. She began, after the 
 order of the Catechism, by asking him his name. 
 He was used to her manner and looked at her 
 thoughtfully, with eyes much like her own. 
 
 " My name is Roger Hunt. ' Roger Hunt, Jun- 
 ior, ' I write it at school." 
 
 "You will write it 'Roger Hunt, Junior' no 
 more." 
 
 He looked at her with a puzzled frown. " Why 
 not?" 
 
 "Because there is a Roger Hunt, Senior," was 
 the brief reply. He gathered her meaning more 
 from her manner than her words. 
 
 "My father has done something that displeases 
 you," he said at length, with the uuchildish gravity 
 that marked him.
 
 56 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "You have no father. He has disgraced us all ! 
 He is a false, bad man ! Men have been impris- 
 oned and locked behind iron bars for doing what 
 he has done ! " The boy turned pale and trembled. 
 The speaker was shaking with anger, and the look 
 in her face frightened him. 
 
 "Do you mean you will have my father impris- 
 oned?" 
 
 "No. He has nothing to fear from me. Let 
 him go his way. Your father has given you to 
 me." She placed her hands on his shoulders and 
 looked at him with burning eyes. " Hereafter your 
 name is not Roger Hunt, but Charles Watson." 
 
 "That was my grandfather's name," the boy re- 
 plied, his mind unable to take in all that had been 
 said, and fastening itself on the last words. As 
 he spoke, he lifted his eyes to a portrait that hung 
 above the mantel, done in dark-colored oils, that 
 shadowed forth the figure of an old, stern-faced 
 man. 
 
 "And your grandfather was a good man. He 
 would have scorned to do what your father has 
 done. He had right opinions about everything. 
 Men respected and feared him." 
 
 "What is it my father has done?" the boy asked 
 more composedly. His first alarm was passing 
 away, this reference to his father's opinions reas- 
 suring him a little. The latter had made some un- 
 pleasant remarks about the missionary society, per- 
 haps, or did not approve of hot cakes for supper. 
 When his aunt explained what had happened, not
 
 ROGER HUNT. 57 
 
 all the details, but sufficiently, he grew more seri- 
 ous. 
 
 "Shall we be poor?" he asked, "and have to 
 work for a living ? Is that the reason we are going 
 away from this house? Am I not to have the new 
 pony I was promised?" The meaning of the new 
 state of things began to dawn on him. and he 
 looked ready to cry. 
 
 "You shall have the pony," the other replied, 
 with a shade less of hardness in her tones, "but we 
 shall go far away from this place." 
 
 "To Milton?" 
 
 "No," a spasm of pain contracting her face. 
 "Much farther to some place where nobody 
 knows us." 
 
 The boy showed no signs either of grief or plea- 
 sure at the thought of leaving his home, which was 
 to him a place with four walls, like any other. 
 
 Miss Watson and her young charge went away 
 quietly a few days later, and when their departure 
 was discovered, no one knew in what direction they 
 had gone, not even Mr. Somers, with whom she 
 had been in business relations. The latter could 
 explain nothing to his wife save the fact of her 
 legal adoption of the boy, and his change of name. 
 
 "She had no right to do that," said Mrs. Som- 
 ers warmly. 
 
 "She had a perfect right to do it." 
 
 "Oh, legal right, perhaps," tossing her head in 
 feminine scorn for this literality, "but she had no 
 moral right. The boy is his father's child, what 
 ever happens."
 
 58 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I'm afraid that is true, but you can't blame 
 her for wanting to cover up the fact as much as 
 possible." 
 
 "One would think you sympathized wholly with 
 her. She is a dreadful woman, I think." 
 . Mrs. Somers had been among those who had 
 gone to Miss Watson's assistance and been coldly 
 repelled. The latter felt she must be reduced, in- 
 deed, to accept help from any of her brother-in 
 law's friends. There was a more practical ques- 
 tion in the wife's mind. 
 
 "Did she leave her business in your hands ?" 
 
 "No," with a humiliated flush. "She has with- 
 drawn it. I 'm sure we can't blame her. No 
 wonder she wants to cut loose from all of Hunt's 
 friends." 
 
 "Friends! Does she think we are his friends, 
 that we uphold him in a thing like this?" 
 
 "I don't know what she thinks. I know I feel 
 as if I had committed a dozen crimes myself, and 
 was still at large preying on society. If those two 
 suffer half the remorse I do in this business, they '11 
 be sufficiently punished. But I 've washed my 
 hands of the affair. I 've written Hunt and told 
 him to put his business in some one else's hands." 
 
 "You have!" in a startled tone. Then after 
 reflecting a moment, "I don't know whether I ap- 
 prove of that or not." 
 
 "Of course you don't., I knew you would n't, 
 and that you 'd want a week at least to find out. 
 That 's the reason I posted the letter on my way
 
 ROGER HUNT. 59 
 
 home." She scarcely heard this sarcasm, her mind 
 
 darting quickly to take in another feature of the 
 
 case. 
 
 "It will make a difference, won't it?" 
 
 "A difference?" Then, as her meaning dawned 
 
 on him, "Yes, it will make a difference." She 
 
 was thinking of their income. 
 
 "And Roger Hunt talks of consequences falling 
 
 on the guilty alone," she thought. Aloud, 
 "Then of course you did right to give it up." 
 With all her strong-mindedness, Kitty Somers 
 
 had the usual feminine appetite for self-immolation. 
 "Well, that isn't just the way I got at it, but 
 
 it makes no difference, so we are agreed." 
 
 "Those two," as George Somers had character- 
 ized them, were sitting at that moment on the deck 
 of a Liverpool steamer within twenty-four hours of 
 land. 
 
 They had met at the place agreed on, traveling 
 thence to New York together. From the first 
 Roger had been in his most joyous and confident 
 mood, so that Eleanor, full of palpitating fears, 
 looked at him with increasing wonder. He was, 
 however, under as intense excitement as she, which 
 in him demanded an active outlet, keeping him 
 restlessly busy, and watchful of the smallest event 
 and circumstance connected with their journey. 
 As the trip by rail drew to its end, her first anx- 
 iety began to abate, and she fell into a lethargic 
 state in which all thought was for a time dead-
 
 60 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 ened. An atmosphere of constant protecting kind- 
 ness surrounded her, of delicate attention and care, 
 that charmed the imagination almost as much as it 
 warmed the heart. 
 
 Her life had been bare and lonely, bereft of al- 
 most all graceful and kindly service from others, 
 and little attentions which other women would have 
 received without notice touched her inexpressibly. 
 Before this she had lived only in the background of 
 other people's affairs, been a silent spectator at the 
 feast of life which nobody had expected her to 
 share. Here in this new world she had so daringly 
 entered, she found herself in the place of both centre 
 and circumference. Roger was more marvelously 
 kind, thoughtful, and loving than even she had 
 dreamed he could be. Somewhat of her feelings 
 shone in the warm, grateful look she gave him as 
 he left her for a few moments' rest towards night- 
 fall, after arranging her shawl and pillow with a 
 woman's skill. 
 
 "How good he is, "she murmured to herself, and 
 kept repeating the thought in her mind, clinging 
 to arid supporting herself with it. In some way 
 she could not fathom, this goodness must stand for 
 Tightness, she thought ; at least, if there was a dif- 
 ference, she had not yet learned it. 
 
 "He is good to everybody," she added in dream- 
 ful reverie, recalling an incident of their day's jour- 
 ney together. 
 
 Among their fellow-passengers was a woman with 
 a sick child, whose fretful crying disturbed every
 
 ROGER HUNT. 61 
 
 one in the car, and had nearly worn out the mother. 
 Roger and Eleanor watched her sympathetically for 
 some time. At last Roger sprang to his feet. 
 
 "I 'm going to help that woman," he said, and 
 stepped towards her. Reaching her side he held 
 out his arms to the little one. "Let me take her," 
 he said kindly. ""You are tired." , 
 
 The woman looked up at him gratefully. "If 
 she will go to you." 
 
 Children would by no means always go to him, 
 nor was he profuse in invitations of this kind; but 
 in this case the child looked at him gravely a min- 
 ute, then reached up its arms confidingly. The 
 mother sighed the relief she felt, and Roger took 
 his charge to another seat and held it quietly in his 
 arms until it fell asleep. Had Mrs. Somers wit- 
 nessed this scene she would have shown no surprise, 
 her familiarity with others of a similar nature hav- 
 ing prompted the remark to Mrs. Hamilton that 
 Roger Hunt was one of the kindest men she knew. 
 To Eleanor, who was watching him, this act 
 seemed one of heavenly goodness. 
 
 Roger carried the sleeping child back to its 
 mother and laid it gently down on the opposite seat, 
 politely waived the woman's thanks, then went 
 back to his place at Eleanor's side. 
 
 "That was very good in you," she said looking 
 at him affectionately. "I feel as if I had a new 
 proof of you. They say children are always cor- 
 rect judges of character." 
 
 "That is a pretty superstition," he replied
 
 62 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 lightly. "Children's judgments are as whimsical 
 as grown people's," he added, with a smile. "I 
 don't know as you could say anything worse of 
 them. But I care very little about people's opin- 
 ions of me. What I value is their feeling for me, 
 especially somebody's," he added, in a lower 
 tone, and with an expressive glance that brought 
 the color to her cheek. 
 
 "Then if my opinion changes some day, you will 
 not complain? " she answered with a faint smile. 
 
 " Think what you please about me, only continue 
 to love me." 
 
 She looked as if that would be easy, yet a little 
 doubtful, too. 
 
 "Does not love spring from the sense of worth 
 in its object ? " 
 
 "Not necessarily. Love is its own excuse for 
 being, like beauty. Love is better understood 
 without analysis, or rather it is not necessary to 
 understand love at all, only to admit its power and 
 reap its rewards." 
 
 "That sounds very daring." 
 
 "Those who love must be willing to dare many 
 things." 
 
 This brought them back to the knowledge of 
 where they were and what they were doing. The 
 old fluttering anxiety came over her. 
 
 "Have they found out about it yet?" she asked 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " No, it will not be known for two days yet. By 
 that time we shall have been twelve hours out to
 
 ROGER HUNT. 63 
 
 sea." He looked at her wtih strong, confident eyes. 
 "Are you afraid?" 
 
 Her eyes fell and a tremulous sigh escaped her. 
 She slipped her hand, which was cold, into his. 
 "I am yours." 
 
 "Think no more of it," he said, reassuringly. 
 "The thing is done." 
 
 "Yes, it is done. I I do not regret. I only 
 want to make you happy. I can do that better 
 when we are by ourselves." 
 
 The last words betrayed the nervous apprehen- 
 sion, mingled with a sickening sense of shame, 
 from which she suffered, and which she should be 
 free from, she thought, when beyond the possible 
 chance of meeting any one who might recognize 
 them. Roger could not fail to share the first feel- 
 ing, to some extent, though he did not let her see 
 it. 
 
 On board the steamer he hastily scanned the pas- 
 senger list, and returned to her with a triumphant 
 air. 
 
 "We are as much alone as if we were the only 
 ones on board. The rest are Western people, with 
 a lot of theatrical folks'." 
 
 She heard him with relief, but the sense of 
 shame had not departed ; the hour of complete con- 
 tent was still delayed. Though the eyes that met 
 hers were those of entire strangers, they disturbed 
 her in a new way ; their careless talk fell discord- 
 antly on her ear. She was glad she did not es- 
 cape the affliction of seasickness which kept her in
 
 64 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 her stateroom during most of the voyage. Once 
 across the water, half the globe's distance between 
 them and their former home, alone with Roger, 
 with only him to think about, she should be happy, 
 these strange, undefined alarms would disappear. 
 
 Roger was perfectly well. He was an experi- 
 enced traveler, and the free life on board ship 
 suited him perfectly. The broad expanse of sea 
 and sky matched his boundless thoughts. The in- 
 dependent solitariness of these days in mid-ocean 
 had for him an inexpressible charm. It was a dis- 
 appointment to him, aside from his concern for 
 her, that Eleanor did not bear the voyage better. 
 He went into the stateroom at frequent intervals to 
 look after her, busied himself with loving cares and 
 devices to relieve her suffering, but something in 
 her looks, as she lay white and wan on her pillow, 
 baffled him. He tried to persuade her to rise and 
 go out with him on deck, but she put him off day 
 after day, and gently resisted him. He was a 
 more patient man with those he loved than with 
 others, but he could poorly brook opposition even 
 here ; and, convinced that she was pursuing exactly 
 the wrong course, felt obliged at last to express 
 his disapproval, not harshly but plainly. 
 
 "Oh, I know I am disappointing you," she cried 
 out, after one of these attempts of his, making an 
 ineffectual effort to rise, and sinking weakly back, 
 the tears rolling down her cheeks. " I am nothing 
 but a care to you, I never shall be." 
 
 He took her in his arms, quieting and comforting
 
 ROGER HUNT. 65 
 
 her. His touch and presence gave her new 
 strength always, and she would not let him leave 
 her. Anxious to please him she made another 
 effort, and rising let him lead her into the open 
 air. He found a sheltered place for her, covered 
 her with rugs, and placed himself at her side. 
 
 "Now, isn't this glorious! " he exclaimed in ex- 
 ultant tones, his face aglow with boyish delight in 
 the scene. It was a faultless day, though the sea- 
 son was late, one that retained a hint of Indian 
 summer softness even in mid-ocean; with a clear 
 sky, brilliant sunshine, and sparkling foam-crests 
 on every side. She looked at him with a smile, 
 happy in his enjoyment. 
 
 "You like the sea?" 
 
 "More than anything else. I ought to have 
 been a sailor." 
 
 "Those I have seen have not pleased me very 
 much. I like you better as you are." 
 
 "Oh, not a sailor of to-day, with its palatial 
 steamboats and gentlemanly captains ; but one of 
 Drake's or Captain Kidd's times. I should have 
 made a splendid pirate." 
 
 "Like Byron's Corsair?" she asked with the 
 same shadowy smile, trying to enter into his mood. 
 
 "Yes, with Medora in her island tower," was the 
 quick response, leaning fondly towards her. She 
 flushed a little. 
 
 "Medora's fate was not a happy one." 
 
 "A fig for Byron as a reader of human destiny; 
 a man with only the impulse, not the will, to exe-
 
 66 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 cute any of his purposes ; a poor, whining misan- 
 thrope, at best." 
 
 She reflected on this a moment. 
 
 ''What a worshiper you are of the human will," 
 she said at last. A 
 
 "Why not? It is the one thing that allies man 
 to the gods, the foundation of all character." 
 
 "What becomes, then, of the Christian virtues 
 of resignation and submission? " she asked with a 
 little anxiety. 
 
 "They are left for the Christians to practice. I 
 never was one, you know." He flashed one of his 
 bright, daring smiles at her as he said this. She 
 was accustomed to hear sentiments of this bold 
 nature drop from his lips, and seemed in no way 
 startled, though not quite satisfied. 
 
 " Surely it is necessary for all of us to* practice 
 them to some extent." 
 
 "Oh, in the arrangement of details, very likely; 
 but there is only one condition of happiness, and 
 that is liberty." He bent his deep, brilliant eyes 
 on her. 
 
 It had often seemed to her, as she looked into 
 those luminous depths, that a beautiful spirit looked 
 out in turn, incarnated for a time in flesh, but own- 
 ing no law save its own free impulse, which moral 
 innocence rendered safe. For it was part of the 
 strange dominion Roger Hunt had over those who 
 believed in him, that this effect of innocence re- 
 mained even during his most lawless behavior. 
 This was seen in the efforts of friends like Mrs.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 67 
 
 Somers to excuse and defend him, and was doubt- 
 less due to the absence of anything like grossness 
 in his nature. Whatever his sins, diseased appetite 
 did not form their motive. He was a man to whom 
 all forms of mere physical indulgence were abhor- 
 rent, one whose good taste would often keep him 
 safe where his principles failed. 
 
 "It is too large and daring a thought for me," 
 Eleanor replied to his last words. "I feel as if I 
 were riding a whirlwind when I try to master it. 
 It tires me. I am not so strong as you. You will 
 have to be strong enough for us both." 
 
 What lover is insensible to an appeal like this? 
 This clinging dependence seemed adorable to Roger 
 in the first flush of the strong manful wish to shield 
 and direct it. He bent over her with words of rap- 
 turous tenderness. 
 
 Some of the passengers noticed them, and opin- 
 ion was confirmed that this was a newly wedded 
 pair, or an unusually attached one, traveling, it 
 seemed plain, for the invalid wife's health. Their 
 wish to keep by themselves had been too manifest 
 not to be respected, the two winning much sympa- 
 thetic admiration meanwhile, Eleanor for her deli- 
 cate beauty and physical weakness, and Roger for 
 his devotion to her. 
 
 Roger had, however, been drawn into slight ac- 
 quaintance, during Eleanor's confinement to her 
 berth, with two of his fellow-passengers, a young 
 married couple from Denver ; the woman a bright, 
 animated young creature fidl of the novelty and
 
 68 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 excitement of her first trip across the ocean, the 
 man, her masculine appendage, big, slow-witted 
 and bashful. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Frank Devine, Roger gave their 
 names to Eleanor, as the two passed them in their 
 daily promenade on deck, the lady bowing to him 
 with a smile, and turning her eyes with kindly in- 
 terest on Eleanor, while the two men touched their 
 hats. 
 
 "She is coming to speak with you," Roger said. 
 
 "No, no," exclaimed Eleanor, "Take me below, 
 Roger. I can't see them." 
 
 " Hush," he said, for they were drawing near. At 
 the same time, however, he removed the rugs and 
 assisted Eleanor to rise, drawing her hand through 
 his arm, and steadying her a moment on her feet. 
 The motion of the vessel and the dread of speaking 
 with strangers made her deadly pale. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Hunt, this is a magnificent day, is it 
 not?" a fresh and musical voice spoke in his ear 
 the next instant, while its owner bent another look 
 of friendly interest on his companion and waited 
 to be presented, her husband standing near and 
 looking ill at ease. 
 
 Roger made some suitable reply, meantime be- 
 stowing a warning pressure on Eleanor's hand, 
 and looking at her steadily a moment as if further 
 to prepare her, before he spoke the words which 
 gave the first public sanction to their stolen rela- 
 tion. He did not use the phrase "my wife." It 
 was not necessary to stretch conscience in the tell-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 69 
 
 ing of a falsehood so severely as that, and Roger 
 had persuaded himself such words contained no 
 special meaning or merit for either of them. He 
 contented himself with the formal mention of 
 names; but when Eleanor heard herself called 
 "Mrs. Hunt," a vivid flush overspread her face, 
 and retreating, left it almost ghastly. It was as 
 if some one had suddenly hissed "Liar! Cheat!" 
 into her ears. A sick and dizzy feeling nearly 
 overcame her, and Roger, hurriedly making ex- 
 cuses for her, led her below. If he guessed the 
 emotions which were really disturbing her he ig- 
 nored them, assigning only physical causes to this 
 new attack of weakness, and assisting her back to 
 her berth. Shame and dread kept her own lips 
 sealed, and they spoke, when at all, on indifferent 
 themes. 
 
 "Who are they? " she asked after some mention 
 of their new acquaintances, and lying quietly on 
 her pillow. 
 
 Roger told her the little that he knew. " It is 
 easy enough to read the story of that marriage," he 
 added. 
 
 She asked him why. 
 
 "He married a pretty face, and she, money," 
 was the reply. "They have n't an idea in common. 
 He thinks of nothing but stocks, and already feels 
 himself in the way when in his wife's presence. 
 She is trying to cover up her disappointment by 
 cultivating the arts." 
 
 "Where are they going? "
 
 70 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 " ' Where is she going?' you mean. To Ger- 
 many, to study music." 
 
 "And what will he do?" 
 
 " See her comfortably settled, then go back home 
 to make more money for her to spend in ways he 
 cannot share. And there are people who profess 
 to respect such a union as that, who call it holy, 
 who would think it a crime if any one laid hands 
 on it; while ours," he bent over and half raised 
 her in his arms, "ours they would call wicked and 
 impure. Fools ! let them say what they like. We 
 know it is false. If love like ours," bending and 
 kissing her with all a lover's warmth, "if love like 
 ours be not its own justification, as true as heaven 
 and as right, then the whole of life is a lie." He 
 spoke with that passionate fervor which always 
 thrilled and convinced her. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she murmured, "it is the true life 
 we are trying to lead. Love must be the true 
 guide." 
 
 "Spoken like my own brave Eleanor," and he 
 folded her more closely in his arms, sealing his 
 praise with another kiss; then, laying her gently 
 back on the pillow, left her. 
 
 "God will forgive us when he knows," her 
 thoughts ran on, prayer-like, when she was alone. 
 " He knows how Roger has suffered, how much he 
 needs me. Oh, help me to be true to him, to be 
 strong for his sake, to make him happy." 
 
 Does it strike any one strangely that one so far 
 astray should clothe her thoughts in the form of
 
 ROGER HUNT. 71 
 
 religious aspiration, still dare raise her petition for 
 divine aid? Devoutness of purpose is not to be 
 measured by an erring judgment, and a soul may 
 retain all its innate purity even when committing 
 so grave a fault as Eleanor's.
 
 VI. 
 
 ELEANOR THAXTER knew but little of the world. 
 From childhood she had been unhappily situated, 
 first in a home provided by an uncongenial step- 
 father, afterwards in her brother's family, where 
 poor health obliged her to remain, though she 
 knew her presence was accounted a burden. She 
 was not a gifted woman, and but indifferently ed- 
 ucated, according to present standards, but her 
 lonely life and a brooding disposition had led her 
 to think deeply if not clearly on many things. She 
 had the rare gift of sympathy. 
 
 Up to the time of her introduction to the Plato 
 class, her life in Xenophon had been dull and soli- 
 tary, making her acquaintance with Roger Hunt 
 run along with a newly awakened mental life ; and 
 it was with that mixture of pride and humility with 
 which women acknowledge debts of this kind, she 
 looked up to this new friend. There had been a 
 strong mutual attraction between the two from the 
 first which neither had greatly tried to resist, and 
 which in natures like theirs comes to acquire a 
 superstitious quality, compelling reverence where 
 utmost caution should be used, and making 
 strength of feeling its guide and sanction as well. 
 
 Roger was holding forth in his usual energetic
 
 ROGER HUNT. 73 
 
 fashion on some passage in the Symposium, at one 
 of these weekly gatherings, with an earnestness 
 that offended some of his listeners and amused 
 others, and grew more dogmatic as he proceeded, 
 when he caught Eleanor's eyes fastened on him, 
 wistful, admiring, sympathetic. Piqued by the 
 opposition he had met in other quarters, the look 
 at once warmed his heart and fired his imagina- 
 tion. Before this he had taken but passing notice 
 of the new member, but after the formal exercises 
 of the evening were over he drew near and en- 
 tered into conversation with her. The first words 
 exchanged between them help to explain what fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 "You did not disagree with me? " he said, fixing 
 her with that large, direct gaze, that always held 
 her like a magnet. 
 
 "I? Oh, I am too ignorant. I know almost 
 nothing of the subject," she replied, flushing. 
 
 "Still, you did not disagree with me?" 
 
 "No, I did not disagree," she replied after a 
 slight pause, with lowered eyes. 
 
 "Then I don't care whether the others agreed or 
 not." 
 
 She threw a startled glance at him, and drew a 
 little away from him. 
 
 "Does my plain speaking offend you? If it 
 does I will go away. I came over here to talk 
 with you, because something told me you were dif- 
 ferent from the rest; you would understand" 
 
 " A.re you trying to convert Miss Thaxter to
 
 74 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 your dangerous theories?" Mrs. Somers asked, in 
 a lively tone, stopping near them a moment on her 
 way across the room. 
 
 "Miss Thaxter needs no conversion," was the 
 prompt reply, and again they exchanged a deep 
 look, which Eleanor could not long sustain. Mrs. 
 Somers passed on. The company began to break 
 up, and Roger, ascertaining that his companion 
 was without an escort, accompanied her home. 
 
 How the acquaintance progressed after that, no 
 one knew. To the two most concerned it seemed 
 at once to have reached the height of a blissful, if 
 unconfessed, understanding. It was of a kind 
 whose outward signs of growth are of little conse- 
 quence. Sharp as Roger Hunt's experience had 
 been, it had profited him little in some things. He 
 could no more think temperately about his feeling 
 for a woman, hold it at arm's length, while he 
 seriously examined and judged it, than he could 
 refrain from lifting a cup of cold water to his lips 
 when thirsty. And he was always thirsty. His 
 acquaintance with Eleanor was not a week old be- 
 fore he had pronounced her, in his heart, the one 
 woman Nature meant for his own ; while she, after 
 a few ineffectual struggles, yielded herself wholly 
 to the thought of him. The absent conventionality 
 of their intercourse was to him the sign of its truth 
 and honesty. The suddenness of this new feeling 
 that had taken possession of them both, was, he 
 argued to Eleanor, proof of its miraculous quality, 
 its heaven-sent nature and mission. He panegy-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 75 
 
 rized it in all the exalted terms he could command, 
 while she listened, borne on the current of his swift, 
 impassioned discourse, as on a resistless river. It 
 could be no accident, he told her, that had thus 
 brought them together. The stars in their courses 
 were not more true to their appointed destiny than 
 he and she in yielding unreservedly to this new 
 power that had seized them so mysteriously. To 
 question or resist it was to violate the holiest in- 
 junction of nature. Thus, curiously enough, with 
 a phraseology borrowed from religion, though him- 
 self a believer in none of its forms, he compelled 
 her to listen to him. Never was an erring cause 
 defended injoftier discourse, clothed with purer 
 sentiment, or upheld by graver argument than that 
 of this strangely united pair. 
 
 To the majority of his acquaintance Roger Hunt 
 was a cold and passionless man, and their surprise 
 at this last action of his was therefore the greater. 
 They did not reflect that a course like his may be 
 inspired less by rebellious blood than an arrogant 
 will. 
 
 Like most unpopular men, Roger repaid society 
 in its own coin, holding its average judgments and 
 standards in open scorn. His was a s6litary na- 
 ture, capable of living quite alone if need be, yet 
 sufficiently human to attach itself hungrily to an- 
 other, whose sympathy and answering regard he 
 was sure of. His acquaintance with Eleanor was 
 no sooner begun than he began to show a depend- 
 ence on her in a hundred little ways, ways which
 
 76 EOGEH HUNT. 
 
 at once thrill and uplift a woman's heart, proud in 
 the knowledge of her power to serve the man she 
 loves. This knowledge in a nature like hers could 
 but become the basis of an appeal in her own mind 
 for her lover's rightful claim on her. His love 
 was the dearest possession life had ever bestowed. 
 She was living in a new world. Gratitude began 
 to bear down the scales. It could not be wrong, 
 she reasoned, to strive to be all she could to one 
 who was everything to her, whom fate had so un- 
 kindly treated, whom she coidd help as no one else 
 could. 
 
 Their voyage at an end, completely separated at 
 last from all the scenes and associations of the past, 
 alone together in a foreign clime, living a life of 
 constant dear dependence on each other, Eleanor 
 realized in some measure her dream of happiness. 
 For a time they lived, the world forgetting, and by 
 the world forgot. Eleanor's very ignorance and 
 inexperience stood her in good stead here ; making 
 her dependence on Roger more apparent to both 
 every day, the source of even more grateful happi- 
 ness to her than to him, while the strange sights 
 and events incident to constant travel contributed 
 to throw a romantic illusion over everything. 
 From time to time there were moments of startled 
 recollection and half -wakened memory, such as we 
 note in sleep, when the knowledge that we are 
 dreaming pierces through the dream itself, delaying 
 or abruptly destroying its sweet delusions. It was 
 indeed a dreamlike existence she led in these days,
 
 EOGER HUNT. 77 
 
 the more easily proved such that she prayed con- 
 tinually never to waken. 
 
 Roger seemed thoroughly happy, and this fact 
 did much to stay and comfort Eleanor. His had 
 been the greater sacrifice, she argued ; if they had 
 done wrong, the consequences, so far as others were 
 concerned, were far more serious on his side than 
 on hers ; yet Roger was content, and therein lay all 
 needed proof that no wrong had been done. He 
 spoke freely and carelessly of the past, like one 
 who had nothing to conceal, while she longed to 
 forget everything but the passing moment. Had 
 Roger suspected this state of mind in her, he would 
 have taken more pains to spare her feelings on 
 some points; as it was, he often hurt and weak- 
 ened her in ways he knew nothing of. Yet since 
 his thoughtlessness generally took the form of some 
 new belief in her, or claim upon her love for 
 himself, it never aroused any sense of injury in 
 her. 
 
 For example, a more sensitive lover, one, that is, 
 more sensitive in her behalf, would have thought 
 twice before letting her see the letter from Mrs. 
 Somers ; but Roger thought only of the surprise it 
 would be to her and the diversion it might afford 
 them both. Eleanor had been a secret and rather 
 passionate admirer of Mrs. Somers, having that 
 feeling towards her which a woman of shy, but as- 
 piring nature often has for another more resolute 
 and self-sustained. If she had had some of Mrs. 
 Somers 's self-reliance and courage, she had often
 
 78 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 told herself, her life would not have been so sorry a 
 failure. That was before she knew Roger. When 
 she mentioned some such feeling to him, he had 
 both chidden and encouraged it. 
 
 "Mrs. Somers is a talented woman," he said. 
 "A man could hardly help admiring her, and feel- 
 ing a certain degree of companionship with her, but 
 he could not love her. Such women neither know 
 how to love nor how to inspire love. A woman's 
 greatest gift," he went on, looking at Eleanor affec- 
 tionately, "is appreciation. Look through history 
 and show me the man who ever did anything great 
 and fine in the world, and I will show you some 
 loving woman by his side, who believed in him 
 when the world did not, who lived only for him. 
 Can you fancy such a woman in Kitty Somers? 
 She thinks too much of herself." 
 
 In a way, Eleanor felt there might be truth in 
 this, still some of the old admiration remained. It 
 touched her deeply to know that this woman she 
 had thought so much of, and made a kind of pic- 
 ture of in imagination, had been kindly disposed 
 towards her, had thought so well of her, indeed, 
 that she wished to make her a sharer in her own 
 pursuits, had stood ready to treat her as a friend 
 and an equal at the very moment when She 
 could not think of it. 
 
 "Why did you show me the letter? " she asked. 
 She spoke with an energy quite new to her. Tears 
 were in her eyes, her voice choked. Roger looked 
 at her in perplexed surprise.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 79 
 
 "I thought it would amuse you," he said. 
 
 "It does not amuse me to know that people de- 
 spise me," she said with a little resentment. 
 
 "Does the letter say that? I thought it said 
 something quite opposite." 
 
 "She despises me now, of course." 
 
 "If she does, it is a proof of her ignorance and 
 prejudice. So why should you care?" 
 
 "I do care." 
 
 "I am sorry." He seemed hurt, and she drew 
 nearer to him with a look of contrition. 
 
 "Forgive me, dear, but it it is so different 
 with a woman. And she was your friend. You 
 liked her, I know. You used to like to talk to her. 
 You valued her good opinion. I have heard you 
 say so many times." 
 
 He was silent, partly because he was still a little 
 displeased with this power of the past to rise like a 
 disturbing ghost between them, partly because his 
 own thoughts were busy with the days that were 
 gone. 
 
 "Will she despise us?" she urged, looking at 
 him anxiously. 
 
 "No; Kitty Somers is a sensible woman." 
 
 "Do you mean she will approve of what we have 
 done?" eagerly. 
 
 "I did not say that; probably she will deem it 
 her duty to try to think as others do." 
 
 By "others" Roger meant her husband, whose 
 letter he Jiad received some time before. Its polite 
 but rather curt tone rankled in him still. He had
 
 80 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 had a foolish hope that Kitty Soniers would write 
 to him, if only to reproach and repudiate him ; but 
 in this he had been disappointed. Everything was 
 over with this pair of friends, he felt, and with 
 more regret than he admitted any other result of 
 his action, but he felt prepared to support the loss. 
 
 They remained abroad nearly three years, fol- 
 lowing the usual round of the tourists, but making 
 long stops at points of principal interest, forming 
 almost no acquaintances and living by themselves. 
 The first few months were given up solely to sight- 
 seeing, and that absorbed attention to each other 
 which in an honester kind of union is called the 
 honeymoon. Then Roger began to long to get 
 back to his literary work. Setting up a study 
 wherever they happened to be, he spent his morn- 
 ings in writing, meaning to finish a work begun 
 before he left home, a brief monograph on some 
 art topic, and offer it to an English publisher. 
 Eleanor missed him, but rejoiced in a change which 
 placed their lives on a more natural footing. She, 
 too, began to study, working at the languages, and 
 following a course of reading Roger had marked 
 out for her on medieval history. He rallied her 
 on these self-imposed tasks, declaring she was get- 
 ting as learned as Vittoria Colonna. 
 
 Eleanor was indeed doing her best to saturate 
 herself with the spirit of a foreign age and clime. 
 A careful observer would have noticed a fitfulness 
 in these attempts at mental occupation, and the 
 look of painful self -absorption that rested on her
 
 ROGER HUNT. 81 
 
 face from time to time. Roger Hunt was not a 
 careful observer, even of the woman he loved, 
 whose changing moods he soon began to notice, 
 but only in relation to himself. Eleanor continued 
 to meet him with a smile, and the old love-light 
 in her eyes, which, for him, hid any deeper expres- 
 sion of suffering or doubt. At times, though, the 
 strained spirit gave way and he was made witness 
 to some strange outburst of pent-up feeling by 
 which he discovered, by degrees, the mixed and 
 struggling nature with which he had to deal. 
 
 Man-like, Roger Hunt had done the thing he 
 wished and was careless of what followed. He had 
 burned his ships. Regret that could neither cor- 
 rect nor undo anything involved a waste of time 
 and emotion, and he did not wish to undo anything. 
 
 Eleanor, too, had burned her ships, but only to 
 sit disconsolately in the ashes of the ruin she had 
 wrought. There were times when she seemed as 
 helplessly bound to this single deed as a felon to 
 his chain and ball, when the feeling of bondage was 
 so strong that the effort to repress it was madden- 
 ing, and she could have shrieked aloud. Afraid to 
 think any longer, she would throw herself fever- 
 ishly into some new task or occupation, copying 
 Roger's manuscripts, and entering eagerly into all 
 his plans ; stifling conscience with the remembrance 
 of the irregular careers of most men of genius 
 Roger was so fond of referring to, and supporting 
 herself with the thought that what Leonora was 
 to Tasso and Du Deffand to Hume, she was to the
 
 82 EOGEB HUNT. 
 
 as yet unrecognized man of genius by her side. A 
 certain kind of inspiration, not unlike moral en- 
 thusiasm, would sometimes spring from thoughts 
 like these, and for days she would seem to walk on 
 air, to be living what Roger called the life of the 
 spirit. Then would follow the inevitable reaction, 
 a recurring period of doubt and remorse. Thus 
 two years passed and found them at the beginning 
 of the third winter in Naples, where they had been 
 since October. 
 
 Here they lived quietly in apartments in one of 
 the dingy but spacious structures belonging to a 
 decayed nobility, and presided over by a Scotch 
 landlady, whose British antecedents forbid the use 
 of any foreign nomenclature in her description. 
 Roger kept up his usual habit of morning study. 
 He had finished his book and realized his dream of 
 an English publisher. It had brought him no 
 money, but had won him some favorable recogni- 
 tion among scholars in his line of work; this, he 
 told Eleanor, proudly, was all he wanted. Both 
 rested content in the thought that if the book had 
 been of a poorer quality it would probably have 
 been more successful. The stay in Naples was pro- 
 longed through Roger's interest in some Pompeiian 
 excavations that were going on, his present studies 
 lying in that direction. 
 
 One afternoon they paid a visit to a bric-a-brac 
 shop on the Strada San Lucia to examine again 
 some vases of curious workmanship which had at- 
 tracted Roger's attention. Eleanor, who had but
 
 ROGER HUNT. 83 
 
 a vicarious interest in matters of this kind, wan- 
 dered aimlessly about the crowded little room, com- 
 ing at length on a portfolio of old engravings. 
 Their artistic merit was not much, as even a tyro 
 like herself could see, but the subjects interested 
 her ; there was one illustrating a passage in Dante 
 she did not understand, but which attracted her 
 more than the others. Her unsystematic habits 
 of study had left her strangely ignorant on some 
 points, and she put it to one side to consult Roger 
 about it when he should be at liberty. He and the 
 shopkeeper were engaged in a discourse of a char- 
 acter at once learned and bargaining. When it 
 was broken off, to the latter 's disappointment, 
 without a purchase, Roger came over to Eleanor's 
 side. She at once asked him to explain the pic- 
 ture. It represented two floating figures, clasped 
 in each other's arms, a strange expression of ex- 
 alted joy and despair on their faces, the w r hole 
 scene shrouded in a dim and murky atmosphere. 
 Roger recognized it at once, and frowned slightly. 
 Briefly, and with attempted carelessness, he 
 sketched the story of Francesca da Rimini. 
 
 Eleanor then vaguely recalled the legend, bend- 
 ing her eyes with new and painful interest on the 
 faded print. 
 
 "They were lovers? " she said in a low tone. 
 
 "Yes. Shall we go now? " He had no objec- 
 tions to discussing the subject in all its bearings 
 so far as he himself was concerned, but he dreaded 
 its effect on her.
 
 84 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 " Like Lancelot and Guinevere?" she whispered 
 again. 
 
 "Like all the noblest loves of all the ages," was 
 the quick reply; "like that of Gemma Donati's 
 husband for his wonderful Beatrice, for that mat- 
 ter," shrugging his shoulders. "Dante need not 
 be so hard on the rest." 
 
 "Was he hard on them? " lifting her face anx- 
 iously to his. "Did you say this was in the In- 
 ferno? Then they are being punished. How does 
 he punish them? " 
 
 Roger, who had given a scant account of the story 
 before, now gave her the poet's interpretation. 
 
 " ' Blown about by furious winds ! ' ' she re- 
 peated wonderingly. " 'Doomed never to sepa- 
 rate! ' What a strange punishment! " 
 
 "No punishment at all," laughed Roger. "Sour 
 old Dante defeats himself there. They are to- 
 gether, and forever," letting his voice fall. "What 
 do they care for anything else? What are the ter- 
 rors of hell to them? They carry heaven in their 
 hearts." He seized the hand hanging at her side 
 and pressed it warmly. 
 
 She looked at him, and tried to smile, but her 
 eyes were full of vague, troubled appeal. 
 
 "It 's all the world for love, and the world well 
 lost," he added pressing her hand again. "Love 
 is enough, is it not? I am sure those two thought 
 so." 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course," she murmured, pressing 
 closer to him as if for support.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 85 
 
 "Now let us leave this musty old shop," he said, 
 tossing the print aside. "It is time for our sunset 
 sail." She followed him reluctantly, looking back 
 at the picture. She wanted to take it with her, 
 but dreaded to speak her wish to him. 
 
 They spent the next hour on the water. A 
 blaze of gold and crimson light covered the bay, 
 and made the surrounding heights look like the 
 jeweled setting to a priceless gem, imparting to the 
 entire scene an effect as illusive as it was beautiful. 
 Eleanor sat in the stern of the boat, watching the 
 skies and Roger's skillful handling of the ropes. 
 How ready and accomplished he was about every- 
 thing, she reflected, and what a helpless creature 
 she was, beside him ! He had taught her how to 
 steer, but she did it awkwardly, so that generally 
 he preferred to handle both rudder and sails ; an 
 arrangement that pleased her quite as well, for she 
 liked to lie back on the cushions, dreamily noting 
 all that was going on about them, and feeling her- 
 self wholly in her lover's hands. 
 
 The next morning she paid an early visit, alone, 
 to the little shop, and purchased the print. Taking 
 it home with her, she found a copy of Dante and 
 shut herself in her room. Before long she had 
 mastered both poet's and artist's meaning, and sat 
 lost in troubled thought. So absorbed was she 
 that she did_ not hear Roger enter the room. He 
 drew near and placed a hand on her shoulder. 
 She started and colored deeply when she saw him, 
 rising from her chair.
 
 86 ROGEE HUNT. 
 
 He looked displeased when he saw the print 
 again. 
 
 "What did you buy that thing for? " he asked 
 rather sharply. 
 
 "It it interested me," she replied, falter- 
 ingly . " And I thought it might be a help when I 
 came to read Dante." 
 
 "It 's a poor print," turning the talk to an un- 
 important phase of the subject. "Did that knav- 
 ish shopkeeper tell you it was a proof?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no. I only paid two florins for it." 
 
 "Humph! I don't understand why you want 
 to spend your time poring over such a dismal sub- 
 ject. You had better let Dante alone; Petrarch 
 and Boccaccio will help you much better. Dante's 
 theory of punishment is perfectly fantastic from 
 beginning to end. The poem is as useless reading 
 as the Arabian Nights, and not half as entertain- 
 ing." 
 
 "Don't you consider Dante a great poet, then? " 
 she asked in surprise. 
 
 "I suppose you can call him great," in a grudg- 
 ing tone ; " but he belongs as exclusively to his own 
 age as the monks that burned Savonarola. He '11 
 do you no good. You 're morbid enough already." 
 
 "Am I morbid? " a sensitive flush rising to her 
 face. 
 
 "You are the sweetest woman in. the world," 
 clasping her in his arms and kissing her. In his 
 heart he was ready to add that she needed looking 
 after like a child, but with a feeling of tender ex-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 87 
 
 cuse, for he was still at that stage when the protec- 
 tion of her weakness was a dear task. Like most 
 resolute natures, however, he disliked irresolution 
 in others. Not even the knowledge of his own 
 strength, and that chivalric compassion her weak- 
 ness aroused, could prevent him from growing 
 weary at times of moods he could neither caress 
 nor reason away. He took the print from her 
 and locked it in a drawer, retaining the key, while 
 she looked on with a shamefaced smile. He then 
 tried to gain possession of the book, but here she 
 resisted him. 
 
 "I promise it shall not hurt me," she said; then, 
 ashamed of this excess of feeling, "You say it does 
 not teach the truth, yet you are afraid of its effect 
 on me. You must think me very weak-minded." 
 
 "Well, yes, sometimes." 
 
 "Why do you call his theory of punishment 
 'fantastic ' ? It seems to me the symbolism he em- 
 ploys is very real, the leaden hoods for the hypo- 
 crites, and the river of blood for the violent." 
 
 "It 's the most childish literalism ! " he exclaimed 
 impatiently. "That notion of arbitrary punish- 
 ment was exploded long ago." 
 
 "But the punishment that is the natural conse- 
 quence of sin?" she suggested. 
 
 " Sin ! My dear Eleanor, you talk like the elder 
 of a Presbyterian meeting-house." 
 
 "I don't mean sin in the theological sense, but 
 surely we must all admit there is a great deal of 
 evil in the world."
 
 88 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "There is a great deal of ignorance." 
 
 "Moral ignorance, you mean?" 
 
 "That is only another sign of intellectual defi- 
 ciency." 
 
 "Well," after meditating on this a moment, "it 
 makes no difference. If evil comes only from ig- 
 norance, it is all the more pitiful. It should teach 
 us greater charity." She did not ask herself 
 whether it had in his case. 
 
 "You won't find much charity in Dante," he 
 said. 
 
 "No, he is terrible," with a shudder. "He is 
 merciless, yet he is so true ; I mean in some ways. 
 He shows how a wrong action always stays by you. 
 You can never get rid of it ! " 
 
 "Why should you want to? " Roger asked calmly. 
 "The healthy mind accepts its mistakes along with 
 the rest of experience. Remorse is often the most 
 useless thing in the world, and only another form 
 of self-indulgence." 
 
 "Surely we should admit our mistakes?" 
 
 " We may admit them, but need not torture our- 
 selves with red-hot irons over them. One mistake 
 is in essence much like another. If I had not made 
 a misstep in my mountain climbing last summer, I 
 should not have been laid up a fortnight with a 
 sprained ankle. But there was no moral guilt in 
 the affair." 
 
 "It was dark, and you could not see," she said, 
 excusingly. 
 
 "In other words, I was ignorant. It would
 
 EOGER HUNT. 89 
 
 have taken your saintly Beatrice a long time to 
 reach so rational a conclusion." 
 
 "Don't you like Beatrice, either?" in fresh sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "How can I like a woman who has no blood in 
 her veins! who is made up of pious self-compla- 
 cency capped with an aureole ! Heaven defend me 
 from superior creatures like that ! " 
 
 "If it 's the superiority you object to," she said 
 with a faint smile, "you certainly have reason to 
 be satisfied now. It was not the woman Dante 
 loved, but the redeemed spirit." 
 
 "Perhaps so; I don't know much about spirits, 
 ' redeemed ' or otherwise. I am content to love 
 the woman," with a look warm but reproachful. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I know. You are only too good to 
 me, always. But a woman should stand for the 
 highest and the best to the man who loves her. 
 That is what Beatrice was to Dante. And and 
 it kills me," her voice breaking, "to think I have 
 not been that that it was I who helped you to do 
 wrong, that " She was past speaking now, even 
 had he not quickly checked her. 
 
 "Not a word more of that, "he said, and with an 
 effort she controlled herself. 
 
 '"You help me to do wrong!" he repeated. 
 " There was no wrong about it ! It was you who 
 made it possible for me to live ! " 
 
 "Oh, is it true, dear? That is what I want to 
 believe ! There is nothing in the world I want to 
 believe so much as that !
 
 90 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 " ' Want to believe ! ' What a singular expres- 
 sion! Why will you give way to these childish 
 fancies, Eleanor? Do you love me?" raising his 
 head proudly. 
 
 "Do I love you?" 
 
 "Then I don't understand this talk about be- 
 lieving and wanting to believe. Love makes its 
 own beliefs, as it does its own laws. When it can 
 no longer do this, it has ceased to be love." 
 
 This was the point which their discussions always 
 reached, beyond which Eleanor dared not press her 
 thoughts, where to question was to differ. She 
 could only stammer some words of lame excuse, 
 admitting her weakness and promising amendment. 
 
 "If you love me, you should trust me," Roger 
 continued, in reply to some new protestation from 
 her. 
 
 "So I do," reproachfully. "Who else is there 
 for me to trust? I have no one in the wide world 
 but you." 
 
 He took her in his arms. "Yet you have mo- 
 ments of being sorry you have me. Your courage 
 fails you, and you repent " 
 
 "I repent of nothing," she said hurriedly. 
 
 "How do you suppose a man feels when he asks 
 a woman to do what you have done, and discovers 
 that instead of making her happiness he has killed 
 it?" 
 
 "You have not killed my happiness! I never 
 dreamed of the possibility of happiness until 1 saw 
 you. I am the most ungrateful woman in the
 
 ROGER HUNT. 91 
 
 world. Do forgive me," and she pressed nearer to 
 him. 
 
 "It is only because I get so tired," she said, 
 with a sigh, after she had grown quieter and the 
 kiss of peace had been exchanged. "I can't think 
 things out." 
 
 " Stop trying. You torture yourself worse than 
 any anchorite of the Middle Ages, and about prob- 
 lems that are as useless." He smiled as he spoke, 
 relieving the words of their harshness. 
 
 "I promise, I promise. Here, take the book 
 and put it away," picking up the volume from the 
 table and thrusting it on him. "I never want to 
 see it again. After this I will think only of you, 
 and how to make you happy." He looked pleased 
 at this, and kissed her again. 
 
 "If you wish me to be happy, you have only to 
 be so yourself." The condition sounded very sim- 
 ple. 
 
 "Now, bathe your eyes and come down to lunch. 
 Flora McDonald," Roger's pet name for their 
 Scotch landlady, "has concocted a new dish for us, 
 a villainous mess of greens, which must have ex- 
 hausted their evil intent in their looks, so I think 
 we can eat them with impunity. This afternoon 
 we will go and take a look at old San Martino."
 
 VII. 
 
 ON their way to the old monastery, which is 
 now owned by the government and put to secular 
 uses as a museum, Roger and Eleanor passed 
 through the great market square, the Piazza del 
 Marcato, which, as it happened to be market-day, 
 presented a lively scene, one the passing tourist is 
 glad to catch sight of. The square was lined with 
 gayly adorned booths; the lemonade merchant's 
 stall, garlanded with yellow fruit, standing next to 
 the inevitable macaroni stand, with strings of dry- 
 ing paste that looked at a distance like dirty col- 
 ored yarn. Groups of half -naked lazzaroni lay in 
 sunny spots, stretching out dirty hands for alms, 
 for this was before their banishment to the region 
 of the Malo Grande on the coast, though still at 
 that point in their career which Dumas describes 
 as one of decadence, marked by the obligation to 
 wear a single garment. 
 
 The scene was a familiar one, and they would 
 gladly have avoided it had they remembered the 
 day, though once within it they found much to in- 
 terest and amuse them. Passing by one of the 
 fountains which decorate the open space, the Fon- 
 tana di Masaniello, Roger repeated the story told 
 in the guide-books of young Tommaso of AmaLfi,
 
 ROGER HUNT. 93 
 
 dating from the middle of the seventeenth century, 
 who, in rage over the fine of one hundred ducats 
 imposed against his wife for smuggling a small 
 package of flour into the city during one of the 
 numerous sieges of war, roused his oppressed coun- 
 trymen to revolt ; the uprising, after a brief period 
 of success, ending in the young leader's death. 
 The legend was of the kind that always aroused the 
 narrator's entllusiasm. Soon after they paused to 
 watch a young girl dancing the tarentella. She 
 had all the traditional beauty of her race, dusky 
 skin, through which the red blood glowed, dark, 
 melting eyes and supple limbs. Eleanor looked 
 on with a sense of discomfort, hut Roger was a 
 true cosmopolite, and watched the dancer's agile 
 and sinuous motions with delight. Catching sight 
 of him, she flung out her limbs in a few wild con- 
 tortions as a finale, and eagerly pushing her way 
 through the crowd, dropped on one knee at his 
 feet, extending her tambourine for the perform- 
 ance's payment, an expression of cunning greed 
 sharpening the face that had looked so joyous and 
 innocent before. Roger was displeased, the illu- 
 sion was destroyed. He dropped a coin into the 
 tambourine and drew Eleanor away. 
 
 "These Neapolitans are the most avaricious 
 people under the sun; they do everything for 
 money, nowadays." 
 
 They passed out of the square through a small 
 gate near the church of San Eligio, commemora- 
 ting the patron saint of the workers in metals.
 
 94 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I didn't know they ever canonized any one 
 except for some religious deed," said Eleanor. 
 
 "Sometimes they make a slip in another direc- 
 tion. The church's progress, such as she has at- 
 tained, is marked by her mistakes." 
 
 The little gate was surmounted with two heads, 
 recording the judgment of Isabella of Aragon, 
 back in the early part of the sixteenth century, 
 against a dissolute member of the Caraccioli fam- 
 ily, compelling him to marry the girl he had ruined, 
 and then beheading him in his bride's presence; a 
 verdict Roger warmly commended, discussing the 
 subject with the same impersonal interest he would 
 the dome of St. Jeter's. 
 
 They were obliged to pass through one of the 
 poorer back streets to reach the point from which 
 they wished to ascend to the upper part of the city. 
 The pavement swarmed with children, who looked 
 up at the passers-by with cherubic faces and Ra- 
 phael's heavenly eyes. In the door-ways sat the 
 mothers, engaged in some household task and gos- 
 siping with each other. 
 
 "How beautiful these Italian children are! " said 
 Eleanor. "Yet how quickly they change, and 
 grow coarse and common, especially the girls." 
 
 "That is because they have no minds," Roger 
 replied. 
 
 "Yes, it must be so." She had never thought 
 of it before, but the answer pleased her beyond its 
 literal meaning. Most men, she reflected, do not 
 care whether a woman has a mind or not, but it
 
 ROGER HUNT. 95 
 
 was not so with Roger; this was to her another 
 sign of that goodness she wanted most of all to 
 believe in, that ideality of purpose which, in spite 
 of appearances, she knew ruled all his actions. 
 
 They were near the end of the close, ill-smeliing 
 street, when they saw a large, swarthy- skinned 
 woman sitting in front of one of the houses, mend- 
 ing a fishing-net, a group of children playing at 
 her feet. 
 
 "Here is Donna Maria," said Roger, in a low 
 tone, half amused, half vexed. "Now for some 
 theatricals." 
 
 At the same moment the woman looked up and 
 recognized them, springing to her feet and coming 
 to meet them, calling the children in delighted 
 tones. She greeted thenf with the national effu- 
 sion, and continued to pour a stream of voluble talk 
 on them, her large figure, with the children cling- 
 ing to her skirts, quite blocking their progress. 
 In a few minutes Roger was in possession of the 
 entire family history since their last meeting, in- 
 terlarded with repeated fervent thanks for some 
 past benefit, and ending in a shower of blessings 
 for himself and the sweet lady. 
 
 Roger's relation to Donna Maria was one that 
 did him credit. Soon after their arrival in Naples 
 he had started on a foot excursion to San Martino 
 alone, passing through this same street. Drawing 
 near Donna Maria's house, he heard the sound of 
 violent blows within, and a child's piercing shrieks. 
 Without thought of consequences he rushed inside,
 
 96 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 and saw a sickening sight, which at the same time 
 made his blood boil. A big brute of a man was 
 beating a child of about four years with a large 
 stick, while the latter lay writhing and screaming 
 on the floor. In a corner, huddled together, their 
 faces blanched with fear, and guarded by a young 
 girl of sixteen, stood the other children of the 
 household, crying and covering their eyes from 
 the scene. Near the infuriated man stood his wife, 
 imploring and berating him in turn, careless of 
 the bloody cuts she had herself received on neck 
 and face. In physical stature Roger looked like a 
 boy beside this giant, whose face was swelled and 
 purple with rage, and whose brawny arm was 
 raised for another blow. He sprang forward and 
 wrested the stick from the man's hands, and with 
 it pointed the master of the house to his own door. 
 With blazing eyes and fixed countenance, he looked 
 the impersonation of a strength dependent on no 
 material aid, as fearless as it was just. The man 
 swore a little and threatened, but Roger's look 
 cowed him, and he slowly shuffled outside; while 
 the mother hastily gathered the crying child in her 
 arms. From her Roger learned the history of 'the 
 affair, no unusual tale, so far as the incidents al- 
 ready revealed, in the lives of poverty and brutal- 
 ity abounding in this quarter ; but containing one 
 more shameful feature still, which Roger learned 
 of by degrees. 
 
 Lisa, the oldest daughter, sixteen only, but 
 woman grown in this clime, was betrothed to one
 
 ROGER HUNT. 97 
 
 Antonio, a young boatman on the bay below. All 
 was going well, when a young English traveler, old 
 in the practice of the criminal passions that ruled 
 him, let a pair of wanton eyes fall on the girl as 
 she stood in the market square; waylaying her 
 shortly after, he made an insulting proposal to her. 
 Frightened and indignant, she sought her parents' 
 protection, but into her father's face as he listened, 
 crept an evil look. He boldly sought out the Eng- 
 lish visitor, and came to terms with him. It was 
 the revolt caused by the news of this bargain, made 
 known to mother and daughter, their tears, en- 
 treaties, and threats of exposure, which led to the 
 scene Roger had disturbed. 
 
 His rage was now at white heat, and he took the 
 case into his own hands. He took Lisa home with 
 him, and placed her in Eleanor's care. Then he 
 sought out the young Englishman. St. Michael, 
 armed with invincible power, did not more swiftly 
 descend upon the dragon than Roger swooped 
 down on his unsuspecting victim. Judge, witness, 
 and advocate, in one, he stood before him with 
 blazing eyes and lashing tongue; and as he had 
 ordered Donna Maria's husband from his own 
 house, so he ordered the young reprobate to leave 
 Naples within twelve hours. 
 
 The righteousness of his cause was proved by the 
 prompt obedience he received in both cases. Not 
 content with this, Roger sought out the town au- 
 thorities, and even consulted with the American 
 consul, for it was necessary to spend his newly
 
 98 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 gathered energies in some direction. The consul 
 talked pacifically of climatic influences in the for- 
 mation of national types, and invited Roger to din- 
 ner. The girl Lisa stayed with her new protectors 
 until her marriage, which was soon after arranged. 
 About the same time her father was impressed into 
 the king's service, and Roger became, in a sense, 
 the family guardian. 
 
 Donna Maria wept copiously at parting with her 
 lord, and tried to persuade Roger to procure his 
 release, but he told her she was well rid of him, 
 and that he deserved to be shot in his first battle. 
 She detained him now to tell the last news of him, 
 praising and complaining of him in a breath. The 
 children hung about, raising seraphic eyes to 
 Eleanor and shyly stretching out their little hands 
 to touch her dress. Breaking away at last, they 
 pursued their journey. Eleanor had not felt so 
 happy in a long time, as in this renewed testimony 
 of Roger's courage and generosity. Her face 
 glowed with grateful light, and she hung fondly on 
 his arm. 
 
 " That woman will never forget you. She grows 
 more grateful every day, I think." 
 
 "Consul Foster would tell you it was only the 
 climate," Roger laughed in reply, "and I begin 
 to think myself, that the Donna's gratitude is of 
 the kind some one has described as 'a lively sense 
 of benefits to come. ' She keeps begging me to get 
 her husband home." 
 
 "Do you suppose she loves him still?" Eleanor 
 asked.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 99 
 
 "Oh, these people love as they eat; like the ani- 
 mals they are." 
 
 "Yes. She seems to have no conception of the 
 outrage he meant to practice on his daughter." 
 
 "No, you couldn't expect that." 
 
 "What was it she said of Lisa?" Eleanor's 
 Italian was not as good as Roger's. 
 
 "She and Antonio have gone to work on a 
 vineyard near Sorrento. Perhaps Antonio thinks 
 life on the water too uncertain for a married man. 
 They are expecting a boy, and wishing they knew 
 how to Italianize the name of Hunt." An in- 
 scrutable expression swept over Eleanor's face, and 
 she made no reply. She was tired, and when they 
 reached the place where they were to begin the 
 ascent, Roger called one of the boys who stood 
 waiting with a donkey, and placed her on it. He 
 himself was a famous walker and tramped on by 
 her side. 
 
 They did not go inside the monastery, but were 
 content to-day to admire its noble proportions from 
 a distance, seating themselves on the greensward 
 to rest. Roger stretched himself at full length, 
 drew his hat over his eyes to shield them from the 
 descending sun, and fell asleep. Eleanor sat be- 
 side him, looking out over the crowded roofs of the 
 town to the blue distances of the bay beyond. 
 Vesuvius 's pillar of smoke rose slowly on their left. 
 As she sat there, unobserved, the bright look her 
 face had worn when they left Donna Maria slowly 
 faded, and the old expression of care returned.
 
 100 . ROGER HUNT. 
 
 It seems a wretched fatality that natures most 
 prone to suffering should be continually finding 
 new cause for it; yet science could explain this, as 
 she does the readiness of water to run down hill, 
 on the principle of least resistance. Eleanor's 
 powers of resistance had never been great, and 
 lately threatened to desert her entirely. Before 
 her discovery of the picture, her doubts had been 
 of a remote intangible order, depressing the heart, 
 but taking no definite shape in thought; now they 
 began to present themselves in concrete questions 
 she could neither answer nor set aside. Worse 
 than this, it was not her own weak, untaught power 
 of reasoning that had failed her, alone, but Ro- 
 ger's too began to appear inconclusive on some 
 points. Eleanor was in that pitiable state which 
 hero- worshipers must all reach sooner or later. 
 She had chosen a judgment as mortal as her own 
 for her final court of appeal, pinned her faith to 
 one as human as herself. No lover however gen- 
 erous and tender, no friend however wise and 
 strong, can bear the test it was Eleanor's necessity 
 to impose on Roger. Had their relation been of 
 a more natural order, the need to believe him per- 
 fect would not have been so great. 
 
 As her thoughts went back to the banished pic- 
 ture and the story of the doomed lovers, she said 
 to herself that Roger was wrong. It would be a 
 punishment to be bound to each other like that, 
 never to loosen those clinging arms, supporting 
 each other in a mad whirl of passionate impulse
 
 ROGER HUNT. 101 
 
 and desire, to read in love's glance no innocent joy 
 or safety, only the shame of its own misdoing. 
 
 Eleanor had been taught by Roger to glorify 
 feeling, to exalt it above every other motive of 
 conduct; but here in a half dozen lines an old 
 dead poet had shown her how the right to feel may 
 be as dishonestly indulged as the right to eat and 
 drink, how feeling has as much power to enslave 
 and degrade as to purify and liberate. Roger 
 talked of the sweets of liberty with an eloquent 
 tongue, but Dante showed how there is a liberty 
 that leads to moral bondage worse than death. 
 
 From loving each other in that wild sweet way, 
 it was easy to see how this helpless pair might 
 come to hate and spurn each other, or at least loathe 
 the love that can only weaken and destroy, long 
 for hate's reviving power. Yet their dark deed 
 binds them together, and forever. That is what 
 Dante meant, said Eleanor to herself. "Eter- 
 nity " is the dread word written on every page of 
 the Inferno. That was what she meant when she 
 said to Roger that he showed how a bad action al- 
 ways stays by you. Obedience is the first great 
 law of the universe. Obedience to what? Eleanor 
 did not know ; but she was beginning to know 
 the loss and desolation disobedience brings. She 
 sat in darkness, though the landscape was bathed 
 in golden sunlight. The day was warm, but she 
 shivered. A numb despair crept over her ; yet 
 she remained intensely quiet. A passer-by would 
 only have seen a woman sitting on the ground, her
 
 102 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 hands clasped over one knee; wondering a little, 
 perhaps, at the intent, strained look in the eyes 
 fixed on the distant horizon. By her side Roger 
 slept quietly.
 
 vni. 
 
 WE are creatures of moods, the most self -con- 
 sistent of us. Our mental maladies, like our phy- 
 sical, have their seasons of ebb and flow, their fluc- 
 tuations, periods of climax, and slow return to 
 more normal conditions. The spirit, as well as the 
 body, can bear only its degree of suffering, then 
 it breaks ; or, more often, reaction takes place, and 
 it bounds back, through some impulsive energy of 
 its own, into the realm of hope and happy activity 
 again. 
 
 Even as she sat there on the wooded slope over- 
 looking Italy's fairest landscape, lost in despairing 
 thoughts, Eleanor felt something within give way, 
 as if a strained nerve had snapped, only the sensa- 
 tion that followed was one of strange, merciful re- 
 lief. Pain was glutted and had released his hold. 
 Remorse was weary and ceased to importune her. 
 
 Physically she herself was more weary than be- 
 fore, and wakened Roger to tell him so and ask 
 him to take her home; but the sudden cessation 
 of pain within seemed like a new and positive 
 strength gained, and she felt almost light-hearted 
 again. She talked in a cheerful strain to Roger 
 as he led her down the path, though she leaned 
 heavily on his arm.
 
 104 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Once more, warned by this experience, she threw 
 herself into the tasks that would keep her near him. 
 She strove heroically to banish all intruding mem- 
 ories, to throttle certain thoughts and fancies at 
 their birth, to think of nothing but the present 
 hour. Roger had told her that to make him happy 
 she had only to be happy herself. The condition 
 was one a loving woman ought to be able easily to 
 satisfy, she told herself. Roger, she knew, thought 
 so. She was beginning to be a little afraid of 
 Roger, for as she studied him she saw how, not his 
 happiness alone, but his love was dependent on the 
 condition named. She saw how these variable 
 moods of hers wearied him ; and as her power to 
 suffer grew, she felt her hold on him loosen. 
 
 Roger Hunt had suffered some deep disappoint- 
 ments in the personal relations of life, which, aside 
 from the question of his own accountability, had 
 left a permanent impress on his character, impart- 
 ing a distrust of his kind that even Eleanor must 
 to a degree suffer from. He bore these disappoint- 
 ments with melancholy pride. If Eleanor, he 
 reasoned, should fail him, prove unequal to the 
 thing she had undertakn, to his high demand of 
 her, as he phrased it, show herself a creature of 
 small womanish fears like the rest of her sex, it 
 would not be strange, perhaps; he would try 
 not to blame her; but he declined in advance to 
 hold himself responsible for the consequences. 
 Thoughts like these she was beginning to read, in 
 things of small but significant import; his own
 
 ROGER HUNT. 105 
 
 changeable manner, with a tendency to irritability, 
 mysterious words dropped now and then, long 
 periods of silence, the waning freshness and spon- 
 taneity of the entire relation between them. 
 
 They had reached that period which married 
 people, secure in the naturalness of the tie that 
 unites them, dare call by its right name, the "set- 
 tling-down" period; but which, in a connection of 
 this kind, is full of danger. With shame, that 
 reached at times moral abasement, and with quick- 
 ened fears on all sides, Eleanor began to recognize 
 how frail was the bond between Roger and herself. 
 She was not afraid of any open act of injustice, but 
 every day showed her more clearly how this stolen 
 Eden of theirs must be guarded at every point. 
 They had purchased their coveted liberty, but at 
 the cost of every moment's natural ease and secu- 
 rity. They talked of living the true life, guided 
 only by their own sense of right, scorning lower 
 and more commonplace standards, but the event 
 was proving that their life was no simpler and truer 
 than those they looked down on among people who 
 obeyed the laws and lived as their neighbors did. 
 Appearances must be kept up here as elsewhere. 
 Eleanor was given to understand she must be 
 happy. 
 
 The winter months passed, and they lived on, 
 quietly still, but not so entirely by themselves as 
 before, Roger having made a few acquaintances 
 among scholars, native and foreign, engaged in 
 lines of work similar to his own, and suffering him-
 
 106 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 self to be introduced to a small circle of literary 
 and artistic people presided over by Lady Mandel, 
 a resident English woman of middle age, intellec- 
 tual tastes, and checkered history. 
 
 Roger's willingness to avail himself of social 
 privileges of this sort was one of the most marked 
 signs of change in him, of lessening dependence 
 on her, which Eleanor observed with apprehen- 
 sion, but with a degree of relief also. Once or 
 twice she had accompanied him to Lady Mandel's 
 fortnightly reunions, but the effort to enter into 
 occasions of this kind was most difficult. Her 
 nature was very shy, under the kindest circum- 
 stances, and here, where she felt herself so falsely 
 placed, her embarrassment increased, and reached 
 the point of dullness. Added to this was the dis- 
 pleasure she could not but feel in the free speech 
 and manner of her cigarette-loving hostess, nearly 
 all of whose guests were men, and a hurt, puzzled 
 surprise that Roger should care to be one of them. 
 
 Strangers were always coming and going at 
 Lady Mandel's, where generous hospitality reigned, 
 and one was always certain to meet some people of 
 "more or less importance in their day," as well 
 as curious visitors and idle hangers-on. On the 
 evening of Eleanor's last attendance, at a rather 
 late hour, the little circle was pleasantly agitated 
 by the entrance of a young American pair, just 
 arrived in Naples, and making the regulation tour 
 of the peninsula. Eleanor recognized them at once, 
 with quickened pulse and a strong wish to escape ;
 
 ROGER HUNT. 107 
 
 their steamer acquaintances, Mr. and Mrs. Frank 
 Devine of Denver. Roger, absorbed in an erudite 
 discussion with a German professor on the nature 
 of Tyrian purple, did not notice them until he heard 
 his name spoken in accents of pleased surprise by 
 the lady. She greeted him in the demonstrative 
 fashion of her age and country, exclaiming anew 
 her surprise, asking innumerable questions, and 
 congratulating herself on her good fortune; for 
 now Professor Hunt would tell them all about 
 Naples, what to see and how to set about it. They 
 could only stay three days ! The speaker used the 
 title instinctively, and let the one with whom she 
 favored it see that she regarded him as a most for- 
 tunate find. * Eleanor could see that Roger, too, 
 was pleased. He professed himself happy to be 
 Mrs. Devine 's e'scort wherever she liked. 
 
 "And you are going to 'do' Naples in three 
 days?" he said, with a teasing smile. 
 
 "That is all we can spare. Isn't it enough?" 
 she asked anxiously; then, pouting a little at his 
 look of amusement, "I don't see how we can give 
 Naples more than three days, when we only gave 
 Florence a week." 
 
 "No, of course not," said Roger, sympatheti- 
 cally. "You mustn't upset the ethics of the trav- 
 eling public like that. The author of Murray 
 would have to rewrite his guide-book." 
 
 "Now you are making fun of me;" but he as- 
 sured her he regarded her coming as a great boon. 
 There were many points in Naples he had not yet
 
 108 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 visited himself. He made an engagement to ac- 
 company her to Virgil's tomb, and the grotto of 
 Posilippo. Then there was the drive to St. Elmo, 
 the Pompeiian collection in the Museo Borbonica, 
 sail across the bay to Capri, etc., etc. There was 
 a little ironic laughter in Roger's eyes as he enu- 
 merated these well-known points, which the con- 
 ventional tourist never misses. Mr. Devine was 
 presumably included in these engagements, though 
 he neither spoke nor was spoken to. Roger ended 
 by telling her that she must not ask him to take 
 her to the cave of the Cumaean sibyl. 
 
 "Why not?" she asked. 
 
 "No man has ventured to accompany a woman 
 there since ^Eneas met his fate." 
 
 She laughed at this, but feebly, not in the least 
 understanding him, then frankly admitted her ig- 
 norance, and asked him to explain. He told her 
 the legend of the sibyl who practiced her wily arts 
 on the hero, leading him to his untimely end, and 
 sacrificing him to the infernal gods. She laughed 
 again , under standingly . 
 
 "But you do not believe in the gods," she said. 
 
 "How do you know that?" he asked, raising his 
 eyebrows. 
 
 "Oh, I remember some of our talks on the 
 steamer." 
 
 Here she turned and included Eleanor in her 
 glance. "Professor Hunt fairly overwhelmed me 
 with his knowledge, on all manner of subjects. 
 He made me quite afraid of him."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 109 
 
 "You do not appear so now," said Roger. "I 
 suspect I have some reason to be afraid of you." 
 
 " You have, indeed ; has n't he, Frank ? " turning 
 to her husband, who still stood in an attitude of 
 patient attendance at her side. "Poor Mr. De- 
 vine ! " she added to Roger in pretended aside. 
 "He is tired to death of traveling. He came after 
 me last spring, and we 've been going about ever 
 since. He hates Europe, and I know never means 
 to let me come over again. That is the reason I 
 must improve my time now." 
 
 Her husband made no response to this, looking 
 stolidly before him. Roger cast a careless glance 
 at him, then brought his eyes back to the one ad- 
 dressing him. Eleanor felt sorry for the young 
 man, and making an effort, addressed a few words 
 to him ; but conversation proved difficult, and soon 
 the two were again listening to the lively dialogue 
 of their more brilliant mates. Eleanor overheard 
 Roger making an engagement to meet Mrs. De- 
 vine and her husband at the chapel of San Gen- 
 naro. He ended with an invitation to them to re- 
 turn home with him for dinner, glancing casually 
 but meaningly at Eleanor. Mrs. Devine was pro- 
 fuse in her thanks, but looked to Eleanor to con- 
 firm this invitation. The latter flushed and hesi- 
 tated, then stammeringly said that she should be 
 very happy. Her embarrassment was too manifest 
 not to be noticed, and was punished with a cold 
 response from the younger woman, whose manner 
 had a touch of additional brightness and warmth
 
 110 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 when she turned again towards Roger. She re- 
 peated that she wanted to see everything, and feli- 
 citated herself anew on the valuable assistance she 
 was to receive from him, again addressing him as 
 "Professor." 
 
 Roger felt he had borne this pleasant infliction 
 long enough. 
 
 "I am not a professor," he corrected her. 
 
 "You are not?" with flattering surprise. "But 
 I am sure you ought to be." 
 
 "Thank you. I might consent to receive the 
 title at your hands." Eleanor looked at him in 
 some surprise. She had not seen him in such good 
 spirits for a long time. Mrs. Devine laughed and 
 said she would wait until he had proved how much 
 he knew about Naples. "I supposed every one 
 here was professor," she said, glancing about her. 
 "Tell me," she added, moving a step nearer to 
 Roger, and speaking in a lowered tone, "did we 
 do right to come here ? I heard about Lady Man- 
 del in Vienna. My music-teacher gave me a let- 
 ter, but Mr. Devine doesn't like him, and didn't 
 want to bring me. He will feel differently about 
 it now, though, since we have found you here." 
 
 Even Roger was not proof against a fleeting em- 
 barrassment here. He smiled queerly and glanced 
 at Eleanor. She had overheard, and a vivid flush 
 dyed her face. Mr. Devine had moved a little to 
 one side, relieving himself from a conversation in 
 which he could find no share, by pretending to ex- 
 amine some engravings on a small table near by.
 
 EOGEE HUNT. Ill 
 
 "Don't ask me," Roger replied, recovering him- 
 self. "I know nothing about any of your conven- 
 tionalities, and care less." 
 
 "You literary people are so independent," the 
 lady sighed. 
 
 Eleanor could bear the situation no longer and 
 rose nervously to her feet, stepping forward and 
 asking Roger, rather abruptly, to take her home. 
 He looked surprised and a little displeased, but 
 consented. She turned to Mrs. Devine with a 
 few words of apology, but the latter was still a 
 little hurt and distrustful, and took leave of her 
 coldly. 
 
 "So la belle Americaine is a friend of yours?" 
 Roger's hostess said to him, as they stood together 
 a moment, while Eleanor was putting on her wrap. 
 "How do you manage to grow so many handsome 
 girls over there? " 
 
 "Is she handsome?" he asked, in some distaste. 
 "I had not noticed." 
 
 " You had not noticed ! Humph! Then if you 
 have no eye for a pretty woman when you see her, 
 it 's to be hoped you have none, either, for an ugly 
 one. Some of us can get a little comfort out of 
 that." 
 
 Roger made no reply, not telling her whether 
 this reasoning applied or not. He found Lady 
 Mandel undeniably coarse and offensive at times. 
 
 "Your compatriot is not only beautiful but tal- 
 ented. Herr Rosenthal writes me she might make 
 her mark as a pianiste if she chose, but," shrug- 

 
 112 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 ging her shoulders, "what can you expect? She 
 has a husband, and he is rich. It is money spoils 
 all of you Americans. You are worshipers of the 
 Golden Calf, not you, perhaps," she added, with 
 a contemplative gaze. "You are a dreamer. You 
 live in the clouds." 
 
 " The clouds are of a rather earthly manufacture, 
 just now," he replied glancing through the smoke- 
 filled rooms. 
 
 "They will do you no harm if they are," she re- 
 torted. "You are the first man I ever knew, of 
 brains, I mean, who objected to tobacco smoke." 
 
 "Thank you; the cause progresses slowly, I ad- 
 mit." 
 
 "And as for a lady's smoking," waving her 
 piece of cigarette, nearly extinguished, "I suppose 
 such a conception never entered your mind until 
 you came here." 
 
 He felt like asking her what reason there was to 
 suppose it entered his mind then, but forbore, and, 
 seeing Eleanor waiting, bade her good evening. 
 
 When they reached home he was about to leave 
 her for an hour's reading in his study, when she 
 detained him. 
 
 "Roger, I want to speak with you a moment." 
 
 He had taken a lamp in his hand, and stood 
 holding it, with his face partly turned towards her, 
 waiting. 
 
 "Roger," speaking with difficulty, "that lady 
 Mrs. Devine must not come here. We must 
 not let her."
 
 EOGER HUNT. 113 
 
 " Indeed ! Why ? " he asked coldly. 
 
 "It would make her husband very angry; he 
 would have a right to be angry." 
 
 "What do I care for her husband?" 
 
 "She woidd be angry, too. She would never 
 forgive us. We must not take advantage of any 
 one, Roger. It would not be right." 
 
 "You and I have different notions of right, 
 sometimes." 
 
 " Roger, I beg you to grant my wish. Do not 
 compel me to receive her. You know she would 
 not come if she knew. No woman would" 
 Her voice broke. 
 
 "If she knew what?" he demanded. "If you 
 think there is anything in my past life I am 
 ashamed of " 
 
 "It is not that. But," rising and going towards 
 him and laying a hand on his arm, "we must not 
 do any one a wrong, even though we feel it to be a 
 fancied wrong only. I never knew you to want to 
 deceive any one, Roger." 
 
 The last words had their effect, but he would not 
 admit it to her. For a moment he stood with his 
 eyes bent frowningly on the floor, then turned 
 abruptly and left her, without a word. She heard 
 him close the study door, and went wearily to her 
 room, too much oppressed with weightier matters 
 to feel hurt at his manner, and relieved to be by 
 herself. 
 
 The next day Roger kept his appointment, but 
 took his new friends to a popular cafe to dine,
 
 114 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 excusing the non-fulfillment of the first arrange- 
 ment on the convenient pretext of Eleanor's poor 
 health. Mrs. Devine received his apologies with 
 apparent good nature, but the acquaintance had 
 received a perceptible check, and the next time 
 they met her manner was more formal, arousing 
 a little resentment on Roger's side, who was glad 
 when the travelers had finished Naples and gone 
 on their way. He continued, however, to cherish 
 a slight grudge against Eleanor. He could not 
 persuade her to accompany him again to Lady 
 Mandel's. 
 
 "What is it you are afraid of?" he asked her 
 once, while arguing the case with her. 
 
 "I did not say I was afraid. But I can't go, 
 Roger; I can't meet those peeople. Don't ask me, 
 dear. Don't think I don't want you to go; I am 
 so glad you can have a little society. But I I 
 don't need it. I have you," smiling bravely up at 
 him, through unshed tears. 
 
 "You forget that I have to answer all sorts of 
 questions about you." 
 
 "Questions?" she repeated in some alarm. 
 "Do you mean that people are talking about us, 
 that they suspect " She could not go on, and 
 turned a little away from him. 
 
 "Suspects! Who cares what anybody suspects? 
 My dear Eleanor, can't you put a little more 
 breadth into some of your ideas? We are not liv- 
 ing in a New England village, nor expected to 
 carry a copy of the decalogue into a social draw-
 
 
 ROGER HUNT. 115 
 
 ing-room. For that matter, there are reasons why 
 Lady Man del need not be very scrupulous in such 
 matters. There are some not very nice stories 
 afloat about her." 
 
 He had overreached himself here. Quickly the 
 retort rose to her lips: "Is that the reason you 
 think her a fit companion for me?" but she sup- 
 pressed it. She remained gently obstinate to all 
 his arguments and entreaties, however, and he 
 soon formed the habit of going without her. She 
 was glad to have him go, though often lonely in 
 his absence. She had all a loving wife's power of 
 self-abnegation, and though she had once been first 
 in all his thoughts, submitted now to be made 
 second in many ways. She had learned that no 
 two people, however dear, are wholly sufficient to 
 each other's needs; that the hunger for human 
 companionship is manifold, and must feed on many 
 lesser loves as well as on one that is supreme. 
 There were times when to feel herself restored to 
 simple natural relations with the world, she could 
 have foregone the most rapturous bliss she had ever 
 tasted in this unhallowed relation. She was like 
 one who has fed on sweets, until the palate longs 
 for a taste of homelier fare, which it cannot gratify 
 because the chance of its honest earning is lost. 
 
 Eleanor was feeling, with relief, that the ques- 
 tion of her social duties was settled, when Roger 
 came home one day and told her, with a pleased 
 look, he had met an old friend, one of his former 
 townsmen, Henry Hamilton. Eleanor tried to 
 place the name, but could not.
 
 116 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 " Don't you remember Hamilton, that little shy 
 man we used to meet at Mrs. Somers's?" 
 
 Yes, she remembered now, but indistinctly still. 
 
 "He was immensely glad to see me. He always 
 liked me. There 's a lot of sense and good feeling 
 in the little fellow. Usually it 's a bore running 
 across old acquaintances in that way, but I declare, 
 I believe I was rather glad to see Hamilton." 
 
 Eleanor listened with a sympathetic face. 
 
 "Is he married?" she asked after a while, an 
 inevitable question with her, sooner or later. 
 
 "He 's married, with a vengeance." 
 
 "Was Mrs. Hamilton a member of the Plato 
 class?" 
 
 "She! She would as soon join a burlesque 
 opera troupe. A most unbearable woman! " 
 
 "Is she with her husband?" Eleanor asked, 
 gathering some other meaning in his words than 
 lay on the surface. 
 
 "Of course. You don't suppose she 'd let him 
 come to Europe without her. She gave me the cut 
 direct." He tried to speak with airy indifference. 
 
 "Didn't she speak to you? " Eleanor asked in a 
 concerned tone. 
 
 "What do I care if she didn't? Such a woman 
 makes virtue detestable. She hasn't an idea that 
 is n't a prejudice, nor a conviction that is n't founded 
 on some kind of antipathy! I pity Hamilton from 
 the bottom of my heart." 
 
 "I am afraid she thinks there is reason for some 
 prejudice in this case."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 117 
 
 "She may think what she pleases." Eleanor 
 knew he was as indifferent as he seemed. She 
 looked at him wonderingly, envying, as she had 
 many times before, that strength of purpose, that 
 having once asserted itself, can stand upright, 
 without one backward look. To his dying day 
 Roger would feel about this act of theirs as he did 
 the hour it was resolved on. 
 
 "I suppose most of our acquaintances would 
 have behaved as she did," she said thoughtfully. 
 
 "Very likely." 
 
 "Mr. Hamilton did not?" 
 
 "No ! He is a gentleman. He is not one of 
 the self-appointed guardians of the universe, like 
 his wife ; he knows how to keep his opinions until 
 they 're asked for. That 's all I ask of any man. 
 I invited him to dine with us to-morrow." 
 
 "Roger!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Without his wife?" 
 
 "You don't suppose I asked him with his wife?" 
 
 "I I can't receive him, Roger." 
 
 "May I ask why? " in the voice and manner she 
 had learned to dread. 
 
 "I can't act as hostess to your gentlemen 
 friends." 
 
 "This is very mysterious. You could not re- 
 ceive Mrs. Devine because she was a woman." 
 
 "Surely you must see, dear, that if I cannot re- 
 ceive women, I ought not to receive men." 
 
 "These refinements are beyond me."
 
 118 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Voice, words, and manner hurt her deeply ; but 
 evidently his failure to understand was perfectly 
 honest. He \vould not, she believed, draw her into 
 any situation that would convey a slighting opin- 
 ion on his part. He surrounded her with every 
 possible care and attention in other respects, but 
 failed entirely to comprehend matters of this kind. 
 It was because he himself was so strong and fear- 
 less, she tried to think, that all signs of weakness 
 in others irritated him. 
 
 "It it hurts me, Roger, that you do not see 
 how I feel about some things ; but I know you do 
 not mean it. I will receive your friend, since you 
 wish it." 
 
 "I wish you to do nothing," he replied coldly; 
 "you have not the courage to stand by afterward. 
 We have had enough of that. When two people 
 undertake what you and I have undertaken, the 
 least they can do is to try to live up to it." 
 
 '"Live up to it! ' " she exclaimed, the last bar- 
 riers of restraint and caution giving way. "You 
 ask me to live down to it, I think." 
 
 She broke away from him abruptly and left the 
 room, locking herself in her chamber, where she 
 cried herself into a blinding headache, which kept 
 her in bed the next day, and furnished the excuse 
 for her non-appearance when the expected guest 
 came. 
 
 Roger was more deeply displeased with her than 
 ever before, and treated her for days with marked 
 coldness. Gradually, however, the affair seemed
 
 ROGER HUNT. 119 
 
 to pass. Each kept a shamed remembrance of it, 
 and felt the discouragement it offered to the future, 
 but they were growing dulled to these experiences. 
 Eleanor exerted herself with fresh and contrite 
 energy to uphold their tottering happiness, to 
 please Roger in ways it was easy to please; but 
 the strained expression of her face, the eager rest- 
 lessness of all her movements, the bright spot of 
 color that came and went in the thin cheeks, all 
 spoke of a strength upheld by failing sources within. 
 Still, she tried. 
 
 Some time before this incident they had planned 
 a series of short excursions to neighboring points, 
 one of which was to be a three days' visit to the 
 ruins of Pa?stum, which Roger wished to examine. 
 Eleanor was in more cheerful spirits than she had 
 been for a long time, as she completed the prep- 
 arations for their departure. The clouds were 
 lifting a little, she thought. Roger had been more 
 kind to her for the past few days, and she had been 
 able to banish distracting thoughts, and devote her- 
 self wholly to him. She had spent the morning 
 copying for him, and he had teased her, as he used 
 to do, about her long, slanting hand. He was a 
 better penman than she, and it was but a feigned 
 service she rendered him in this way, one of the 
 pretty deceptions of their earlier days, but that 
 only proved Roger's goodness the more. She went 
 to bed early that she might get the full rest she 
 needed, and fell into a sound sleep that lasted until 
 morning.
 
 120 EOGEB HUNT. 
 
 Some malign spirit must have watched beside 
 her, for she awoke unrefreshed, with a dull head- 
 ache, and the feeling, she knew so well, of sick 
 depression at the heart. It was as if she found her- 
 self suddenly prostrated with some old malady. 
 She rose and dressed, but the depressed feeling 
 still clung to her like cold mist. All the old mo- 
 tives, her desire to please Roger, the fear of losing 
 his love, had faded and were naught. She had 
 neither will nor desire for anything. She listened 
 to Roger's talk at the breakfast -table with dull 
 ears, and followed his preparations to depart with 
 slow indecision. 
 
 At last, when he was ready, with hat in hand, 
 and valise strapped over his shoulder, she paused 
 in the act of putting on her bonnet, and laid it 
 down. 
 
 "Couldn't you go without me?" 
 
 He looked at her in surprise. 
 
 "I I don't feel very well," she added in a lit- 
 tle confusion. 
 
 "Then we will both stay at home, and take 
 another day." The tone was kind, but he showed 
 some natural disappointment. 
 
 "No, no. There is no reason why you should 
 not go." She spoke with the faintest touch of ir- 
 ritation. She now saw that what she really wanted 
 was to be alone. 
 
 "I don't think I care much about ruins, any- 
 way," she added, trying to smile. 
 
 "Your feeling has changed since last night; but
 
 ROGER HUNT. 121 
 
 of course, if you are not well " He swung the 
 valise from his shoulder. 
 
 "No, no," she urged him again. "You must not 
 stay. There is no need. I want you to go." The 
 last words were spoken in an insistent tone she 
 seldom used, and he looked at her attentively. 
 
 "I mean I don't want you to be disappointed." 
 He set the valise on the floor. 
 
 "Very well, then," with a little petulance, " if 
 you are so determined, I will go," and she took up 
 her bonnet with an aggrieved air. 
 
 "I must say I don't understand this," said 
 Roger. "If you mean that you want to get rid 
 of me" 
 
 She made no reply, feeling displeased in a new 
 direction. He did not often speak so coarsely. 
 
 "You needn't go," he added sarcastically, as 
 she began tying her bonnet strings, "for I shall." 
 
 He lifted the valise and flung it over his shoul- 
 der again. She dropped her hands, and looked at 
 him helplessly. 
 
 "You know I didn't mean that; I only meant 
 I ought not to spoil your pleasure. I don't see 
 why I should go if I don't want to." 
 
 "You need n't." 
 
 "I mean, I don't see why you should care 
 whether I go or not." 
 
 "Very well. I won't care." He adjusted the 
 strap more securely on his shoulder. She looked 
 at him tremblingly, then sinking into a chair, 
 broke into tears. He would not look at her at
 
 122 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 first, and was strongly tempted to leave the room ; 
 but half maddened by her sobs and the useless- 
 ness of the entire scene, he drew near and looked 
 down on her with a face of mingled bewilderment 
 and blame. Her tears flowed faster. 
 
 "Eleanor, what is the matter?" 
 
 "Nothing," hiding her face convulsively in her 
 handkerchief. Lifting it again she looked at him 
 wildly. "Everything," she broke out impetuously, 
 waving him away. "Everything." 
 
 He bit his lip, and turned sharply from her. 
 Again the impulse seized him to leave her and go 
 on his way, but he dared not, and came reluctantly 
 back to her side. She grew a little quieter. 
 
 "Oh, go without me," she said, looking up at 
 him, tears still running down her cheeks. "I de- 
 serve you should. I deserve you should never care 
 for me again." 
 
 He schooled himself to patience, and sat down 
 near her. Soon she checked her tears, and looked 
 at him penitently. 
 
 "I will bathe my eyes and then we will go," and 
 she started to rise. He placed his hand on her 
 arm. 
 
 "You cannot go now." 
 
 "It is not too late," she urged, looking ashamed. 
 
 "You are in no condition to go. It will give 
 you a headache." 
 
 She had that already, but did not say so. 
 
 "I can't bear to disappoint you so," she mur- 
 mured.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 123 
 
 "You needn't disappoint me. I'll do what I 
 can to help you not to," with a melancholy smile. 
 "I will go without you." 
 
 She looked up at him quickly. This self-re- 
 straint disturbed her more than his anger did. 
 
 "Good-by." He rose, and bending above her, 
 gravely kissed her. Her lips trembled and she 
 looked at him timidly. ^ 
 
 "I have treated you shamefully." 
 
 "Never mind that now," he said hastily. 
 
 " You are obliged to see the ruins any way, are n't 
 you?" she asked penitently. "You are going to 
 write about them; it wasn't to be merely a pleas- 
 ure trip?" 
 
 "That 'sail right." 
 
 She followed him to the door. 
 
 "I don't know whether I 'm doing right or not," 
 she said with a sigh, as they paused a moment in 
 the narrow arched entrance. "I don't believe I 
 could go now, any way," pressing her hands to her 
 throbbing temples. 
 
 "You had better lie down." His face still wore 
 a look of restrained quiet, and his eyes failed to 
 meet hers, as he kissed her again and bade her 
 good-by. Her own were full of tearful entreaty. 
 She clung to him and a little sob broke from her, 
 but he put her away and left her.
 
 IX. 
 
 SHE cried a little when she was alone, but it 
 was only a gentle after-shower, that had a restoring 
 enect. When she grew calmer she said it was bet- 
 ter for both that Roger had gone without her. 
 Few married people, she reflected, lived in such 
 constant companionship as they did.* Remorse 
 growing fainter, she felt an undeniable sense of re- 
 lief at being alone. She smiled mournfully at the 
 thought of growing tired of Roger, but it was true 
 each would experience a new kind of happiness in 
 the reunion to follow this first parting. It would 
 be all the sweeter for their quarrel. 
 
 But Eleanor did not want any more quarrels. 
 They were harmless enough, perhaps, with married 
 people, whom habit and the external bond that 
 holds them suffer to behave as naturally as they 
 like; but they were full of unseen dangers here. 
 She blamed herself wholly for this one, and re- 
 solved more strongly than before to control these 
 variable moods, to bring this habit of useless self- 
 questioning to an end. Her duty was to Roger 
 alone, not to the world they had turned their backs 
 upon. 
 
 Roger remained away three days. At the end 
 of that time Eleanor had experienced all the pain
 
 ROGER HUNT. 125 
 
 and loss of loneliness, along with its benefits, and 
 looked eagerly for his return. She decked the 
 rooms with flowers, and, with Flora McDonald's 
 aid, prepared a little fete, putting on Roger's fa- 
 vorite dress and awaiting him witli girlish expec- 
 tancy. 
 
 At the first glance she saw he was still displeased 
 with her. She had half expected this, and tried 
 not to notice, but her heart sank. She deserved 
 to be punished, and Roger, she had learned, despite 
 his theories, knew how to punish, almost as well as 
 Dante. 
 
 Lying in the shade of a mass of ruined marbles 
 the day before, Roger had reviewed his situation 
 and decided he had reached another turning-point. 
 His life was already liberally strewn with these 
 moral milestones, periods of culminating thought 
 and feeling on certain subjects, that pointed an- 
 other start in a new direction. An early quarrel 
 with his widowed mother, just before he went to 
 college, gave rise to the first ; ^several minor differ- 
 ences with his classmates, his first threatened rup- 
 ture with Kitty Somers, and the abandonment of 
 his home, worked the others. It was now time to 
 erect one more. He went over the past and mapped 
 out the future. He had a gift for theorizing, and 
 a pitiless way of laying out lines of conduct for 
 himself and others, employing a dramatist's skill 
 in invention. 
 
 He began by making the first distinct acknow- 
 ledgment of his disappointment in Eleanor. This
 
 126 BOGEB HUNT. 
 
 is a momentous point for any lover to reach, espe- 
 cially one of Hunt's intense and brooding nature. 
 Wiser men than he, if not so bold, choose not to 
 drag disappointments of this kind into full con- 
 sciousness. Honest confession may be good for 
 the soul, but often for its slighter ailments only. 
 Roger Hunt, however, had long since formed the 
 habit of baring all his mental processes to the full 
 daylight. He called this honesty. 
 
 Where once Eleanor had been his chief inspira- 
 tion and joy, she was now an admitted care. In- 
 stead of promoting his happiness, she thwarted it. 
 He saw himself in the light of a man likely to be 
 hindered and seriously disturbed in his general 
 plan of life. It behooved him, therefore, to pre- 
 vent this if he could. 
 
 Oddly enough, perhaps, Roger never once 
 thought of putting Eleanor away from him. He 
 had tried that sort of experiment once, and great 
 minds, we are told, do not repeat themselves. Let 
 him have the credit of holding himself more strictly 
 bound here, because in men's eyes he was bound not 
 at all. Affection and sympathy might give way, 
 but a certain old-time chivalry had always been 
 strong in him, though sometimes waywardly exer- 
 cised. He was not the man to desert a woman in 
 Eleanor's position. 
 
 But, lying there in the shadow of a broken col- 
 umn, unconscious symbol of the human life dream- 
 ing and speculating at its feet, he took the firm 
 and formal resolve that she should stand in his way
 
 ROGER HUNT. 127- 
 
 no longer. As he had taken this journey without 
 her, so he would go on through life, free and un- 
 hindered. He, too, had been sensible of the ben- 
 efits of solitude the past three days. He could live 
 alone, if need be ; if the need were imposed, that is, 
 in another's failing trust or understanding of him. 
 
 For most of Roger Hunt's resolutions took the 
 form of accusations against some one else. Elea- 
 nor, he said to himself, had failed him. She no 
 longer truly loved him. If her love were what it 
 should be, it would obliterate all other feeling, 
 every motive and desire that checked or opposed it. 
 He recalled the better words she had let fall in 
 their late talks together, letting displeased memory 
 crystallize them into hard and unforgivable shape. 
 Whatever Eleanor did or suffered by reason of her 
 own nature, the claims of her peculiar personality, 
 he had never even remotely considered. Like 
 many a man besides, he knew and estimated the 
 woman of his choice solely in her relation to him- 
 self. 
 
 Pursuing his thoughts, he arranged his future 
 course on grounds at once purely abstract and 
 wholly personal to himself. He wished to lead a 
 tranquil life. A scholar needs mental quiet 
 above everything else, which must not be disturbed 
 by recurring periods of emotional excitement. 
 Such was his power of self-delusion that he did not 
 dream he was at this very time laboring under in- 
 tense excitement, the greater that it was able to 
 shape itself to such cold and deadly purposes. 

 
 128 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 He repeated that a scholar must be surrounded 
 with harmonious conditions; if they do not arise 
 naturally, they must be arranged for. He would 
 do nothing harsh or unjust, but he would live his 
 life. He believed a brilliant intellectual career 
 awaited him,. which the social cloud under which 
 he lived could no more dim than the deer-stealing 
 did Shakespeare's. A man of mind makes his own 
 way in the world, he had told Eleanor many times. 
 A woman of mind may do the same, he had added, 
 and cited examples; but her spirit had failed to 
 meet his on this point. She was only a loving 
 woman, misled in a false direction. 
 
 Roger's 'present behavior did not make things 
 easier for her. Days passed and still he kept up 
 the manner that marked his return. He was polite 
 and attentive, never unkind, more equable in man- 
 ner than she had ever known him before, but she 
 felt herself kept at arm's length in everything. 
 She was patient and uncomplaining at first, but 
 after a while the feeling of hurt surprise sharpened 
 into resentment, and she grew cold and reserved 
 in turn, keeping herself apart from him ; but if he 
 noticed the change he made no sign. 
 
 By degrees she woke to the knowledge that her 
 empire was over. 
 
 Then followed a few hours of wild despair, and 
 terrified visions of the future, to end which, and 
 to know the worst, Eleanor resolved to speak to 
 Roger. One day, as he was rising from the table, 
 she spoke his name entreatingly, and with a slight 
 accent of fear.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 129 
 
 "I I wish to speak to you," she said, rising, 
 and going towards him. The strain 'of the last 
 ten days had told on her terribly. She was very 
 pale, and large blue rings under her eyes told the 
 number of sleepless nights she had passed. She 
 was five years younger than Roger, but looked as 
 many years older. She trembled as she stood be- 
 fore him, while her thin hands clasped and un- 
 clasped each other nervously. Any other man 
 would have been moved, just to look at her; but 
 Roger had resolved not to be moved. He waited 
 for her to proceed, not looking at her. 
 
 "Roger, what does it all mean? I can't live in 
 this way." 
 
 The muscles in her throat worked painfully, and 
 she put up her hand to relieve the pressure. 
 Roger lowered his eyes, then raised them again. 
 Their coldness chilled her to the heart. 
 
 "Roger, don't look at me like that. What 
 have I done? I know I was wrong that day. I 
 am always wrong, but, " struggling to smile a little, 
 "haven't I been punished enough?" 
 
 "I have no desire to punish you." This was not 
 true, but perhaps he thought it was. "On the 
 contrary, I should like to make you happy, but I 
 seem to have lost the power." 
 
 "Roger!" reproachfully. "Who could make 
 me happy if not you ? It is not your fault if I am 
 not happy, nor nor mine." 
 
 "Yet there is a reason for it, I suppose, since 
 you admit the fact."
 
 130 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I do not admit the fact. The reason, if there 
 were any, could be but one, my love for you," her 
 voice sinking. 
 
 "I should like a better proof of that love." 
 
 She looked at him with wide, reproachful eyes. 
 "Proof!" she repeated wonderingly. "Proof!" 
 with a bitter accent. " Have I not given proof ? 
 When a woman gives her soul for a man " 
 
 She stopped, aghast at her own words. Some 
 malicious spirit must have been waiting to catch 
 and trip her. She meant them not at all. 
 
 "Roger, I did not mean that," stepping towards 
 him. But his face had hardened into iron ; light- 
 ning gleams flashed from his eyes. 
 
 "If that is the way you look at it, what must 
 you think of me?" he cried. "Thank Heaven, I 
 am not yet sunk so low in my own mind. You 
 talk of love, yet can desecrate it with a thought 
 like that! You can think of me as a vulgar ad- 
 venturer! " 
 
 "Roger, Roger, I do not! " 
 
 "You no longer believe in me! You are sorry 
 for what you have done! " 
 
 "No, Roger, no," faltering beneath his look. 
 
 "You would not do it again?" His voice rang 
 out like a challenge. His stern gaze held her like 
 a magnet; then she cowered and shrunk before it. 
 With a low moan she sank down on a chair, bury- 
 ing her face in her outstretched arms on the table 
 before her. 
 
 "I would die for you, Roger; I wish I could."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 131 
 
 "You are not required to die." The words 
 stung her. 
 
 "Oh, I know, dying is too easy," she broke out, 
 and, rising, rushed away and made her escape from 
 him. 
 
 She knew now that a permanent change had 
 come over Roger's feeling for her. She had been 
 witness more than once to the sudden revulsions of 
 feeling that he was apt to experience towards people 
 he had once liked; now it was she, herself, who 
 was to be the object of this altered regard, this 
 fixed estrangement. 
 
 The next day Roger left her on another explor- 
 ing tour in aid of his studies, this time with no 
 mention of desire for company ; and henceforth she 
 was given to understand, not in words, but in 
 countless little ways that speak so much more, that 
 he meant to pursue his way without her. She 
 knew he felt himself deeply wronged at her hands. 
 Outwardly he treated her with nearly the same 
 consideration as before; was attentive to all her 
 wants, fetching her shawl, accompanying her on 
 her walks, and guarding her against imprudences; 
 but holding himself aloof from her day after day. 
 For herself, she struggled against this state of 
 things, and submitted to it by turns, nourished 
 hope and then despair, was tearfully patient one 
 day, stolidly resigned the next. Under this severe 
 inward strain her frail physical health threatened 
 to give way. She grew weaker, and told herself 
 with despairing hopefulness that she should not 
 live long. Roger would be free from her soon.
 
 132 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Several weeks passed in this way, when some- 
 thing happened that marked another turning- 
 point, hurting her as nothing had yet done, yet, in 
 a way, confirming belief in Roger anew. 
 
 He entered the house one day with an American 
 newspaper in his hand, his manner betraying a 
 little excitement. Calling her into the study, he 
 pointed out a short paragraph, marked with a blue 
 pencil. It was the notice of the death of Annie 
 Hunt, in the asylum in which her husband had left 
 her. The blood pulsed wildly through Eleanor's 
 veins, as she read the few printed lines, and she 
 turned an anxious and questioning gaze on Roger. 
 The paper was a month old. 
 
 "We can be married now," he said, after a mo- 
 ment's silence. Her heart beat faster still. "We 
 will go to Florence, and have the ceremony per- 
 formed there. I will write the consul to-night." 
 
 She looked at him with large, startled eyes. 
 His own were bent on the paper. If there had 
 been a ray of light in his face, a sign of gladness 
 for the poor relief such an act might bring to her, 
 his words would have melted her at once, stirring 
 generous admiration beyond the need to profit by 
 them, perhaps. 
 
 "You would really marry me, Roger, now?" 
 she questioned him mournfully. 
 
 "Now? " he repeated uncomprehendingly. 
 
 "When you no longer love me?" 
 
 If he had really ceased to love her, that might 
 be a reason the more, with many high-minded men,
 
 ROGER HUNT. 133 
 
 for offering her every other means of protection and 
 grace in his power; and Roger Hunt had as true 
 instincts in some matters as his less erring fellow- 
 creatures ; but this was hardly a line of argument 
 to satisfy a woman placed as Eleanor was. He 
 recognized the double appeal in her words, and 
 answered indirectly. 
 
 "I cannot pretend the matter is important to 
 me. You know my feeling on such points. It is 
 your doubts and scruples I wish to satisfy. I 
 would satisfy my own if I had any. I seek your 
 happiness." He really believed this. "Events 
 seem to prove that I wronged you once. I now 
 offer you such reparation as lies in my power." 
 
 "Reparation! " she repeated reproachfully. "I 
 never said you wronged me. I never had such a 
 thought. I alone am to blame for what I did." 
 
 "Precisely," he replied quickly, "'to blame.' 
 That is the way I know you regard it." 
 
 "Roger, why do you torture me so? " she cried, 
 in an anguished tone, "turning and twisting my 
 poor words." 
 
 "Do you mean you hr.ve no sense of blame? " 
 
 She was silent. He smiled bitterly. 
 
 "No woman can have a sense of blame in a case 
 like ours, without reflecting gross dishonor on the 
 man " 
 
 "That is not true," she interrupted warmly. 
 
 "We will not discuss the point. We should 
 have learned by this time the uselessness of discus- 
 sion. Will you go with me to Florence? "
 
 134 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 / 
 
 "No." It required an effort to speak the word, 
 but she mastered it. Pride and affection had re- 
 ceived a crushing blow at once. Life never seemed 
 so poor a failure as now ; the pain and humiliation 
 of this moment could never be equaled. Roger 
 looked at her with new perplexity mingled with the 
 old displeasure. What new freak was this? 
 
 "What good will it do now?" she said in reply 
 to this look. 
 
 "Most women would think, a good deal." 
 
 "That is what you have always disliked in me, 
 my thinking as other women do. I do not wish to 
 be married," she added, after a moment's pause, 
 and in another tone. "I do not wish" she 
 checked herself. 
 
 The vision of that other woman, cold in her 
 loveless coffin, had risen before her. How could 
 she profit by a thing like that? It was like mur- 
 der. The thought of Roger and herself standing 
 before the altar, seeking the sanction of rights they 
 had stolen, sickened her. No; she would let her 
 deed stand. 
 
 "You had better reconsider the matter," he said 
 coldly. "I shall return home now, and " 
 
 "Going home?" That did, indeed, put the 
 matter in a new light; but when she looked into 
 his face, rayless as a piece of black velvet, her 
 pride came to the rescue of her fears, and she re- 
 peated her decision, with a touch of haughtiness. 
 
 "As you please," he said, and understanding 
 the audience was terminated, she left him.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 135 
 
 A few days later she entered the study unan- 
 nounced, and hurriedly requested to speak with 
 him. She was strangely agitated, in a way he had 
 never seen before. Her face wore a look newly 
 shamed and startled, yet had an uplifted expres- 
 sion, too. He rose to place a chair for her, but 
 she stopped him. 
 
 "I I have changed my mind, Roger. I think 
 differently about it now." 
 
 He did not understand, and looked at her in 
 puzzled surprise. 
 
 "I will go with you to Florence." 
 
 Then he understood, and laid down his pen. 
 
 "Not for any good it can bring me," she went 
 on, with increasing agitation. "Not for ourselves 
 at all. Oh, Roger, Roger, you must love me a lit- 
 tle now. Take me back, Roger, take me back," 
 and she threw herself, weeping, on his breast, where 
 he was constrained to hold and quiet her. It was 
 by degrees he learned the truth. Not for herself, 
 but for the sake of the unborn life, fluttering be- 
 neath her heart, she would go with him.
 
 XL 
 
 ROGER and Eleanor returned home early in the 
 following spring. They sailed directly for New 
 York, where they remained several weeks. A lucky 
 accident threw apiece of literary work into Roger's 
 hands, the examination of some ancient Indian re- 
 mains on the western banks of the Mississippi, in 
 a locality famed for its fine air and commercial 
 enterprise. He took Eleanor with him, meaning 
 to make but a temporary stay, but as the climate 
 proved beneficial to her, and his interest in his 
 studies grew, they remained longer. Both felt the 
 advantages of this distant separation from earlier 
 scenes and associations. It was like living in a 
 new world; and shortly after Eleanor's child was 
 born, Roger decided to make Garrison his future 
 home, where they lived fifteen years. 
 
 As often happens, Eleanor gained a new lease 
 of life with that of her child, and though always 
 delicate seemed nearly restored to health for several 
 years. As often happens, also, the younger life 
 paid the penalty. Estella was a puny and sickly 
 baby, requiring much care. She was a peculiar 
 child, and had not escaped the infection of the 
 strangely-mingled natures that formed her own. 
 Physically and mentally also to a degree, she re-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 137 
 
 seinbled her father. Dark, expressive eyes, with 
 a sensitive mouth and intelligent brow, showed a 
 nature at once passionate and susceptible, which a 
 reserved disposition, that bordered on the distrust- 
 ful, held in check. 
 
 It was natural that during her early years, when 
 she was ill and needing care, the child should seem 
 to cling to the mother and avoid the father; but 
 as time progressed, and she grew stronger, able to 
 run about and play like other children, what had 
 once been a necessity seemed to have grown a 
 habit. At least this was the way Eleanor tried to 
 reason about it, watching the two with much solici- 
 tude. The little Estella seemed at the same time 
 to shrink from ana be intensely curious about her 
 father. She would sit watching him, with big 
 thoughtful eyes, an hour at a time, apparently 
 neither unhappy in his presence nor afraid of him, 
 only deeply puzzled and reflective. If he spoke to 
 her she answered him with a gravity that was al- 
 most comic, repelling him as his first child had 
 done when he tried to play with her ; his awkward- 
 ness here demonstrating his insincerity to her 
 acute, childish intelligence. She would submit 
 to be instructed by him, not amused. For com- 
 panionship, she sought her mother, whom she at 
 once idolized and overruled, loved and obeyed or 
 disobeyed as the whim seized her. 
 
 Roger was both piqued and flattered by his 
 daughter's behavior towards him. Her likeness 
 to himself pleased him and awakened expectation ;
 
 138 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 and as she grew older and began to study under 
 his direction, her marked precocity in certain ways 
 gratified him still more. When he noticed her 
 failing tenderness at all, it was to attribute it to 
 the mother's influence, who was herself the object 
 of much daughterly petting and caressing; but he 
 fancied he missed these marks of attention much 
 more than he did. 
 
 Eleanor had hoped much from the birth of her 
 child in the restored relations between herself and 
 Roger, but she was disappointed. She had never 
 won back her lover, who had been less a lover still 
 since he became a husband, though scrupulously 
 attentive to all her needs. They lived unde^ the 
 same roof, but solitary and apart, Roger devoting 
 himself more and more to his books, Eleanor try- 
 ing to live in hej child. 
 
 A child compensates for nearly everything else 
 to most women, the maternal sentiment easily sup- 
 plying the place of the conjugal, but it was not so 
 with Eleanor. The supreme love of her life was 
 that which ached and quivered in her heart still 
 every time she thought of Roger. Though the 
 hope of reconciliation grew fainter year after year, 
 she fed on it still in her dreams. Of late the 
 hope had mingled with another, which is also the 
 final dread. When she was dead, Roger would 
 think kindly of her again, and restore her to the 
 old place in his heart. 
 
 The change in Roger was complete, and had now 
 been so long established that it had become fixed
 
 ROGER HUNT. 139 
 
 habit, yet Eleanor had never outgrown the sur- 
 prise of it. Every day she marveled anew. Was 
 this the old Roger, this man of the grave unsmiling 
 countenance, who paid formal visits to her room 
 and then withdrew into himself, who seldom spoke 
 with her except on some business or household 
 topic ; this the impassioned lover who had sacrificed 
 everything for her? Was it a sacrifice? she asked 
 herself, and was it for her ? How little women know 
 men before they have displeased them! 
 
 Roger himself, as she knew, believed he was 
 behaving most commendably. The wisdom of his 
 conduct was proved in his own mind by its delib- 
 erateness. A single purpose ruled him ; but there 
 were times when this singleness of purpose seemed 
 to Eleanor almost demoniac. It was as relentless 
 as hate. Only God, whose righteous motive is 
 always assured, had a right to such an unbend- 
 ing will as Roger's. Human strength must bear 
 some proportion to human weakness, else it be- 
 comes devil's strength. Such were some of the 
 thoughts Eleanor evolved out of her loneliness. 
 
 Yet Roger's strength was strength, she told her- 
 self, in more self -accusing moods. She was the 
 embodiment of weakness, physical and moral. 
 Roger was the most consistent man she knew. 
 What he undertook he accomplished; when he 
 failed, it was circumstances that were to blame, 
 not he. If an editor declined an article, he talked 
 of literary favoritism, and the intellectual degen- 
 eracy of the age ; if he took cold, he blamed the
 
 140 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 weather. No wonder he grew tired of such a 
 bundle of nerves and self-contradiction as she was, 
 Eleanor thought. Yet she suffered suffered 
 acutely, both from loss of love and of love's ideal. 
 But that deepest loss of all, loss of the power to 
 love, she had escaped. This power to love showed 
 chiefly now as power to suffer, which was the rea- 
 son Roger could not understand it; yet since such 
 love shows a moral sensibility which shall redeem 
 and save at last, its owner is to be accounted for- 
 tunate. 
 
 Though for a few years Eleanor's health im- 
 proved, the seeds of disease were deeply planted, 
 and as Estella grew to girlhood the mother's con- 
 dition began to fail again, then halted in that long 
 period of slow decay which belongs to old-fashioned 
 consumption. Thus Estella's image of her mother 
 was associated almost entirely with the sick-room, 
 which was also to her the living-room of the house. 
 Here she brought her dolls and games, here she 
 had learned to sew, and here, in late years, she 
 brought her books to learn the lessons recited in 
 the library. Flowers bloomed in the window, the 
 room was sunny and large; but it was the young 
 girl's figure flitting in and out, lithe and slender 
 like her father's, that brought real light and 
 warmth into it. 
 
 Estella's love for her mother grew with the lat- 
 ter 's dependence on her, and was of much the same 
 worshipful and tyrannical order she had shown 
 when a child. She petted and scolded her, ac-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 141 
 
 cording to her needs, confided all her young trou- 
 bles and perplexities to her, and protected her 
 against intrusion. A competent nurse had charge 
 of the sick-room, between whom and Eleanor, after 
 four years' association, the bond of a warm personal 
 affection had grown. The cook ruled in the 
 kitchen, and Roger kept for the most part in his 
 study ; Estella alone seemed to have the run of the 
 house. 
 
 The home of the Hunts was one of the most 
 tasteful residences in Garrison, a stone cottage, 
 with dormer windows and a jutting balcony or two, 
 which had caught Roger's eyes, whose skill in such 
 matters had made the most of these and similar 
 features. In the town's early history it had been 
 the officers' quarters connected with the garrison 
 sent out by the government to protect the river at 
 this point. It rested at the foot of the bluff, on 
 the summit of which stood the large and showy 
 mansion of the chief magnate of the place, Thomas 
 Clarke, a successful real-estate dealer, whose rapid 
 fortunes were inseparably connected with those of 
 the town. 
 
 No one had seen the possibilities of the neglected 
 cottage until Roger took it in hand. Then expres- 
 sions of admiration and envy were heard on all 
 sides. It was a distinct contrast to the prevailing 
 "modern" architecture in which Garrison reveled, 
 and no one spoke more unqualified praise of it than 
 Mrs. Clarke, who had liked her own house with its 
 climbing turrets and spreading porches very well 
 until she saw this.
 
 142 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Not that the social aspirations of one in her po- 
 sition could have been easily compressed to this 
 smaller scale, but she felt her taste corrected on 
 many points. It was chiefly in the inside appoint- 
 ments of her new neighbor's abode, she felt regret 
 strongest. Here also it had been Roger's taste 
 that ruled. Low ceilings, neutral-tinted walls, 
 rugs in the place of carpets, cushioned window- 
 seats, furniture for use, not adornment, and me- 
 mentos of travel and cultured leisure scattered 
 about in idle profusion, these were features of 
 housekeeping which Garrison, big, thriving, and 
 ambitious, but "crude," as Mrs. Clarke said, now 
 attained its first knowledge of. She went back to 
 her gilt-papered walls and plush upholstery with a 
 new feeling of distaste that she knew would never 
 leave her. She felt that "Professor" Hunt, as she 
 at once distinguished him, was an acquisition of an 
 unusual order to Garrison society, and congratu- 
 lated herself on having one of his manifest attain- 
 ments for a neighbor. 
 
 Nina Clarke was two years older than Estella. 
 Like her, she was an only child, and had been 
 brought up in the same exclusive fashion, imposed 
 in the one case by the sense of wealth and social 
 prominence, and in the other by rigid ideas. 
 Neither was allowed to attend the public schools, 
 and Estella used to watch the children enviously 
 as they went to and fro to the schoolhouse farther 
 down the street. Her father was fitting her to 
 enter the university at Monroe in a neighboring
 
 ROGER HUNT. 143 
 
 State. She had no companions near her own age 
 save Nina. The two girls liked each other well 
 enough, but without enthusiasm, and each lived by 
 herself a good deal. Their intimacy had increased 
 somewhat during the last year, and since Roger had 
 consented to receive Nina as a pupil. Though 
 Estella's senior in years, she was no farther ad- 
 vanced in her studies, and not being quick to 
 learn, as her classmate was, was in danger of fall- 
 ing behind. 
 
 Thomas Clarke was of a physical type that 
 bespoke his social importance, big, florid, loud- 
 mouthed and flashily attired, yet not innately coarse 
 or vulgar. His wife, Lucy Gray, was a school- 
 teacher in a small Connecticut village when he met 
 her ; though his mental and social superior, she had 
 cheerfully joined her fortunes to his, seeing in his 
 native pluck and sagacity the promise of all the 
 success he had since won. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke was as ambitious as her husband, 
 but to finer issues. He was content with the ma- 
 terial prosperity he had won ; she wished to make 
 it the basis for higher and more difficult acquire- 
 ments. For recreation he kept a stock farm, and a 
 trained gardener who took charge of the large con- 
 servatory on his place in town. Mrs. Clarke was 
 proud of her husband's success and of him for se- 
 curing it, but she disliked the parvenu element 7 that 
 abounds in new, unformed communities like Gar- 
 rison, and was always on the lookout for something 
 different with which to grace her table and enrich
 
 144 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 hospitality. A man like Roger Hunt was to her a 
 godsend. To a degree, Garrison shared her pride 
 in him. Unless two or three editors of the muni- 
 cipal press and the school-superintendent were to 
 be counted such, he was the only literary character 
 the town could boast. The occasional appearance 
 of his name in the current reviews and magazines, 
 his known authorship of two or three books, his 
 secluded and scholarly habits, all t these helped the 
 popular imagination to idealize him, and set him 
 apart from the common horde of money -getters. 
 Roger fell into his new position with entire ease 
 and a sense of fitness. He could say, honestly, he 
 had not sought the distinction that had befallen 
 him, for he took no more pains to win people's 
 good opinion now than he had ever done. 
 
 He refused all social invitations, and thereby 
 won, without intending it, the reputation of being 
 a devoted husband. He cultivated but few ac- 
 quaintances, and had no intimate friends, though 
 he was on a rather familiar footing with his near- 
 est neighbors, the Clarkes. 
 
 The two men, each believing strongly in his own 
 right of predominance, were mutually hostile from 
 the first, but Thomas Clarke was too good-natured 
 to quarrel with any one. Mrs. Clarke understood 
 his feeling, and to a degree sympathized with it, 
 but it constituted no reason in her mind, nor for 
 that matter in her husband's, why she should 
 abandon an acquaintance that promised so many 
 advantages. Mr. Clarke had as little wish as he
 
 ROGER HUNT. 145 
 
 had power to control his wife in such matters. 
 The two lived together in a harmony born of gen- 
 eral sympathy with each other's aims, and large 
 tolerance for minor points of difference.' 
 
 Mrs. Clarke was the type of woman, busy, self- 
 complacent, ambitious, which Roger usually held 
 in hearty dislike ; but her adroitness had overcome 
 some of his first prejudices. Their relation was of 
 the nature of a prolonged truce. In conversation 
 they fenced and flattered, made bold demands for 
 benefits on both sides, and wren alone preserved 
 the sense of sincerity by criticising each other 
 freely. 
 
 Roger liked the freedom of this relation when 
 nothing else in it tempted him, while the knowledge 
 of influence possessed was as pleasant as ever. 
 Though he found much to displease his taste, and 
 excite ridicule, he was sensible also of the mani- 
 fest advantages the acquaintance entailed. Mrs. 
 Clarke also understood the compensatory value of 
 things. The bargaining instinct was as fully de- 
 veloped in her as in her husband, only her trade 
 was not in corner-lots and quarter-sections. 
 When the thing she wanted was not offered, she 
 knew how to ask for it. Thus, one day she 
 brought the conversation round to her daughter 
 Nina, her deficient education, and the impover- 
 ished means in Garrison to improve it. She ended 
 by boldly asking him to become her instructor, and 
 he, though disliking it, felt obliged to consent. 
 
 Nina was seventeen at this time, awkward, over-
 
 146 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 grown, and distressingly bashful. She had inher- 
 ited the assurance of neither of her parents, and 
 seemed born for self-effacement. Any daughter, 
 however self-confident, would have been kept in 
 the background by Mrs. Clarke, who though as 
 ambitious for Nina as for herself, did not belong to 
 that order of mothers who live only to extinguish 
 themselves in their children. The shyness of her 
 general manner developed into absolute terror 
 when Nina was in the presence of Roger Hunt. 
 She knew her mother's feeling about him, and 
 looked up to him with mingled fascination and 
 fear, as a being of another order, in a way that 
 would have flattered him keenly had he suspected it. 
 Nina and Estella were to begin Vigil, and geom- 
 etry together. The new pupil proved even more 
 dull than Roger expected. He could not know 
 how far expectation had produced this result, nor 
 how his own manner operated to kill all mental 
 effort in her. Nina toiled like a slave, but with 
 continually failing results. She would sit up half 
 the night to learn a lesson by rote, only to find 
 memory and cfturage fail her completely when 
 again in her teacher's presence. Many a night 
 she cried herself to sleep. Yet she never thought 
 of seeking release for herself or uttering any com- 
 plaint. She blamed her own dullness for every- 
 thing, and looked with envy upon Estella, who 
 learned her lessons so easily, and who, more won- 
 derful still, did not seem in the least afraid of her ' 
 father. There was nothing Nina came to desire
 
 ROGER HUNT. 147 
 
 so much as a word of praise or encouragement 
 from this quarter. Had she shown a degree more 
 of assertion, manifested the least resentment, she 
 might have won what she craved; for Roger, to do 
 him justice, did not know he was either unkind 
 or unreasonable; he only knew he was intensely 
 bored. As it was, Nina longed and labored in 
 vain ; yet some element of stolid resistance in the 
 girl kept her at work. Estella watched her with 
 mingled pity and curiosity, sharpened at times by 
 a feeling like contempt. 
 
 One day she proved almost as slow as Nina in 
 the construction of a passage in their Latin exer- 
 cise, and her father let his irritation and sarcasm 
 fall on both alike. 
 
 "I suppose I am stupid," Estella replied to one 
 of his remarks, "but it won't cure me to tell me of 
 it. Why don't you explain it to us? " 
 
 Nina looked at her in frightened astonishment. 
 If a ferule had made its appearance from some con- 
 cealed place, and Estella been asked to hold out 
 her hand, she would not have been surprised. 
 
 "I expect you to recite the lesson. It is my 
 part to listen," her father retorted. 
 
 "I know; but if neither of us can recite it," 
 swinging her foot idly. 
 
 "That's a sweet confession to make. How 
 long would you remember it if I did explain? " 
 
 "I don't know," was the reply, in the same un- 
 disturbed tone, "but I suppose somebody must do 
 something, if we are to get on." Roger apparently
 
 148 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 thought so too, for he took the book and began a 
 clear though sharp exposition of the dark passage. 
 His words were luminous and to the point, and 
 soon both pupils were in entire mastery of former 
 difficulties, one of them feeling more than usually 
 abased over her dullness. 
 
 "Thank you, papa," said Estella, in her pleas- 
 antest tone, as the two gathered up their books to 
 leave the room; "you 've made it as clear as day- 
 light, has n't he, Nina?" 
 
 " Humph ! Let us hope the daylight will last, 
 at least twenty -four hours." 
 
 "Oh, but it never does, you know, papa," Es- 
 tella laughed, casting a saucy look backwards, as 
 the two passed through the door together. 
 
 "I shall never please your father," said Nina, 
 when they were by themselves. 
 
 "Nobody pleases papa who tries very hard," was 
 the reply. "I mean," Estella went on in answer 
 to Nina's look of surprise, "you shouldn't think 
 so much about pleasing him; you should think 
 about the lesson." 
 
 "How can I help it? He makes me so nervous, 
 and I know I am dreadfully dull." 
 
 "He used to make me nervous, too," said Es- 
 tella, with an experienced air, "but I made up my 
 mind not to let him. What is the use? It only 
 bothers and hinders you. If you do the best you 
 can, what more can people expect? I think papa 
 is very unreasonable sometimes." 
 
 Estella had a way of saying such things that did
 
 ROGER HUNT. 149 
 
 not seem disrespectful, making candor look like 
 impartiality. 
 
 " It must be a great trial to a man so gifted as 
 your father to teach a girl like me," Nina went on 
 after a moment's pause. 
 
 Estella made no reply to this. She was proud 
 of the reputation her father had gained, but it added 
 little warmth of feeling. "Gifted " people are apt 
 to suffer some diminution of glory in the minds of 
 those standing nearest them. 
 
 The lessons continued until the late spring, when 
 Nina accompanied her mother on a visit to New 
 York, spending the summer at the seashore, and 
 not returning until the middle of autumn. Six 
 months sometimes accomplishes marvels for a girl 
 just turning eighteen. Nina left the impression 
 on all her friends, as on Roger, of unformed girl- 
 hood, awkward and self-conscious; but the grub 
 remains such to outward vision up to the moment 
 it slips the chrysalis sheath and expands its wings 
 as butterfly. When Mrs. Clarke and her daugh- 
 ter returned to Garrison, it was apparent to all who 
 saw that the chrysalis stage was over. Nina had 
 scarcely tried her wings as yet, but she had learned 
 she had them. The unripe girlhood of a few 
 months before had passed like an ugly dream. 
 
 Beauty in a woman brings a sense of power which 
 more substantial traits arouse in a man; but with 
 Nina it looked as if this power were not to be put 
 to foolish uses. When she looked in the mirror 
 and saw the changed reflection of herself, she felt
 
 150 BOGER HUNT. 
 
 no special elation or vanity, only gratitude. She 
 had felt alone and helpless before; now that peo- 
 ple were beginning to notice her more and say 
 kind things about her, it meant that she might find 
 some place of real trust and usefulness among them, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Nina's beauty was of the full -flowered type that 
 startles at first glance, yet that does not satiate. 
 Her rather large figure had lost its angles and pre- 
 sented a succession of curved outlines that melted 
 into each other as she stood or moved about, with 
 an effect like music. The dark eyes showed sen- 
 sibility and intelligence, the drooping lids giving 
 them a dreamy expression. Her coloring would 
 have been too rich had not much of the old shyness 
 remained, which now seemed to cover her with a 
 veil of maidenly purity. Her manner was at once 
 frank and appealing, and unaffected as a child's. 
 
 If Nina's beauty had discovered a trace of 
 coarseness, her mother would have been more dis- 
 pleased than gratified at the change in her. As it 
 was, she did not allow gratification to overcome 
 prudence. On her return the young girl had taken 
 the town by storm. Tongues wagged, and conniv- 
 ing brains began to plot. Society in Garrison had 
 received a new impetus, and all the dangers of young 
 bellehood began to assail Nina. Mrs. Clarke 
 yielded to the current graciously but discreetly. 
 She was not going to vulgarize Nina by excesses of 
 any kind. She might suit the standards of Gar- 
 rison as she was, but not her mother's. Nina must
 
 ROGER HUNT. 151 
 
 continue her studies. A few months before she had 
 fully intended to send her to an Eastern college, 
 but now that she had blossomed out in this unex- 
 pected fashion, that scheme seemed impracticable. 
 She looked about, therefore, for the best means of 
 private instruction within reach, and Professor 
 Hunt's services were again pleaded for. Regular 
 masters were employed for the languages and 
 music, a judicious degree of social indulgence was 
 to be permitted; but for the substantial Nina 
 was put unreservedly into her former instructor's 
 hands. Roger had not yet met Nina when this 
 arrangement was made. Estella had seen her, and 
 had spoken rapturously of the change in her, but 
 the subject had interested him little. He was re- 
 luctant to resume his charge in this direction, but 
 saw no way to avoid it. 
 
 "Take her," her mother said, "and do what you 
 like with her. Put her back into mental arith- 
 metic if you want to." 
 
 "Mental arithmetic," he exclaimed. Did she 
 not know mental arithmetic was the crowning im- 
 becility of our educational system? 
 
 "Is it? Nina will be glad to hear it. I will 
 admit I have a preference for a course in English. 
 I don't know whether I ought to tell you, but she 
 dreads to begin with you again. She is terribly 
 afraid of you." 
 
 Roger was not wholly surprised at this, but her 
 words made less impression on him then than at a 
 later period, when he recalled them.
 
 152 ROGEB HUNT. 
 
 "Teach her to think, if you can," the mother 
 went on, "to have a mind of her own. If she 
 wasn't my daughter, I should say she was the 
 most tiresomely docile creature on earth. I would 
 give half her amiability for a little more self-asser- 
 tion. I don't mean I want her to equal you in that 
 respect." 
 
 "You think I am self-assertive?" 
 
 She laughed. "You are as meek as Moses when 
 he slew the Egyptian "' 
 
 "Didn't the Egyptian deserve his fate? " 
 
 "Very likely. But to get back to Nina. As I 
 was saying, she is too good-natured. Any other 
 girl would have had her head turned with the fuss 
 made over her at Cape May last summer, but she 
 seemed only to enjoy it, without letting it spoil 
 her." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Roger, frowning a 
 little as he always did when Mrs. Clarke got on to 
 her society tone. "You hoped it might spoil her 
 a little?" 
 
 "How dull you are! I only want Nina to have 
 some strength of character. I don't know who 
 can impart it better than you," in a tone that im- 
 plied flattery and blame at the same time. "You 
 can at least teach her not always to agree with 
 people." He smiled faintly. 
 
 "If a girl can't learn to say 'No, ' " she went on, 
 "I don't know what will become of her. Nina is 
 just the girl to accept the first man that offers him- 
 self. She wouldn't want to hurt his feelings."
 
 ROGER. HUNT. 153 
 
 "You wish her to marry, then? " 
 
 "I should think what I said indicated the op- 
 posite," was the rather sharp reply. "Marriage 
 will take care of itself, with a girl like Nina. I 
 have always been opposed to early marriages. 
 You have an artistic temperament and are roman- 
 tic, so I suppose you approve them?" She paused 
 for an answer but he was silent. " I did not marry 
 until I was twenty-seven. If I had accepted my 
 first offer, I should be living in a Connecticut farm- 
 house, and doing my own washing." 
 
 "Isn't a woman willing to do her own washing 
 if she loves a man?"' 
 
 "She courts the opportunity." 
 
 "I am trying to guess," he said, after a minute's 
 silence, "whether you wanted to accept him." 
 
 "You may guess as much as you like." 
 
 "Is it your experience that marriages made late 
 in life are any happier?" he asked, lingering on a 
 subject that interested him above all others. She 
 laughed and shrugged her shoulders, snugly incased 
 in shining black satin. She understood his disposi- 
 tion to sentimentalize in some directions, but flat- 
 tered herself she knew how to keep it in check. 
 
 "I don't know, I am sure. My own case has 
 been pretty bad," with another ironic laugh, "but 
 I shouldn't like to generalize on that." 
 
 "At least there is some measure of innocence 
 and true feeling entering into young marriages, on 
 one side or the other," he said, with some warmth. 
 
 "Innocence that stands for ignorance."
 
 154 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I sometimes think you are very worldly- 
 minded." 
 
 "You may think so always, so far as I am con- 
 cerned. I certainly mean to improve all my oppor- 
 tunities. That is the reason I ask you once more, 
 'Will you take Nina?'" 
 
 "I will take her," he replied briefly. 
 
 "Thank you; and when can she begin? To- 
 morrow? " 
 
 It might as well be to - morrow as later, he 
 thought, and assented. She thanked him again. 
 
 "You are very kind." The subject dropped 
 there, and the talk flowed to other channels. 
 There was a business side to the arrangement, which 
 was deftly managed by Mrs. Clarke, and never al- 
 luded to by either of them. At proper intervals 
 Roger received a check, generous, but not vulgarly 
 large ; of a proportion suited to the circumstances 
 of the case, and gratifying the aesthetic tastes of 
 both donor and receiver.
 
 XI. 
 
 THE relation between the two girls naturally 
 suffered a change after Nina's return. The differ- 
 ence in their ages, which seemed unimportant be- 
 fore, was now very apparent. The two had stood 
 side by side in their studies, where Estella was not 
 in advance, and the latter did not easily submit to 
 the altered aspect of affairs. Hitherto she had felt 
 that she gave quite as much as she received in this 
 acquaintance, and had even been conscious at times 
 of a patronizing feeling towards her friend ; now 
 it looked as if the right of patronage lay on the 
 other side. 
 
 When Nina returned home, at the close of the 
 period of summer transmutation, Estella hastened 
 to meet her, but was quite abashed at the vision of 
 the tall, distinguished looking young woman, who 
 came forward to speak to her. Not that she found 
 anything to complain of in Nina's manner, which 
 was cordial and kind. She stooped down and kissed 
 her friend, who somehow in this new juncture 
 seemed about half her size; then bore her away 
 to her own room to talk with her undisturbed, and 
 show her the new dresses, jewels, and other treas- 
 ures accumulated in the season's absence, and at- 
 testing the dawn of a new era.
 
 156 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 It was perhaps because Nina made so many well- 
 intentioned efforts to please, that Estella, sensitive 
 and observant, resented them. Conflicting feelings 
 struggled within her, admiration, jealous pain, and 
 growing surprise. In spite of her friendliness, Es- 
 tella knew that Nina also felt the changed situation 
 between them. She was both hurt and puzzled, 
 and showed a shyness quite new to her. She 
 looked as uncomfortable as she felt, and was con- 
 scious of making stupid replies, listening to her 
 companion's talk with an indifference that looked 
 like envy. Mrs. Clarke came into the room while 
 the two were together. 
 
 "You find Nina changed? " she said to Estella, 
 noting the young girl's mystified look. 
 
 "I think she is very beautiful," Estella replied, 
 in a tone at once devout and mournful. Mrs. 
 Clarke gave an easy laugh, and Nina, who had lost 
 none of her former sensitiveness, blushed. 
 
 "Never mind, my dear," her mother said, with 
 well-meant kindness. "Any girl of reasonable 
 size has a great advantage over a big creature like 
 Nina. She can go quietly along with her studies, 
 and do everything more thoroughly. Nobody ex- 
 pects her to act the grown woman before she is 
 nineteen." 
 
 "Oh, for that matter, I don't know that any one 
 has ever expected anything from me," Estella re- 
 plied, with a little petulance. Mrs. Clarke's words 
 grated on her, she hardly knew why ; but that lady 
 was apt to praise people in a way that brought out 
 all their defects.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 157 
 
 "I am sure Estella has always had the advan- 
 tage of me," said Nina. "She is far ahead of me 
 in her studies." 
 
 "Yes, Nina thinks you are quite a prodigy," the 
 mother said, in continued good will; but Estella 
 was not in a mood to be grateful for the compensa- 
 tion that might lie in a taste for mathematics and 
 Latin roots. She longed for some more material 
 sign of power. She felt sore and humiliated, the 
 more so that she knew Nina had done nothing to 
 arouse such feelings; she could find no way to 
 restore self-respect except by praising Nina in the 
 highest terms. 
 
 "She is so beautiful, mamma," she said, seated 
 on the edge of her mother's bed, Eleanor kept 
 her bed a good deal in these days ; " I never dreamed 
 any one could be so beautiful." She ended with 
 a sigh impossible to repress, and her mother smiled. 
 
 "You must bring her in to see me." 
 
 Estella shook her head, not in denial of this re- 
 quest, but in foreboding of matters that lay deeper. 
 
 "Nina can't care for Such an insignificant little 
 thing as I am, any more." Her mother looked at 
 her attentively. 
 
 "How long has Estella Hunt regarded herself 
 as insignificant? " she asked. 
 
 The girl flushed and looked convicted. She was 
 indeed too much her father's child to make self -de- 
 preciation natural. 
 
 "You must remember that Nina is two years 
 older than you."
 
 158 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "She did not seem to think she was so much 
 older, last spring." To herself Estella added that 
 she was ten times older than Nina in some things. 
 
 "You both had to find it out some time. 
 Wasn't Nina pleasant this morning? " 
 
 " Oh yes ; she is n't a bit spoiled. She tried her 
 best to make me feel as if I were eighteen too," 
 laughing dismally. 
 
 "Don't wish away your youth, my child. It 
 will pass quickly enough. Nina is a good girl, I 
 think." 
 
 "Of course she is good. That is what I don't 
 think is fair. She ought to be satisfied with being 
 beautiful. You don't think I.'m jealous, do you, 
 mamma? " bending anxiously over the bed. 
 
 "I think you are too sensible to let yourself be 
 jealous." 
 
 "Thank you, mamma. I am so glad you are 
 willing to give me a little time. I don't mean to 
 go on this way much longer; you '11 see how beau- 
 tifully I '11 bring myself round. I 'm not jealous," 
 she added, more seriously? "I should like Nina 
 to have all she wants. I hope she will be different 
 from me; she deserves to. I should be ashamed 
 to feel in any other way. Only," lapsing suddenly 
 from this height, "I shall be lonesome," and she 
 sighed again. 
 
 "Shall you, dear? I hope not," her mother re- 
 plied, with an anxiety that seemed rather out of 
 proportion. Her eyes rested on the young face 
 near her, so sensitive and imperious, with a look of
 
 ROGER HUNT. 159 
 
 wistful concern and question Estella had noticed 
 before. She forbore to tell her mother many of 
 her small troubles, because of the undue impor- 
 tance the latter attached to them; she was apt to 
 take them harder than the girl herself did. 
 
 "What a silly thing I am! " Estella exclaimed, 
 springing to her feet. "I shall not be lonesome 
 either. What do I want of Nina Clarke or any 
 one else, so long as I have you, you dear old dar- 
 ling mamma? " bending over and kissing her. 
 "Now I 'm going into the kitchen and make you 
 the loveliest bowl of celery soup I mean a bowl 
 of loveliest celery soup, " with a laugh. "Jane will 
 be cross, but I don't care. She 's getting to be a 
 perfect tyrant. Even papa is afraid of her." 
 
 When Estella returned from this commission, 
 she found her father in the room. He had just 
 returned from the morning visit to his neighbor 
 which had bound him to another term of service 
 as Nina's instructor. The impulse to confide his 
 feelings to Eleanor was very rare, but the sense of 
 injury was too strong to be kept to himself. Es- 
 tella placed the tray containing her mother's light 
 repast on the stand by the bed, then turned and 
 listened a moment to what her father was saying. 
 
 "Then Nina and I are to study together again," 
 she broke in, in a pleased tone. "I am so glad." 
 
 "Indeed, you are not to study together," her 
 father replied. Both mother and daughter looked 
 their surprise at this. 
 
 "Isn't Nina willing to study with me any
 
 160 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 more?" Estella cried, her sensitive pride quickly 
 springing into flame again. 
 
 "It is I who am not willing," her father said. 
 "You have got to work." These words were 
 spoken with an emphasis that implied a distinction 
 the girl at once understood, and which was rather 
 flattering; still she was disappointed. 
 
 "What is Nina going to do? " she asked, with a 
 pout. 
 
 "Nina is going in for the usual lady -like accom- 
 plishments." 
 
 "Why can't I go in for the accomplishments 
 too?" 
 
 "You will learn the multiplication -table first." 
 
 Estella knew what that meant. Nina was par- 
 ticularly dull at figures. She began to feel rather 
 sorry for her friend. 
 
 "Can you spare the time for separate lessons?" 
 Eleanor asked, looking at him sympathetically. 
 She knew he was unusually busy just now, finish- 
 ing a new book. Estella, seeing her mother was 
 not yet ready for lunch, took the tray back into 
 the kitchen. 
 
 "Of course I cannot spare the time." 
 
 "Then why not explain to Mrs. Clarke? She 
 ought to excuse you when she knows how busy you 
 are." 
 
 "I consented to take the girl because we need 
 the money," was the blunt reply. This was not 
 strictly true, but it served as an excuse to work off 
 his irritation. He had consented to receive Nina
 
 ROGER HUNT. 161 
 
 because he did not wish to displease her mother. 
 Eleanor looked at him in surprise. 
 
 " I told you some time ago I had met with some 
 losses, and you must know our way of living is ex- 
 pensive." The words sounded worse than he meant 
 they should, and Eleanor, who had learned to hold 
 her feelings in check, knew they were inspired 
 more by the moment's irritation than a feeling of 
 special complaint against any one ; yet they could 
 not fail to make her uneasy. She remembered 
 about the losses Roger spoke of, but had not sup- 
 posed the result was serious. 
 
 "If we must economize, I am sure we can find 
 better ways than that," she said. "We can dis- 
 charge the doctor. I have wanted to speak to 
 you about it before. There is no need of his com- 
 ing." 
 
 "Who said anything about the doctor?" Roger 
 asked, with quick offense. "Do you think I com- 
 plain of such things ? " 
 
 "No, dear, no. It is only because there is no 
 need of his coming. He cannot help me. And I 
 cannot bear to be a useless expense to you." 
 
 "We will drop the subject, if you please," he 
 said in a displeased tone. 
 
 "I did not mean to hurt you, Roger. Don't be 
 so harsh and suspicious of me " 
 
 "It is you who are suspicious of me. You 
 might think of me as a man of honor, if you no 
 longer care for me." 
 
 "If I did not cars for you, Roger, could you
 
 162 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 have the power to hurt me so? I only said what 
 was true," cause enough for speaking, usually, 
 in his mind, "the doctor can't help me. No- 
 body can help me " - her voice breaking. Roger 
 remained silent, while . her breath came in quick 
 labored gasps, prelude to one of those hysterical 
 breakdowns he so disliked. 
 
 "Nobody can help me," she burst out again, 
 letting the full tide of feeling sweep over her. 
 "Not even God, else he would let me die. I don't 
 wonder you grow impatient, Roger." 
 
 This was another of those outbreaks of impetu- 
 ous speech she had learned to control during late 
 years, not only unintended, but belying her real 
 wish and thought, and ending in quick remorse 
 almost before the words died on her lips ; but the 
 one who heard them stored them up in an embit- 
 tered memory, where they served to harden convic- 
 tion and strengthen pitiless resolve anew. Roger 
 turned white with anger. 
 
 " If you think me such a coarse brute as that, I 
 had better leave you," he said; but that was now 
 impossible. She had reached the climax of the 
 nervous spasm in which such scenes ended, and 
 he was obliged to go to her assistance. The attack 
 was short but violent, and she lay spent and white 
 on her pillow, clinging still to Roger's hand. 
 
 "Forgive me, dear," she whispered. "I did not 
 mean to vex you." He did not answer, his face 
 keeping still its look of stern self -in jury. 
 
 She looked at him yearningly.
 
 ROGEE HUNT. 163 
 
 "It is hard for you to forgive, isn't it, Roger? " 
 
 "We have had enough of painful discussion, 
 Eleanor. Shall I give you a drink ?" She waved 
 away the glass he took from the stand with a faint 
 motion of her head. 
 
 "You are hard, Roger, you are hard." 
 
 "I am trying to be just." 
 
 "Oh, I know what you call it, but I could not 
 treat you so, Roger. If I were the strong one, I 
 should not be so careful to keep my strength; I 
 should not care whether I was consistent or not. 
 And if you were the weak one, and needing any- 
 thing from me, a loving word or look, you should 
 have it, whether I felt it or not, if I had to peril 
 my soul for it." She was growing excited again. 
 
 "I do not understand you." This was true. 
 "You are agitating yourself without cause. I am 
 sorry I do not please you." 
 
 "Was he sorry?" she asked herself. "Was he 
 ever really sorry for anything." For it had long 
 seemed to Eleanor, in spite of her strong desire to 
 be just, that Roger was never so much grieved over 
 any loss or disappointment, however real, as newly 
 confirmed in a proud belief in himself. Genuine 
 grief contains the element of a deeper trust and 
 sense of dependence than any he had manifested 
 even when he loved her most. 
 
 The nurse entering the room soon after, Roger 
 left it. The sick woman turned her head on the 
 pillow and closed her eyes, and when Estella again 
 entered with the little tray, she signed to her that
 
 164 ROGER HUNT, 
 
 her mother was asleep, and the girl again quietly 
 left the room. 
 
 The money losses Roger spoke of were the result 
 of a business venture quite out of keeping with his 
 usual habits, and not likely to be repeated. 
 
 The real estate speculation, which had built up 
 the fortunes of Garrison, developed into a positive 
 mania now and then; and it was during one of 
 these periods of commerical greed and excitement 
 that Roger had been bitten, but with medicinal 
 effect, since the result had shamed even more than 
 it angered him. That did not, however, prevent 
 him from holding in stronger dislike than before 
 his neighbor, Thomas Clarke, who had advised 
 him against the venture. 
 
 Roger had sought advice from this quarter with 
 great reluctance, not daring to do without it; yet 
 with the feeling that for a man like himself merely 
 to ask counsel from another, of the mental calibre 
 of Thomas Clarke, ought to procure the kind he 
 wanted. When the advice proved of a different 
 order, he considered himself justified in rejecting it, 
 both for the manner in which it had been given, 
 and the motive he chose to fancy might lay be- 
 neath. 
 
 The Eagle Company, of which Thomas Clarke 
 was president, was the oldest and wealthiest real 
 estate concern in Garrison, with a fame and credit 
 that extended far beyond. From time to time new 
 syndicates arose, waned or prospered, but the 
 Eagle continued to lead. The latest of these new
 
 ROGER HUNT. 165 
 
 enterprises was known as the Swampscott, which 
 had purchased a large tract of lowlands adjacent 
 to the town in another direction from which the 
 Eagle's investments lay; one which the Eagle had 
 overlooked, the leaders of the rival company said, 
 which it had looked at and passed by, said the 
 friends of the older firm. Yet Swampscott was 
 not without its possibilities; even some of the di- 
 rectors of the Eagle had been heard to admit that. 
 Once let the tide of suburban emigration set that 
 way, and stock in Sunrise, the name of the little 
 village the Eagle had founded, would sensibly de- 
 preciate. Popular opinion wavered back and forth 
 between the rising promise of the new and the es- 
 tablished merits of the old; and commercially the 
 town was divided into two factions. Older and 
 more cautious heads argued that if Swampscott 
 were really worth while, the Eagle would have got 
 hold of it before this, while younger speculators 
 were confident in the belief that the Eagle could n't 
 get hold of it. Some of them thought it time that 
 rapacious bird was taught to keep 'its claws off 
 from something. Roger Hunt was among these. 
 
 There was something intolerable to him in the 
 social autocracy of a man like Thomas Clarke, 
 who boasted he had not received even a common- 
 school education, yet who patronized his betters, 
 and recognized no merit or distinction in another 
 he did not possess himself. Though he would not 
 labor directly to bring it about, the downfall of 
 such a man, he could not but feel, would be an
 
 160 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 act of wholesome moral discipline, and a benefit to 
 the entire community. 
 
 The excitement grew, and party feeling ran 
 higher each day. Meantime the Eagle kept up its 
 usual habits, here as in its native wilds, looked 
 at the sun without winking, and fixed an atten- 
 tive eye on its unconscious prey below. Thomas 
 Clarke went about with his hands in his pockets 
 and a face about as communicative as the iron 
 door of his combination safe. Roger's irritation 
 against him increased with the compulsion he felt 
 himself under to seek his help ; and the two men 
 greeted each other with a strained politeness, the 
 morning the former called at the office of the Eagle. 
 The president frowned when he learned his visitor's 
 errand, then masked his face with an inscrutable 
 expression, pulling at his gray mustache and twirl- 
 ing slowly in his revolving chair. 
 
 "What do you ask me about Swampscott for?" 
 he began, after a pause, when Roger had finished. 
 "The Eagle doesn't own so much as a mayweed 
 out there. And she 's got consid'able property of 
 her own she 'd like to sell." 
 
 "It is Swampscott property I came to inquire 
 about," said Roger with a touch of hauteur, re- 
 jecting this hinted offer in another direction, as he 
 chose to consider it, and made, he thought, in the 
 worst possible taste. 
 
 "Confound the fellow! What does he mean 
 by coming round here with his infernal airs?" the 
 other exclaimed mentally.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 167 
 
 "I thought I might get your personal opinion, 
 which, in a matter of this kind," Roger spoke 
 with intentional slowness here, "would have its 
 value. But if it 's unprofessional for you to speak 
 on the subject " 
 
 "Oh, unprofessional be hanged! The Eagle," 
 and the speaker inflated his broad chest with a 
 deep breath, "says what she thinks of a thing of 
 that kind when she doesn't invest." 
 
 "She could invest then, if she wanted to?" 
 
 Thomas Clarke looked at his visitor cunningly. 
 
 "Well, she thinks she could; she may be mis- 
 taken, though." 
 
 Roger found himself devoutly hoping she might 
 prove so. "The wisest are mistaken sometimes, 
 of course," he said aloud, to fill in the pause. 
 
 "No doubt. The Eagle 's be'n here goin' on 
 twenty years now, and she ain't made no mistakes 
 yet ; but I suppose some folks 'd say that only makes 
 the time shorter when she will." 
 
 " Then I understand you advise me not to invest 
 in Swampscott?" Roger asked, bringing the dis- 
 cussion back to its definite object. 
 
 "I don't say I don't advise you to invest." 
 
 "You don't choose to invest yourself?" 
 
 "Oh, me," waving such comparisons aside loftily. 
 "I 've bit off all I can chew, already." Roger was 
 disgusted. 
 
 "See here," the other continued more seriously, 
 and swinging himself round to face his visitor 
 squarely, "suppose I should tell you I don't think
 
 168 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Swampscott 's worth twenty -five on the dollar, and 
 it was to turn out dif 'rent ; how 'd you feel towards 
 me? I suppose somebody '11 make something out 
 of it." 
 
 "Then there is a chance in it?" 
 
 "There 's a chance in the desert of Sahary if you 
 know how to operate it. How much do you know 
 about real estate any way? " 
 
 "Nothing, "Roger replied, in a tone that thanked 
 heaven for it. "I happen to have a few thousand 
 to invest, that 's all; and I thought if I could put 
 the money safely away somewhere, and let it lie 
 idle for a time" 
 
 "You 'd wake up some morning and find it had 
 doubled itself three or four times over. Perhaps 
 you will." 
 
 "I see that I am detaining you," Roger said 
 rising from his chair. 
 
 "I 'm sorry if I 've offended you," the other re- 
 plied, rising also, "but don't you see I 'm not the 
 man you want to ask about a thing of this kind. 
 I 'm an interested party." A quick flash of sus- 
 picion darted across Roger's face. He was the 
 most literal man. living in some things, despite 
 those higher qualities of imagination his friends 
 praised so highly. 
 
 "Come now," the other went on, "I guess you'd 
 made up your mind what you was goin' to do be- 
 fore you consulted me. Folks gen 'rally have, I 
 notice. You think it 's only my candid opinion 
 you want."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 169 
 
 "Certainly, that is all I want." 
 
 "Well, it wouldn't sound candid if I was to 
 give it; it 'd sound a mighty sight worse." 
 
 Roger's vexation increased, and so did his sus- 
 picion. 
 
 "Is it true," he asked with an unpleasant sug- 
 gestion in look and tone, "that if Swampscott goes 
 up, Sunrise goes down?" 
 
 A deep flush colored the other man's face, and 
 he set his heavy jawa together firmly. He was 
 touched in a sensitive spot. 
 
 "You '11 find plenty of damned fools who '11 tell 
 you so," he said angrily. 
 
 It was now Roger's turn to take offense. 
 
 "I don't understand," he replied cuttingly. 
 "They are fools for thinking so, or only damned 
 because they do?" 
 
 The other gave vent to a snort? of impatient 
 laughter, and Roger feeling that it was hopeless to 
 try to get anything more from this quarter, and 
 indignant with himself for coming at all, made his 
 escape into the street. 
 
 The president of the Eagle projected a few un- 
 spoken anathemas after his departing visitor, and 
 returned to his desk with a vexed and troubled 
 countenance. He foresaw Roger's loss as distinctly 
 as next morning's breakfast, and the knowledge 
 that it would be largely deserved did not lessen his 
 own feeling of accountability. He reflected that 
 his wife would be even more disturbed than he was 
 if she knew of this visit, and resolved not to tell
 
 170 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 her ; which was probably the reason she learned all 
 about it within a few days. 
 
 "You should have refused to give your opinion 
 at all," she said, in an annoyed tone, after the first 
 questions and exclamations were over. They were 
 taking an evening drive, returning from the stock 
 farm. 
 
 "I didn't give him my opinion; that is, not 
 d'reckly." 
 
 "What did you tell him?" she asked anx- 
 iously. 
 
 "Oh, I kind o' parried him," he replied, leaning 
 forward to brush a fly from the horse's flank. 
 
 "Parried him! Parry a man like Professor 
 Hunt you!" 
 
 She did not mean to be disrespectful, but the 
 image her husband's words called up was one the 
 most liberal fancy failed to entertain. "You had 
 better have spoken outright, and said what you 
 thought." 
 
 "Anybody but a darned literary crank 'd 'a 
 known what I thought," was the testy reply. 
 "Darned" was the severest expletive Mr. Clarke 
 indulged in before his wife, who suffered this and 
 other mild lapses without rebuke. 
 
 "You can't teach a man like Hunt anything. 
 What hand the Lord didn't have in making this 
 universe he did, and he could 'a took the whole 
 job if he 'd been asked. He did n't mean to take 
 my advice anyway. That 's the reason he asked 
 it."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 171 
 
 "You have always disliked him." 
 
 "Well, that ain't seemed to hinder my letting 
 you run after him a good deal," he replied with a 
 mixture of jocoseness and discontent. 
 
 "Don't use such expressions. I don't see why 
 he should go to you on such a matter." 
 
 "Who else should he go to, I 'd like to know," 
 his professional pride aflame. "If there 's anybody 
 in Garrison knows more about real estate than 
 Tom Clarke does, I 'd like to see him." 
 
 "I don't mean that; I mean it was in such poor 
 taste. I can't bear mixing up social and business 
 relations in that way." 
 
 "There ain't much mix, 's far 's I 'm concerned. 
 He won't be wanting any more advice from me, for 
 a spell. But I hate to see a man lose good money, 
 even Hunt." 
 
 "Dear me! Will he lose his money?" Mrs. 
 Clarke asked in genuine concern. "What makes 
 you so sure he will lose?" 
 
 " What makes me sure the Mississip' will go on 
 running towards the Gulf next week, same as she 's 
 doin' now? The trouble with them Swampscott 
 fellows is they hain't got the capital. You 've 
 got to have capital to operate with, in the real 
 estate business." 
 
 Mrs. Clarke sighed and said she supposed so. 
 She had but a vague idea of what was meant by 
 this "operating" power of capital, and was faintly 
 suspicious at times of things which, had she time 
 to look into them deeper, she might have disap-
 
 172 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 proved of. But she never had time to look into 
 them. As has been said, she and her husband gave 
 each other a wide freedom, she resigning to him 
 the entire management of those money concerns 
 she knew nothing of, yet was so dependent on ; he 
 yielding to her in all matters of a social and do- 
 mestic nature. He humored her even where he 
 did not understand her, as in her taste for the so- 
 ciety of a man like Hunt; regarding it with much 
 the same good-natured tolerance he did her fancy 
 for Persian rugs and a six o'clock dinner served in 
 courses. He himself preferred old-fashioned Brus- 
 sels of the biggest and gayest pattern, and still 
 cherished a primitive relish for a dinner of boiled 
 vegetables; but he looked up to her as a superior 
 being on some points, respecting without envying 
 those mental accomplishments which added new 
 lustre and power to the wife of a man in his po- 
 sition, but were not necessary in the first person. 
 At the same time he loved her with that romantic 
 fondness which the American husband, even of his 
 busy and self-engrossed type, regards the choice 
 of his early years.
 
 XII. 
 
 ESTELLA HUNT had inherited much of her fa- 
 ther's mental courage, though as she grew older 
 she sometimes failed to sympathize with the ideas 
 fostering it in him. This difference showed itself 
 in one way, at about this time, in a wish of hers, 
 long cherished before spoken, to attend church. 
 She was growing rather sensitive over the many 
 points of difference between themselves, as a fam- 
 ily, and their neighbors. The sense of isolation 
 was increasing, which even the knowledge of the 
 natural, and to a degree flattering, causes leading 
 to it, such as her mother's long illness, and her fa- 
 ther's studious habits, could not entirely do away 
 with. These were not sufficient in the young 
 girl's mind for imposing other obstacles to natu- 
 ral intercourse with the world about them. This 
 exclusiveness, she began to see, brought many 
 disadvantages, which she was unwilling to submit 
 to without a struggle. She had been brought up 
 almost as rigidly as a girl in a convent, and her 
 desire to go to church was but part of her keen 
 young interest in life and her kind. 
 
 The subject of religion was not often discussed 
 in the household; but Estella knew her father 
 agreed as little in the general judgment here as
 
 174 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 elsewhere. Her mother's views she was unable to 
 determine, but the long years of uncomplaining 
 suffering she had witnessed, and her goodness, led 
 her to think she must be very religious. One day 
 at Mrs. Clarke's she overheard some one speak of 
 her father as an "infidel," but Mrs. Clarke had 
 corrected this statement, and declared he was only 
 an "agnostic." Estella did not know the differ- 
 ence, and shortly after, one morning when she and 
 her father were in her mother's room, she asked 
 him to explain it. "Infidel "he told her was a 
 purely relative term: "A Christian is infidel to 
 the Mohammedan form of faith as the Moham- 
 medan is to the Christian. An 'agnostic ' is one 
 who simply refuses to dogmatize about things he 
 does not understand. 'Agnosticism' means 'with- 
 out knowledge. ' ' 
 
 "Then are you an agnostic, papa?" She gath- 
 ered as much from the unprejudiced definition he 
 had given her. 
 
 "Not at all." Roger's basis of opinion in these 
 matters would have been difficult to define, even to 
 an adult understanding; being a compound of He- 
 gelian mysticism and modern science, with a liberal 
 dash of Fichte's doctrine of the ego thrown in. 
 
 "Some of the best minds are agnostic and infi- 
 del, Estella," her mother said. 
 
 "That is what Mrs. Clarke said; then I don't 
 see why they should be used as terms of reproach." 
 
 "They are not by intelligent people," said her 
 father.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 175 
 
 "Don't you call Rector James intelligent? " 
 
 "What do you know of Rector James's views on 
 these subjects?" 
 
 "I heard him preach, last Sunday. His subject 
 was 'Modern Infidelity.'' Roger gave a short 
 contemptuous laugh. 
 
 "I let her go," said Eleanor, looking at him anx- 
 iously. "She wanted to go. If I had known " 
 
 "Pooh ! let her go." It would be strange, he 
 thought, if he could not counteract the effect of a 
 Rector James's teachings. 
 
 "Oh, papa! May I go to church, really? " 
 
 This was putting the subject in a more general 
 way he was not prepared for, and he looked at her 
 with a slight frown. 
 
 "What do you want to go to church for? " 
 
 "Because other people do." 
 
 "That is a very poor reason. Do you think 
 association with a man like Mr. Abbot would be 
 so improving? " Mr. Abbot was a defaulting 
 bookkeeper in a large establishment in town, who 
 had narrowly escaped the penitentiary ; he was also 
 a prominent member of Rector James's flock. 
 
 "I don't see what that has to do with it," Es- 
 tella replied. She seemed disappointed, and looked 
 appealingly at her mother. 
 
 "I think mamma would be willing I should go," 
 she said hesitatingly. 
 
 "No doubt," and Roger laughed harshly. "She 
 certainly likes doing as other people do," in a 
 significant tone Eleanor alone could understand.
 
 176 ROGEE HUNT. 
 
 "Once she tried to do something different, but 
 she 's been repenting of it ever since." 
 
 These words of dire and cruel import would not 
 have been spoken, perhaps, had not Roger still been 
 under the influence of his newly-aroused resent- 
 ment against Eleanor, besides feeling fresh cause 
 of vexation with her this morning, over some house- 
 hold matter gone wrong, an insignificant affair, 
 save that it had caused him considerable personal 
 annoyance. 
 
 Eleanor, who was pale before, turned whiter 
 still, and clasping the arm of her chair, half rose to 
 her feet. 
 
 "Roger!" she exclaimed imploringly. It was 
 absurd, she knew, but she was wildly afraid at 
 such times, when such words of dark and threaten- 
 ing allusion fell from him, that he would expose 
 her to their child. The dread of Estella's discov- 
 ery of that deed of her past hung over her like 
 Damocles' sword. Should this frightful know- 
 ledge ever reach her, and she read her judgment in 
 her daughter's face, Eleanor felt its work would 
 be mercifully swift and instantaneous, like the 
 lightning's stroke. Her own would be the easier 
 part; she should die. But Estella must live. 
 Not a day passed in which she did not pray the 
 cruel truth might never reach her. Surely she had 
 a right to pray for that, not for the lessening of her 
 own punishment, simply that the innocent might be 
 spared. Estella looked from one to the other with 
 a puzzled face, though such scenes were not wholly
 
 ROGER HUNT. 177 
 
 new to her. It was impossible she should under- 
 stand her father's words, but she felt pained and a 
 little indignant on her mother's behalf. 
 
 "I think other people had better tjy to be like 
 mamma," she said. "I don't know what she can 
 have to repent of, unless it 's her goodness, and if 
 it 's that she '11 be kept busy," going towards her 
 and bending over her, fondly drawing the little 
 shawl she wore closer about her shoulders. 
 
 "If you think people need not repent, papa," 
 turning towards him with a little pertness, and 
 recalling other things she had heard him say on this 
 point, "then I needn't mind taking your gold pen 
 yesterday and spoiling it." 
 
 "Estella, I have told you many times not to go 
 into the library when your father is not there," 
 said her mother reprovingly. 
 
 "I don't care how much she goes into the li- 
 brary," said Roger. "You may ' repent ' or not," 
 he added, to Estella, "but I cannot afford a new 
 pen, and will deduct the amount from your next 
 allowance." The girl shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I had better have said I repented." 
 
 " For that matter you '11 generally find it easier 
 to repent of a thing than to accept the conse- 
 quences." 
 
 Eleanor bit her lips to hide their quivering. 
 Something caught in her throat and brought on a 
 fit of coughing, which wrenched the thin frame with- 
 out mercy. Estella flew to her side, and clasped her 
 in her strong young arms. Roger stepped to a table
 
 178 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 and poured a mixture from a bottle into a wine- 
 glass, but the nurse, hurriedly entering- at that 
 moment, took it from him and carried it to the 
 patient. Seeling his presence superfluous, he left 
 the room. , 
 
 Estella remained at her mother's side, assisting 
 the nurse with deft and willing hands until quiet 
 was restored, and her mother breathed freely once 
 more; winning, as she had before, the hired atten- 
 dant's praise. 
 
 "You'd make a good nurse yourself, Miss 
 Stella." 
 
 "Oh, no," laughed the girl; "not unless I loved 
 all my patients as I do my first," bending forward 
 and kissing her mother. "But I should like to be 
 a doctor, and ride about the country, giving peo- 
 ple advice, and collecting the fees." She laughed 
 again, and drawing a chair, sat down at her mo- 
 ther's side, taking her hand and gently stroking 
 it. The nurse, Mrs. Saunders, left the room, and 
 Estella grew thoughtful again. 
 
 "Mamma, why does papa blame good people for 
 their faults so much more than bad people? " By 
 "good " people Estella meant those who made pub- 
 lic profession to be such. 
 
 "You don't always understand your father, Es- 
 tella." 
 
 "Well," said the girl with a sigh, "I don't see 
 why it is any worse for Mr. Abbot to have been 
 dishonest and cheated his employer than it would 
 be if he were a free-thinker, like papa."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 179 
 
 " Surely, my dear, you think people should live 
 up to their professions. Deceit is a sin in itself," 
 a shadow falling on her face. 
 
 "Yes, I know." ' 
 
 "Not that I mean to say Mr. Abbot is deceit- 
 ful," her mother added quickly. "I do not know 
 him." 
 
 "You dear mamma! If people waited for you 
 to find out their faults, they 'd have an easy time." 
 
 "I don't know that Estella Hunt has always 
 found it so." 
 
 "No," with a smile, "but I don't count. I 
 don't understand either," coming back to the sub- 
 ject that occupied her, "why papa has such a con- 
 tempt for the 'average ' opinion, as he calls it. 
 Are n't most of us average people?" 
 
 "Your father has a very self-reliant nature. 
 He looks into things more deeply than most peo- 
 ple do." 
 
 "I suppose that is the reason he likes being in 
 the minority. I heard him tell Mr. Clarke once 
 that he had never yet voted for the party in power. 
 Does that mean the party in power is always 
 wrong ; or that it is wrong because it is in power ? 
 What good can the other one do if it never gets in 
 power? Oh, dear! I get all mixed up thinking 
 about it," and she laughed dolefully. 
 
 "You must talk with your father on these sub- 
 jects, my dear," but this was advice the mother 
 knew was not easy to follow. 
 
 "I'll stop talking with you any way. You
 
 180 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 must rest," and Estella rose. Stepping behind 
 the invalid's chair, she pressed her foot on a 
 spring and lowered it gently. She then adjusted 
 the pillows and prepared to leave her. Bending 
 above her, she asked one more question. 
 
 "Do you object to my going to church, mam- 
 ma? " 
 
 "Not if your father is willing; not if it does 
 you any good." 
 
 "I don't know whether it does me good or not. 
 I only know it seems to do me harm to stay away. 
 I don't see the use of being so different from every- 
 body else, and I can't think religion is all a sham, 
 as papa does. I am sure if I were religious I 
 should be a better girl." 
 
 "You misunderstand your father," her mother 
 said, repeating the substance of her first reply. 
 "And you are a very good girl, as it is. Run 
 away now, dear. I must try to sleep," and with 
 the exchange of a kiss, Estella left the room. 
 
 In the long seclusion of her sick-room, Eleanor 
 had had opportunity to reflect on many things, 
 especially on the far-reaching questions of love and 
 marriage, which, aside from the peculiar circum- 
 stances of the case, were of keen interest to both 
 Roger and herself, though they had long ceased to 
 discuss them together. Roger's views remained 
 unchanged, but were difficult to summarize. He 
 believed as strongly as ever in man's first, su- 
 preme right to happiness, regarding most obstacles
 
 EOGER HUNT. 181 
 
 to its attainment as purely arbitrary, or springing 
 from human cowardice. He was as innate a rebel 
 now as at nineteen, with nearly the courage of that 
 period ; nor was the disposition to invent and test 
 new theories of his own wholly outgrown. 
 
 He admitted that the most daring experiment he 
 had tried had failed, but was ready to show by a 
 subtle process of reasoning that this failure was 
 due to no lack of merit in his original purpose. 
 Its cause lay outside himself, as it did outside just 
 expectation and reason. 
 
 Eleanor, obliged also to admit the failure, knew 
 well where Roger placed the blame. The blame 
 was hers. The grief and despair which this know- 
 ledge first caused had partly died out, not because 
 of failing sensibility on her part, or lessened 
 power on his; but consciousness had simply be- 
 come dulled to the thought of Roger's disappoint- 
 ment in her, as certain parts of the body had 
 grown used to pain. Somewhat calloused as she 
 had thus grown to his changed opinion of her, she 
 never had any feeling of retaliatory blame or sense 
 of injury. Perhaps it was because she had alv/ays 
 been an underling of fate that she had so little 
 power of resentment. She knew Roger so well 
 that she could even see a certain sort of justice in 
 his condemnation of her. She admitted now, as 
 she had years before, the strength of the self -consis- 
 tency that ruled all his actions, and the weakness 
 of a nature like her own, continually halting and 
 wavering on its course. Her strength had begun
 
 182 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 to fail her from the first. She acknowledged this 
 humbly, without complaint against any one else. 
 One thing only still hurt as much as it puzzled 
 her, that Roger should count her failing strength 
 as failing love. 
 
 It was hard to understand Roger's theory of 
 love. What is love? she asked herself, over and 
 over. The love of man and woman, what is that? 
 Roger seemed to mean nothing else, when he 
 talked of love. All the main friendships of his 
 life had been with women, and he was more or less 
 a lover in all such friendships, which he had not 
 ceased to cultivate altogether since he married 
 Eleanor. But to Eleanor's feeling, refined through 
 physical suffering and mental conflict, love was 
 daily losing its personal aspect, growing into some- 
 thing much larger if more vague, at once more 
 near and far removed. Without knowing it, it 
 was the religious thought of love which was slowly 
 filling her soul. She had learned much from Em- 
 erson's poem, "The Initial, the Daemonic, and the 
 Celestial Love," which she read many times before 
 she understood it, feeling newly sustained and con- 
 victed with every reading. 
 
 But God said, 
 
 I will have a purer gift ; 
 
 There is smoke in the flame. 
 
 These were the lines that repeated themselves in 
 memory and condensed the poem's lesson. She 
 had called Roger's attention to it, who pronounced 
 it a piece of transcendental moonshine ; yet he also
 
 EOGEB HUNT. 183 
 
 was an admirer of Emerson, whom he continually 
 quoted in support of his own advanced and inde- 
 pendent views. 
 
 To Eleanor the poem taught the progress of the 
 spirit from lower, material forms of love to the 
 highest, from earthly passion to heavenly calm and 
 beneficence. That was enough! The distinction 
 between love as passion and love as aspiration 
 grew clearer to her. In most souls, finitely cir- 
 cumstanced, they dwell together in endless struggle ; 
 in a few rarely-conditioned lives, warm but stain- 
 less, they blend into one. A piece of heaven is 
 dropped down to earth in the homes that crystallize 
 about such loves, the records of which have become 
 historic ; but Eleanor knew now that Roger's and 
 hers was not to be counted among these. 
 
 She never went so far as to claim that hers was 
 one kind of love, Roger's another; she was content 
 to trace the workings of the two principles in dif- 
 ferent natures. She need not have feared, however, 
 to pronounce Roger's an example of passional love, 
 for it was what he would have eloquently defended, 
 with logic the more persuasive that his worst en- 
 emy could not have said it sprung from vulgar in- 
 stincts. Love to him meant absolute absorption 
 in its object. Dr. Holmes's simile of the double 
 stars, revolving about each other, living in each 
 other's reflected light, satisfied him wholly. It 
 expressed much to Eleanor, also, but she remem- 
 bered another law, primary and antecedent, which 
 these happy double stars, as well as those that move
 
 184 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 in single state, must obey, guiding their common 
 revolution around some central sun. It was this 
 thought of love, springing from a sense of loyalty 
 to something higher than itself, that Eleanor was 
 reaching after. 
 
 How, then, did she so mistake? is it asked. Be- 
 cause to a nature, timid but aspiring, like hers, 
 the daring thing, the forbidden, done in attempted 
 mitigation of known suffering and wrong, may 
 well seem the only true thing. Experience is 
 costly, especially with the timid, and to Eleanor it 
 had seemed for a time to threaten moral beg- 
 gary. This was another proof of Roger's fatuous 
 theory that love is sufficient. She had tried to be- 
 lieve this, to act on it, but she now saw that such 
 a conception of love belongs but to a single stage 
 of human experience, and helps very little to solve 
 the great problems of life and destiny. She no 
 longer believed with Roger in man's right to hap- 
 piness, but she was learning to trace Nature's wish 
 to bestow it, so poorly understood and aided by 
 her human child. Happiness, to her, must be de- 
 fined in terms of mental peace and calm, but to 
 Roger it must still assume some form of emotional 
 excess. 
 
 From Emerson and from another source, much 
 humbler, Eleanor had received the help she needed. 
 From Nurse Saunders, as she was familiarly 
 called, who was also, except for Estella, the sick 
 woman's principal companion. 
 
 There was nothing 1 in the appearance of Mrs.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 185 
 
 Saunders to excite romantic expectation. After 
 the death of her husband she had sold the farm 
 and moved to Garrison, taking up the vocation 
 of nurse. She had been reluctant to assume her 
 present position, preferring, with utilitarian wis- 
 dom, to take care of people who expected to get 
 well ; but consenting to take the place temporarily, 
 she became so much attached to her charge that 
 she stayed on. The duties were not heavy, though 
 constant, and Roger paid her liberally. Apart 
 from the relation of the sick-room the two women 
 soon became excellent friends. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was uneducated, save in the dis- 
 trict-school sense of the term, but not illiterate, 
 being a diligent reader of the daily paper and an 
 inveterate reader of novels. Here the tastes of 
 the two differed. Most of Eleanor's reading was 
 of the higher order of poetry ; she seldom opened 
 a work of fiction, perhaps because truth had proved 
 so much stranger in her case. She listened with 
 amused and dreamy interest to her attendant's ac- 
 counts of the made-up people she had formed last 
 acquaintance with, and gathered from certain 
 words that fell from her lips from time to time 
 that she had had some unusual heart experiences 
 of her own. One day Mrs. Saunders's narrative 
 took a personal turn, and Eleanor learned some- 
 thing of her history. They had been discussing a 
 new novel, of which the reader had given her lis- 
 tener an outline. 
 
 " Her first lover died, and she married this other
 
 186 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 man to please her folks, her ma more especially. 
 He was a good man and of more v count than the 
 first; but you think she did wrong, ma'am?" 
 
 "I don't wish to judge her," said Eleanor, who 
 sat in half-reclining position in the large wheeled 
 chair. "There should be 110 marriage without 
 love." 
 
 "And you don't think that kinder respectful 
 feelin' she had for him could take the place of 
 love?" the nurse inquired, with a touch of wistful- 
 ness. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You think first love is the only true love? " 
 
 "I wouldn't say that." 
 
 "Well, that 's what most of the folks who write 
 the books try to make out. It 's different, I '11 ad- 
 mit, more upsettin'. That 's the reason, I expect, 
 folks think it 's stronger. But there 's more than 
 one woman lived to be thankful she didn't marry 
 her first love." She paused a moment. "I didn't 
 marry mine," she added. Eleanor looked at her 
 with new interest. 
 
 "You did not love your husband?" she asked 
 softly, with a faint accent of reproach. 
 
 "Not at first, ma'am. I was like the girl in 
 the book. She was a city girl and had b'en to Eu- 
 rope; Id' know 's I 'd ought to make such a com- 
 parison," she added apologetically. "I married 
 John Saunders to please my folks." 
 
 "Then your first lover died?" Eleanor said in 
 a sympathetic tone.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 187 
 
 "No ma'am, he didn't die; he deserted me." 
 
 "Deserted you! " 
 
 "He denied it afterwards, "the speaker went on, 
 as composedly as if she was reciting one of her 
 written stories, and indeed she had about the same 
 impersonal feeling for it now. "At least he apol- 
 ogized," she laughed as the word dropped from 
 her lips. "I mean he tried to explain it away. 
 Said he went away because I was too good for him, 
 that I had stricter notions 'bout things than he 
 
 O 
 
 had, and that he knew he never could live up to 
 'em. Said he knew it would be hard on me for a 
 spell, but I 'd thank him afterwards. Wa'n't that 
 funny, ma'am? But it didn't look very funny 
 to me then." 
 
 "Do you mean that you believed him?" 
 
 "I guess I didn't really believe him, but I 
 wanted to believe him. He talked that kind of 
 soft and artful 'Dolf Graham always could he 
 got me to feelin' more sorry for him than I ever 
 had for myself. I guess that 's what he set out to 
 do." 
 
 "Then why did you marry another man?*' 
 Eleanor asked in the same tone of reproach. Nurse 
 Saunders looked at her with a puzzled face. 
 
 "Why did I marry John Saunders? I 'd been 
 married to him pretty near two years when 'Dolf 
 Graham came back." 
 
 Eleanor looked more astonished still at this. 
 Here was something she had not expected, which 
 lent a new and vivid interest to the subject.
 
 188 ROGER HUNT, 
 
 "And did he want to take you away ? " she asked, 
 leaning forward in her chair and holding her breath 
 for the reply. 
 
 " Take me away ? Who ? John ? " 
 
 "No, no, the other one, your lover. Did he 
 want you to go away with him, and leave your 
 husband ? " 
 
 Nurse Saunders straightened her tall, gaunt 
 figure and looked at her patient as if in doubt of 
 her sanity. 
 
 "I don't think I understand, ma'am. What 
 kind of a woman do you think I be ? 'T was bad 
 enough my lettin' 'Dolf Graham say a word to me 
 that day I run acrost him in Mis' Peckham's or- 
 chard. Mis' Peckham 'd said I could have all the 
 early pippins I wanted, if I 'd pick 'em up off the 
 ground. Apples was very plenty that year. You 
 think I 'd let a man propose such a thing as that 
 tome?" 
 
 "I I did n't mean to offend you." 
 
 "That's all right, ma'am. You didn't know 
 John Saunders," she added excusingly. "No 
 woman John Saunders wanted to marry 'd ever 
 shame and disgrace him like that. Besides, 
 ma'am," and the homely face was suffused with a 
 tender warmth here, "I had my little girl then. 
 A child '11 generally keep a woman right, if no- 
 thin' else does." 
 
 Eleanor's eyes rested in troubled fashion on her 
 folded hands, and she murmured a faint affirma- 
 tive.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 189 
 
 " Men '11 desert their children some men will 
 but women won't, at least, not often." 
 
 "It is quite natural," said Eleanor, in a low 
 tone, "that a mother should think more of her 
 child than the father. She has cared for it from 
 birth, and before. There is very little a man 
 can do for his child, especially when it is little. 
 Sometimes he is situated so that it becomes almost 
 a stranger to him. We should not be too hard on 
 him then, I think. It seems as if Nature meant 
 the mother to be more to the child than the fa- 
 ther is." 
 
 "Mebbe she did. Then she's carried out her 
 intention; the men have helped her," with a grim 
 smile. "'T wa'n't that way at our house, though. 
 Our little one took to her father, first thing. He 
 was always a dandlin' and pettin' her; and if she 
 took sick, it was he who 'd want to take all the care 
 of her. Used to kinder put me out, sometimes. 
 But then everybody liked John. Folks was al- 
 ways comin' to him for advice, and when they was 
 in trouble. Yet he was one of the quietest men 
 ye ever see, too." 
 
 "You are quite sure you didn't love him?" 
 Eleanor asked smiling. 
 
 "P'raps I did, but not the way the books ex- 
 plain; sometimes I think it don't matter if I 
 did n't, and there 's other feelin's worth as much 
 in marriage as love, and more sure to bring peace 
 and happiness. That 's the p'int I 'm comin' to. 
 There wa'n't never much romancin' between me
 
 190 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 and John. I did n't never have that quivery, all- 
 go-to-pieces kind o' feelin' with him I used to have 
 every time 'Dolf Graham came near me. I used 
 to be jealous if 'Dolf spoke to another girl, but I 
 wa'n't never jealous of John. P'raps that was 
 because I knew John did n't care about the girls. 
 I could trust him. Nobody trusted 'Dolf Graham. 
 You look puzzled, ma'am, and no wonder. I 've 
 give up tryin' to think it out myself. All I know is 
 't was lucky for me I did n't marry 'Dolf Graham." 
 
 "And you were happy with your husband? " 
 . "Yes, ma'am; though there wa'n't never much 
 philanderm' between us, as I say. I knew John 
 was a good man ; and after you 've made your 
 choice in marriage you '11 stand by it, if you 're 
 the right sort. I couldn't help feelin' account- 
 able to John, some way. His good name was mine, 
 his honor and comfort was mine, too. I was bound 
 to help him keep 'em all. I knew John 'd cut off 
 his right hand for me; and I knew he trusted me 
 as much as I did him. John would 'a' died before 
 he 'd deceive any one, and I could n't deceive him. 
 That 's the reason I had to tell him 'bout 'Dolf 
 Graham, and my meetin' him that day in Mis' 
 Peckham's orchard." 
 
 "You told him that?" 
 
 "Yes 'm. I had to tell him. Seems if my only 
 help lay that way. I knew 'Dolf wa'n't none too 
 good to throw himself in my way again, and I 'd 
 be silly enough to let him, perhaps, if nobody knew. 
 You see I was kinder hangin' on to John in my
 
 EOGEB HUNT. 191 
 
 thoughts even when I was wrongin' him, same as 
 you do to God. I don't mean to be irreverent, 
 ma'am, but the Bible itself says you can't know the 
 love of Him save through the love of his creatures. 
 Then there was the child ; she was John's child, 
 too, you know. Seems if I couldn't never lift 
 her out of her cradle again, and her a lookin' up 
 to me, laughin' and stretchin' out her arms, till I 'd 
 told her father everything. So I told him." 
 
 "Was he angry?" 
 
 "Yes 'm; but that wa'n't the hardest to bear. 
 It was his bein' so hurt and surprised. He looked 
 just sick, and shook all over for a few minits. I 
 could see that he blamed me, at the same time he 
 tried not to, 'cause I 'd b'en honest and told him 
 everything. He knew the meetin' was an acci- 
 dent as far 's I was concerned, but I guess he 
 didn't think it was much of an accident on the 
 other side. I didn't neither." 
 
 "Were you afraid he would hurt him? that 
 John would hurt 'Dolf, your lover, I mean," Elea- 
 nor explained as the other did not seem to under- 
 stand. 
 
 "I'd rather you wouldn't call him my lover, 
 ma'am, in that way," Mrs. Saunders said respect- 
 fully, but in a tone that brought the color to her 
 mistress' cheek. "John was my lover, too. No. 
 I wa'n't afraid of his hurtin' nobody. I don't 
 know whether John ever said anything to him or 
 not; all I know is 'Dolf left them parts, and we 
 didn't see anything more of him."
 
 192 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "And you never had any regrets, any troubled 
 thoughts about him? " 
 
 "No, ma'am, not after I'd told John. Seems 
 if I 'd committed myself then, like, as if I 'd got 
 through all that foolishness and begun over again. 
 I 've sometimes thought I wa'n't really married to 
 John till then, till he knew the worst of me, and 
 had forgive me and took me back. And now I 
 want to know ma'am," coming back to the point 
 she had started from, "whether, when a girl has 
 to choose between the man she loves but don't re- 
 spect, and the man she respects but don't love, she 
 ain't a lot safer choosin' the last?" 
 
 Eleanor smiled. This was evidently the lesson 
 Nurse Saunders had gained from her own life- 
 story. Love, to her, remained the vexatious, con- 
 tradictory feeling she had found it in early youth ;. 
 the quiet, trustful feeling she had for her husband, 
 something quite different. Eleanor saw there was 
 some mental confusion here, but she learned anew 
 how essential it is that love should contain some 
 element of moral worth. 
 
 Love, with its first illusions destroyed, its trans- 
 forming power lost, what remains? she asked her- 
 self. Will the " respect " Mrs. Saunders praised 
 so highly, the wish^io be just, mutual kindness and 
 forbearance, take its place? The prospect here 
 opened was not cheerful, yet Eleanor had tasted a 
 love that disappointed more than this. She could 
 only conclude that love, like truth, in its human 
 application, must express itself in terms of human
 
 ROGER HUNT. 193 
 
 failure and incompleteness. It reigns pure and 
 absolute only at its source. Yet because it reigns 
 there it is found everywhere, though distorted 
 from its true shape, often appearing in forms that 
 mock and belie it. All men are lovers, up to their 
 degree; the conjugal, the paternal, the social im- 
 pulse, each is but a phase of one divine emotion 
 filling the universe. Every form of hate, wrong- 
 doing, and suffering must sooner or later feel its 
 healing touch. 
 
 Thus Eleanor reasoned, dimly and unhelped, 
 within herself. She was growing far more a lover 
 than Roger ever had been; but she was no nearer 
 pleasing him.
 
 XIII. 
 
 THE mental steps by which Roger's first feeling 
 of contemptuous disparagement towards his pupil, 
 Nina Clarke, changed to a more favorable one need 
 not be described. The change was the natural 
 result of the association of two minds, one of a 
 self-effacing and worshipful order, the other mas- 
 terful and fond of being worshiped. Incapacity 
 loses half its meaning when it makes frank recog- 
 nition of itself; and Nina's meek and tireless 
 efforts to 'overcome her deficiencies, the fact that 
 she never tried to make extrinsic qualities serve in 
 the place of more essential ones, could not but in 
 time more than fill the place of missing brilliancy 
 and self-assertion. This native humility did much 
 to ennoble a character that might otherwise have 
 appeared commonplace. 
 
 For a time after their renewed acquaintance 
 Roger judged her as superficially as he had always 
 done. Her beauty made no impression on him 
 save to irritate and create suspicion against her. 
 Nina looked forward to the lesson hour with much 
 the same mingled feelings of dread and longing to 
 please as when she studied with Estella. Strangely 
 enough, or perhaps not strangely, since fear, we 
 are told, is the basis of worship, these feelings
 
 ROGER HUNT. 195 
 
 never lessened admiration in this direction. Her 
 teacher was still to her a superior order of being. 
 
 Nina Clarke's large and silent nature was just 
 the kind for romantic imagination to dwell and 
 rove about in. What her mother called dullness 
 was in truth a spirit of brooding gravity, absorbed 
 in problems only dimly denned to her young con- 
 sciousness, yet filling it with keen anticipations of 
 joy and pain. It was not his literary pretensions 
 alone that made Roger the subject of so much spec- 
 ulation to herself and others, but his retired and 
 solitary life, the unique character and habits of the 
 entire household, shadowed by sickness, and a kind 
 of mysterious privacy no one seemed ever to have 
 gained the exact secret of. 
 
 Had Roger once suspected his pupil's feeling 
 towards himself, his own would have speedily 
 changed ; for the admiration we arouse in others is 
 apt to excite a similar feeling in return, among the 
 most self-absorbed. Mrs. Clarke's open regard 
 for and pride in him, as a friend, he understood 
 and valued, though sensible at times of the burdens 
 it involved; but the daughter's silence and ready 
 embarrassment he construed, as others did, into 
 signs of mental deficiency. So far was he from 
 surmising the real nature of her feeling towards 
 him that he had charged her with that gravest 
 fault of all, to a man of his disposition, utter lack of 
 appreciation, springing, he thought, from ingrati- 
 tude and slow wit. One day he learned his mis- 
 take.
 
 196 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Nina had been reading aloud a selection from 
 Chaucer. Her usual timidity was heightened by 
 the difficulties of the text, and the performance was 
 very bad. Roger listened with poorly concealed 
 impatience, correcting in nearly every line, until 
 the strain on nerves and temper became too great, 
 and he broke out into petulant rebuke, accompa- 
 nied with a few words of stinging sarcasm and 
 ridicule, which aroused a feeling of indignity even 
 in Nina. Smarting with a sense of injury and her 
 own deficiency, she mustered all her courage and 
 rose to her feet, trembling at her own boldness. 
 
 "It is too trying to you to have to teach me, 
 Mr. Hunt. I shall ask mamma to discontinue the 
 lessons." Roger was amazed, and looked at her a 
 moment without speaking. She stood erect before 
 him, but she did not look at him, and was visibly 
 discomposed. 
 
 She was very beautiful. Her furred cloak had 
 fallen from her, and her tall, well-formed figure 
 was clearly outlined against the window and the 
 brilliant winter landscape beyond. Her face was 
 shadowed by the large hat she wore, covered with 
 drooping plumes. Roger noticed these details, 
 but cared less for them than for something else, the 
 indefinable charm of womanliness hanging over all, 
 never noticed before. He seemed to be seeing his 
 pupil for the first time. Until now he had thought 
 of her, chiefly, as Estella's companion ; now he saw 
 her as a woman, a light that could not fail to 
 interest him.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 197 
 
 A witty observer of the Gallic race has said that 
 some woman is always uppermost in a Frenchman's 
 mind ; Roger was true French in this respect. He 
 felt the thrill of old emotions as he looked at Nina, 
 and recalling the words he had just spoken to her, 
 he was uncomfortable ; but he would not yield his 
 ground too quickly. 
 
 "Nonsense! " he said, with attempted lightness. 
 "Sit down. We have not finished yet." 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, I would rather not try to fin- 
 ish." She spoke without resentment, but with a 
 settled discouragement of tone that sounded more 
 resolute than it was. Roger's surprise grew, and 
 his interest was strongly piqued. Mrs. Clarke's 
 words, "She is terribly afraid of you," returned to 
 him. He rose to his feet. 
 
 "Now it is you who are unkind," he said, in a 
 gentler voice than she had ever heard in him be- 
 fore. "I was rude to you, I know. I forgot my- 
 self; I sincerely beg your pardon." 
 
 Nothing could have astonished Nina more. That 
 Mr. Hunt should speak to her in this manner, 
 seem really to regret what he had done, and' seek 
 her forgiveness was incredible. A deep flush 
 spread over her face, the eyes grew darker with 
 grateful emotion, and filled with tears. 
 
 "Will you not sit down again?" he asked, in a 
 still gentler tone, and she sank slowly in her place. 
 
 "Xow we will begin again," he said, reseating 
 himself, and speaking in his cheerfullest manner. 
 Nina, mindful of his interests even then, glanced 
 towards the clock.
 
 198 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I am afraid the time is up, sir." 
 
 "Never mind the time! I will read and you 
 shall listen," and he took up the book. He found 
 the passage he wanted, and began. Roger was a 
 good reader, and like all such, fond of the exercise. 
 He had an agreeable voice, and Nina felt the 
 beauty of the measured lines in their musical ut- 
 terance, gathering the meaning in a vague, pleasur- 
 able way. 
 
 "That was very beautiful," she said at the close. 
 
 "Could you understand it? " 
 
 "I don't know," flushing and hesitating. "I 
 seemed to understand it, every word, when you 
 were reading it, but I I am afraid I could not 
 tell much about it now." She looked at him tim- 
 idly, in fear of reproof, but he smiled indulgently. 
 
 "Chaucer was a great old bojV he said, tossing 
 the book on the table. "We have had no poets of 
 his size since." 
 
 "Not even Shakespeare?" she asked. 
 
 An hour before such a question would have been 
 received with scornful impatience, but Roger's 
 amiability remained undisturbed. 
 
 "We don't count Shakespeare, you know. He 
 stands by himself, always." 
 
 "Yes, of course," she said apologetically. "It 
 was foolish in me to ask that." 
 
 " In one sense they were alike ; they both lived 
 out-of-doors." 
 
 "That is just what I heard mamma say once 
 about Browning," said Nina, pleased with herself 
 for this apt remembrance.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 199 
 
 Roger shrugged his shoulders. Mrs. Clarke 
 was leader of the Browning "craze," as its detrac- 
 tors called it, in Garrison, a movement Roger 
 sympathized with as little as most early lovers of 
 the poet, who had made their own discoveries, and 
 were little influenced by the sudden fame which a 
 later generation had bestowed on him. 
 
 "If you want to read Browning, don't do it in 
 a Browning class. Some day I '11 read you some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Oh, thank you," was the reply spoken in a 
 fervent tone. She rose, drew her cloak around 
 her and stepped towards the door, her teacher 
 rising and following her. He placed his hand on 
 the latch to open it for her, a new attention, that 
 embarrassed almost as much as it pleased her. 
 
 "So you thought I was rather cross?" he said, 
 smiling and still keeping his hand on the door. 
 She colored and was silent. 
 
 "You shoull hear me scold Estella sometimes, 
 if you think I am severe with you." 
 
 She had, and had thought Estella' s lot not the 
 hardest ; but this memory grew dim now. 
 
 " I should not mind being scolded like Estella ; 
 I should take it as a proof of interest" This 
 was not just what she meant to say, and she 
 stopped in new confusion. He looked at her a 
 moment. 
 
 "I take as much interest in you as in Estella," 
 he said boldly. 
 
 "Oh, sir, you could not, I am sure." Nina's 
 "sir" was very enticing.
 
 200 BOGEB HUNT. 
 
 "Not of the same kind, perhaps," he explained, 
 in an easy tone. "Estella is a child. I suspect 
 you have been afraid of me all this time ; you think 
 me a great bear," and he smiled teasingly. 
 
 "I think you are very good to be willing to 
 teach me at all." 
 
 "Then if I am to continue, you must promise 
 not to be afraid." 
 
 She flushed more deeply than before. 
 
 "Is it a bargain?" he asked, and extended his 
 hand. She placed hers shyly in it. 
 
 "We are to be good friends, then," as he held 
 it a moment. 
 
 "You are very kind, sir." He was about to 
 open the door to let her pass through, when one on 
 the other side of the room was opened, and Estella 
 entered. 
 
 "Oh, Nina, I was afraid you had gone! " Her 
 father looked at her with a slight frown. 
 
 " Estella, I wish you would learn to enter a room 
 with a little more ceremony." She looked at him 
 in surprise. She had never received such a re- 
 proof before, and with only Nina Clarke there ; she 
 could not understand it. 
 
 "I only wanted to ask Nina if I might walk 
 home with her," she replied with a little pout. 
 
 "Of course," Nina answered, "I shall be very 
 glad to have you." 
 
 The tone was cordial, but a little forced. Nina 
 really wished to be alone to think over the events 
 of the morning, the remembrance of which held
 
 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 201 
 
 her in a dream-like state throughout the day. She 
 replied rather abstractedly to some of Estella's re- 
 marks, thinking she seemed younger than she ever 
 had before, while Estella felt, as she often did of 
 late, that she had lost her friend entirely. 
 
 Though Roger did not look forward to the next 
 lesson as Nina did, he retained a distinct impres- 
 sion of her, of a new order, and welcomed her cor- 
 dially. After this he did a large share of the read- 
 ing himself, and the lessons took on a less formal 
 and more companionable tone from week to week. 
 Nina seemed to have lost all power to vex or weary 
 her teacher. She was too young and inexperi- 
 enced to inquire deeply into the change, feeling 
 only the new unexpected happiness it brought. 
 
 It was characteristic of Roger that having learned 
 to tolerate his pupil he should at once begin to 
 idealize her. Through the innocent aid of books 
 and under the pretense of study, not wholly a pre- 
 tense, the readiness to admire and believe on one 
 side, the hunger to be admired and believed in on 
 the other, with a feeling of some real loneliness in 
 each, the relation between these two grew closer. 
 
 From the reading of Chaucer and Spenser it was 
 but a step to the reading of authors nearer their 
 own day, and from that to bits of his own compo- 
 sition, explaining them and even soliciting her judg- 
 ment. When Nina demurred and shrank in alarm 
 from this test of her powers, her unsophisticated 
 judgment was partially reassured by Roger's tell- 
 ing her that it was not the judgment of the wise
 
 202 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 and learned a writer often required, so much as 
 that of the average mind. ""Now, if you under- 
 stand and like this little thing of mine," touching 
 a pile of manuscript on the table, "I shall feel 
 that the general reader will do the same. Then the 
 publisher will take it." 
 
 The lesson hour was often encroached upon by 
 conversations of this and a similar nature ; but to 
 her mother's eyes Nina had never seemed to make 
 as rapid progress as now. There was a buoyancy 
 in her manner, and at the same time an earnestness 
 of purpose she had not noticed before. There were 
 other ways in which it was found Nina could help 
 her teacher. Roger had lately resumed his studies 
 in the line of Indian relics, in which the em- 
 bankments on the river at Garrison were so rich; 
 and the two fell into the habit of taking long walks 
 together to collect specimens, which it soon became 
 Nina's task to assort and label. Mrs. Clarke no- 
 ticed this new direction of her daughter's studies 
 with some surprise, but without criticism, being 
 gratified at this evidence of a taste for solid instruc- 
 tion. It did not matter so much what particular 
 studies were followed, she told herself; it was the 
 general contact with and influence of a mind like 
 Professor Hunt's she most desired. She was get- 
 ting her wish here. 
 
 At Nina's suggestion Estella accompanied them 
 on one of the earliest of these walking excursions, 
 but only once. Things were growing sadly out of 
 joint with Estella, and she was rather glad, except
 
 ROGER HUNT. 203 
 
 for the dread of parting from her mother, that she 
 was to go away in the fall, to begin her university 
 life at Monroe. She had been pleased at Nina's in- 
 vitation to go with them, but she had not been ten 
 minutes in the company of her father and former 
 playmate before the old feelings of distrust, bewil- 
 derment, and girlish pique seized her again. Her 
 father paid no attention to her whatever, and Nina's 
 efforts to be kind and include her in the conversa- 
 tion made her resentful. Angry and jealous, in a 
 way she did not herself understand, she would not 
 pretend to interest herself in the excursion's object, 
 seating herself on the bluff, and looking moodily 
 down the river, letting her father and Nina wander 
 away by themselves. They were unusually suc- 
 cessful in their search that day, Nina finding an 
 interesting fragment of an ancient pipe-bowl that 
 pleased Roger much. She was radiant with hap- 
 piness and the physical exercise when they climbed 
 back to Estella's lonely perch, seating themselves 
 near her to rest and look over their spoils. 
 
 Estella listened in surprise at the new tone in 
 which Nina spoke to her father, as respectful as the 
 old, but confident and familiar. She even ventured 
 to jest and dispute with him a little; while her 
 father, she noted with greater surprise, seemed to 
 encourage this freedom. She could not under- 
 stand it, and had never felt more lonely and forlorn. 
 Her eyes smarted with the effort to keep back the 
 tears. Nina spoke to her, but she could not an- 
 swer, and rising, walked away.
 
 204 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 "You see how it is," Roger said in a low tone to 
 his companion, a shade creeping over his face, as 
 he glanced in Estella's direction and then back at 
 her: "I have no one to help me but you." 
 
 Nina's heart beat high with pride in such praise. 
 It did not occur to her that Estella had not been 
 well treated. On the contrary, she was conscious 
 of having made several attempts to interest and 
 include her in their talk. As for Estella's father, 
 she pitied rather than blamed him. Remarks of 
 a similar nature had been dropped in her ears be- 
 fore this, hinting at unknown trials borne, solicit- 
 ing sympathy. She was coming to believe that her 
 teacher did not receive that kid and consideration 
 from those nearest him which his commanding mer- 
 its called for. His life was shadowed by something 
 more than sickness. Thoughts like these were 
 vague and half -formed as yet, but they were shap- 
 ing. Young trust and innocence were receiving 
 their first taint, showing scarcely more than the 
 blue bloom of the grape, and adding a new grace, 
 seen now only in the form of youthful sympathy, 
 the generous desire to please and be of service. 
 
 "I think papa likes Nina better than he used 
 to," said Estella to her mother, shortly after the 
 walk to the river. 
 
 "I am very glad, "the other replied composedly. 
 "That will make it easier for him to teach her." 
 
 "Oh, he doesn't seem to mind teaching her. 
 Nina is helping him arrange his cabinet. Why 
 does papa never ask me to help him ? "
 
 EOGER HUNT. 205 
 
 "Perhaps he did not ask Nina, "said her mother 
 suggestively, "perhaps she offered." Estella col- 
 ored. It was true she had made as few overtures 
 here as she had received. Her father's collection 
 of Indian curiosities did not interest her in the 
 least. She would soon have wearied of any care 
 or duty in this direction. She had neither Nina's 
 patience nor amiability, but that did not prevent 
 her from coveting the rewards these traits gained 
 in others. 
 
 The lessons were broken up at the holidays and 
 for a short time after, Mrs. Clarke taking Nina 
 with her on a visit to Chicago, where she wished to 
 do some shopping, renew acquaintance with some 
 old friends, and enjoy a taste of the city's intellec- 
 tual privileges. The season was at its height. 
 Irving and Ellen Terry were at one of the leading 
 theatres, John Fiske was booked for a lecture be- 
 fore a rising young institute, there were clubs in- 
 numerable which stood ready to open their doors 
 to her, and the stores were full of tempting bar- 
 gains. 
 
 Nina received the news of this journey with little 
 of a young girl's usual interest. Her tastes and 
 habits were always quiet, and just now home seemed 
 far more attractive than any other place. Her 
 mother's animated account of the sights and ad- 
 vantages they were to enjoy tempted neither sense 
 nor fancy. Reluctantly, and with visible regret, 
 she informed her teacher of her mother's plans. 
 
 "Going away! " he exclaimed. "And what am
 
 206 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 I to do, pray? " He spoke half -playfully, but with 
 a serious accent too. 
 
 "You will have all your time to yourself now." 
 "And you think I shall like that?" He asked 
 her some questions about the trip, its length, the 
 time of starting, etc., still with that air of injured 
 surprise, and loneliness already begun. He let her 
 see plainly that he should miss her in many ways, 
 affected to believe she was on her part glad to go, 
 and reproached her cruelty beforehand if she did 
 not return to her place as speedily as possible ; all 
 this in a half -paternal tone, that the girl tried to 
 listen to frankly and unabashed, but which raised 
 in her a faint feeling of alarm, so that she wanted 
 to run away. She was beginning to be afraid of 
 the man before her, but in a new way. His deep 
 dreamful eyes held the same magnetic spell for her 
 others had fallen under, his voice vibrated along 
 her heart-strings, his strong, compelling presence 
 filled the room, and her thoughts when she was 
 away from him. Words were spoken that made 
 her cheeks burn, yet whose overt sense was quite 
 harmless, making the blame of any other seem to 
 spring from guilty imagination. 
 
 Where the guilt was she was too troubled and 
 confused to know, but the sense of it was growing.
 
 xrv. 
 
 THERE were those among Roger Hunt's ac- 
 quaintance who believed him to be a consummate 
 actor. Even his old friend, Kitty Somers, used to 
 incline to this hypothesis at times. This was be- 
 cause, with all his impulsiveness, he was the most 
 self -observant of men. Careless as he often was 
 of the impression he produced, he nevertheless 
 always understood it. The long estrangement be- 
 tween himself and . Eleanor, covered with an un- 
 failing courtesy of speech and manner in the pres- 
 .ence of others, so that a four years' inmate in the 
 household like Mrs. Saunders never suspected it, 
 was the result of deliberate resolve, never forgot- 
 ten, and adhered to more proudly every day. Im- 
 petuosity was blended with utmost caution. Self- 
 consciousness was always uppermost, as it probably 
 is with the most trained actor ; and gave the im- 
 pression in many quarters of cunning deceit. 
 "Take my word for it, Lucy, "Thomas Clarke had 
 said in his early acquaintance with their neighbor, 
 repeating the opinion many times after, "the man 
 is a fraud. He 's the sleekest hypocrite I know." 
 
 "Don't speak so coarsely, Thomas. I 'm sure 
 Professor Hunt is the last man to be accused of 
 hypocrisy. He 's unpleasantly honest, I think.
 
 208 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 He doesn't try to please people as much as you do, 
 even." 
 
 Her husband smiled at this, taking it as a com- 
 pliment, as she meant he should. 
 
 "If he had n't had the luck to inherit a little 
 money," he grumbled, continuing the subject, "he 
 couldn't earn his salt." 
 
 "There are a great many excellent people in the 
 world who cannot make money. It 's vulgar, es- 
 timating people's worth in dollars and cents." 
 
 "Perhaps it is; but a man should show he has 
 got something better, then." 
 
 "Professor Hunt is a scholar, a literary man. 
 I don't see why you are so prejudiced against 
 him," she added for the hundredth time. 
 
 "I ain't prejudiced against him. He fills his 
 place, I suppose. All I mean to say is he 'd rat- 
 tle around like a dried pea in a quart measure if 
 he tried to fill some other people's." 
 
 She did not attempt to argue this point, to show 
 how the misplaced pea might prove something be- 
 sides its own diminutiveness, the emptiness of the 
 receptacle holding it; but closed the discussion 
 with a repeated expression of gratitude that so ac- 
 complished a man was their neighbor and Nina's 
 teacher. She added that Nina seemed to get on 
 with him better, of late. 
 
 "I guess he won't hurt Nina much. We pay 
 him for his services. I 'd have to be pretty hard 
 up to accept favors from a man like Hunt." 
 
 "You think everything can be settled with 
 money."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 209 
 
 "No, not everything, Lucy," he said, drawing 
 near and putting his arm, lover-like, about her 
 waist, a somewhat snugger armful than when she 
 was a girl. "I ain't forgot the woman who showed 
 she had some faith in me when I was a green 
 youngster, and not worth a hundred dollars. I 
 wouldn't trade you for all the bonds and mort- 
 gages." This was gratifying, and seemed to pre- 
 sent a favorable opportunity for a request she had 
 expressed before. 
 
 "I wish you 'd give up business and retire. 
 We have more than money enough now. Then 
 we could all go to Europe for two or three years." 
 
 "What on earth should I do, hangin' 'round 
 Europe ? You 're not going to marry Nina to some 
 broken-down count, I hope." 
 
 "How ridiculous! I mean it is time you re- 
 tired." 
 
 "Not any Europe for me. You and Nina can 
 go, if you want to; I 'in goin' to stay here in Gar- 
 rison. They want me to run for the legislature 
 again, but I don't know as I want to bother about 
 it. I guess I '11 turn it over to Charlie Perkins," 
 another moneyed power in the town. "He wants 
 it pretty bad ; and I suppose it 'd about tickle 
 Mis' Perkins to death." 
 
 Nina was homesick the moment she entered the 
 carriage that was to take her to the station. The 
 train whirled her swiftly along, past snow-covered 
 ields and long stretches of leafless forests ; but her 
 thoughts flew backward, and she scarcely noted her
 
 210 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 surroundings. The sights and sounds of the great 
 city, when she reached it, fell on senses muffled in 
 remote thoughts. She followed her mother about 
 like one in a dream. Forbidden thoughts, vague 
 images and desires that both uplifted and shamed 
 her, filled her mind. 
 
 Roger Hunt had asked her to write to him, but 
 some monitor within had forbidden it, and it may 
 be taken as a sign of the hopeful struggle going on 
 in the young girl's breast that she had so far obeyed 
 the latter. One day she returned to the hotel at 
 which they were stopping to find a letter from him. 
 Mrs. Clarke had friends in the city, but never 
 made a convenience of them. Was her guardian 
 angel asleep, or only the more forbearing, that 
 she who had scarcely been from her mother's side 
 should at this moment happen to be alone and un- 
 observed? Nina's nature was as childlike in some 
 things at nineteen as at nine. She had never re- 
 ceived a letter before she dared not show her 
 mother, as something told her she must not this 
 one, before she opened it. 
 
 Its length alone would have excited her mother's 
 wonder, though it dealt for the most part with im- 
 personal topics, discussed in a tone of plaintive 
 melancholy Nina was becoming familiar with. It 
 also contained a list of books the writer asked her 
 to purchase for him, and which might be made to 
 serve as the letter's ostensible object. Attached 
 was a postscript of different tenor. It ran thus : 
 
 . . . "Out doors it has done nothing but rain
 
 ROGER HUNT. 211 
 
 since you went away; the sun has not looked 
 through the study-window once, and he is right, 
 there is nothing here worth looking for. A certain 
 chair by the table looks very empty. Old Chaucer 
 has whispered to me that he is as lonely as some- 
 body else is, and has been punished for his pre- 
 sumption by being put back on the shelf." 
 
 Nina crumpled the letter in her hand and sank 
 trembling into a chair. She had gone to her room, 
 and locked the door. Pride and shame struggled 
 fiercely in the young girl's bosom ; her mind was 
 in a whirl. Had mere friendship the power to 
 agitate her thus, enslave fancy, arouse accusing 
 conscience? As she sat there lost in frightened 
 and remorseful thoughts, she heard her mother enter 
 the outer room, approach and try the door, then 
 call to her in surprised tones : 
 
 "Nina, Nina! are you there? What in the 
 world have you locked the door f pr ? " 
 
 Rising and thrusting the letter in her pocket, 
 she opened the door. 
 
 "What is the matter?" Mrs. Clarke asked, in a 
 rather anxious tone, as she noted her daughter's 
 pale and worn appearance. 
 
 "Nothing; I I was tired a little, and thought 
 I would lie down." 
 
 "What have you been crying about?" 
 
 "I have not been crying," was the quiet reply, 
 truthfully spoken. Perhaps it was the effort to 
 keep back the tears gave her eyes that bright 
 strained look. Mrs. Clarke gave utterance to a 
 discontented exclamation :
 
 212 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Lie down, of course, if you are tired, but I 
 don't understand why you give out so easily, a 
 great, strong girl like you! You can't stand half 
 as much as I can, now. I don't believe you are 
 enjoying your visit at all." 
 
 "Oh yes, I am. But you know I never did like 
 a large city very much. It tires and confuses me 
 so especially Chicago." Her voice took on a 
 tone of slight querulousness at the end. 
 
 "Well, you 're very different from me, then. 
 There 's no place in the world like Chicago, I 
 think, not even New York. It puts new life into 
 me every time I come here. I can't see how your 
 father ever happened to pass it by and locate in 
 a place like Garrison. We might just as well be 
 living here as not, in one of those handsome resi- 
 dences on the Lake shore." 
 
 "I 'm very glad he did not," said Nina, with a 
 little obstinacy. "I like Garrison much better." 
 She had removed her hat and wrap, and stood be- 
 fore the glass putting her hair to rights. 
 
 "I thought you were going to lie down," said 
 her mother. 
 
 "I think I won't now, it is so near supper-time." 
 
 "You must change your dress. You know we 
 are going to see Irving to-night in 'The Bells.' ' 
 
 "Why isn't this good enough?" the girl asked 
 discontentedly; "we shan't see any one we know." 
 
 "What difference does that make? You should 
 wear what is suitable. What is the use of bringing 
 a trunkful of dresses, if you are always going to
 
 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 213 
 
 wear the same one ? Put on your garnet silk, and 
 get out your white hat and some light gloves." 
 
 Nina would have much preferred her black silk 
 and other things to match, but she was allowed lit- 
 tle voice in such matters. 
 
 It was the cause of much maternal pride to 
 Mrs. Clarke, when she and Nina took their seats 
 in the front row of the parquet circle, that her 
 daughter was as handsome and had as city -bred a 
 look as any of the other young women present. 
 She looked about her with a gratified and expec- 
 tant air, though as Nina had said, they knew no 
 one. But Mrs. Clarke liked to feel herself a part 
 of so brilliant a gathering as this, picturing in 
 fancy the important role she might be play ing here 
 had destiny treated her just a little differently. 
 Nina's mind was engrossed with importunate 
 thoughts arising from the remembrance of the let- 
 ter, which she seemed to feel burning in her pocket, 
 where she still carried it for safety's sake, trying 
 to reach a determination to destroy it. 
 
 She gave but mechanical interest to the play in 
 the opening scenes, not catching the plot. Her 
 mother had seized it at once and turned to her ani- 
 matedly when the curtain dropped, 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful ! I knew the moment he 
 came on the stage it was he who had committed 
 the murder. I hadn't read the plot either. You 
 could tell it by the scared, trembling look he had, 
 even though he was in his own house. Wonder- 
 ful ! " she repeated.
 
 214 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Who?" Nina asked, uncoinprehendingly. 
 "What murder?" 
 
 "Why, Irving, of course; 'Mathias' I mean. 
 Don't you understand? " 
 
 "I never can understand the first act of a play," 
 was the rather irritated reply. 
 
 "They were talking about a murder that had 
 been committed years before. This is the anniver- 
 sary. Mathias is the murderer, but no one sus- 
 pects it. He did it for the money, and has kept the 
 secret all this time." 
 
 Nina understood now, and when the curtain 
 again rose watched the movement of the play with 
 new interest. As it proceeded, and she began to 
 comprehend the struggle of tortured conscience in 
 Mathias, this interest became painfully intense. 
 During the mesmerizing scene she forgot her sur- 
 roundings entirely, leaning forward in her seat, 
 with shortened breath, her face paling and flush- 
 ing, her eyes fixed intently on the great actor. The 
 rest of the audience were nearly as spellbound as 
 she, but two or three who sat near noticed her, 
 looking at her curiously and smiling. Her mother 
 pressed her foot against hers with a warning touch, 
 and Nina started guiltily and fell back in her seat. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke was enthusiastic over the evening's 
 performance. "The most wonderful piece of act- 
 ing I ever saw," she exclaimed, as they drove back 
 to the hotel. 
 
 "Acting! " Nina repeated, half under her breath. 
 "It did not seem like acting."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 215 
 
 Mrs. Clarke laughed. 
 
 "We must see him Saturday in 'Much Ado.' 
 They say he 's almost as good in comedy. Then 
 we can see Terry too." But Nina could not think 
 of the actor in his own person, and cared nothing 
 for his reputation in comedy. It was the image 
 of the sin-stricken Mathias that still held her ; she 
 was "still in the thrall of those terrible closing 
 scenes. Oh, the dreadful weight imposed on the 
 heart by a guilty secret ! That was the play's les- 
 son to Nina. Does this extreme application of her 
 text excite a smile? Let it be remembered that 
 the soul's strength is better proved by reactive 
 bounds backward from temptation than by any 
 easy, unhindered ascent towards goodness. Nina's 
 trouble was the greater that no one could help 
 her bear it. She must fight her battle alone, as 
 the soul's real battles are always fought. She 
 felt the strength to fight now. Alone in her room 
 she drew out the letter and tore it to fragments, 
 then threw them into the grate and watched them 
 smoulder slowly into ashes on the dying coals. She 
 drew a long breath, that ended in a sob. She was 
 very tired, worn out with fatigue and excitement. 
 The play still filled her mind, and kept her awake 
 until nearly morning, but to strengthen and exalt 
 now, rather than alarm and crucify. When she 
 rose in the morning she had reached a decision. 
 Her mother would combat it, she knew, but she 
 felt able to resist her mother. 
 
 It was with reluctance that she made ready
 
 216 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 to attend the matinee on Saturday, and she was 
 full of regrets afterward. Nina's serious nature, 
 doubly in earnest just now, did not take kindly to 
 the comic side of things ever; and to her it was a 
 simple travesty, very painful and not at all amus- 
 ing, to see "Mathias," as she still called him, for 
 the actor's make-up disguised him here as little as 
 before, dressed in a slashed tunic of blue silk, en- 
 gaged in foolish love-making with Beatrice. The 
 glory of his first appearance, the almost religious 
 halo with which she had invested him in grateful 
 imagination was quite destroyed. It was a very 
 creditable performance, she supposed. Her mother 
 had been highly amused, and talked enthusiasti- 
 cally of both the accomplished actors, but Nina 
 felt it would have been better if she had seen 
 the first only once. Not that her resolve was les- 
 sened; she remembered and repeated it to herself 
 many times a day. It began to look more difficult, 
 she did not feel quite so strong as at first, still she 
 told herself she meant to execute it. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke looked for a call from her neighbor 
 the Sunday after their return, but he did not come. 
 Monday was lesson-day, but Nina, keeping herself 
 .occupied with small household tasks, let the hour 
 pass, apparently without notice, and was found by 
 her mother in the sewing-room upstairs. 
 
 "I thought you had gone for your lesson," she 
 said in a surprised tone. "It is half past ten. 
 You must go at once. You know how it annoys 
 Professor Hunt when you are late." Nina made
 
 ROGER HUNT. 217 
 
 no movement to obey. She was not afraid of an- 
 noying Professor Hunt. She turned and looked at 
 her mother; the color faded from her cheeks, and 
 she trembled : 
 
 "Mamma, I don't want, I mean don't you 
 think Need I take lessons any more? " 
 
 There was an accent of pitiful entreaty in her 
 words, had there been ears to hear. Her mother 
 looked at her with a displeased face. 
 
 "Nina, you try me out of all patience! I hoped 
 you wouldn't disappoint me again. All your life 
 I have had to urge you to study. I am ashamed 
 to think how far you are behind other girls of your 
 age. Lately you have done better, and I was be- 
 ginning to hope you cared a little." 
 
 "I do care, mamma," speaking with difficulty. 
 "I care very much. It isn't that. I will go on 
 by myself." 
 
 "How can you go on by yourself? That is non- 
 sense! You would get tired of it, as you did of 
 your music." 
 
 "I will begin my music again, mamma, and prac- 
 tice faithfully. I will do anything you wish, if 
 if only " She could not go on. 
 
 "I don't want you to go on with your music. 
 You 've no talent for it," her mother said bluntly. 
 
 "I have no talent for books, either," was the 
 humble reply. 
 
 "That is foolishness. Mercy knows I don't ex- 
 pect much of you, Nina, but I should think you 
 would have a little pride. You needn't think be-
 
 218 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 cause your father is rich and you are good-look- 
 
 ing"- 
 
 "Mamma! " exclaimed the girl in hurt rebuke of 
 words flung in her face like a taunt. 
 
 "A girl needs something besides money and a 
 pretty face, in these days," her mother finished. 
 Nina laid down the small feather duster she had 
 been feigning occupation with, and looked at her 
 mother ; the few inches she had gained over her in 
 height seemed suddenly doubled. Mrs. Clarke felt 
 a little uncomfortable. 
 
 "What do you want to give up your lessons 
 for?" she asked querulously. "Is Professor 
 Hunt cross with you?" 
 
 "No; he is very good to me." Already Nina's 
 heart had taken swift flight to the little study, 
 a quarter of a mile distant, away from this hard, 
 ambitious mother. He was awaiting her there now, 
 she thought, wondering at her absence, he who 
 never sneered and mocked at her as her mother 
 did. The times when he had done this seemed as 
 far off as the period of her dolls and skipping- 
 ropes. 
 
 "Well, I know he can be disagreeable enough 
 when he chooses," her mother went on in more 
 mollified tone, "and I know he hates teaching. 
 That ought to make you appreciate your privi- 
 leges. I can't bear to have you disappoint me so, 
 Nina." 
 
 " I disappoint you a great deal, I know, mamma ; 
 I always have, but I will try not to any more. I
 
 EOGEE HUNT. 219 
 
 will do whatever you wish." She went out of the 
 room. Her mother looked after her with a baffled 
 expression. Soon she came downstairs, dressed 
 to go out, and left the house without speaking. 
 Mrs. Clarke sighed when she heard the door close. 
 She loved her daughter according to the love a na- 
 ture like hers had to bestow. For a mother whose 
 expectations were of so just and reasonable an 
 order, she suffered a good many trials, she thought. 
 
 Nina walked swiftly down the slight decline of 
 the street that led to the Hunt cottage. Her heart 
 beat fast with double excitement, the hurt, mingled 
 with some anger, given by her mother, and the 
 wish to reach her destination. She now longed 
 to see Mr. Hunt again. Her heart burned with 
 a sense of injustice, then glowed with happier 
 warmth as she thought of the welcoming look and 
 smile awaiting her. How could she be wholly 
 stupid and commonplace, if a man like Mr. Hunt 
 cared for her? And he did care for her! Just 
 now she exulted in the thought. She threw her 
 fears to the winds. The sense of injury and desire 
 for self -justification bore down every other feeling. 
 
 With cheeks glowing from contact with the cold 
 air, and eyes alight with expectation, she opened 
 the study door and stood a moment on the thresh- 
 old. Roger, who had been moving impatiently 
 about the room, was at the farther end. He turned 
 quickly at the sound of her entrance, but did not 
 move to meet her, standing in his place and look- 
 ing at her reproachfully. But Nina seemed not
 
 220 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 to fear the reproach. Her heart leaped at the 
 thought that he had been impatiently waiting for 
 her. For a few seconds' space, she, too, kept her 
 place,, just inside the door, her eyes returning the 
 full, deep look in his. Then she moved towards 
 him. 
 
 "I am late," she said, and unclasped her cloak. 
 
 "On our first day, too," Roger said accusingly. 
 
 "I I'm sorry," she replied. "It's too late 
 for a lesson now, but " She did not know how 
 to finish, and throwing back her cloak, seated her- 
 self in her usual place. 
 
 Roger came slowly towards her. "Are n't we 
 going to shake hands? "he asked. She laughed, 
 colored, and gave him her hand, but this more for- 
 mal greeting seemed superfluous. 
 
 "How natural everything looks!" said Nina, 
 glancing about the room, and feeling the necessity 
 of saying something. He let his glance follow, 
 then return to rest on her. 
 
 "Yes now." 
 
 He seated himself opposite her, and a short 
 silence ensued. 
 
 "Why did you not answer my letter?" Roger 
 asked at length. 
 
 She blushed and looked confused. 
 
 "Were you displeased with me for writing?" 
 
 "Displeased!" she answered, collecting herself . 
 " Why should I be displeased ? It was very good 
 in you to take the trouble." 
 
 She then added some remark about being busy,
 
 ROGER HUNT. 221 
 
 etc. "Mamma kept me running about so," she 
 ended with a childish accent. 
 
 "You don't like running about, then? " 
 
 "I detest it." 1 There was a manifestation of 
 uncommon energy in this speech, which seemed to 
 amuse her listener. 
 
 "Then you're not sorry to get back to Garri- 
 son?" 
 
 " Sorry ? I am glad. I should like never to go 
 away again." 
 
 "That's good. Tell me now what interested 
 you most in the city." 
 
 "What interested me most?" she repeated me- 
 chanically. She looked at him absently a moment, 
 realling the main events of her trip. "Oh," 
 drawing a deep breath, "it was Irving's 'Bells.' ' 
 
 " Irving's bells ? " he repeated in a mystified tone. 
 He seldom read the papers, and if he had heard of 
 the English actor's visit to this country, had im- 
 mediately forgotten it. 
 
 In a few words Nina described the play. Now 
 she was on the subject, she was glad to talk it over 
 with him, present all its difficulties for his solution. 
 Roger listened, but plainly with more interest in 
 the speaker than her narrative. 
 
 "A strange choice of subject," he said, when 
 she paused. " One of those pieces of morbid char- 
 acter study the stage is so fond of presenting now- 
 adays. If I had been there, I could have proved 
 to you that you cared nothing about it." 
 
 "Oh, it was not the play," exclaimed Nina; "it
 
 222 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 was the acting. He made you feel it all so, the 
 fear, and the awful remorse he lived in, day after 
 day, when every one thought him the most happy 
 and honored of men." 
 
 Roger smiled at her enthusiasm. 
 
 "I could not get rid of it for days, it took 
 hold of me so. I did not sleep all night. " Here a 
 vivid blush swept across her face, as she recalled 
 other and more immediate causes of this wakeful- 
 ness. 
 
 "Not sleep all night! "cried Roger. "That 
 proves the thorough badness of the play, at once. 
 True art never has a disturbing effect; its mission 
 is to soothe and please. Can you imagine any of 
 the old Greeks lying awake after a representation 
 of the Alkestis ? " 
 
 Nina smiled, pleased but embarrassed. The 
 habit her teacher had lately fallen into of assuming 
 her equal understanding of allusions of this kind, 
 drawn from the remote and abstruse studies he so 
 delighted in, was part of the growing wonder and 
 happiness of this new relation. No wonder Nina 
 found compensation for her mother's slighting 
 words in thetreatment she received here. 
 
 Had she been as well informed as her compan- 
 ion's question implied, she might have questioned 
 him in turn, on the probable effect of the perform- 
 ance of the Medea and the Choephorij but as it 
 was, Roger kept the talk in his own hands. 
 
 "Remorse is as unhealthy a sentiment as it is 
 unreasonable," he went on, now on one of his fa-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 223 
 
 vorite themes. " The man who spends all his life 
 regretting something is an intellectual weakling." 
 
 " Yet if one has committed a great wrong a 
 crime? " 
 
 "He was guilty of murder, you say?" Roger 
 asked, raising his eyes meditatively to the ceiling, 
 as if debating the degree in which such an action 
 could command honest regret. 
 
 "A terrible murder. It is horrible even to 
 think of it," she replied, with a shudder. 
 
 "For all that he should have stood by his deed. 
 That shocks you," he added, as he noted her look 
 of surprise. "He should either have acknowledged 
 it at once, and accepted the consequences," 
 
 "Oh, yes, I understand you now," she inter- 
 rupted, with relief. 
 
 "Or," without heeding her, "he should have 
 buried it so deep below all consciousness and mem- . 
 ory that even sleep would have no power to resur- 
 rect it." 
 
 Her look changed to one of pained perplexity. 
 She felt the force of this kind of reasoning, but it 
 did not satisfy her. 
 
 "Irresolution is a vice in itself," Roger went on. 
 " A man had better be strongly in the wrong than 
 weakly in the right. That is one of the lessons 
 your Browning teaches," he added with a smile. 
 
 "He isn't my Browning; he is mamma's." 
 
 "Very well; then she can't object to my reading 
 you something of his. I promised to read you 
 something, some time." He rose and took a vol-
 
 224 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 time from a shelf in the "Poet's Corner." "Let 
 us see now, if you can understand it," he said, 
 reseating himself. "You can't often understand 
 Browning the first time, you know. That 's his 
 great merit. That 's the reason he has crowded 
 Shelley and Keats off the shelves. Listen, now," 
 and he began to read "The Statue and the Bust." 
 
 His reading made the poem as clear as anyone's 
 could; and Nina caught the meaning fairly well, 
 but was evidently troubled over it. 
 
 "Now tell me what it is all about," Roger said, 
 when he had finished, closing the book and laying 
 it one side. "GiA r e me the outline of the poem." 
 Nina flushed and demurred, but he insisted. 
 
 "Well," she began hesitatingly, "the bust rep- 
 resented the lady whose husband had kept her im- 
 prisoned in the castle of the window where it 
 stood." She stopped, and they both laughed. 
 
 "Window of the castle," she corrected herself. 
 
 '"Whose husband had kept her imprisoned in the 
 window of the castle,' " Roger repeated. "Go on. 
 We 're getting along famously. Soon the inter- 
 pretation will be as obscure as the poem. Then 
 we shall have proved ourselves true disciples." 
 
 "I told you I could not do it," leaning back in 
 her chair with the least little pout. Once words 
 like these would have sent her home in tears, but 
 now their force was quite dispelled. 
 
 "And the statue, what did that represent?" he 
 pressed her. 
 
 " Oh, he was a soldier, and an officer in her hus-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 225 
 
 band's service; and they they cared for each 
 other," with lowered eyes, and fingering the beaded 
 ornament on her sleeve nervously. 
 
 "He was her lover, you mean? " 
 
 "But they never saw each other till the day of 
 her marriage," she said hastily, groping about in 
 her mind for some excuse. 
 
 "Yet they loved each other. What next?" 
 keeping watchful eyes upon her. 
 
 "And and they planned to escape, but things 
 kept happening, so they never did ; and every day 
 the lady would look out of the window to see him 
 ride past, and he would look up to see her. They 
 should not have done that, "she added in comment. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Nina looked at him in surprise. But it was not 
 because he meant to dispute such a point he ques- 
 tioned her, only to see if her own thoughts were 
 clear, she reflected. 
 
 " They should have gone far away, and resolved 
 never to see each other again," in a little tremor. 
 
 "Quite correct," said Roger, in a tone she did 
 not quite understand. " But would that have de- 
 stroyed the wish to see each other?" 
 
 "I I suppose not, sir." 
 
 "And is it not the wish to do a wrong thing, if 
 you call this wrong, that affects the character as 
 much as the action itself?" 
 
 " Do you mean it would have been as wrong for 
 Mathias merely to have wished he had the other 
 man's money to pay off his debt with, as to have 
 murdered him?"
 
 226 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 " Who was Mathias ? " Roger asked, with a slight 
 frown. 
 
 "The man in the play." 
 
 "Oh, yes. It would n't have been as hard on 
 the murdered man, perhaps, but the effect on the 
 character of Mathias would have been the same if 
 he kept revolving the thing in his mind " 
 
 "Oh, sir, but he would not. He was a good 
 man, only he was dreadfully tempted. But he would 
 have mastered and killed his wish, I am very sure." 
 
 "Those two in the poem did not; they neither 
 overcame their wish nor executed it. They should 
 have done one thing or the other ; because they 
 did not they were properly punished by being 
 turned into stone. Browning thinks so, too," and 
 he quoted the line about "the unlit lamp, and the 
 ungirt loin." "The critics have made a fine fuss 
 about this poem. They call it immoral ; but it is 
 the hesitating lovers who were immoral. They had 
 better have carried out their wish a hundred times." 
 
 "But that would have been a crime," said the 
 girl, in a low, frightened tone. Roger turned his 
 full, lucent gaze on her. 
 
 "What is a crime? " he asked. She looked sur- 
 prised, reflected a moment, then slowly shook her 
 head. 
 
 " Simply a term of classification ; a legal means 
 of separating one class of actions from another." 
 
 "Wrong actions? " Nina interposed. 
 
 "Well, wrong actions, then," throwing his head 
 back impatiently. "But you must remember the
 
 ROGER HUNT. 227 
 
 term is often applied in the most arbitrary fashion. 
 Many a man's so-called 'crime,' for which he is 
 paying the penalty in a prison -cell, is of far less 
 importance than the unlabeled rascality of hun- 
 dreds of others who live in peace and safety out- 
 side; and on the other hand," he paused and drew 
 a deep breath, "many another man may have been 
 accused of committing a crime against society, 
 when his action in no way concerned that precious 
 humbug, and which sprung from the noblest and 
 purest motives." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know that," said Nina, sympatheti- 
 cally. She supposed her teacher was speaking of 
 cases like Galileo and John Huss, and other vic- 
 tims of advanced opinion, whom the world had 
 punished with rack and thumbscrew. She knew 
 his sympathy for every form of social oppression. 
 Roger was about to continue, when the little 
 clock on the mantel struck, sounding the half hour 
 -after twelve. Nina started guiltily to her feet. 
 "I have stayed too long! " 
 "I am sorry you have found it so." 
 "Oh," she replied with a deprecating glance 
 and blush, "I only meant I did not know it was 
 so late." She picked up her gloves, and turned 
 towards the door, where she bade him good-by, 
 meeting again a glance she could not support, and 
 passed outside. She had spent nearly two hours 
 in the little study, but it had not seemed an hour. 
 Not a word had been said of the lesson, an omission 
 both had noticed, but neither had spoken of.
 
 XV. 
 
 ROGER had intended to send Estella to the uni- 
 versity the coming September, but after correspon- 
 dence with the authorities at Monroe he decided to 
 have her go six months earlier, in order to profit by 
 certain advantages in the preparatory course which 
 he could not offer her at home. 
 
 This decision, when it was announced to Estella 
 and her mother, gave a little shock of surprise to 
 each, but Eleanor bore it more quietly than Roger 
 had anticipated. Estella was filled with conster- 
 nation at the prospect so suddenly opened before 
 her. The thought of leaving home, when it was 
 still far off, had aroused a feeling of girlish expec- 
 tation, but now when it was so near, imagination had 
 no chance to play with it, and only the painful real- 
 ity was left. She must leave her mother, and live 
 alone among strangers ! She had looked to support 
 her mother when the time of parting came, but it 
 was rather her mother who cheered and strength- 
 ened her. Apart from the hardship to herself, 
 Estella had a sense of disloyalty in leaving her, a 
 feeling that she was deserting one in great need. 
 
 Estella had grown more sensitive to the home 
 atmosphere of late, and an undefined trouble filled 
 her breast whenever she thought of her father.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 229 
 
 She had always known her father was peculiar, but 
 when younger this peculiarity had only impressed 
 her as superiority, acknowledged even by those 
 who did not seem to like him; but later it had 
 struck her at times as manifest weakness, eccen- 
 tricity. She had been put in a position once or 
 twice where she was forced to see him not simply 
 as different from other people, but ludicrously dif- 
 ferent. It had never been a hardship to her that 
 she could not love her father with that demonstra- 
 tive fondness other girls displayed; but it would 
 go hard with her if she were ever to lose her re- 
 spect for him. 
 
 As for Eleanor, the trial of parting was as se- 
 vere as she had ever anticipated; she suffered be- 
 forehand all the loneliness of the days that were to 
 come, but at the same time she was glad that Estella 
 was going, that she was to leave home for a time. 
 Some of these reasons were newly discovered to 
 herself. 
 
 The relation between Roger and their child had 
 always been a subject of engrossing anxiety to Elea- 
 nor. She desired above everything to preserve the 
 instinct of filial respect in Estella. In mental quick- 
 ness and self -dependence she was her father's child. 
 She was the only member of the household, and so 
 far as her mother knew in their circle of acquaint- 
 ance, who had the courage openly to oppose her 
 father and hold her own against him ; but she had 
 done this as yet only in ways that evinced youthful 
 daring, and which amused more than displeased
 
 230 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 him. The subservience he received in other quar- 
 ters he cared little for here; said he had always 
 encouraged natural behavior in her, such as he him- 
 self practiced. But Eleanor knew there were lim- 
 its to the opposition he would suffer, here as else- 
 where. The possibility that his daughter would 
 ever become his critic, in any serious way, never 
 crossed his mind, but it had crossed Eleanor's. 
 Wifely feeling was the main motive of conduct with 
 her still, notwithstanding the discouragement it had 
 received. She could bear it better to have Estella 
 fail in duty towards herself than towards her father ; 
 and strange paradox if the right sentiment 
 could be preserved only by separating them, she 
 could willingly, almost gladly, bear the pain of it 
 for herself. 
 
 An incident had occurred a week or two before 
 Estella' s departure from home had been deter- 
 mined, which partly explains this state of mind. 
 
 One spring-like morning late in March, Eleanor 
 awoke, feeling stronger than she had for a long 
 time. The sunshine flooding the room had an al- 
 most summer warmth in it, and new life seemed to 
 pulsate through her veins. She rose from her bed 
 and with the nurse's assistance dressed. The effort 
 tired her less than she had thought it would, and 
 she longed to test her strength in some new way. 
 She had not been outside the sick-room for weeks, 
 and it now seemed like a prison. A daring wish 
 arose within her to see Roger in his study. She 
 put it away, but it returned. Her cheek flushed as
 
 ROGER HUNT. 231 
 
 she thought of it, and her heart beat with happy 
 anticipation. She never thought of displeasing 
 him. On the contrary, with that fatuous power of 
 self-delusion which loving natures possess, and 
 crucify themselves with anew every day, she thought 
 he would be pleased. He had sometimes made her 
 feel that she yielded too easily to the physical weak- 
 ness that was destroying her. It would be a proof 
 to him of returning strength and courage on her 
 part. The thought soon gained complete possession 
 of her, but she knew she must execute it alone. 
 Estella was in town and safely out of the way for 
 an hour, and she devised an errand to keep Mrs. 
 Saunders in another part of the house for a while. 
 Alone, she made a great effort and rose to her feet, 
 steadying herself a moment, then walking with 
 slow uncertain steps, stopping to rest now and then, 
 out of the room, across the intervening hall, to the 
 library. When she reached it, excitement more 
 than the physical effort had tired her, her limbs 
 trembled, and she feared to fall. The door was 
 closed, but the absorption of the two inside pre- 
 vented them from hearing the slight noise she made 
 in opening it, and she stood unseen on the thresh- 
 old a moment. 
 
 The picture that stamped itself indelibly on her 
 brain was innocent enough in its main details, but 
 one she understood the full import of. 
 
 Nina was seated at the table, her back to the 
 door, and writing at her teacher's dictation, who 
 stood near her, his hand on her chair, his face bent
 
 232 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 nearly to the level of hers. Some word of his had 
 caused her to raise her face to his, so near that his 
 breath stirred her hair. Eleanor caught the look 
 of rapt feeling, shy, eager, grateful, which suf- 
 fused the young girl's face. She could not see 
 Koger's, but she could guess its expression well 
 enough. She longed to escape, but it was impos- 
 sible, and she clung to the door-casing for support. 
 A slight sound caught Nina's ear, who turned and 
 saw her, uttering a slight scream of fright, then 
 quickly checking it. Eleanor indeed looked like 
 a ghost, in her long white draperies, her face 
 ghastly with returning weakness and the knowledge 
 of her mistake. 
 
 Roger too had turned quickly, and the face Nina 
 had seen so calm and tender a moment before 
 changed terribly. 
 
 "Eleanor, what does this mean?" In his sur- 
 prise and displeasure he forgot to go to her assist- 
 ance, and remained looking at her sternly. 
 
 She tried to smile, and cast an apologetic look 
 towards Nina. 
 
 "I I only wanted to surprise you, Roger; I 
 felt so much better this morning, I I " 
 
 The room began to whirl about her. Nina's 
 face, frightened, and with a look of pitying wonder, 
 tinged with guilty consciousness besides, and Ro- 
 ger's, stern and accusing, floated out of sight. She 
 reeled, and reached out a hand blindly. 
 
 "Oh, she will fall! " cried Nina. It was she 
 who sprung to her assistance, her arms that caught
 
 ROGER HUNT. 233 
 
 and held the swaying figure, then helped it to a 
 chair, kneeling beside and half supporting her. 
 
 "This is the greatest piece of folly I ever heard 
 of," Roger exclaimed, after Eleanor had partially 
 recovered, and sat leaning back in her chair, white 
 and exhausted. "Where is Mrs. Saunders? " and 
 he stepped to the door and called her in a voice 
 of sharp command. "I shall discharge her, if she 
 doesn't attend to her duties better than this." He 
 stood looking down on his wife gloomily. 
 
 "What in the world were you thinking of?." he 
 asked, in the same tone as before. 
 
 " Don't scold her," Nina said, glancing up at him, 
 from the place she still kept at the sick woman's 
 side. He turned abruptly away. 
 
 "I I'm sorry, Roger," Eleanor said faintly. 
 "I ought not to have come, I know. Don't blame 
 Mrs. Saunders, please. She did not know" 
 
 A fit of coughing interrupted her. She pressed 
 her handkerchief to her lips, and when she took it 
 away, Nina saw a spot of red. She uttered a low 
 exclamation of fright. Eleanor's eyes rested on 
 her with a strange, yearning look the girl never 
 forgot. 
 
 "It is nothing," she said. "I am sorry I inter- 
 rupted you. I won't do it again." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders entered at that moment and Nina 
 rose to her feet. Roger briefly explained the sit- 
 uation in a tone that conveyed a plain rebuke for 
 her negligence. "We must get her back to her 
 room at once."
 
 234 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I '11 manage that, sir," the nurse said, and ap- 
 proached her charge to lift and carry her away. 
 
 "No no," exlaimed Eleanor, shrinking from 
 this exposure of her weakness. "Don't carry me; 
 I can walk." Mrs. Saunders helped her to her 
 feet, Eoger trying to assist, but awkwardly, and 
 soon desisting. The nurse put one strong arm 
 about the sick woman, and led her slowly to the 
 door. 
 
 "Let me help," said Nina, darting impulsively 
 forward. 
 
 "There ain't no need, Miss," the other replied, 
 and in a moment they were gone. 
 
 Nina stood looking after them a moment. Turn- 
 ing, she saw Roger. He had thrown himself into 
 a chair, burying his face in his crossed arms on the 
 back; but she scarcely heeded him. She put on 
 her hat and cloak hurriedly and stepped to the 
 door, where she paused and looked back. 
 
 "I I am going now, sir." He raised his face. 
 It was the picture of melancholy despair. He 
 looked at her a moment. 
 
 "Why are you going? " he asked. 
 
 "It is nearly time," glancing at the clock. It 
 said they had still twenty minutes ; they had con- 
 sulted it very little of late. He bent the same look 
 of mournful reproach on her. 
 
 " Why not speak the truth ? Why not say you 
 are going because you are displeased with me?" 
 
 "Displeased with you ! " she repeated falteringly. 
 He rose and came towards her.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 235 
 
 "You are displeased with me, and you have a 
 right to be. I behaved badly." He paused, and a 
 deep sigh came from him. " But it gave me a ter- 
 rible shock ! " His voice sank, his eyes rested on 
 the floor, his whole attitude spoke sorrowful con- 
 trition and self-reproach. He said truly; Nina 
 had been painfully surprised, a quick sharp distrust 
 of him had pierced her like a knife. But she was 
 more ashamed for herself; she felt like a thief. 
 Yet it was hard to throw off in a moment the in- 
 fluence which had held her so long. With Roger 
 standing there before her, humbled and penitent, 
 waiting her verdict, it was not easy to open the door 
 and leave him. Perhaps it was not real anger that 
 had prompted him to speak so harshly, only be- 
 wildered surprise. She stood hesitating. 
 
 "I do everything I can," he went on in a dis- 
 couraged tone. "I make no merit of that. I give 
 her the best of care, try to gratify every wish, yet 
 you see for yourself how reckless and imprudent 
 she is." 
 
 The girl lowered her eyes ; a pained and irreso- 
 lute expression flitted across her face. 
 
 "She she wanted to please you, I think. 
 She has suffered so much." 
 
 " That is true ; I ought not to forget that. I try 
 to bear it always in mind but I I have suffered, 
 too." He turned away. She could find no reply 
 and kept silent. Something within told her these 
 were no words to be addressed to her, but she could 
 not help a deep, ignorant pity for the one who 
 spoke them. He turned and faced her again.
 
 236 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "You will not forgive me, then?" 
 
 "I" she exclaimed, blushing painfully. "Oh, 
 sir, it is not I " She checked herself . "There 
 is nothing for me to forgive," she added, her look 
 falling before his. His eye brightened : 
 
 " Then will you walk with me ? I cannot go back 
 to my books now," glancing towards his desk 
 with a sigh. She hesitated, but saw no way save 
 to comply, which she did, however, with more re- 
 luctance than she had ever granted request of his 
 before. 
 
 She could not have told how, with no definite 
 appeal on his part, and before the walk was half 
 ended, the current of sympathy had set strongly in 
 his direction again. Without making any direct 
 confidences, he seemed to tell her everything. The 
 tone of intentional self-restraint, the frank admis- 
 sion of his own faults, veiled allusions to some ex- 
 ceptional experience in the past, his exaltation of 
 the sentiment of friendship, all combined to dis- 
 arm and enthrall his listener. Thus, with her 
 rising scruples partially allayed, sympathy warmed 
 anew, and girlish pride aflame with the knowledge 
 of her own power to help one who needed and de- 
 served help, the walk came to an end. 
 
 The discovery Eleanor made in her visit to the 
 study was one former experiences might have pre- 
 pared her for, and which humiliated her for Rog- 
 er's sake far more than it could now pain her for 
 her own. She recalled Estella's words about her
 
 EOGER HUNT. 237 
 
 father's changed feeling towards Nina, and mar- 
 veled at her own dullness. Early in their united 
 lives she reached her first surprised, shamed, and 
 then jealous knowledge of Roger's susceptibility 
 towards women, his almost exclusive dependence 
 on them for sympathy and near companionship. 
 She tried to reason about and excuse it, even when 
 suffering most from such knowledge, remembering 
 his peculiar temperament, and sustaining herself 
 in the old belief, which she still held, in Roger's 
 purity of motive. She had no reason to believe he 
 had ever been untrue to her in any outward sense; 
 he had only permitted his imagination, which was 
 of a roving order, to wander as it would, engross- 
 ing itself with any new object that pleased it. She 
 knew what Roger's excuse for these spiritual 
 flights was, and so potent was his influence over 
 her still, that there were times when she tried to 
 make his excuse hers. If she had not disappointed 
 him, had proved all he wished and all he needed, 
 he would not be obliged to seek companionship 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Towards the women themselves, these stars of 
 Platonic friendship that rose from time to time in 
 the domestic firmament, eclipsing the wife's faith- 
 ful planet, evfen Eleanor's gentle and self -abne- 
 gating nature felt some righteous scorn, which even 
 the knowledge of her own frailty could not wholly 
 extinguish. This feeling did not extend to Nina, 
 however, for whom she felt more pity than blame. 
 
 Blame of all kinds was corning to be out of place
 
 238 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 in one so near the final judgment. Happily, as 
 the spirit slips its sheath of flesh, earthly affairs, 
 even the nearest, lose in importance, recede and 
 fade from sight. The soul feels its own helpless- 
 ness in the presence of the impending change. It 
 is God's world, he will take care of it, was the 
 prayerful excuse with which Eleanor let one care 
 after another slip from her. She felt sorry for 
 Nina, in a strangely curious and impersonal way, 
 newly discouraged with Roger, quite indifferent 
 about herself, troubled only for Estella. She was, 
 therefore, thankful for the opportunity presented 
 in Roger's decision to send her from home six 
 months earlier than he first intended, to keep her 
 young eyes shielded with ignorance a little longer.
 
 XVI. 
 
 HER father went with Estella to Monroe, the 
 latter spending the night's journey in tears, and 
 reaching the end half ill with weariness and grief. 
 
 They went to the hotel for breakfast, and then 
 started out to pay a visit to the university. Es- 
 tella 's homesickness increased with every new ob- 
 ject that met her view. Her heart sank as she 
 followed her father through the wide corridor of 
 the main building, filled with busy young men and 
 women, carrying books in their arms. . Nothing 
 could be in greater contrast to the quiet surround- 
 ings she had left at home than the prospective life 
 that opened before her here. She had never felt 
 so insignificant. 
 
 Roger inquired the way to the president's office. 
 A tall, angular-looking man, something of the 
 Abraham Lincoln build, with keen eye and schol- 
 arly face, rose to meet them as they entered, giv- 
 ing them a courteous welcome, then turning his at- 
 tention to other visitors who had preceded them. 
 When his turn came, the president listened quietly 
 to Roger's statement of his business, bent one or 
 two examining glances on Estella, and learning 
 that she was not yet ready to enter the regular 
 course, summoned a boy in waiting and sent him 
 away with a message-
 
 240 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Professor Hart has charge of the preparatory 
 department," he explained. " I have sent for him." 
 
 At that moment a bell rung. "We shall have 
 to wait now until after chapel exercises," he said. 
 "Perhaps you would like to join us." 
 
 Roger drew himself up. "Do I understand that 
 attendance on chapel exercises is obligatory?" he 
 asked. The president looked at him with mild 
 surprise, and replied it was. 
 
 "I am very sorry to hear it," said Roger 
 brusquely, "very sorry." Estella flushed at her 
 father's tone and the amused looks on the faces of 
 two or three people standing near, who had over- 
 heard him. 
 
 The president made no reply, regarding his vis- 
 itor more attentively a moment, then excusing him- 
 self and parsing out. The others followed, leav- 
 ing Roger and Estella by themselves. The latter 
 was glad to be relieved from the observation of 
 strangers, but thought it would have looked better 
 if they had gone with the others. Her father broke 
 out into a petty tirade against the absent head of 
 the institution, calling him an "antiquated fossil," 
 and declaiming against the elevation of such men 
 to places of honor and influence. Estella made no 
 reply ; she thought the president had a rather kind 
 face, but was not interested. 
 
 When he returned, a younger man accompanied 
 him who was introduced as Professor Hart, and 
 Roger and Estella were placed in his charge. As 
 they turned to leave the room, Roger jostled against
 
 ROGER HUNT. 241 
 
 a young man who had just entered. He spoke a 
 word of rapid apology, but scarcely saw the one to 
 whom it was addressed. Estella noted him more 
 carefully, and the two exchanged a look that gave 
 each a vivid impression of the other. She followed 
 her father from the room. 
 
 "Well, Watson, what is it?" she heard the 
 president say, as she passed through the door. 
 
 Her father, she was glad to find, seemed rather 
 pleased with Professor Hart. Roger expressed his 
 disapproval, when he learned that the Roman pro- 
 nunciation had been adopted in Monroe, being as 
 conservative in his literary principles as he was 
 radical in some others; and Professor Hart let 
 him see he sympathized with him. Another 
 ground of mutual interest was found in their com- 
 mon love of science, and dissatisfaction that the 
 university had not planted itself squarely on the 
 Darwinian basis. Professor Hart took them to 
 his laboratory, where he and Roger fell into a 
 long and learned talk on bacteria, during which 
 Estella grew very tired, and felt herself ill-used. 
 When the professor learned something of his new 
 acquaintance's pursuits and identified him as the 
 author of one or two magazine articles he had read 
 with much profit, the relation assumed a still 
 more friendly character. Estella noted the frank 
 pleasure her father felt in this recognition, and 
 was pleased for him. She saw, too, though she 
 was too miserable to care about it, that this discov- 
 ery raised herself as well as her father in the pro-
 
 242 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 fessor's eyes. If the president had, as she ex- 
 pected, conceived a prejudice against her father, 
 Professor Hart had taken as strong a one in his 
 favor. As they left the laboratory, she saw a 
 young man walking down the hall, some distance 
 ahead of them, and though his back was turned, 
 she recognized him as the young man her father 
 had jostled against in the president's office. 
 
 "That is my assistant," Professor Hart said to 
 her. "He will be your teacher in mathematics. 
 I should like to introduce you." He opened his 
 lips to call him, but at the same moment the young 
 man turned a corner and disappeared. 
 
 "Never mind; some other time will do as well," 
 he said, smiling. 
 
 He then gave her father a list of addresses, for 
 the next duty was to find a suitable home for Es- 
 tella. Accompanying them to the door, he bade 
 them a friendly farewell, again expressing to Roger 
 his pleasure in meeting him. 
 
 They seated themselves in the carriage which 
 Roger had ordered to wait, and were driven through 
 the wide streets, lined with trees just clothing 
 themselves in the young foliage of an early spring. 
 
 "A very intelligent young man!" said Roger. 
 "It's a pity he isn't at the head of the institu- 
 tion." 
 
 E stella could make no reply. Another wave of 
 homesickness was sweeping over her. The mus- 
 cles of her throat ached with the effort to keep 
 back her sobs, but the tears would gather and roll
 
 ROGER HUNT. 243 
 
 in great drops down her cheeks. She shrank back 
 into the corner of the carriage, and covered her 
 face with her handkerchief. Roger noticed her, 
 and felt sorry for her, but forbore, wisely as he 
 thought, to express any such feeling. He talked 
 on indifferent topics, not seeming to observe that 
 he received no answers. The carriage drew up be- 
 fore one of the places indicated on the list. The 
 prospect was not inviting. A small frame house, 
 one of a long block, with a long flight of dirty 
 and broken steps, was what Roger saw when he 
 alighted. 
 
 "This won't do, I know," he said, but, bidding 
 Estella remain where she was, went reluctantly up 
 the steps. An untidy servant answered the bell, 
 and looked at him with a vacuous countenance. 
 As the door opened he caught a whiff of mixed and 
 greasy smells from the kitchen below, and saying 
 hastily that he had made a mistake, returned to 
 the carriage, and ordered the driver to go on to the 
 next place. 
 
 "There is no use in wasting time here," he said, 
 as he seated himself by Estella. "I don't know 
 what Professor Hart meant by referring us to such 
 a place." 
 
 The next presented a more inviting outside, but 
 developed nothing but a small third story back 
 room, with no sun and poorly heated. 
 
 "I don't know as I should mind a third story," 
 said Estella, listlessly, as they rolled on again. 
 
 "I mind it," her father replied. Her mind was
 
 244 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 less occupied with the material comforts he was so 
 careful to inquire into than with painful conjec- 
 tures on other points, the kind of people she should 
 be thrown in with, the impossibility, she now felt 
 it, of making acquaintance with strangers, of inter- 
 esting herself in this new life, liking and making 
 it her own. 
 
 The third stopping-place looked so attractive 
 that Roger told Estella to come with him, and the 
 two ascended together the steps to a neat brick 
 residence on a quiet street, that wore an air of do- 
 mestic retirement. A pleasant-faced servant re- 
 sponded to their summons, but disappointed them 
 by reporting her mistress out. On learning she 
 would return soon, Roger asked permission to 
 enter and wait. The parlor into which they were 
 ushered was small but homelike, with signs of re- 
 fined taste and some degree of culture in its ap- 
 pointments. 
 
 " Really, I begin to think we have found some- 
 thing at last," said Roger, in an expectant tone. 
 Estella dropped into a chair, and listlessly waited 
 what might happen next. In a moment there was 
 a rustling sound on the staircase in the adjoining 
 hall, the portiere was pushed aside, and a woman 
 entered. She was of middle age, short stature, 
 and a trifle stout, with light hair, and dressed in 
 widow's black, relieved with muslin bands at the 
 throat and wrist. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," she began, before she 
 fairly saw them, "but I am Mrs. Black's sister, 
 and if you wish to look at rooms "
 
 ROGER HUNT. 245 
 
 She stopped suddenly. Roger had turned while 
 she was speaking, bringing his face into full light. 
 They recognized each other at once. He stood 
 facing Kitty Somers. 
 
 She spoke his name, in extreme astonishment, 
 and stood looking at him. He neither answered 
 nor moved towards her, only looked at her in turn. 
 That he was as deeply surprised as she, and a little 
 agitated, was evident, but it was not for him to 
 make the first move. A variety of emotions swept 
 over her face. What she might have done had they 
 two been alone need not be conjectured; but the 
 surprised look on Estella's face, who had risen from 
 her chair, caught her, and recalled her to herself. 
 She had heard of Roger's marriage, shortly after 
 it occurred, and of the birth of a daughter, so she 
 understood the situation at once. She stepped for- 
 ward and extended her hand. 
 
 "This is a great surprise," she said. 
 
 A deep flush of relief and gladness surged over 
 his face. He clasped her hand warmly. She 
 withdrew it and turned to the young girl. 
 
 "This is your daughter?" and Roger made the 
 necessary introductions. Mrs. Somers took her 
 hand, and looked at her kindly. 
 
 "Your father and I are old acquaintances," she 
 said. 
 
 Roger noticed she did not say "friends." A 
 light broke over Estella's face. 
 
 "Oh, and did you know my mother, too? " 
 
 Mrs. Somers felt Roger's eyes upon her.
 
 246 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Not so well, yet I remember her quite dis- 
 tinctly, also. She is well, I hope? " 
 
 The girl looked at her, her lips quivered, she 
 tried to speak, but could not. Roger explained 
 that Estella's mother had been an invalid for many 
 years. 
 
 She turned to him, and asked a few common- 
 place questions. He answered, keeping a watchful 
 eye on her. Estella, too, looked at her earnestly. 
 She was puzzled, but felt a strong attraction to- 
 wards this new acquaintance. Would she admit 
 any claim towards herself? Would she like her to 
 stay? Had she liked her father? She thought she 
 seemed a little embarrassed before him, and noted, 
 too, with more perplexity, that he seemed a little 
 afraid of her. Mrs. Somers caught the yearning, 
 wistful look once or twice, and it touched her. 
 The instinct of protection was as active as ever, 
 and already at work. 
 
 In a few minutes Mrs. Black entered, and was 
 presented and made acquainted with the visitors' 
 errand. Greatly to her surprise, her father signed 
 to Estella to go and look at the rooms without him. 
 
 When he and Mrs. Somers were left alone they 
 exchanged a long look. 
 
 "How strange we should meet like this!" she 
 murmured. 
 
 "I fear I must assume that to you the meeting 
 is as disagreeable as it is strange, but you need 
 fear no intrusion from me. Estella and I will take 
 our leave presently, and not trouble you further."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 247 
 
 Mrs. Somers knew what words like these meant. 
 She knew he wished Estella to stay, but that he 
 did not mean to ask it. She was provoked with 
 herself that her own wish ran with his. Estella's 
 face, with the appealing eyes, red with weeping, 
 and the sensitive mouth, had made an instant and 
 deep impression on her. Years had done little to 
 abate her impulsiveness, and already she loved the 
 girl, she thought. Yet how could she be friends 
 with the daughter, and ignore the father? It was 
 not of himself he was thinking least in this matter, 
 she was very sure. She foresaw difficulties and 
 complications, but for all that the wish in her heart 
 grew stronger. 
 
 "Why not let her stay, if she wishes?" She 
 tried to speak carelessly. 
 
 "It can hardly be as she wishes," was the reply; 
 then, after a moment's pause, and observing her : 
 "It can only be as you wish." She frowned a lit- 
 tle, finding herself in a more difficult position than 
 before. 
 
 "Estella is a stranger in the city?" she asked, 
 after reflecting a space. 
 
 "An entire stranger." Roger had not thought 
 of this before, but the words were spoken with 
 portentous gravity. 
 
 "She has never been away from home before?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " Would would you like her to stay, if the 
 place suits her?" This question was cunning, and 
 left them facing each other in a new position.
 
 248 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "That would depend upon what conditions she 
 was permitted to remain," he said, plainly. 
 
 "Conditions?" 
 
 "I cannot consent to leave my daughter in any 
 place where she is likely to form a disparaging 
 opinion of her father." 
 
 "How can you say such a thing! " she exclaimed 
 indignantly. "What must you think of me, I 
 wonder! " 
 
 "I think very highly of you, as you know," he 
 replied, in a tone that made her color. 
 
 "Why should I disparage you to her? As 
 though the poor girl's happiness did not depend on 
 her faith in you ! " she retorted bitterly. 
 
 "Estella is an object of commiseration to you, I 
 suppose." She was silent. 
 
 "You pity her, as you blame me. You have 
 always blamed me! " 
 
 "Of course I. blamed you. We both blamed 
 you, but we did not judge you as harshly as others 
 did. We knew you acted from what you believed 
 to be sufficient motives, but we thought you terri- 
 bly in the wrong. Afterward, when we heard of 
 your marriage, we were very thankful. We said 
 it was like you ; you had done what you could to 
 rectify your mistake." 
 
 "Do not give me praise I do not deserve," he 
 said, flinging back his head with the impatient 
 motion she remembered so well. "I never sought 
 to rectify any mistake, for the simple reason that I 
 have never yet acknowledged it was a mistake." 
 She looked at him with a mournful smile.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 249 
 
 "You have not changed much, Roger." 
 
 "I don't know. I have laid up a small store of 
 experience. And if it 's any merit in me, I am a 
 somewhat sadder as well as wiser man." 
 
 "Ah, then, you did see it was a mistake, that 
 you had taken the wrong way ! " 
 
 "There have been some mistakes, very likely, 
 but I doubt if we should agree in placing them." 
 She did not understand this, nor care to, and 
 sought an easier theme. 
 
 "Tell me about Eleanor," she said. "I remem- 
 ber how delicate she was. I never knew her very 
 well. After after what happened I reproached 
 myself many times that I had not tried to know 
 her better." 
 
 "You would have tried to prevent it?" raising 
 his head. 
 
 "Certainly, I should have tried to prevent it, if 
 I could." 
 
 "You are very frank, but Eleanor would not 
 have helped you, at least not then. Afterward, 
 she might." 
 
 "Afterward?" 
 
 "The qualities you find lacking in me, Eleanor 
 has to excess." 
 
 "Ah ! " recalling her prediction. "She has not 
 been happy, then?" 
 
 " No one is happy who proves unequal to a great 
 task. Eleanor failed me ! " 
 
 "Failed you!" 
 
 " It is natural that you should look on her as the 
 chief sufferer"
 
 250 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Failed you!" she exclaimed again, but at the 
 same moment held up her hand. Steps were heard 
 descending, and in a moment Mrs. Black and Es- 
 tella reentered. 
 
 "I like the room very much, papa," the latter 
 said, stepping towards him, and speaking in a tone 
 that conveyed a strong wish. 
 
 Mrs. Black wore the gratified look of one about 
 to complete a desirable bargain, and smiled indul- 
 gently at the girl. 
 
 "We shall be very glad to take her," she said 
 to him. But he made no reply either to Estella or 
 to her. He was looking at Mrs. Somers, quite 
 regardless of appearances. Estella began to look 
 embarrassed, Mrs. Black annoyed, but still Roger 
 kept his eyes on his old friend. She reddened 
 with vexation and a feeling of defeat. 
 
 "You had better let her stay," she said, turning 
 towards him, and speaking more coldly than the 
 import of her words warranted. A flash of triumph 
 lighted his eyes a moment. Estella was told she 
 could stay. Mrs. Somers 's vexation continued, but 
 she was ready to laugh, too. 
 
 "He succeeded in making me do as he wished," 
 she said to herself, alone in her room. "That is 
 Roger Hunt. Estella stays because I asked it; 
 I am the favored one. But why should I care? 
 The girl needs a friend, all the more because 
 she has a father." 
 
 After Roger's departure, she accompanied Es- 
 tella to her room, where she left her, judging it
 
 BOGER HUNT. 251 
 
 better to leave her by herself awhile, letting re- 
 pressed feeling spend its force. 
 
 "I know what it is to be homesick," she said. 
 "I shan't pretend it's any easier to bear than it 
 is; but you may take my word for it, you can't 
 always feel as you do now. You 're bound to feel 
 better by and by. But that needn't hinder you 
 from having the longest and hardest cry of your 
 life now. I should if I were in your place. I 'm 
 going to leave you now on purpose," smiling into 
 the tear-stained face, taking it between her hands 
 and kissing it. " We 're to be very good friends, 
 my dear. My room is across the hall, and you 
 must ask me for anything you want. We '11 go 
 down to lunch together." 
 
 "I don't want any lunch," said Estella plain- 
 tively. 
 
 "Not now, of course; it's only eleven o'clock; 
 and not at all if you feel the same way two hours 
 from now." She kissed her again and went out of 
 the room, but left so much of her cheerful presence 
 behind that Estella found it impossible to yield as 
 unrestrainedly to the feelings at work within her 
 as she had permission to do. A little quiet tear- 
 shedding seemed to finish that sort of exercise for 
 the time, and after she had bathed her face and 
 combed her hair she was glad to see her trunk 
 brought in, and to find another occupation in its 
 unpacking. Mrs. Somers came in again and helped 
 her. The two remained together all day, sitting 
 in Mrs. Somers 's room after supper, before a small 
 wood fire.
 
 252 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "You are to spend all your evenings in here," 
 she said impulsively. She felt she was behaving 
 rather recklessly, but prompted partly by sympa- 
 thy, partly by genuine liking, and conscious, too, 
 of considerable curiosity, she yielded to every fresh 
 feeling of kindness that came over her. 
 
 "I wonder why mamma never told me about 
 you," Estella said, later in the evening, but Mrs. 
 Somers explained this on the ground of long ill- 
 ness, which must have dimmed many memories of 
 the past. 
 
 Roger had noticed that Mrs. Somers was in 
 mourning, and knew that her husband must be 
 dead, but even had he not been more than usually 
 preoccupied with his own affairs, the occasion was 
 one that afforded little opportunity for the usual 
 expressions of interest and sympathy. He still 
 held to his old opinion of the marriage, and the 
 injured remembrance of the last letter he had re- 
 ceived from George Somers had never left him. 
 
 He left the house in a buoyant and rather exult- 
 ant frame of mind, having, as he conceived, been 
 able to maintain his own against Mrs. Somers, and 
 compel her respectful treatment of himself. As to 
 the motive which had led her to befriend Estella 
 and show an interest in her, he believed it related 
 to some one else ; that if she were honest, this 
 revived acquaintance was the source of as much 
 pleasure to her as he was willing to admit it was 
 to himself, though she would always, he supposed,
 
 ROGER HUNT. 253 
 
 keep up the old feint of opposition and pretended 
 disapproval. His old admiration for her flamed 
 into sudden life, even while his irritation against 
 her remained. His blood tingled, his mental fac- 
 ulties were newly aroused by this unexpected en- 
 counter with one who had always stimulated his 
 imagination, and whom, though he had never ad- 
 mitted it, he had a stronger desire to please than 
 any one he had ever known. 
 
 Mrs. Somers had been a widow four years. 
 Breaking up her home after her husband's death, 
 she had secured a place as newspaper correspon- 
 dent, and had spent much of her time in travel, 
 chiefly on the Pacific coast and in the Mexicos, 
 going once on a special mission to Brazil. She had 
 been spending the winter with her sister in Monroe 
 and her plans for the future were undetermined, 
 when she met Roger Hunt, and in a way assumed 
 charge of his daughter. The loneliness of her wid- 
 owhood, without children to care for, was height- 
 ened by the fact that she missed her husband in so 
 many ways. He had been not only her lover, but 
 her friend and most congenial companion. She 
 missed him, not simply when she needed counsel 
 and support, but when she wanted some one to talk 
 to, to share a jest, or, perhaps, to differ with. 
 
 George Somers's death had been sudden, and 
 had an element of tragedy in it. He had been 
 killed instantly in a railroad accident; but there 
 was the element of another sort of tragedy con- 
 nected with it: he and his wife had quarreled
 
 254 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 shortly before he left her. To be sure, they had 
 made up again, and thus ended the affair; but they 
 were still in its shadow when they exchanged their 
 last good-by. 
 
 The quarrel was as trivial in its source as the 
 conjugal dispute usually is, the result, mainly, of 
 tired nerves on the one hand, a depressed mood on 
 the other. Some careless word of his had aroused 
 a swift feeling of injury in her, and provoked a 
 petulant reply. Then the gates were let down and 
 impetuous speech had its way; the man's forced 
 coolness deepening the woman's sense of injury, 
 her small jibing thrusts stinging him like nettles. 
 He had left her in tears, with too much anger and 
 disgust still in his own breast to attempt reconcil- 
 iation. Each felt very much abused and very 
 heroic for the space of half an hour; at the end of 
 which George dallied with the impulse to turn back 
 from his office door and reenter his violated home, 
 and Kitty tried to devise an errand that might 
 take her accidentally down town. But the absurd- 
 ity of the affair began now to appear, and they 
 passed the day in miserable waiting. Each looked 
 at the other with a shame -stricken face, when they 
 met at night, then broke into a helpless laugh. 
 The next moment she was in his arms, crying and 
 laughing at once, and, woman-like, abusing herself 
 and declaring she alone was to blame. 
 
 "You don't mean that," he said, releasing her. 
 His emotional resources, even in periods like this, 
 proved smaller than hers. She looked up at him
 
 ROGER HUNT. 255 
 
 with a conscious expression, the tear-drops still 
 hanging on her eyelashes. 
 
 "Well, no," she sighed, "perhaps I don't. But 
 George, it is so ridiculous, so perfectly shameful in 
 us! Why do we behave so? But we never will 
 again! " she added hopefully. 
 
 He smiled, with a touch of mournfulness. He 
 had been a listener to such devoutly-spoken resolu- 
 tions before ; they impressed him much as a resolve 
 might not to stumble over an unseen obstacle on 
 a dark night. His was not a sanguine nature ; she 
 understood his feeling and had learned to read its 
 signs. 
 
 "You are such a fatalist," she said reproach- 
 fully. " How are we ever to do any better, if we 
 have no faith in ourselves, if we don't try." 
 
 "Perhaps we never shall do much better," he 
 replied resignedly. 
 
 "Oh, how dreadful! Two such people as we 
 are," they were a rather superior couple, she 
 thought, " to spend all our lives quarreling and 
 making up, and about nothing at all! " 
 
 "We do not spend all our lives quarreling," he 
 corrected her. "As for the making up, that's 
 rather in our favor, it seems to me, and it 's bet- 
 ter to have no cause for a quarrel than a good one, 
 in such cases." 
 
 "I don't see why," she said, rather dully, for 
 her. 
 
 "Well, I can't stop to explain now. I've got 
 to go to New York to-night."
 
 256 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "To New York! To-night ! " 
 
 He explained to her the business errand that was 
 to take him from home for a few days. 
 
 "But why must you go to-night?" she urged. 
 It seemed a kind of sacrilege for them to separate 
 now. 
 
 "In order to be there to-morrow." 
 
 "I 've half a mind to go with you." 
 
 "All right. You can if you want to." 
 
 She reflected a moment, but prudential thoughts 
 overcame this impulse. 
 
 "But I shall go to the train with you," she said. 
 
 "You had better not. It is dark, and you will 
 have to come home alone." 
 
 "I don't care," she said hurriedly, "I shall go." 
 
 She gained little by this, except the chance to 
 keep him in sight, for the street-car was crowded, 
 compelling George to stand on the platform out- 
 side, and at the station he was hailed by an ac- 
 quaintance and kept talking on some business topic 
 until the train was ready to start. They kissed 
 each other and she stood watching as he moved 
 slowly in his place in the line through the gate, 
 and then mounted the car platform. He turned 
 and lifted his hat, and she waved her hand. Then 
 he went inside, and she saw him no more, until he 
 was brought home to her in his coffin. 
 
 The relation between these two was peculiar, and 
 not entirely destroyed by death. Lonely as she 
 was, Kitty Somers never felt entirely alone ; death 
 having surrounded her with a presence more near
 
 ROGER HUNT. 257 
 
 and pervading, in some ways, than life had brought. 
 She counseled with George, dead, much as she had 
 with George, living; projected his views against or 
 in support of her own; talked things over with 
 him. They understood and belonged to each other 
 still. No other relation could ever replace this 
 one, whose very imperfections helped to constitute 
 its claim for precedence. 
 
 This was Kitty Somers's idea of married fealty, 
 of love's loyalty, which must be preserved whether 
 love be perfect or not. How can love be perfect, 
 humanly conditioned, more than knowledge? It 
 was an idea a man like Roger Hunt would not have 
 understood in the least, nor have professed to re- 
 spect, if he did understand it.
 
 XVII. 
 
 ESTELLA did not settle at once into her new 
 place. Study in a large school-room, and contact 
 with so many people, was quite new to her. Life 
 was not very quiet at Mrs. Black's either, who had 
 several "roomers," as they were called, to mark 
 the fact that they were not boarders, and took their 
 meals out; but Mrs. Somers had persuaded her 
 sister to make an exception of Estella. The con- 
 stant coming and going, shutting of doors, and 
 sound of gay young voices in the hall, was a com- 
 plete contrast to the perpetual quiet at home. 
 
 "Our house is so still," she said to Mrs. Somers 
 once. "Sometimes the neighbors call, but not very 
 often, because mamma, you know, can hardly ever 
 see them; and papa is always at his studies." 
 
 "You studied with your father, did you not? " 
 
 "Yes; I was never allowed to go to school. 
 Papa does not believe in the graded system." 
 Mrs. Somers smiled. There were so many things 
 Roger did not believe in. 
 
 "That gave you the benefit of better instruction 
 in many ways, I dare say," she replied; "but I al- 
 ways think it a pity that young people should not 
 be with each other."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 259 
 
 "I don't think I minded much." It was not 
 easy for Estella to speak of Nina. 
 
 It had been something of a relief to Mrs. Somers 
 that Estella cared so little for society. She was 
 willing to accept the full responsibility of this rela- 
 tion for herself, but hesitated, in a way she could 
 neither quite justify nor wholly condemn, about 
 extending it to others. When this looked cow- 
 ardly, she excused it by saying that Estella had 
 inherited so much of her father's self-reliance, that 
 she required little from other people; and when 
 this kind of reasoning seemed rather heartless, she 
 argued that the consequences of an action like 
 Roger Hunt's could not be expected to end with 
 the doer, and went to science and the Bible for 
 justification. Then she turned about remorsefully, 
 and treated the girl with more kindness than be- 
 fore. She became more attached to her each day. 
 
 Professor Hart presented the new pupil to his 
 assistant, the first day of her attendance. The 
 latter was seated at his desk, busily writing, and 
 raised his eyes in a rather startled way when he 
 heard his name spoken. He did not catch Es- 
 tella's name, but his face showed that he recog- 
 nized her. It was his duty to enter her name in 
 the register, and make some further inquiries about 
 her studies, and Professor Hart left them together. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, as he dipped his 
 
 in in the ink-bottle, "but I did not understand 
 name." 
 
 "Miss Hunt Estella Hunt," was the reply.
 
 260 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 He started slightly, and the pen remained sus- 
 pended in his hand, while he looked at her in a way 
 that embarrassed and annoyed her somewhat. 
 
 A careful observer might have noticed certain 
 signs of resemblance in these two, in a rather pe- 
 culiar shape of the forehead, narrow but high, with 
 clearly defined angles. The color of the eyes was 
 the same, but the young man's wore a cloudy and 
 downcast expression, while Estella's were clear and 
 direct in their gaze, like her father's. 
 
 "Pardon me," he repeated once more, recollect- 
 ing himself, but again looking at her closely. " The 
 name arrested my attention. It it once be- 
 longed to my own family ; but it is a very common 
 one." 
 
 The peculiar expression, "It once belonged to 
 my family," did not strike Estella, but she felt, 
 for some reason, more annoyed than before. It 
 had always been a source of surprise, and some 
 personal sensitiveness in her, that she had never 
 been told she had any relatives on either side. 
 She felt strangely ignorant on many points other 
 girls seemed to possess abundant knowledge of. 
 Nina Clarke, she used to notice, talked a great 
 deal about uncles and aunts and cousins, writing 
 letters to them and receiving gifts at Christmas 
 and on her birthday; but her own connections 
 seemed to end with her parents. She believed her 
 mother had once had a brother, but whether he 
 was dead or living she did not know. The young 
 assistant's words, and the way he looked at her,
 
 BOGER HUNT. 261 
 
 seemed intrusive, and she was glad to turn away 
 from him and take the seat he assigned her. Sev- 
 eral times throughout the day she felt his eyes on 
 her, always withdrawn when they met her own, and 
 her annoyance increased. She thought he was very 
 disagreeable. 
 
 "You will be sure to like Professor Hart," Mrs. 
 Somers said to her that evening, inquiring into the 
 day's progress. "He is a great favorite." 
 
 "I do not recite to Professor Hart, but to Mr. 
 Watson," said Estella, with some discontent. 
 
 "Watson Watson," the other repeated, 
 thoughtfully. "I wonder if that isn't the young 
 man who called to look at rooms a few weeks ago. 
 Tall, with dark hair and eyes?" Estella reflected 
 a moment. 
 
 "Not so very tall, I should say." 
 
 "I'm sure it is the 'same. He wanted board, 
 so Mrs. Black sent him across the street to Mrs. 
 Richardson." 
 
 He was in the neighborhood, then, Estella 
 thought, with a renewal of her former feeling. 
 She learned later that Mr. Watson was helping 
 himself through a post-graduate course by teach- 
 ing. Unlike Professor Hart, he was not a favorite. 
 On the contrary, his moody and unsocial manners 
 made him an object of some antagonism to many of 
 the pupils, who took pains to vex and tease him. 
 When Estella understood this, she began to feel a 
 little sorry for him, and to take his part. Each 
 preserved a shy bearing towards the other, but in
 
 262 ROGEE HUNT. 
 
 time they grew better acquainted. They met each 
 other frequently on the way to and from school, 
 and one day Mr. Watson joined her. Her first 
 fleeting dislike of him had by this time vanished, 
 and given way, to a feeling of kindly interest. To 
 this was soon added pride in her teacher's evident 
 liking for herself, and the distinction she was gain- 
 ing of being a favorite pupil. The difference in 
 their ages, about eight years, was more noticeable 
 now than it would be later, and made the relation 
 a more flattering one to Estella. At the end of 
 two months they were good friends. 
 
 By degrees Estella had learned something, but 
 not all, of Mr. Watson's history; that he had lived 
 alone, without brothers or sisters, in the home of 
 an aunt who had brought him up, but who died 
 when he was in college. 
 
 "Then your father and mother died when you 
 were very young?" she said to him, one day, after 
 listening to some of these revelations. 
 
 "My mother died when I was eight years old." 
 
 "And your father? " He hesitated a moment. 
 
 "I lost him some time before." She listened 
 with a sympathetic face. 
 
 "I never had any brothers or sisters either," she 
 said simply, and after a moment's silence. He 
 looked at her gravely. 
 
 "Tell me something of your home." She replied 
 that there was very little to tell. He gathered the 
 mental picture of a country -like home, resting in 
 an atmosphere of refined and scholarly leisure,
 
 BOGER HUNT. 
 
 marred only by the mother's long illness. Rather 
 ideal, he thought. 
 
 E stella said to herself she was a very fortunate 
 girl to make two such friends as Mrs. Somers and 
 Mr. Watson. She had grown more accustomed to 
 her new life, and was enjoying it. She had not 
 forgotten her mother, but pain here was softened 
 to tender regret. The right of youth to its own 
 hopeful outlook was beginning to assert itself. 
 The light of happy expectation glowed in her eyes, 
 young joy and trust warmed her heart. 
 
 Mrs. Somers watched the growing intimacy be- 
 tween Estella and her teacher with puzzled dis- 
 approval. If a particle of youthful silliness had 
 revealed itself here, if Estella was not so perfectly 
 frank about it, she felt she would have known bet- 
 ter how to deal with it ; but evidently nothing was 
 further from the minds of these serious young peo- 
 ple than a flirtation. She did not like Mr. Wat- 
 son very well, she did not know why, and would 
 have been glad of an excuse to break off the ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 "She isn't the least bit in love with him," she 
 said to herself. " Such a thing never entered her 
 head. Yet she always stands up for him. I sup- 
 pose it 's because nobody else can get along with 
 him. I hope the girl is n't going to develop her 
 father's passion for being in the minority." 
 
 What the nature of Assistant Watson's feelings 
 for his pupil might be she felt less sure of, and, as 
 far as he was concerned, less interested in. He
 
 264 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 had a strange way of looking at her, she had no- 
 ticed, when she saw them together, but his manner 
 was too grave and composed for a lover's. It 
 showed his poverty-stricken condition, socially, she 
 thought, with some irritation, to fasten himself on 
 a young girl in this way. 
 
 In the mean time if any youthful folly were going 
 on, nothing could tend to correct it so well as a 
 little timely satire and ridicule ; and Mr. Watson 
 came in for more than one little shaft from this 
 direction. 
 
 " Why does not the man assert himself a lit- 
 tle?" she asked Estella one evening, when they 
 were sitting together in her room, and the latter 
 had been telling her about the unruly behavior of 
 one of her classmates that day. "Why does he 
 let a silly young woman torment him so, and break 
 up a class? He ought to be ashamed to permit 
 such things! " 
 
 "It is the young woman who ought to be 
 ashamed, I think," said Estella. 
 
 "Very likely, but a teacher must either win the 
 respect of his pupils or compel it. Mr. Watson 
 isn't one of the winning kind, I know" 
 
 "You don't understand him, Mrs. Somers. He 
 has been very unhappy all his life." There was 
 faint reproach in her tone, and a hint of mystery, 
 that made the other look at her in surprise. 
 
 "Unhappy!" she scoffed. "What has Mr. 
 Watson been doing to make himself unhappy?" 
 
 "It isn't what he has done himself, it is what
 
 ROGER HUNT. 265 
 
 other people have done," with more mystery than 
 before. 
 
 "That's a very shallow cause of unhappiness. 
 If Mr. Watson has only reached the point where 
 he is repenting of some one's else misconduct, he 
 will do very well." 
 
 "If you knew his history, Mrs. Somers, I don't 
 think you would speak like that." 
 
 "His history! So Mr. Watson has a history?" 
 She looked at the young girl sharply. What sen- 
 timental disclosures had she been made to listen to 
 by this conceited and gloomy admirer? Estella 
 returned the look calmly. 
 
 "What has he been telling you?" 
 
 "I don't know as he would be willing I should 
 repeat it," said Estella thoughtfully. 
 
 " His willingness has nothing to do with it. You 
 are to tell me everything he said to you." The 
 girl looked at her quietly, as before. 
 
 "After all, I don't see why I should not tell 
 you." It was plain the springs of obedience were 
 within. "And some of it was so strange," leaning 
 back in her chair, looking meditatively at Raphael's 
 head of Paul on the opposite wall. "I don't think 
 he was to blame for telling me." 
 
 "I can tell that better when I have heard what 
 it is. Come," ironically, "what is Mr. Watson's 
 'history'?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean he told me all. Only his 
 life has been so different from most young men's. 
 He lost both parents when very young, and was
 
 266 EOGEE HUNT. 
 
 brought up by an aunt. His mother died, but his 
 father, he has known nothing about him for 
 years. I think he must have done something that 
 brought some kind of disgrace on the family. Mr. 
 Watson didn't tell me just what, but it seemed to 
 distress and anger him so to speak of his father." 
 
 "Well, go on," said Mrs. Somers, as Estella 
 paused. There had been nothing very serious so 
 far, but she felt unaccountably nervous. 
 
 "There isn't much more. As I say, his aunt 
 adopted him and gave him her name. That is the 
 strangest part of it," she went on, leaning forward, 
 and clasping her hands over one knee. " His real 
 name isn't Watson at all. It is Hunt." 
 
 "What ! " Mrs. Somers sprung to her feet. 
 
 "Just like mine ! Is n't that odd? " said the girl 
 dreamily. "What is the matter, Mrs. Somers?" 
 looking up at her in alarm. "Are you ill? " and 
 she rose to her feet. 
 
 "No no. Go on. Yes, it is odd, as you say," 
 and she tried to laugh. "I wish you would open 
 a window, Estella," and she sank weakly down on 
 her chair again. 
 
 "Never mind," she said, as the girl rushed to a 
 window, tried to open it, and could not. "I feel 
 better now," but she leaned her head against the 
 back of her chair; her face was white and hag- 
 gard. 
 
 "You are really ill, Mrs. Somers," said Estella, 
 coming back to her side. "We must have walked 
 too far in the hot sun this afternoon."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 267 
 
 " Yes yes, that is it. I will lie down a little 
 while. No, dear, you needn't stay," as the other 
 began to make preparations for her comfort. 
 "Go to your room. I shall be better alone, for 
 a while." But Estella would not go until she had 
 seen her friend lie down, placed a pillow under her 
 head, and thrown a covering over her. It seemed 
 a small eternity to Mrs. Somers while she submit- 
 ted to these cares. At last Estella turned, reluc- 
 tantly, to leave her; but reaching the door she 
 heard her name called sharply, and came quickly 
 back to the lounge. 
 
 "Estella, you are not to stir out of the house 
 again to-night," and she clutched the girl's hand 
 in hers. 
 
 " Why, no, Mrs. Somers ; I was not intending to 
 go out," the other said in surprise. "It is nine 
 o'clock." She wondered if Mrs. Somers were go- 
 ing to have a fever. Reluctantly she turned again, 
 at her bidding, and left her. 
 
 Alone, Mrs. Somers sprang from her place, 
 throwing the covering to one side, then rising to 
 her feet, went to the door and locked it, and stood 
 still to think. 
 
 How could she have failed to identify Charles 
 Watson at once, when she first heard his name? 
 But how could she be expected to do so? She 
 had, in truth, as many others had, remembered 
 Roger Hunt's flight from home, chiefly in its rela- 
 tion to himself and her own disappointment in him. 
 Occasionally the images of the severe-faced woman
 
 268 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 he had left behind, and the child towards whom 
 she had taken a mother's part, had come back to 
 her, but it had been years since she had thought 
 of either. Fear, indignation, despair, swept over 
 her in turn as the situation unrolled before her. 
 
 "It is ghastly! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Her indignation darted swiftly from one object 
 to another: first towards Charles Watson. Why 
 had he told Estella his miserable story? What 
 right had he to throw himself on her sympathy in 
 this way ? Why was he there in Monroe at all ? 
 Then she turned against herself. Would she never 
 learn to let people alone ; to stop trying to play at 
 Providence ? Because a girl had looked at her with 
 appealing eyes, she must go and get herself mixed 
 up again in the affairs of a man like Roger Hunt ! 
 Because she knew the girl's history, she must con- 
 ceive the fantastic notion that she might be able to 
 help avert natural results! She remembered the 
 offer she had received a few days before from the 
 Philadelphia "Peacemaker," to go to Toronto and 
 report the proceedings of the Red Cross Society; 
 and declared she would reverse her first decision 
 and accept it. She would leave on the first train 
 the next day! 
 
 Then, ashamed of her childishness, her anger 
 flamed up in another and more just direction, as 
 she remembered the one who had caused all this 
 trouble. As she traced the far-reaching effects of 
 Roger Hunt's action, there seemed a kind of moral 
 enormity in it. What would be his sensations
 
 ROGER HUNT. 269 
 
 when he heard of this latest development in the 
 drama he had inaugurated? Would he care? 
 Would he be at all disturbed? Would he perceive 
 his own accountability towards these two young 
 lives it should be his first duty to protect. She 
 doubted it, and the doubt whetted her. anger against 
 him anew. She cried out in her heart against the 
 law that condemns the innocent to suffer with the 
 guilty. She longed to make him feel only one 
 tenth the misery and shame the full knowledge of 
 himself had power to inflict on others. The de- 
 sire to punish, to reveal him to himself, to repudi- 
 ate, and place miles of spiritual distance between 
 herself and him, filled her. 
 
 She seated herself at her desk, and began to 
 write. Sheet after sheet was filled and pushed 
 aside. Scorn, rebuke, entreaty, angry protest, 
 flowed into the written lines. Her excitement in- 
 creased, and her subject grew in the dimensions of 
 the moral indignation in which she enveloped it, 
 until even she began to perceive exaggerated, some- 
 times grotesque effects. But she was in no mood 
 to discriminate and choose, and hurried on. She 
 had put on the black robe of judgment. Let the 
 recording angel excuse and plead for Roger Hunt, 
 if he was so inclined. She had done that for the 
 last time. 
 
 At the end she leaned back in her chair with a 
 long sigh of exhaustion. Then she gathered the 
 sheets rapidly together, folded them, directed and 
 sealed the envelope. Rising and stepping quickly
 
 270 BOGER HUNT. 
 
 across the room, she touched a bell-button in the 
 wall. 
 
 "Post this letter to-night," she said to the ser- 
 vant who answered it. 
 
 "If I could be so foolish as to repent, it would 
 be too late now," was her thought. 
 
 As she reflected on what remained to be done, she 
 saw she had performed the least important duty 
 first; the letter to Estella's father might have 
 waited, the question of Estella herself was immedi- 
 ate and pressing. How to prevent Charles Wat- 
 son from imparting any more of his personal history 
 to his willing and sympathetic listener that was 
 the point to be settled, and at once. Mrs. Somers 
 decided here that the hardest way was the easiest, 
 as well as the surest. The next day was Saturday ; 
 she would get rid of Estella, and send a message 
 to Mr. Watson, asking him to call on her. 
 
 Something tugged at her heart-strings, and just 
 before undressing she slipped out of her room into 
 Estella's. It was dark, and she could only see the 
 outline of the dark hair streaming across the pil- 
 low. The breath of the young sleeper came and 
 went lightly, and one could fancy she was smiling. 
 The tears rushed to Mrs. Somers's eyes. She bent 
 over the bed, an immense pity swelling in her 
 heart. Ah! the innocent suffering of this world, 
 she thought again, and recalled the words thought- 
 lessly spoken a few hours before, which now seemed 
 so shallow, about the unreality of the suffering 
 that does not spring from our own mistakes. It
 
 ROGER HUNT. 271 
 
 was true in a sense, of course, but what is the use 
 of trying to teach such lessons to the young ? Mrs. 
 Somers herself felt very old as she stood there. 
 She thought again of Roger Hunt. What was he 
 doing now? Conning a Latin sentence from Lu- 
 cretius, or counting the pieces in an ancient bit of 
 mosaic, proud of the distinction such lofty pur- 
 suits conferred above other men, looking piously 
 to heaven and a grateful posterity to reward him. 
 She was glad she had written the letter. ' Going 
 back to her room, she extinguished the light and 
 crept into bed, but not to sleep, any more than on 
 a certain night eighteen years before. 
 
 The next morning she carried out her plans very 
 successfully. Estella was out of the house, and she 
 sat in her room awaiting Mr. Watson. Up to this 
 time she had given very little thought to his connec- 
 tion with the case she had taken in hand, and felt 
 free to disclaim all accountability in this direction ; 
 but she was conscious of compunction rising in a 
 new quarter when he entered. She had thought 
 of him before as an unfortunate and rather dis- 
 agreeable young man, whose failing popularity was 
 due, she suspected, to his own morose and difficult 
 temper. Now she could not but look at him some- 
 what differently, though she meant to keep feeling 
 strictly in hand, be very cool, and if necessary a 
 little severe with him. This was simply a matter 
 of moral economy; the young assistant, she was 
 willing to admit, deserved sympathy, but hers was 
 promised beforehand to some one else. She fortified
 
 272 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 herself in this resolution by the thought that Mr. 
 Watson was a man, and could take care of himself. 
 
 The first thing she noticed, as he stood with un- 
 covered head before her, was a resemblance to Es- 
 tella, but as she had never noted anything of the 
 kind before, she ascribed it to a freaky imagination. 
 It suggested, again, however, that he, too, might 
 have claims to assert. It would be impossible to 
 treat him as if he were an enemy. 
 
 He responded slowly to her invitation to be 
 seated, while the puzzled look on his face re- 
 mained. She placed herself opposite him, and a 
 moment of rather awkward silence followed. 
 
 "I sent for you," she began at last, "because I 
 wished to speak to you about a matter of impor- 
 tance." She paused, and he bowed gravely, with- 
 out proffering any response. 
 
 "Important to yourself, I mean," and paused 
 again ; but this time he only waited. 
 
 "Estella Miss Hunt has been telling me 
 something you recently told her." He flushed, and 
 moved uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "Pray do not think I mean to intrude on mat- 
 ters that do not concern me," she added, "but I 
 I feel you ought to know something of Miss Hunt's 
 history." 
 
 "Why did she repeat what I told her?" the 
 young man broke out. "It was a violation of con- 
 fidence." 
 
 "Excuse me, but do you think you have a right 
 to impart confidences in such a direction? She
 
 ROGEE HUNT. 273 
 
 did quite right to tell me. I stand here in the 
 place of her mother. Estella is very young. The 
 sympathies of such a girl are easily aroused; so 
 easily, you will pardon me for saying that I can- 
 not understand what satisfaction any one in your 
 position can derive from them." 
 
 This was not at all the line she had expected to 
 take. The angry blood swept like a wave over his 
 face, and he rose to his feet. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, madam, but you are using 
 language and attributing motives to me I cannot 
 permit myself to hear and be accused of. It is 
 impossible any one should understand my motive in 
 speaking to Miss Hunt." 
 
 "That is where you are mistaken," she said 
 quietly, feeling more kindly towards him, now that 
 she had tried the edge of her first irritation against 
 him. "I understand your motive perfectly." 
 
 He smiled bitterly. 
 
 "I understand it better than you do yourself, 
 perhaps. Sit down again, please." There was a 
 gentle authority in her words that compelled at- 
 tention, but he hesitated and looked at her distrust- 
 
 "If you sent for me merely to warn and repri- 
 mand me," with an icy smile, "we may consider 
 the object of my visit accomplished." 
 
 " Nonsense ! What right have I to reprimand 
 you? It is not of you I am thinking." This had 
 a rude sound, and she corrected herself. "I mean 
 I am thinking of Estella. I am very anxious about
 
 274 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 her. I want you to help me." He looked sur- 
 prised and newly perplexed at this, and slowly 
 resumed his seat. 
 
 "How well do you remember your father? " Mrs. 
 Somers asked, after a few minutes' waiting. He 
 looked at her with more surprise still, and renewed 
 distrust. 
 
 "I have a good reason for asking," she contin- 
 ued. "I knew your father." 
 
 Her heart beat fast. To her excited fancy it 
 seemed she need tell no more. Surely he would 
 be able to put two and two together. 
 
 "You knew my father! " he repeated, and con- 
 tinued to look at her. 
 
 " I knew him very well. He he was a friend 
 of my husband." Here she paused mentally to 
 cross and objurgate herself. ("There! Go and 
 lay it at poor George's door, who is in heaven, and 
 can't help himself.") "I knew your father and 
 your mother both," she went on aloud. She looked 
 at him keenly at this reference to his mother, but 
 was unable to conjecture what memories it aroused. 
 
 "I have long since ceased to think I ever had a 
 father," her listener said, after a brief pause. 
 
 "Do you mean you have heard no news of him 
 in all these years? " 
 
 "Nothing; I wish to hear nothing." She did 
 not heed this. 
 
 "Then you did not know that after your mo- 
 ther's death, your father married the woman who 
 that he and Miss Thaxter were married? "
 
 ROGER HUNT. 275 
 
 His lip curled scornfully. 
 
 "What difference does that make?" 
 
 "I did not say it made any difference. Please 
 do not think I am defending him. They were 
 married, and had a child, a daughter." She 
 caught her breath again, and waited, but he looked 
 at her with dull eyes. His mind was less occupied 
 with what she was saying than with painful mem- 
 ories of his own. 
 
 " After they were married they returned to this 
 country. The little girl was born over here, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 "All this is nothing to me, madam," he said, 
 moving impatiently. 
 
 " But think ; you may meet him some day. No- 
 thing is more likely, in these days, when everybody 
 goes everywhere. Can't you see what I mean? " 
 she asked with an imploring accent, leaning to- 
 wards him. He drew back and turned a little pale, 
 but even then less with any suspicion of the spe- 
 cific thing she had to say, than from a sudden sense 
 of impending evil. 
 
 "Suppose he were to come here," she urged, "to 
 see Estella." 
 
 "To see Estella!" He looked at her blankly. 
 "My God ! You mean " He sat staring at 
 her, stiff and motionless. 
 
 "Oh, I am so sorry for you," she broke out, the 
 tears rolling from her eyes. "I would give the 
 world to spare you." He rose dizzily to his feet, 
 keeping his hand a moment on his chair.
 
 276 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "You mean that, then? " he said in a low voice. 
 "Her father is mine. We we are" A sin- 
 gular expression flitted across his face. 
 
 The tears continued to stream down hers as she 
 looked up at him. He stooped mechanically and 
 took up his hat from the floor, then turned towards 
 the door. 
 
 "You must not go yet," she cried. "We must 
 decide something." 
 
 "What is there to decide?" 
 
 "About Estella." She rose and went towards 
 him. "She knows nothing of this, you must re- 
 member. We must never let her know. That is 
 the reason I have told you." + 
 
 "You did right to tell me. Do you mean Miss 
 Hunt knows nothing of her father's first mar- 
 riage? " 
 
 "Nothing. If she were to know that, she must 
 know the rest. It would kill her. She is devot- 
 edly attached to her mother. If she were to learn 
 anything against her " 
 
 Her listener reflected a while, with bent head, 
 and serious face. 
 
 "You need have no fears for Miss Hunt on my 
 account," he said, raising his eyes to her. This 
 pleased her, but was not quite definite enough. 
 She began some words of sympathy, but he checked 
 her with his hand. 
 
 "What shall you do?" she then asked. 
 
 "Do?" 
 
 "I mean, shall shall you go away? " She was
 
 ROGER HUNT. 277 
 
 a little ashamed of the question, and the wish it 
 implied, but it would come. 
 
 "Go away! Why should I go away? " 
 
 "Shall you see Estella, then?" A slight frown 
 creased his forehead. 
 
 "Why should I not see Estella?" he asked. 
 
 "It would impose too severe a restraint on you. 
 You would be unable to keep things to yourself." 
 The old bitter smile rose to his lips. 
 
 "I have kept things to myself all my life." 
 
 " But if her father should come ! " 
 
 He had not thought of this, and reflected on it a 
 minute. "It will make no difference. We shall 
 not sef each other." 
 
 "But he knows," she replied quickly, and for 
 the first time felfto little conscience-smitten about 
 her letter. "I I have written to him," she 
 added. He looked at her with new bewilderment. 
 This struck him as a singular confession from one 
 so careful to extort promises of secrecy from other 
 people. At the same time a half -defiant gleam 
 lighted his face. She knew what it meant; he 
 would not object to meet this father. 
 
 "The consequences be on his own head, then," 
 the young man said harshly. She pitied him, but 
 she was a little displeased too. 
 
 "I see. You wish to be avenged. You think 
 only of yourself ; you will make a scene and a scan- 
 dal. You care nothing for Estella." 
 
 His face grew grave again. He was silent a 
 moment. "I will think the matter over," he said, 
 and left her.
 
 278 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 " What brutes men are! "Mrs. Somers exclaimed 
 to herself, when alone once more. "Always want- 
 ing to spring at each other's throats ! " With this 
 superficial irritation she relieved the deeper strain 
 the interview had caused her. 
 
 If regrets for the letter she had written returned 
 to her, they were useless. Fate or Providence, it 
 soon seemed, had not left things to her manage- 
 ment entirely. That night at supper, Estella told 
 her she had written a long letter to her mother, re- 
 lating to her, as she had to her friend, Mr. Wat- 
 son's story. It was strange Mrs. Somers had not 
 thought of this possibility, but she could not think 
 of everything. She was by this time tired out, 
 helpless and hopeless ; ready to wash her hands of 
 what might happen next. She said to herself that 
 Destiny might rule hereafter. Her own jurisdiction 
 seemed drawing to a close.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE life of the Hunt household moved on still 
 more quietly after Estella's departure. Roger 
 made regular visits to his wife's room two or three 
 times a day, shutting himself the remaining time 
 in his study, paying an occasional social visit to 
 his neighbor, Mrs. Clarke, and one or two other 
 friends. 
 
 To his observation there seemed little change in 
 Eleanor, but to the more watchful eyes of Mrs. 
 Saunders, she was losing strength daily, though by 
 slow degrees. She had not risen from her bed 
 since Estella went away, and passed hours in that 
 half -waking trance in which the body lies numb 
 and passive beneath the action of wasting physical 
 forces. The only thing that seemed thoroughly to 
 arouse her these last weeks was Estella's letters. 
 She kept the one last received near her until the 
 next one came, and Mrs. Saunders often noticed 
 her lying with her hand under the pillow clasping 
 the little missive that symbolized the strongest tie 
 which held her to earth. 
 
 Eleanor had been a good deal agitated when she 
 learned of Roger's meeting with Mrs. Somers, and 
 that Estella had been left in her care. She was 
 deeply grateful, though unable to learn from
 
 280 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Roger, who spoke with much reserve on the sub- 
 ject, just what construction to put upon her ac- 
 tion. She had expressed a desire to write Mrs. 
 Somers and thank her,. but he had promptly dis- 
 couraged this. As Estella's letters reached her, 
 and she saw how much she was coming to regard 
 this new friend, she grew not only reconciled to the 
 necessity of parting, but thankful for it. The 
 need of further effort on her part even here was 
 slipping fast from her, the duty of living growing 
 smaller. 
 
 Roger's absence from home, when he took Es- 
 tella to Monroe, had been so short that the lessons 
 with his pupil suffered no interruption. The days 
 were growing warmer now, but Nina's interest in 
 her studies did not flag. She had never again ex- 
 pressed the wish to discontinue them, and her 
 mother was highly gratified at the change in her, 
 the results, she believed, of her own wholesome dis- 
 cipline. The walks to the river were kept up, and 
 Nina was growing something of an expert in an- 
 cient arrow-heads and picture-writing. The sea- 
 son was also taken advantage of to begin a course 
 in botany. 
 
 One day at the close of the lesson, when Estella 
 had been absent from home nearly two months, 
 Nina extended an invitation, in her mother's name, 
 to dine with them the following Saturday, with 
 a small company of friends, "to meet my uncle 
 Mortimer," she explained. 
 
 Roger expressed his thanks, but frowned a little, 
 also.
 
 EOGER HUNT. 281 
 
 "I don't like dinner-parties," he said. 
 
 "Mamma is very anxious you should meet my 
 uncle. He is her youngest brother ; we are all very 
 proud of him." 
 
 Roger smiled and asked the reason why; but 
 did not pay much attention to the answer, gathering 
 only that the gentleman in question was a success- 
 ful journalist in a large Eastern city. 
 
 "Suppose I forget it? " he asked teasingly, when 
 she renewed the invitation. She pouted a little. 
 
 "Then mamma will be greatly disappointed." 
 
 "I should like better to know how mamma's 
 daughter will feel." 
 
 "You will have to come, and find out that for 
 yourself," she replied; a rather happy retort for 
 Nina, at which they both laughed. 
 
 "I will help you to remember," she said. "I 
 will mark the day." She took a pen from the 
 desk, with the freedom she was now coming to feel 
 in these surroundings. "Not in black ink," she 
 said, drawing the pen back from one side of the 
 double inkstand, and dipping it in the other, then 
 drawing a red line round the date on a printed cal- 
 endar near by. "There, now you can't forget." 
 
 "I might, if I didn't know who put it there," 
 he said. " We ought to mark all the Mondays and 
 Thursdays in that way," he added. 
 
 "Why?" asked Nina, with her ready flush. 
 
 "It isn't necessary, though; they are red-letter 
 days as it is." The flush deepened, and she kid 
 down the pen.
 
 282 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Shall I tell mamma you are coming?" she 
 asked, turning to go. "She will be sure to ask." 
 
 "Tell her yes, if I can sit by you, "he replied in 
 the same bantering tone. 
 
 She shook her head. "I am sure she will not 
 consent to that. She always puts me at the lower 
 end of the table." 
 
 "She does! Where will she put me, then?" 
 
 "You will be at mamma's left, I should think. 
 Of course my uncle will be the principal guest," 
 she added, apologetically. 
 
 "Well, I 'm used to that," said Roger. "The 
 theologians consigned me to the left hand, long 
 ago. That is the place of punishment, you know," 
 he explained to her. He was often obliged to ex- 
 plain things here, that he would have found it a 
 severe trial to elsewhere. Nina laughed. 
 
 "It is not so at a dinner-party; it is the second 
 place of honor." 
 
 "Indeed! And what are the duties of the lucky 
 occupant of the second place of honor?" 
 
 "I don't know," thoughtfully. "I think, per- 
 haps, mamma may- have you take out the rector's 
 wife." Roger made a wry face. The rector's 
 wife belonged to the order of women he especially 
 disliked ; she reminded him of Mrs. Hamilton. 
 
 "Rector James is to be there, then? " 
 
 "Of course; and I I am afraid I have made a 
 mistake. I think the second place may be given 
 to him. He is the minister, you know." 
 
 " Then it will be his place to take out his wife ? 
 Serves him right ! "
 
 BOGEE HUNT. 283 
 
 "Oh, no," laughing again. 
 
 "Any way, I shall be a little nearer the lower 
 regions where you are ! " Her ever-returning 
 blush came back at this, and she opened the door. 
 
 "You are very wicked to-day," she said, and 
 made her escape. 
 
 With some inward grumbling Roger dressed to 
 go out on the evening named. He looked into Elea- 
 nor's room a moment to tell her where he was 
 going, then walked leisurely up the hill to his des- 
 tination. One of the numerous minor protests by 
 which he kept the spirit of social revolt in exercise 
 was seen in his hatred of a dress-coat; so he ap- 
 peared as Rector James did, in a long frock gar- 
 ment, and, with his slight physique, and intellectual 
 countenance, looked even more priestly than he 
 did. If Nina had given him her uncle's full name 
 he did not recall it, nor had he been sufficiently in- 
 terested even to notice the omission. He wore his 
 usual look of mingled abstraction and indifference 
 as he entered the parlor, and which his hostess 
 found discouraging. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke stepped forward to meet him in a 
 trained gown of crimson silk. Near her stood her 
 husband, trying to look at ease in his evening cos- 
 tume. He greeted Roger with mixed hauteur and 
 carelessness, to let him see he neither liked nor 
 was afraid of him. Farther down the room stood 
 Nina, dressed, in white, and talking with Rector 
 James, but throwing a quick pleased look in the 
 new guest's direction. The guest of the evening
 
 284 EOGEE HUNT. 
 
 was standing near, but with face partly hidden, 
 conversing with his latest introduction. Mrs. 
 Clarke placed a hand on his arm and he turned 
 towards her. Roger saw and recognized him first, 
 and was thus prepared, by a second's warning, for 
 whatever was to come. The other started percep- 
 tibly when he saw Roger, and heard his name. It 
 was Mortimer Gray. Other guests appearing, the 
 hostess' attention was immediately engaged. The 
 two men looked at each other squarely an instant, 
 a flash of defiance in the eyes of one, indignant 
 asking astonishment in the other's. Then they 
 bowed, and Roger, more excited than he had been 
 for a long time, but maintaining perfect outward 
 calm, turned away. 
 
 He rebuked himself sharply that he had not pro- 
 vided against this embarrassment, and threatened 
 danger besides, by inquiring more carefully about 
 the man he had been asked to meet; but his pride 
 was aroused now, and he resolved not only to stay, 
 but to show himself as indifferent to the situation 
 as he would like to feel. He had had a rather 
 small opinion of Gray in the old days when he 
 used to meet him in the Plato class, and it would 
 go hard with him before he showed any signs of 
 fear or concern now. He passed around the room, 
 greeting the other guests with more than usual cor- 
 diality. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke verified her daughter's predictions 
 by whispering to him that he was to take out the 
 rector's wife, but he found Nina on the other side.
 
 ROGEE HUNT. 285 
 
 She blushed with pleasure when she discovered the 
 conjunction, which was a surprise to her, and to 
 be accounted for only by the fact that a young gen- 
 tleman accompanying her uncle on his Western trip 
 was her escort, and had been given the place on 
 the hostess' left, the rector being assigned the sec- 
 ond on the right. Roger sat nearly opposite the 
 guest of the occasion, but the circumstance did not 
 seem to disturb him in the least. He was more 
 than composed, the most brilliant and talkative 
 member of the company, turning the attention, 
 more than once, of those who sat at a distance to 
 look and listen to him. He told anecdotes, en- 
 tered into a lively scrimmage in words with the 
 rector, taking care "to keep it good-natured, cov- 
 ered the ladies near him with mingled badinage 
 and gallantry, made the rector's wife laugh at 
 things she did not approve of, and would have to 
 do mental penance for afterward, whispered words 
 of delicious nonsense into Nina's ear, distracting 
 her attention quite from the young man on the 
 other side, who, it was plain, would have been glad 
 to have her to himself; in short, made himself the 
 life and hero of the evening. If the host of the 
 occasion had understood the situation he would 
 have conceived a new admiration for his guest; he 
 would have said that he at least meant to die game. 
 The guest of honor was quite eclipsed, but 
 seemed not to know it, playing his part poorly. 
 From difficult attempts to talk he lapsed into long 
 periods of silence, playing with his food, and look-
 
 286 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 ing at Roger, who never looked at him in return, 
 yet noted his slightest movement. Mrs. Clarke 
 was agreeably surprised with Roger, but a little 
 disappointed with her brother, and made several 
 attempts to draw him out, but to no avail. Nina 
 looked at him delightedly. When Roger drew 
 near his hostess to say good-evening, she thanked 
 him warmly for coming. She felt the success of 
 the occasion was due to him. 
 
 "I know dinner-parties are a great bore to you," 
 she said. Her brother stood near. 
 
 "Oh, no, not always; one sometimes finds an 
 unexpected sauce to such things which whets ap- 
 petite." 
 
 "I wish you would tell me what it was this time. 
 I would have it always. It was n't the mayonnaise, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "No, though that was very good, too." 
 
 " Thank you; I know you are a judge of those 
 things too. I want you and my brother to get 
 acquainted," she went on, turning to include her 
 solemn-faced relative in the conversation. "Pro- 
 fessor Hunt," she continued to him, "is the only 
 literary character Garrison can boast of. We make 
 a great deal of him, spoil him a little, I sometimes 
 think. He has written some books. They are so 
 learned that few of us understand them, but that 
 only makes us the more proud of them." 
 
 "Don't tell him the rest," said Roger ironically. 
 "Don't tell him I 'm kept in a cage and marked 
 'dangerous.' '
 
 ROGER HUNT. 287 
 
 "Oh, he would have found that out anyway," 
 she laughed. " These newspaper men are so clever 
 they know everything beforehand." 
 
 "Not always, my dear sister," Gray replied, find- 
 ing himself in a position where he must say some- 
 thing. "I can assure you the unexpected happens 
 to us as often as to other people, and has sometimes 
 a stupefying effect." 
 
 "What is that you are saying, uncle?" said 
 Nina, who had been hovering near, and now came 
 towards him, running her hand confidingly through 
 his arm, and looking into his face with a smile. 
 "That newspaper men are stupid? I shan't let 
 you slander yourself like that." 
 
 "Not just that," he replied, "only that they 
 sometimes require time to get used to their sur- 
 prises." 
 
 The sight of her daughter reminded Mrs. Clarke 
 of something she wished to say to Roger. 
 
 "Is it 'talking shop,' " she asked him, "if I re- 
 quest to have Nina's lessons given up during her 
 uncle's visit? She wishes to see as much of him 
 as possible, and his stay with us is so short." 
 Roger suspected that it was less the uncle than the 
 uncle's younger friend, whom Mrs. Clarke had 
 been very gracious to at table, that formed the mo- 
 tive of this request. He bowed rather coldly, and 
 said it should be as she wished, of course. 
 
 "I don't see why I should give up my lessons," 
 Nina exclaimed, in a disappointed tone. "Uncle 
 Mortimer does n't want me with him all the time,
 
 288 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 I 'm sure." She glanced at him affectionately, 
 but he looked at her gravely, putting his hand over 
 hers that still rested on his arm. 
 
 "I cannot see any too much of you, Nina." 
 
 "Then if you are willing we will take a week's 
 vacation," Mrs. Clarke said, paying no attention 
 to this by -play, and Roger bowed again and took 
 his leave. 
 
 The next morning their neighbor came up as a 
 natural topic at the Clarke breakfast-table. Mrs. 
 Clarke still remembered with gratification the help 
 he had been to her the evening before, and spoke 
 of him with high praise. 
 
 " Why do you call him 'professor ' ? " her brother 
 asked. 
 
 Mr. Clarke laughed. "Lucy gave him his 
 title." His wife colored. 
 
 "I 'm sure he deserves it," she said. "He is a 
 university man, and has studied all his life, be- 
 sides." 
 
 "From what university did he graduate? " Gray 
 inquired. He wanted to learn just how much his 
 relatives really knew of this man. 
 
 "I don't know; some Eastern institution. He 
 has lived abroad a good deal. His wife is an in- 
 valid consumption. They say she is failing fast. 
 That reminds me I must try and get in to see her." 
 
 "Are there any children?" 
 
 "One, a daughter. She is away at school now. 
 She and Nina used to study together, though Nina 
 is two years older. I don't know what we should
 
 ROGER HUNT. 289 
 
 
 
 have done with Nina if it hadn't been for Profes- 
 sor Hunt. He has been most kind, and Nina has 
 improved wonderfully under his instruction." 
 
 Mortimer Gray glanced at his niece as her 
 mother was speaking. There was a bright flush on 
 her cheeks, and her eyes were dropped to her plate. 
 
 "So Professor Hunt is your teacher," he said 
 to her later, as they sat in the library together. 
 "What are you studying? " 
 
 "English literature," she told him. He pressed 
 his inquiries farther and learned she had begun 
 with Chaucer and had now reached the dramatists. 
 
 "Do you like poetry?" 
 
 "I didn't much until I began to study with Mr. 
 Hunt." Nina knew her teacher liked this simple 
 designation better. 
 
 "You have still a good deal of ground to go 
 over, if you have only reached the dramatists." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but Mr. Hunt reads to me sometimes 
 from the modern poets." 
 
 Her uncle asked which ones. She reflected a 
 moment. There was " Atalanta in Calydon," he had 
 read part of that to her once ; and Edgar Poe 
 Mr. Hunt was a great admirer of Poe Moore's 
 "Jjalla Rookh," and a little from Keats. A unique 
 list, her listener thought. 
 
 "Anything from Wordsworth or Tennyson?" 
 
 "I don't think he cares much about them. He 
 thinks Tennyson is overrated. Once he read 
 something from Browning." 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Hunt is one of the Browning devo- 
 tees."
 
 290 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 
 
 "Oh, no; he makes fun of them." 
 
 "What poem did he read to you?" 
 
 '"The Statue and the Bust.'" Her uncle 
 looked at her in surprise. 
 
 "That is a rather strange selection," he said. 
 
 "Do you mean it is an immoral poem?" Nina 
 asked anxiously. "Mr. Hunt says that is what 
 some of the critics think, but he does not agree 
 with them." 
 
 "No, I shouldn't call it immoral; but it is one 
 that can easily be put to immoral uses." Gray 
 pulled his beard thoughtfully a moment. 
 
 " How long do you intend to continue your stud- 
 ies with Mr. Hunt? Are you not going to school 
 again?" 
 
 "I think not, sir; I don't want to go now." 
 
 "I thought your mother intended sending you to 
 some college." 
 
 "Yes, sir, at one time; but I grew too fast, and 
 I was so much behind. I cannot learn quick, like 
 Estella." 
 
 "Who is Estella?" 
 
 "Estella Hunt, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, yes. What kind of a girl is she? " 
 
 "A very good girl," was the conscientious re^ly, 
 "and very bright; the brightest girl I know. 
 Study is like play to her. Her father has taken 
 great pains with her." 
 
 "You and she are good friends, then? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, " coloring. " That is Estella is much 
 younger than I am, and she is away at school now."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 291 
 
 Her uncle rose and soon after left the house, tak- 
 ing a long walk by himself. 
 
 Mortimer Gray's clean and upright type of man- 
 hood showed in his physical exterior. The auburn 
 beard covered a skin clear and white as a woman's, 
 eyes of pure blue looked straight before them. 
 They had none of the piercing brilliancy of Roger 
 Hunt's, but wore a calm and steadfast look, show- 
 ing a courage that was not dependent on noisy blus- 
 ter, or any sensational effects. His moustache 
 neai'ly covered his lips, which were a little too red 
 for a man's, but defined a mouth kindly and strong 
 in its expression. 
 
 There was nothing in the world this man so 
 hated to do as to hurt any one. A spirit of wide 
 benevolence governed the least of his actions. He 
 was never unhappy except when called on to pass 
 judgment on another. One reason why he liked 
 his calling as a journalist was that it put him in 
 such impartial relation with his fellows. Profes- 
 sional bias was possible here as elsewhere, but not 
 a necessary adjunct of his vocation. As a lawyer, 
 a doctor, or a minister, even, he must look at men 
 from a distinct point of view. Each of these call- 
 ings he was ready, with his native modesty, to pro- 
 nounce greater than his own, yet he liked his best, 
 for the genial and even frame of mind he fancied 
 it preserved him in towards the rest of the world. 
 He had neither to adjudge, dissect, or save his fel- 
 low-creatures, only to observe and record them. 
 
 Yet with this unpartisan spirit he had a con-
 
 292 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 tempt for all kinds of meanness and human deceit. 
 He hated sin, though, more than the sinner. He 
 did not wish to injure Roger Hunt, nor even to 
 judge him. He thought of him without rancor 
 or a tinge of pharisaical pride or scorn, but with 
 distrust newly deepened. Of singularly pure and 
 blameless character himself, a combined Bayard 
 and Galahad in the eyes of his friends, he saw him- 
 self full of faults, which forbade too strong con- 
 demnation of others. He had seen Nina and her 
 teacher together, however, and he had determined 
 to act in some way, but quietly. He remembered 
 the sick wife, and the faint, fleeting interest he had 
 once felt in Eleanor Thaxter in his own behalf. 
 He was happily married now, with a troop of boys 
 and girls around him, but he remembered it. He 
 thought of the innocent daughter also. 
 
 He did not forget that Roger, too, had claims. 
 Some immunity from wrong-doing had been gained 
 in the mere passage of time, the flight of eighteen 
 years, an honorable if late marriage, and the high 
 respect, honestly earned since then, in the commu- 
 nity in which he now lived. Yet something must 
 be done, and he must do it. He resolved to do 
 it quite alone. Neither his sister, much less her 
 husband, could help here, for Gray wished above 
 everything to avoid a sensation. He wished only 
 to put an end to the relation between Roger Hunt 
 and his niece. Coming back to the house, he wrote 
 a short note, and went out on the street again to 
 find a messenger; for this was a matter he did
 
 ROGER HUNT. 293 
 
 not care to intrust to one of the servants of the 
 house. 
 
 Gray's letter was not a surprise to the one who 
 received it, who nevertheless felt affronted by it. 
 It simply requested an interview on a matter of 
 common interest to them both. Roger threw it on 
 the table with an exclamation of anger, then re- 
 mained standing in sullen thought until a sound 
 from the boy who stood waiting recalled him. 
 
 "There is no answer," he said sharply. The 
 boy turned with a slouching motion towards the 
 door. When he reached it, Roger, looking at him 
 distrustfully, spoke again. 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 The boy turned partly towards him again, and 
 spoke in a drawling tone. 
 
 "I was to bring the answer to him, nobody else, 
 the man said, so I s'pose I 've got to tell him just 
 the same, if there ain't none." He wore an ag- 
 grieved air, evidently thinking there ought to be 
 an extra dime for so useless a job. 
 
 "You need not go back," Roger said. "I will 
 see that the answer is delivered." 
 
 "Them wa'n't my orders," said the other sulk- 
 ily. Roger looked at him, in his soiled and ragged 
 clothes, and put his hand in his pocket. The boy 
 watched him narrowly, but Roger drew it out 
 again, empty. He had his own notions of honor, 
 and they were not so bad. He could defy high 
 heaven in the pursuit of a chosen object, but he 
 could not crawl in the dirt.
 
 294 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I will send an answer by mail," he said. 
 "Tell him that, if you like." 
 
 This was but a weak postponement of the inev- 
 itable, he felt; yet, as it was sure to annoy some 
 one else, he found satisfaction in it. He had judged 
 rightly ; the message did irk Gray, though he told 
 himself he would have done better to be simply 
 amused by it; but his sense of humor was not 
 strong. The answer by mail, when it came, simply 
 said that the writer would be at home Tuesday 
 evening at eight o'clock. That meant another post- 
 ponement of twenty-four hours, but Gray was a 
 patient man. 
 
 Eoger compelled himself to go through his usual 
 routine of work, not leaving the house until to- 
 wards evening, but in spite of himself he felt ner- 
 vous and excited. Passing the Clarke mansion he 
 met Nina, who stopped to speak with him. She 
 saw that he was in one of his depressed moods, the 
 inevitable accompaniment of high talent, she had 
 come to believe, commanding respect as well as 
 sympathy. 
 
 " I had a bad dream, last night," he said, in reply 
 to some inquiry of hers, and in a sad, far-away 
 voice. 
 
 "Tell it me," she said; but he shook his head to 
 express the futility of description. 
 
 "I was surrounded by darkness, and quite alone. 
 All my friends had fled from me; some because 
 they were afraid of me, others because they no lon- 
 ger believed in me. A few still believed, but were
 
 ROGER HUNT. 295 
 
 I 
 
 kept away by others. You were one of those." 
 The color came and went in her sensitive face, her 
 heart beat fast. 
 
 "I am sure, sir, I shall always believe in you." 
 
 "Will you? " and he looked at her mournfully. 
 
 "Why should I not? " He shook his head the 
 second time, in sign of more mystery. 
 
 "I am a doomed man, I sometimes think. Be- 
 cause I can stand alone, I must. What would I 
 not give for one true heart, that I could trust ut- 
 terly, that I know would never forsake me; but 
 when a man asks for that, he asks for heaven." 
 The girl trembled, and turned away. 
 
 "See, now, it is coining true already. You are 
 afraid of me and anxious to get away." 
 
 "Oh no, sir," turning towards him again. 
 
 "Promise me, then, it shall not come true, that 
 you will believe in me, be my true friend, always? " 
 He held out his hand. That seemed an easy prom- 
 ise, and she put her own within it. 
 
 Mortimer Gray, pacing up and down in his 
 sister's library, came to the window, and looking 
 out, saw them. Though they were at some dis- 
 tance, something in the attitude of the two struck 
 him and sharpened his distrust, but he was aware 
 he was in a prejudiced state of mind here. Mrs. 
 Clarke, sitting near, noted him, and rising, ap- 
 proached the window also. Nina had left her 
 teacher and was coming towards the house. 
 
 "Is that Professor Hunt?" she asked in some 
 surprise and a little disappointment. She was
 
 296 KOGER HUNT. 
 
 wondering why Roger did not call on her brother, 
 and was growing a little vexed at his neglect. 
 Whom did he think was good enough for him to 
 associate with, she wondered. Journalism was not 
 literature, she knew, but 
 
 "Why didn't Professor Hunt come in?" she 
 asked Nina, when the latter entered the room. 
 
 "I asked him," was the reply, "but he excused 
 himself. He is not feeling very well, I think." 
 
 "He keeps himself mewed up in that library 
 from morning until night," Mrs. Clarke said discon- 
 tentedly. "He does n't deserve it from me, but I 
 believe I '11 send over and ask him to spend the 
 evening with us." Nina left the room. 
 
 "Not to-night, sister, if you please; I have an 
 engagement." 
 
 Two hours later a servant ushered Gray into 
 Roger's study. The two greeted each other for- 
 mally, and Roger asked his visitor, coldly, to be 
 seated. 
 
 "Thank you," said Gray, "but as my errand 
 need not be a long one, and as I must assume this 
 visit is not wholly agreeable to you, I had better 
 remain standing, perhaps." 
 
 "Why should it be disagreeable to me? " Roger 
 asked, with quick suspicion. 
 
 "Pardon me, but we waste time, it seems to me, 
 to deal in any disguises. You must surely have 
 guessed why I asked to see you." 
 
 "Not so well but that I will leave you to ex- 
 plain."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 297 
 
 "I will do scat once." But having reached this 
 point Gray hesitated. It was a difficult and deli- 
 cate task he had undertaken; he wished to execute 
 it with all the nicety gentlemanly honor and taste 
 demanded. He was conscious, also, in a dim way, 
 of wishing to justify himself to the man before him, 
 even while seeming to attack him. 
 
 "I should like you to believe, first of all, Mr. 
 Hunt," he began, "that the duty of this visit, as 
 I conceive it, is one I would gladly have put aside. 
 I can assure you that I lament, as much as you do, 
 the circumstances that have thrown us together in 
 this way." 
 
 "I am as far from lamenting them" Roger 
 began, in his former tone, but a quiet glance from 
 the other checked him. 
 
 "We shall get on faster," Gray repeated, "and 
 relieve ourselves of each other's presence sooner, if 
 we are perfectly frank. For myself, I admit this 
 meeting is unpleasant " 
 
 "Why did you seek it, then?" Again Gray's 
 eyes rested on him. 
 
 " If you have come here to threaten me, then you 
 should know I care nothing for your threats. If 
 you have any evil designs against me, you will ex- 
 ecute them, I suppose, and without any hindrance 
 from me." 
 
 Gray mused on this a space. It looked as if the 
 speaker spoke the truth, and was as indifferent as 
 he seemed. 
 
 "You have the courage of your opinions, I know,
 
 298 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 and your own sense of honor, I do not doubt. May 
 I assume, then, that my sister Mrs. Clarke, and her 
 family have the same knowledge of your past life 
 that I have?" 
 
 "You may assume what you please," scornfully. 
 "Why do you not ask them? " a moment later. 
 
 "I have considered that," was the quiet response, 
 "but I am loath to resort to such measures before 
 I am compelled to." 
 
 "You are not prompted in such consideration by 
 any feeling for me?" Roger said, ironically. 
 
 "By more, perhaps, than you would willingly 
 believe. I have no word of condemnation to speak 
 of your past, Mr. Hunt; I am more desirous to 
 understand my fellow-men than to judge them. 
 But I ask you, are you doing the fair and upright 
 thing in keeping up this intimate relation with peo- 
 ple who know so little of you? " 
 
 "You wish to break off my connection with your 
 relatives, and if I do not agree to your demands 
 you will reveal what you think a damaging secret 
 in my past life! I leave you to judge for yourself 
 the character and disposition of a man who seeks 
 an interview with another in his own house for 
 such a purpose. You will find I am not a man to 
 be intimidated. I say to you, sir, that I consider 
 such conduct no better than a piece of villainous 
 blackmail! You may do your worst! " 
 
 "That is your final word, is it?" Gray asked, 
 taking up his hat from the table where he had laid 
 it. He had watched Roger curiously during this
 
 ROGER HUNT. 299 
 
 outbreak, and though he detected some signs of 
 bluster, he thought, very likely, he meant what he 
 said. Any way he had had enough of prelimina- 
 ries. "I will not trouble you further," he added, 
 and turned away. Before he reached the door, 
 Roger spoke : 
 
 "What are you going to do? " 
 
 "I have not yet determined." 
 
 A less intelligent man might have found some 
 weak ground for hope in a reply of .this kind, so 
 candidly spoken. Roger did not. 
 
 "You mean to strike at me in the dark, then? " 
 
 "I came here in the hope of avoiding any action 
 that might have that construction put upon it, of 
 reaching some basis of just agreement. I wish to 
 act with you, not against you." There was a mo- 
 ment's silence, while Gray stood waiting. 
 
 "What is it you wish me to do?" Roger asked 
 shortly. 
 
 Gray stepped back a pace or two. "I do not 
 ask you to break off all connection with my sister's 
 family. That would be impracticable. I only ask 
 you to regulate it. I wish you to discontinue 
 teaching my niece." Roger threw a quick suspi- 
 cious glance at him. 
 
 "I see," he exclaimed sarcastically. "You have 
 other designs for her." 
 
 "Other designs!" Gray repeated, in a puzzled 
 tone. 
 
 "You wish to marry her to your young friend! " 
 
 The total unexpectedness the brazen effrontery
 
 300 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 or stupid ignorance which could dictate such a re- 
 mark, staggered Gray. Was the man a fool, he 
 asked himself, or a downright villain ? Roger saw 
 
 o o 
 
 that he had overshot himself and reddened with 
 mortification. 
 
 "Why should I give up teaching Miss Clarke?" 
 he asked, with recovered boldness. 
 
 "Suppose we agree not to discuss that point," 
 said Gray. "Suppose we say it is only because I 
 ask it." 
 
 "And you expect me to act on a reason of that 
 kind?" 
 
 "I do not know whether you will or not," said 
 Gray, and looked at him attentively. A bright 
 spot was glowing in each cheek, his blue eyes 
 emitted a keen light, seldom seen there, his nos- 
 trils whitened. He took a step or two towards 
 Roger. 
 
 "When a man of low, animal instincts," he be- 
 gan, in a low tone, "deliberately plans a wo- 
 man's shame and ruin, we know how to describe his 
 action. We call it by an ugly name, and know 
 how to deal with it. But for the man who, under 
 the guise of friendship, is satisfied to reap a victory 
 of another kind, yet quite as deadly when he 
 aims to seduce the imagination only, to blast a 
 young girl's spirit, kill all her innocent thoughts, 
 worm himself into affections he has no honest use 
 for, pollute her soul for that man and his con- 
 duct the word has yet to be coined." 
 
 "That is enough! " cried Roger. He was white
 
 ROGER HUNT. 301 
 
 with rage, and shook like a leaf with something 
 besides rage. No one had ever spoken to him like 
 this, and he both feared and hated the man who 
 had done so. It was as though he had suddenly 
 caught a horribly distorted image of himself in a 
 mirror held up for that purpose. He did not be- 
 lieve in its truthfulness, he denied the likeness, but 
 it shamed him, nevertheless, more than he had ever 
 been shamed before. 
 
 "You reveal your own nature, not mine," he 
 hotly declared. "It is you who cover innocence 
 with foul suspicion, who turn light into darkness, 
 the fit abode of minds that peep and pry and make 
 dastardly charges as yours does." 
 
 44 We have had enough of this," said Gray, 
 wearily. "Will you grant my request about my 
 niece? " Roger looked at him. "Let us have no 
 more words, please. A simple 'Yes ' or 'No ' will 
 suffice. I fancy you mean it to be 'No,'" he 
 added, as Roger still looked at him with proud dis- 
 dain, and he made another movement to depart. 
 
 "It would be 'No ' a thousand times over, now 
 and throughout eternity if if I had only myself 
 to consider." The speaker's voice broke, whether 
 from real emotion or with intention the other could 
 not tell. He dropped down into a chair and cov- 
 ered his face with his hands. 
 
 "I am helpless," he exclaimed, raising it a mo- 
 ment after. " If I stood alone but I I have a 
 wife and child." He again hid his face. Gray 
 looked at him with increasing wonder and curiosity 
 combined. Was this acting?
 
 302 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "It is because I, too, remembered them that I 
 am here," he said gently. He waited a moment, 
 but Roger did not raise his head. Gray then qui- 
 etly prepared to leave the room. He considered 
 his point gained, and wished to be magnanimous. 
 He believed this was an enemy he could trust. 
 
 "I think we understand each other," he said, as 
 Roger still remained silent. "I will not trouble 
 you further}" and went out.
 
 XIX. 
 
 IN the discussion that had taken place at Mrs. 
 Somers's after the flight of Roger Hunt from his 
 home, Mortimer Gray had remarked that he 
 seemed to be a mixture of the hero and the crank. 
 He left him now unable to determine whether it 
 was a mere braggart with whom he had been trying 
 to deal, a downright impostor, or only, as George 
 Somers had called him, an egotist. Soon after he 
 had occasion to suspect that he combined other 
 characteristics with these, and was at heart both a 
 coward and a sneak. Two days after the inter- 
 view in Roger's study Gray received the following 
 letter : 
 
 MORTIMER GRAY: 
 
 SIR, I write to say to you that after you left 
 me last Tuesday evening, I bitterly regretted the 
 momentary weakness which led me to make even a 
 tacit show of acquiescence in the ridiculous and 
 presumptuous demand which formed the object of 
 your visit, and which I now reject with all the con- 
 tempt it deserves. 
 
 I should not deem it necessary to inform you of 
 this changed decision had not circumstances arisen 
 which you might otherwise misconstrue. I am
 
 304 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 about to leave home on a rather extended absence, 
 the object of which is explained in the accompany- 
 ing letter, which I inclose for your reading, that 
 you may be under no misapprehension as to my real 
 motive, to show you that my seeming compliance 
 with your request is no real one, nor to be so re- 
 garded by you. 
 
 I regret to be obliged to speak thus plainly, but 
 I should be -untrue to myself not to express once 
 more, in closing this letter, my deep abhorrence 
 and scorn for certain sentiments expressed by your- 
 self in our late interview, and for the motive which 
 prompted you to seek it. 
 
 Respectfully, ROGER HUNT. 
 
 The letter inclosed was a brief business epistle 
 from an Eastern publishing house, asking Roger 
 to visit some ancient ruins in California and Mex- 
 ico, and contribute a series of illustrated articles to 
 a leading magazine. Gray read it and let it slip 
 through his fingers to the floor. He sat musing a 
 long time, an expression on his fa,ce that was half 
 irritated, half amused. Finally he spoke. 
 
 "Check !" He picked up Roger's letter, folded 
 and replaced it in the envelope, and could fancy he 
 heard a faint rustle of triumph in its pages. His 
 nature was far less belligerent than most men's, 
 yet he had not only a man's love of accomplishing 
 the thing he had undertaken, but of winning ac- 
 knowledgment of his success from others. It galled 
 him to think that Roarer Hunt would never admit
 
 ROGER HUNT. 305 
 
 any one but himself victor here. The device was 
 perfectly transparent, the end he had sought was 
 gained, but events had so shaped themselves that 
 the man who had been beaten would, Gray knew, 
 go through life proudly denying he had suffered 
 the least coercion, declaring, and perhaps believ- 
 ing for he now began to see what an immense 
 power of self-delusion there is in a nature like 
 Hunt's that he had been influenced only by out- 
 ward circumstances and his own free choice. 
 
 "Pshaw ! " said Gray to himself, who found his 
 vexation deepening. "What do I care how the 
 man defines his motives, so the thing is done?" 
 But he did care. 
 
 That the end he sought was accomplished, he did 
 not doubt. The letter from Hunt's publisher had 
 stated that the journey proposed would probably 
 cover a month. Before the end of that time Mrs. 
 Clarke and her daughter would be on the other 
 side of the ocean, for at least a year's absence, if 
 the former carried out her present intentions, of 
 which she had not yet spoken to Nina. 
 
 "After all," Gray thought, as he reflected on 
 the subject, "what can be more ignoble than the 
 wish to extract confession from your fallen enemy 
 of his weakness and your strength? The tactics of 
 war in ancient times permitted a man to spoil as 
 well as defeat his opponent; modern civilization 
 resigns the former privilege to the savage and bri- 
 gand." He repeated that it was enough the ob- 
 ject sought was accomplished, let Roger Hunt the- 
 orize about it as he chose.
 
 306 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Roger made preparations to leave home on the 
 following Sunday. He was greatly pleased with 
 the offer he had received, as a sign of growth in 
 that literary reputation which it was his dearest 
 wish to achieve ; but gratification of this kind had 
 been overlaid by another, for the sudden escape it 
 offered from the difficulty he had fallen into with 
 Mortimer Gray, and the chance he had not dared 
 hope for to repudiate and defy him, retrieve his 
 own wounded dignity and pride. He sent a letter 
 to Mrs. Clarke, formally resigning his post as 
 teacher, leaving the future unprovided for with 
 any expression of wish or suggestion, and closing 
 with a message of friendly remembrance for his 
 pupil. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke showed the letter to her brother and 
 openly mourned the loss they should all sustain. 
 When Nina heard the news, surprise and fear 
 made her dumb, and seizing a book Roger had 
 loaned her as a pretext, she hurried over to the 
 study unobserved. When she returned her eyes 
 were red with weeping, and she shut herself in her 
 room. Roger had used a devil's frankness with 
 her, clothed in a saint's holiness of purpose. "Let 
 there be only truth between us two," was the sub- 
 stance of his talk with her. Vaguely and mysteri- 
 ously he reminded her of his dream. Evil forces 
 were at work against him against them both. 
 He could not explain further, he said with a sigh, 
 could not disturb and darken her youthful confi- 
 dence ; but this much she should know, that their
 
 ROGER HUNT. 307 
 
 innocent and friendly relation had been observed 
 by evil eyes, that the reason assigned for bringing 
 the lessons to an end was only formal, that if he 
 had not been going away, the end would have 
 come through pressure of these mysterious forces 
 at work against them. He assured her he told her 
 all this because he trusted her, because she had a 
 right to know, to preserve the beautiful understand- 
 ing between them, and in secret pledge of their 
 continued faithfulness to each other. 
 
 Nina listened with wonder, distress, and shame. 
 She could gather nothing from what she was told 
 except that somebody was displeased with them 
 both. Her thoughts flew at once to the sick wife. 
 She was newly alarmed and humiliated for herself, 
 but most miserable over the thought that Roger 
 was going away. Pity and admiration were now 
 doubly increased, exalted with the sentiment of 
 self-sacrifice. If Mortimer Gray could have read 
 the strange conflicting emotions at work in that 
 voting heart, and understood the cause, he might 
 well have questioned himself whether he had ac- 
 complished good or evil in his attempt to regulate 
 the conduct of Roger Hunt. 
 
 Mrs. Somers's letter reached Roger Saturday 
 evening, as he was completing his preparations for 
 departure the next day. He did not recognize the 
 handwriting, and the postmark was blurred. Its 
 bulk, requiring double postage, showed that it was 
 no ordinary business communication, and he looked
 
 308 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 at it with much curiosity, before he cut the end of 
 the envelope and drew out the letter. 
 
 He turned at once to the signature, and his face 
 brightened when he saw whose it was. Kitty Som- 
 ers had resumed a large place in his thoughts of 
 late. Since his return from Monroe he had been 
 seized with the impulse, more than once, to write 
 to her, but the fear of meeting a repulse had with- 
 held him. Now, it seemed, she herself had taken 
 the initiative. That pleased him, and was, he 
 thought, quite suitable. With a gratified look he 
 turned back to the beginning of the letter and 
 began to read. 
 
 This expression changed slightly before he 
 reached the end of the first sentence, and soon 
 deepened to a displeased frown that grew darker 
 as he proceeded. Once he started with surprise, 
 when he came upon the news about his son ; but as 
 this was told in a way that offended even more 
 than it astonished him, it but increased resentment 
 against the writer. With compressed lips and low- 
 ering brow he read on to the end, then threw the 
 letter on the table, and rising began pacing rapidly 
 up and down the room. 
 
 He was intensely angry with Kitty Somers. He 
 termed her letter "insolent." Certain words and 
 phrases she had employed returned to him and 
 stung him like scorpions, but less to shame or 
 alarm than to anger him. As for the effect of the 
 news her letter contained, and which formed the 
 writer's chief motive in sending it, the discovery
 
 ROGER HUNT. 309 
 
 of his first-born, it was scarcely more than one 
 of annoyance. Still less was he moved by what 
 most concerned Mrs. Somers, anxiety for Estella, 
 or remorse on her account. He gave only pass- 
 ing thought either to his son or daughter. He 
 could think only of the writer of the letter. All 
 the vexation and chagrin he had lately suffered 
 from other directions was for the time forgotten. 
 The near became remote, the distant the all-de- 
 sired. Nina Clarke and Mortimer Gray faded 
 from his thoughts ; all he wanted now was to meet 
 Kitty Somers, to give her his opinion of her 
 letter and her temerity in writing it, to answer 
 her taunts and reproaches. To attempt to put his 
 fermenting thoughts in writing was far too in- 
 adequate a means of punishment. He wished to 
 meet her face to face. Suddenly he asked him- 
 self, Why not? and at once resolved to make a 
 little detour in his journey and go to Monroe. 
 Eleanor had begged him to do this when he first 
 told her of his projected trip, but he had put her 
 wish aside. Then too, Roger supposed, as he re- 
 volved the matter in his mind, he ought, perhaps, 
 to see this almost forgotten son of his. He had 
 no unpleasant feelings towards him, and was con- 
 scious of being a little curious concerning him; 
 certainly, he was not afraid to meet him. 
 
 When Eleanor learned this new resolution, that 
 Roger was to observe her wish and go to Monroe, 
 she was first pleased, then alarmed, the fear that 
 something had happened to Estella quickly assail-
 
 310 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 ing her. He reassured her on this point, briefly 
 and somewhat impatiently. 
 
 "Then what is it?" she asked in a weak voice, 
 looking helplessly up at him from the pillow. "I 
 know something has happened, Roger. You are 
 in trouble." 
 
 It accorded with his scrupulosity in small mat- 
 ters that so far as he told her anything he should 
 tell her the truth. He might have employed any 
 one of a dozen innocent subterfuges to soothe and 
 reassure her, but that was not his way. 
 
 "And if I am," he replied, "it is not about any- 
 thing in which you can help me." 
 
 "Oh, Roger, what is it? Do tell me? Don't 
 leave me in this suspense ! If it is about Estella " 
 
 "It is not about Estella. Estella is perfectly 
 well, so far as I know. No, I can tell you no- 
 thing more," in reply to another entreating word 
 from her. "I find that some business of impor- 
 tance calls me to Monroe, so I go that way; that 
 is all." He bade her good-by and left her. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was sadly puzzled over this sud- 
 den departure from home of the master of the 
 house, on so long a journey and at such a time. 
 She still held to the belief that Mr. Hunt was a 
 good husband, seeing the wife surrounded with all 
 her condition required, and trying to excuse miss- 
 ing care and attention of a more personal order 
 on the ground of long illness and the husband's 
 absorption in his books. He could not know, she 
 thought, how swiftly the end was approaching, and
 
 ROGER HUNT. 311 
 
 hesitated as to her own duty, half -resolved to speak 
 to him, but this was not easy. Just before leaving 
 the house, Roger repeated the minute directions he 
 had before given her abojit the different points at 
 which a letter or telegram might reach him. She 
 listened deferentially, but summoning courage to 
 say a word. 
 
 "It seems a pity you should have to go, just now, 
 sir, and for so long." 
 
 "A month is not very long," he said, coldly. 
 
 " No, sir, I know ; but I I think she is f ailing 
 very fast." 
 
 "You are unnecessarily alarmed. The doctor 
 says she may linger in this way for months. He 
 ought to know." 
 
 "Yes, to be sure, the doctor ought to know," 
 she replied, and saw him depart. She went back 
 to her charge, to find her still excited over Roger's 
 change of plans, and to pass a restless night with 
 her. 
 
 Roger scarcely remembered Estella was in the 
 house, when he mounted the steps of Mrs. Black's 
 residence and inquired for Mrs. Somers. He met 
 her, however, in the parlor, her books in her arms, 
 just ready to set out for school. She uttered an 
 exclamation of surprise when she saw him, think- 
 ing at once of her mother. He had to quiet and 
 reassure her, as he had Eleanor the night before, 
 repeating many times that her mother was not 
 worse, and explaining, briefly, the errand which 
 was taking him frjm home.
 
 312 EOGEE HUNT. 
 
 "A month ! " the girl exclaimed in some concern. 
 "Is it safe to leave mamma for a month? " 
 
 "If I had thought it was not, I should not 
 have left her," her father replied, in a tone of 
 reprimand, and she was silenced. He looked rest- 
 lessly towards the door, and a moment after Mrs. 
 Somers entered. Constrained again by Estella's 
 presence, she went forward and gave him her hand. 
 
 "I wish to speak with Mrs. Somers, Estella," 
 he said, breaking the silence that followed, and 
 while the girl waited. She picked up her books 
 and turned towards the door, but reaching it 
 glanced back. 
 
 "Papa! "she exclaimed, stepping towards him. 
 "You are not trying to deceive me ? Is mamma 
 worse?" He made an impatient response to the 
 same effect as before, and she turned a troubled 
 face towards Mrs. Somers. 
 
 "Your mother is no worse, Estella. Do not be 
 alarmed," and she went out of the room, wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 Alone with him, Mrs. Somers met Roger's look 
 of angry challenge, and began to suspect what was 
 coming. 
 
 "Are we secure against interruption here?" he 
 asked, glancing about the room, separated from the 
 hall and an adjoining one in the rear only by hang- 
 ing draperies. 
 
 "Not altogether," she replied calmly, seating 
 herself where she was, and not offering to lead him 
 elsewhere. He came towards her.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 313 
 
 "I received your letter," he began. As there 
 was nothing to be said to this she waited. 
 
 "I shall be very frank with you," he went on. 
 "I shall begin by telling you that I consider such 
 a letter utterly inexcusable on any grounds. I do 
 not permit any one to address me in such terms 
 as you have employed, not even an old and valued 
 friend like yourself." 
 
 "For that matter," she replied, with some sar- 
 casm, "I ceased to prefer any claims of that kind 
 years ago." 
 
 "Very well! That is all the more reason, then, 
 why you should refrain from giving your opinion 
 of me now unasked." 
 
 There was some reason in this, and she sat re- 
 flecting on his words a moment, unmindful of their 
 rudeness. She saw at once how things stood. She 
 had meant to pierce him with honest shame and 
 remorse, but she had only aroused his resentment 
 against herself. It was soon plain that he cared 
 not a jot for the main charges in her letter, the 
 principal revelation it contained; he was simply 
 angry with her for writing it, and meant to quarrel 
 with her. She herself was in too displeased a state 
 of mind to guard herself against him in the latter 
 point. 
 
 "I wish to repeat," he began again, in the same 
 manner, "that I consider such a letter entirely in- 
 defensible. I am at a loss to know how any one 
 any woman" with emphasis, "could have writ- 
 ten it. There is not a particle of womanly gen-
 
 314 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 tleness or feeling in it." A slight color rose to 
 his listener's face. 
 
 " What excuse have you to offer for such treat- 
 ment of one who never injured you? " he ended, in 
 the tone he might have used to Estella. 
 
 "Excuse!" she repeated with a singular smile. 
 "I wished to speak my full mind on some points. 
 I am not sorry I have done so." 
 
 "Speaking her full mind is no doubt a woman's 
 privilege, but I had given you the credit of being 
 able to refrain when you knew nothing could come 
 of it. What did you expect to accomplish? You 
 should know me well enough to know that I am 
 not easily alarmed." 
 
 "I was not thinking of you at all," she replied. 
 He stared in some natural surprise at this. 
 
 "I was thinking of Estella." He frowned a lit- 
 tle. 
 
 " Estella ! What harm threatens Estella ? " 
 
 "It is like you to ask." 
 
 "Estella will be surprised, of course, perhaps 
 a little hurt and offended, at the knowledge that 
 she has a half-brother. She would have known it 
 long ago, had it not been for her mother's foolish 
 scruples. I see now how unwise I was to yield to 
 them." 
 
 "You mean to tell Estella ?" Mrs. Somers ex- 
 claimed in an anxious tone. 
 
 "How can I avoid telling her?" he asked petu- 
 lantly. "If, as you say, he is here" Even 
 Roger Hunt found it hard to speak his son's 
 name.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 315 
 
 "It will kill her!" 
 
 "You take a very exaggerated view of the whole 
 matter." 
 
 "Do you mean to say there is nothing you would 
 spare her the knowledge of? nothing you regret? " 
 
 " There are some things I regret ; but I deny I 
 have reason to regret any action of mine so far as 
 its motive was concerned. As to results," and he 
 sighed, "I have been able to bear them so far as 
 they affected myself ; I am not called on to bear 
 them, I suppose, as they affect others." 
 
 "Not even as they affect Estella?" 
 
 "Not even as they affect Estella." 
 
 She leaned back in her chair and looked at him. 
 "You are a strange man, Roger." 
 
 "Not to those who understand me," he an- 
 swered proudly. She had some difficulty not to 
 smile. The mighty seriousness with which Roger 
 Hunt always took himself was one of the causes, 
 she used to tell her husband, underlying his erratic 
 behavior. He had some sense of humor ; she had 
 seen him laugh over Dogberry, and Sir Andrew 
 Aguecheek, but it had never yet served as a help 
 to self-knowledge. In discussing himself, a certain 
 tone of ponderous gravity was always uppermost. 
 
 "Tell me, Roger," she said, as these thoughts 
 passed and gave way to others, more serious, "what 
 is the duty of the strong towards the weak in this 
 world? Is it not to help? Does not strength bring 
 responsibility? " 
 
 "Undoubtedly; but the duty of the weak is
 
 316 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 equally plain. They should submit to be guided 
 by the strong." 
 
 "But the weak do not regard themselves as 
 weak. We should not wish them to, I think. We 
 should encourage the stronger qualities in all. I 
 remember how much you used to make of people 
 you liked, how stoutly you would defend them, how 
 much you would do for them. You spoiled them 
 sometimes, I thought. To be sure," with a pecul- 
 iar expression, "you generally made up for it by 
 your very different treatment of those you didn't 
 like." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? " he asked quickly. 
 
 "Oh, never mind! I don't know why we are 
 wasting time like this. You are one of the most 
 intelligent men I know, in some ways, and the 
 dullest in others." 
 
 "That is what you said in your letter," he ex- 
 claimed, lifting his head. 
 
 "Oh, for pity's sake stop talking about the let- 
 ter." 
 
 "It was just that I came here to talk about." 
 
 "What folly! There is something much more 
 important to be talked about. There is Estella." 
 
 "I do not share your anxiety about Estella." 
 
 " There is no need to tell her," Mrs. Somers went 
 on. "Mr. Watson has been to see me. He has 
 the same as promised me to leave the city." 
 
 "Promised!" exclaimed the other. "Do you 
 mean you exacted such a promise, in my name? " 
 
 "I don't mean promised, but of course it would 
 be better for him to go."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 317 
 
 "I don't see why. Whether he goes or stays, 
 he must act on his own wish entirely. I shall see 
 him myself." 
 
 "And Estella?" she urged. 
 
 "I shall know what to do with Estella. Just 
 now I wish to speak with you. That letter " 
 
 "Roger, how can you be so silly!" and she 
 rose quickly to her feet. "One would think," 
 wheeling and facing him, "that I was the one on 
 trial here." 
 
 "So you are." 
 
 "Indeed!" drawing herself up. "And what 
 are the charges, pray?" 
 
 " The charges are those that spring always from 
 betrayed trust and friendship." 
 
 "Friendship! Our friendship ended eighteen 
 years ago." 
 
 "To outward recognition, perhaps." She 
 looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 " What do you mean? " she asked haughtily. 
 
 "When I chose to be my own master, and threw 
 off the yoke society and the world had imposed, 
 the world and your precious ' society ' denounced 
 me with virtuous indignation. You tried to do 
 so, too, but in your secret heart " 
 
 "Oh" The sound was like a wail and an- 
 gry protest combined. "And if ever I did try to 
 speak an excusing word for you, I am well repaid 
 for it now, well repaid ! " 
 
 "You are a woman of unusual strength of char- 
 acter," he went on, unheeding, "but of some
 
 318 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 marked weaknesses as well, which it is necessary 
 some one should point out to you. You think it 
 was love of truth that made you turn against me. 
 You pride yourself on your moral courage, but I 
 call it moral cowardice. I wish you to know that 
 I stand by every action of my past life. I can 
 stand alone if need be." 
 
 "That is doubtless a great virtue," she. replied. 
 Her better judgment and sense of propriety told 
 her this discussion should end, but it was impos- 
 sible not to answer him. 
 
 "Self-reliance is a very good thing; perhaps 
 there is nothing better, unless it is a little humil- 
 ity. For my part I have learned that other peo- 
 ple are, on the whole, as wise and as good as I am. 
 I admire courage as much as you do. I, too, can 
 stand alone, but I trust I am guiltless of the van- 
 ity that is always courting occasions for that kind 
 of display." 
 
 "Most people select their occasions very care- 
 fully. True freedom knows nothing of occasions; 
 it lives in its own atmosphere, like love. If you 
 lived in China you would think it your duty to 
 hobble around on deformed feet, as other women 
 do." 
 
 " Very likely, if I had never seen a woman with 
 feet of natural size. My mental servility is 
 proved, I suppose, by the fact that some of my 
 opinions run counter to yours. You talk of free- 
 dom very eloquently, but you have not yet learned 
 to yield it to another. Where you cannot domi-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 319 
 
 nate, you begin to abuse ! It was always so. When 
 you were young there was not a friend who ever 
 differed from you on any point touching your in- 
 terest or self-love but was made to suffer for it." 
 
 "You seem to be taking some freedom, now." 
 
 "I mean to. You, to talk to me of the power 
 of friendship, of faithfulness!" she added, with 
 heightened color, and in a voice that trembled in 
 spite of her effort to keep it steady; "to prate to 
 me of loyalty, you, who broke the most sacred 
 ties, who violated your home, deserted your wife 
 and child, placed the stigma of a dishonored name 
 on those who look to you for protection ; who even 
 now traduce and complain of the woman who 
 blindly sacrificed everything for you, you to talk 
 of faithfulness ! You do not understand its small- 
 est principle." She paused with flashing eye and 
 heaving breast. He was deeply offended, but if 
 she had thought to arouse any other feeling of 
 shame or self -judgment, she was disappointed. 
 
 "You repeat the shallow platitudes of your set 
 and your circle," he answered her. "My actions 
 are beyond the comprehension of minds that reason 
 as yours does. Yours can reason better when it 
 tries. Now I can prove to you " 
 
 "Oh, you can prove anything, I have no doubt, 
 but I am not in a mood for dialectics. Casuistry 
 isn't niy forte. Come, I am tired of this, tired 
 and ashamed," and she waved her hand, to end the 
 discussion. 
 
 "Not yet," he replied. "You have said what
 
 320 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 you wished to say, have spoken freely and fear- 
 lessly, but, I repeat, you have not spoken sin- 
 cerely." Again that hint of unpleasant suggestion 
 in his tone. "You try to persuade yourself you 
 are angry with me, that you dislike and distrust 
 me, but you do not." She drew herself up and 
 looked at him steadily. "We were good friends 
 once," in a changed tone, and with seeming hesi- 
 tancy. " I never could understand just what it was 
 came between us." 
 
 "Came between us! " she gasped. 
 
 "We understood each other perfectly. There 
 was no one I could talk to as freely as to you. 
 And you you liked to talk with me. Is it not 
 true? " She clenched her hand and bit her lip, 
 her color coming and going. 
 
 "Yes, we were good friends! When I went 
 away, as I have said, you thought fit to join the 
 general outcry against me. You would not stand 
 up against the world, and your husband " 
 
 "My husband! How dare you bring George 
 into a discussion of this kind! He was your 
 friend. He said what he could to excuse and con- 
 done your conduct. He had as much courage as 
 you." 
 
 "You mistake me. George was a good fellow. 
 He wrote me a letter I never forgave; but I let 
 that pass, now. And you you acted according 
 to your nature, that is, according to one side of it, 
 the side that is afraid. There is another side, 
 which, properly guided and supported, would be
 
 ROGER HUNT. 321 
 
 afraid of nothing; but it has been kept in subjec- 
 tion so long to the other and lower that it is doubt- 
 ful if it ever rises above it now." 
 
 "Thank you for the doubt," she interjected sar- 
 castically. She was recovering herself. At first 
 a wild apprehension had seized her that he was 
 going to make love to her. A man can do this 
 when denouncing and upbraiding a woman as well 
 as when openly praising and seeking her favor. 
 
 "No, it will never predominate now," he con- 
 tinued, heedless of her sarcasm, and looking at 
 her reflectively. "You will always be about the 
 woman you are, mistaking the conventional for 
 the real, prejudice for conviction, yet cherishing 
 thoughts and an ideal of life very different, which 
 you did not hesitate to avow when you were 
 younger, and which I speak with unusual frank- 
 ness, I know the sight and remembrance of me 
 always awakens." 
 
 "Are you a man, to talk to a woman like this! " 
 
 "I speak as one freed spirit to another. Yours 
 is not wholly freed, and never will be; yet you 
 understand me." 
 
 "I understand nothing. You are a monster of 
 egotism! That is all I know." 
 
 " I am a man of some consistency of purpose, if 
 that is what you mean. Come," he added, with 
 a still bolder touch, "if what I have said is not 
 true ; if, in spite of all that has happened you do 
 not trust me, and and regard me with some 
 kindness, why, when we met each other acciden-
 
 322 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 tally two months ago, did your looks and words so 
 report you? Why did you not send me on my 
 way? Why did you ask to have Estella remain 
 here with you?" 
 
 "Estella! Was it possible to see that poor 
 child, to know what I know, and not feel for her, 
 not wish tD be her friend !" She paused a mo- 
 ment, while the full meaning of his words slowly 
 dawned on her. She turned white with out- 
 raged womanly feeling. " Why did I receive Es- 
 tella? " she exclaimed. "Do you mean Oh, this 
 is too much ! We have had more than enough of 
 this. I ask you, sir, to leave me," with an imperi- 
 ous wave of the hand. He colored and opened his 
 lips to speak. 
 
 "Not another word," she exclaimed. "Leave 
 me." There was no mistaking her. Even the 
 man before her was unable to support her look, 
 and seemed to grow sensibly smaller in her pres- 
 ence. With a crestfallen air he left the house. 
 
 She flew to her room, where she paced up and 
 down excitedly for a few moments, then suddenly 
 stood still. She remembered Estella. What 
 should she say to her? That she had turned her 
 father out of the house ? What would he, Roger, 
 do next? Would he remember he had a daughter 
 in Monroe, and that the ostensible object of his 
 visit was to see her? Then if he came to the 
 house again, what must she do, how must she be- 
 have? She had something to think of here be- 
 sides her own insulted dignity as a woman. That
 
 ROGER HUNT. 323 
 
 is the inconvenience of tragedy in common life! 
 The curtain does not fall leaving a long blank of 
 darkness and silence as on the stage. On the con- 
 trary it leaves things about as it found them. 
 Dinner must be ordered and cooked the same as 
 before, the appointment kept with the dressmaker. 
 We must wear as composed and cheerful faces as 
 though we had not just escaped drowning in an 
 emotional whirlpool. 
 
 Mrs. Somers was not fond of the sensational, 
 and passed the day in the moral abasement that 
 naturally follows such a scene, in a mind disposed 
 to rational behavior. Externally she was nervous 
 and excited, and kept moving restlessly about the 
 room. Catching sight of her husband's picture, 
 a small framed photograph that stood on the man- 
 tel, she did a curious thing. Going towards it, 
 she leaned her arms on the mantel and looked for 
 a long time into the eyes of the portrait. 
 
 "Did you hear him? " she asked at last, silently. 
 "Wasn't it shameful? Wasn't it ridiculous? 
 At first I was terribly angry. I am angry still, 
 of course; but what is the use? One might as 
 well be angry with the ravings of a sick man ! 
 He has not changed at all! Sometimes I think 
 nobody ever does change much, unless it is in 
 heaven. And he thinks you are a ' good fellow. ' ' 
 A low laugh, half like a sob, escaped her, and she 
 dropped her head a moment on the marble slab. 
 "But I hope you won't change, even there," she 
 began again, raising it. "You mustn't get too far
 
 324 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 ahead of me. Yes, I know I was foolish, to stay 
 there talking with him so long; but what could I 
 do? I kept thinking of Estella. You don't think 
 I ought to give up Estella? She hasn't a friend 
 in the world ! I knew you couldn't want me to 
 do that. What do I care what such a man as that 
 thinks? What should either of us care?" 
 
 She took the little picture in her hands, looked 
 at it a moment longer, then pressed her lips against 
 the cold glass. Her breath obscured it, covering 
 it with a faint mist, which soon passed, however, 
 like the little clouds that sometimes used to arise 
 and shadow their marital skies.
 
 XX. 
 
 ASSISTANT WATSON'S pupils pronounced his 
 behavior, the Monday following his visit to Mrs. 
 Somers, more difficult to support than usual. 
 Even Estella noticed it, and found some cause of 
 blame. He avoided looking at her, and made brief 
 answers when she spoke to him. During the half 
 hour intermission at noon, when he saw her ap- 
 proaching the desk, he rose abruptly and left the 
 room. She was a little hurt, but tried to excuse 
 him, supposing something had gone wrong with his 
 work. 
 
 Watson, reflecting on Mrs. Somers's wish, while 
 he still did not perceive its necessity as she did, 
 and felt the slight it offered to his own plans and 
 rights in the matter, resolved to yield to it and to 
 leave Monroe. She could not know the practical 
 difficulties attendant on such a change, or she would 
 not have felt so free to suggest it. To leave his 
 present position meant the hindrance and perhaps 
 the complete breaking up of his life-plans. 
 
 In the first place Charles Watson was poor. 
 The money left by his father had been invested by 
 his aunt in a concern that seemed to her all the 
 safer, because it was cloaked in a great deal of out- 
 ward piety. The president was a member in high-
 
 326 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 est standing of the church, and prominent on mis- 
 sionary boards and in similar enterprises. It was 
 said he called all his employes together every morn- 
 ing for prayers. His business was supported by 
 the contributions of his admirers, who were glad to 
 believe they were making a good investment of 
 their money, and serving the cause of religion at 
 the same time. Miss Watson was one of the lar- 
 gest subscribers, but did not live to know the de- 
 ception that had been practiced on her. She died 
 urging her nephew to live a godly life, and to fol- 
 low in the footsteps of the man who, he learned a 
 few weeks later, had squandered every dollar in- 
 trusted to his care. The revelations connected with 
 this gigantic swindle, from which so many others 
 suffered besides himself, and who could far less 
 afford to, gave the young man a deep moral shock. 
 His faith was destroyed in a new direction. Hith- 
 erto it had not been difficult to believe that reli- 
 gious heresy was a synonym for the worst immoral- 
 ity; but now the shame and perplexity of his 
 father's example was balanced by this other discov- 
 ery of betrayed trust. The spirit of misanthropic 
 doubt arose anew, and embittered his entire outlook 
 on life, which seemed now equally barren of hope 
 for himself and belief in his kind. 
 
 Coming to Monroe, he had not tried to make 
 friends or social acquaintances, living by himself, 
 and performing his duties in a mechanical manner ; 
 inspired by no cheerful prospects, or the desire to 
 please any one dear to him, simply by the necessity
 
 ROGER HUNT. 327 
 
 to live. He had felt strangely attracted to his new 
 pupil from the first, and though the knowledge 
 that she was his half-sister had been at first a little 
 repugnant to him, that feeling had quickly passed ; 
 and another, the right of ownership, the claim to 
 acknowledge and be blessed in this new relation 
 had arisen ; so that the duty of denying himself all 
 this, even for her good, was a hard one. It seemed 
 to him, now that he was about to be deprived of 
 it, a sister was of all human ties and relations that 
 which he most craved and needed. He felt, too, 
 he could be of use and service to Estella. She 
 liked him ; but there were her father and mother, 
 whom she must love best, of course. The affec- 
 tion he could offer could not be accepted without 
 to some degree displacing and dishonoring other 
 feelings, Mrs. Somers was right; he must not 
 think of himself. 
 
 The work of the day ended at last, and he was 
 alone in the empty schoolroom. He sat behind his 
 desk, his head supported on one hand, in an attitude 
 that brought out some resemblance to his father. 
 He was lost in painful thoughts. The noise of 
 the departing pupils in the hall outside had died 
 away, and the building, except for the sound of the 
 janitor moving about in another room, shutting 
 windows, seemed deserted. As he sat there mo- 
 tionless and absorbed, he did not hear the door 
 quietly open, nor note the visitor who entered and 
 paused a moment just inside. As he stepped for- 
 ward, with a slight air of embarrassment, Watson
 
 328 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 looked up, and the eyes of father and son met. lie 
 knew him at once, and rose from his chair, his dark 
 skin turning to a sickly pallor. He kept his eyes 
 fixed on the approaching figure, but did not speak. 
 Roger, too, waited a perceptible space, after reach- 
 ing the desk and pausing before it. 
 
 " I need not introduce myself, I see. You recog- 
 nize me." 
 
 The one whom he addressed turned paler still. 
 His lips tightened, and his nostrils quivered a lit- 
 tle. A tremor of mingled pain and loathing swept 
 over his face. 
 
 "You are my father! " he said at last, with an 
 effort. Roger bowed. 
 
 "I only learned the day before yesterday that 
 you were here. If I had known it when I was in 
 town before, I should have sought you out." His 
 son looked at him in dull surprise. He was quite 
 unprepared for the easy, unconcerned tone in which 
 these words were spoken. 
 
 "You would have sought me out?" he repeated. 
 
 " Certainly. Why not ? We meet in a rather 
 strange way, I admit; but I have never cherished 
 any ill-will towards you." 
 
 The young man looked at him. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "Why should I have cherished any unkind feel- 
 ing towards you ?" his father asked. "You were 
 but a child when when " 
 
 "When you deserted my mother and me," the 
 son finished.
 
 ROGEE HUNT. 329 
 
 "I never deserted you. I gave you your choice 
 to come with me if you wished." 
 
 " You gave a boy six years old his choice ! But 
 I have never ceased to be gratef ul'that I knew how 
 to make one, even then." 
 
 Roger paid no attention to this. 
 
 "I also gave your aunt instructions to send you 
 to me, if that suited either her wish or yours. It 
 did not surprise me that she did not choose to do 
 so, to learn afterward that she had deprived you 
 of your right name, and bestowed that of her own 
 respectable ancestor in its place. She has done all 
 she could to prejudice you against me, of course." 
 
 "She could not 'prejudice ' me so much as your 
 own actions have done." 
 
 "I did not come here to be brought to account by 
 my own son," Roger exclaimed angrily. 
 
 " Your son ! I am not your son ! I repudiate 
 any such dishonorable title. We are strangers 
 aliens in every fibre. The breadth of the universe 
 lies between us." His father looked at hinvwith 
 cold dislike. 
 
 "You speak the truth more nearly than you 
 know, though I was the first to discover it, and 
 though I came here in the hope of disproving it. 
 It was because I saw the natural antagonism be- 
 tween us, even when you were a child, that I felt 
 justified in leaving you. I saw how little alike we 
 were in anything. You belong distinctly to your 
 mother's family " 
 
 "I thank heaven," said the young man quickly.
 
 330 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "I gladly stand in my mother's debt for all that I 
 am and have, though I must inherit her suffering, 
 too." 
 
 "Her suffering! " Roger replied ironically. 
 "You will please observe that I disclaim all re- 
 sponsibility for your mother's 'suffering ' ! " 
 
 "Do not speak of my mother, sir! Is it not 
 enough that you deserted her, a sick and helpless 
 woman, whom you had placed in the hands of 
 strangers, that you must insult her memory now?" 
 Roger looked at him a moment with a singular ex- 
 pression, in which curiosity, anger, some faint pity, 
 too, played back and forth, with a rising resolve, 
 which he hesitated to execute. 
 
 " So that is the story with which your pious aunt 
 has regaled you?" he asked at length, with curling 
 lip. "It is false from beginning to end!" The 
 other started, and stepped towards him with a 
 threatening look, but something in his father's eyes 
 checked him. A cold fear suddenly clutched his 
 heart. 
 
 "Your mother" Roger began again, but hesi- 
 tated. Even he shrank from the thing he was 
 about to do, but the demon of self -justification had 
 him in his grasp. 
 
 "Your mother died in an inebriate asylum! " 
 
 "What ! Oh, this is infamous ! " 
 
 "It is perfectly true. I have the certificate of 
 her death, duly witnessed and sealed. Your aunt 
 knew this as well as I. What her object was in 
 concealing the truth from you, I do not know."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 331 
 
 Some fatal instinct told Watson his father spoke 
 the truth. There had always been a mystery about 
 his mother. A hundred confirming signs and cir- 
 cumstances rushed back to substantiate what he 
 had heard. The passion died out of his face, leav- 
 ing only its look of misery. His clenched hand 
 fell to his side. He sank down into his chair and 
 let his head drop on his arms, uttering a groan of 
 despair. 
 
 "You might have spared me this." 
 
 " So I would, had you spared me. I am not re- 
 sponsible for the foolish delusions others practiced 
 on you. You see, yourself, they have accomplished 
 nothing." 
 
 "Nothing! " the other repeated drearily, raising 
 his head. " I know now I have had neither father 
 nor mother." 
 
 "I stand ready to be your father, if we can 
 arrive at an understanding." His son's face was 
 turned from him, and he did not see the expression 
 of repugnance that flitted across it. After a few 
 more remarks of a preliminary nature, Roger made 
 him an offer. He had made some inquiries and 
 learned his situation. He now offered to bear the 
 expense of his further studies and settle ten thou- 
 sand dollars on him. There was but one condition, 
 that he should change his name, and thus acknow- 
 ledge their relation. This offer was proudly de- 
 clined. Roger was not surprised, but had the sense 
 of duty performed. 
 
 "As you please," he said coldly. "Only bear
 
 332 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 in mind I have nothing to conceal here or else- 
 where. I rely on the simple truth to support me, 
 always." 
 
 "The truth! " exclaimed the other scornfully, 
 his first feeling's returning. " Who has outraged 
 truth more than you, profaned everything that is 
 sacred " 
 
 There was another listener to these words. Es- 
 tella, who had gone to the laboratory after school, 
 returning, went towards the schoolroom, ostensi- 
 bly to get a book, but hoping for a chance to speak 
 with Mr. Watson. The door had been left slightly 
 ajar, and looking through, she saw with amazement 
 her father and teacher talking together. She drew 
 back, hesitating whether to go forward or to retire, 
 when the young assistant's words of passionate de- 
 nunciation reached her ear. She listened eagerly 
 to what followed. 
 
 "That will do," she heard her father say. "I 
 did not come here to be insulted." 
 
 "What did you come for?" 
 
 "Simply to learn your own wish and intention 
 respecting the future. I learn from Mrs. Somers 
 that you have told something of your history to 
 Estella." 
 
 "You need not fear for Estella. She will learn 
 nothing more from me." 
 
 "You mistake my meaning; there is no reason 
 why Estella should not know the truth." His son 
 looked at him with new indignation. 
 
 "Do you wish to drive her to despair?"
 
 ROGER HUNT. 333 
 
 "What folly! What harm can there be in Es- 
 tella's knowing that her father has been married 
 twice, and that you are her half-brother? It is 
 not my fault she has not known it before." 
 
 "How will you explain this second marriage?" 
 his son asked cuttingly. " Will you tell her the 
 first wife was living, and helpless to protect her- 
 self, when you left her in the company of another 
 woman ? Will you explain that for more than two 
 years before she became your wife she was your " 
 
 " Stop ! " thundered Roger, striking his clenched 
 hand on the desk, with a force that made the room 
 ring. But it was too late, the fatal word had been 
 spoken ; Estella heard it. The two men heard a 
 low moan, and turning quickly, saw the door open, 
 pushed inwards by a falling figure. The next mo- 
 ment Estella lay unconscious across the threshold. 
 
 "Great heavens! " exclaimed Watson, "she has 
 heard us ! " He rushed forward and lifted her in 
 his arms, carrying her to a wooden bench near 
 by. He and Roger worked together to restore her, 
 chafing her hands and bathing her face. 
 
 "This is your work! " Roger declared, pausing a 
 moment in his labors, and glancing angrily at his 
 son. The latter groaned and attempted no reply. 
 He did not think for a moment of the wicked in- 
 justice of such a charge ; it rather seemed to him 
 true. The thought that Estella had heard those 
 horrible words of his filled him with anguish. 
 
 In a short time the stricken girl opened her eyes, 
 but when she recognized her surroundings, and re-
 
 334 EOGEE HUNT. 
 
 membered what had passed, she groaned and closed 
 them again, against the sight of both father and 
 brother. Her father went out to find a carriage. 
 
 Left alone together, and Estella more fully re- 
 stored, she and her teacher could not look at each 
 other. Watson longed to implore her forgiveness, 
 but something in that white, suffering face, so 
 young to bear the impress of such woe, forbade 
 him to intrude himself upon her. They stood 
 mute and helpless before each other, clothed in a 
 common misery, which had not yet the power to 
 draw them nearer together. Estella could not 
 raise her eyes to his, and he could not have borne 
 their look, if she had. In silence he helped her 
 gather up her things, and without a word led her 
 outside, down the steps to the carriage, the door 
 of which her father held open. 
 
 Only once' was a word exchanged between Roger 
 and his daughter as they drove towards home. The 
 subject uppermost in the minds of both was not 
 one that could be discussed. Shrinking into the 
 corner of the carriage, Estella covered her face 
 with her hands and gave way to a passionate burst 
 of grief. Her father let it have way a few mo- 
 ments, then spoke to her, calling her by name, to 
 quiet and remind her where they were. 
 
 "Do not speak to me! " she exclaimed, and drew 
 still further away from him. He bit his lip and 
 looked displeased, but said nothing more. 
 
 It was a day of catastrophes. Just within the 
 door they met Mrs. Somers, who had a telegram
 
 ROGER HUNT. 335 
 
 in her hand, directed to Roger. She was about to 
 leave the house to find a messenger and send it to 
 him. He tore open the envelope. The message 
 informed him that his wife was much worse, and 
 bade him and Estella return home at once. 
 
 Estella, without heeding or seeming to hear this 
 latest news, climbed the stairs slowly to her room. 
 
 "What is the matter?" Mrs. Somers asked, 
 looking after her, then at Roger with sharp dis- 
 trust. 
 
 He told her Estella had been ill, and added 
 a stiff apology for his own reappearance. Mrs. 
 Somers at once divined more. 
 
 "You have told her! " she exclaimed rebukingly. 
 "Roger Hunt, you are the cruelest man living ! " 
 
 "I have told her nothing," he retorted angrily. 
 
 "Then how did she find it out? Not through 
 Mr. Watson, I am sure! " 
 
 "You are mistaken. It was through Mr. Wat- 
 son she found it out." 
 
 "Oh, how shameful!" 
 
 " There is no need of wasting time in reproaches. 
 My son and I were talking together in the school- 
 room, and she overheard us." 
 
 "Yo said he told her." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Roger loftily. "I 
 said she learned it through him." She gave it up, 
 and turned her attention to the telegram. 
 
 "There is a train leaves at six o'clock," Roger 
 said, consulting his watch. "Tell Estella to be 
 ready. I will call for her," and he took a hurried 
 leave.
 
 33G ROGER HUNT. 
 
 Mrs. Somers went up to Estella 1 s room and 
 knocked. There was no response, and after wait- 
 ing a moment, she opened the door and stepped in- 
 side. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed, 
 Jier hands clasped tightly together, her eyes staring 
 vacantly before her. She turned quickly at the 
 sound of Mrs. Somers's entrance, then threw out 
 her hands to ward her off. 
 
 "Don't come in here, Mrs. Somers. Leave me 
 alone, please." Mrs. Somers went directly to her, 
 sitting beside her, and clasping her in her arms. 
 The girl struggled to free herself, but could not, 
 then submitted, but kept her face turned from her 
 friend. 
 
 " Estella ! I have some bad news for you. Try 
 to be brave and bear it." 
 
 "I know it already, Mrs. Somers. I know 
 everything." 
 
 "I am speaking of your mother, Estella." The 
 girl shuddered, and again tried to release herself. 
 
 " She is worse ; she is in a very dangerous 
 state. You must return home with your father to- 
 night." 
 
 "Home," wailed the girl in a despairful voice. 
 "I can never go home again." * 
 
 "Estella, listen tome. I know all that has hap- 
 pened; you have had a hard blow. I shall not 
 pretend it is easy to bear, or of little account, but 
 you are not to think of that now; you are to 
 think only of your mother." 
 
 "My mother ! " She wrenched herself free, and
 
 ROGER HUNT. 337 
 
 stood upright. "Why did not my mother think of 
 me?" 
 
 "Estefla, that is wicked! " 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," with youthful bitterness. 
 "But I have a right to be wicked now. When 
 people do wrong things, why do they think of 
 themselves only?" she went on excitedly. "Why 
 do they make others suffer, who are not to blame? " 
 
 "I shan't try to answer any of your hard ques- 
 tions, Estella," but she did. "How can a wrong 
 action stop with the one who performs it, more than 
 a good one? We don't want the good actions to 
 stop. You are not to judge your mother, Estella," 
 Mrs. Somerswent on more seriously. "Remember 
 that. What do you know of life or its struggles? 
 Your mother is your mother. That is all you have 
 any right to think about, now. Has she not al- 
 ways been very good to you? " 
 
 The young face quivered. " I could have borne 
 it if she had not; I could bear anything better 
 than Oh, I wish I could die, I wish I could 
 die!" She threw herself again on the bed, bury- 
 ing her face in the pillow, shaking and sobbing 
 with grief. Mrs. Somers let the first paroxysm 
 pass ; then, when she had grown quieter, took her 
 hand and spoke again. 
 
 "My dear, listen to me. You have been hurt, 
 cruelly hurt, in a way you will not forget for a 
 long time, perhaps never. But you are a good, 
 right-thinking girl; you can compel yourself to 
 act justly, even at such a time as this, if you try.
 
 338 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 You are going to try. I am going to help you. 
 Now listen. Suppose your mother had been suf- 
 fering all her life from some physical hurt you had 
 just learned about, and you knew it was the result 
 of an act of careless disobedience when she was 
 a child. Would such knowledge change pity into 
 blame, destroy your love? " 
 
 "It is not the same," was the quick reply; 
 "it is not the same." 
 
 "It is more nearly the same than you know, 
 only you are too young and ignorant to under- 
 stand. Your mother is a good woman. She de- 
 serves all the love and honor you have ever given 
 her. But I can't talk of these things now. Your 
 mother is much worse. She loves and needs you. 
 Come, I will help you to get ready. Your father 
 will be here soon." 
 
 "But you are going with me," exclaimed Es- 
 tella, in new alarm. "You are not going to send 
 me away alone ! " 
 
 "Alone! You forget your father is here! " 
 
 "I cannot go with my father; I want you," 
 sobbed the girl. "I cannot go without you." 
 
 Mrs. Somers hesitated. Now that the idea was 
 thus presented to her, she believed she ought to go. 
 Estella was in no condition to be left to herself, 
 or, what was worse, to the care of her father. She 
 remembered her quarrel with Roger, but it seemed 
 too petty to think about now, compared with the 
 need here disclosed. In a moment she had deter- 
 mined.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 339 
 
 "Very well, I will go with you." 
 
 Roger looked the surprise he felt when he saw 
 two women descend the steps dressed for travel. 
 
 "Estella wishes me to go with her, and I think 
 I ought," Mrs. Somers explained briefly. 
 
 "'I cannot go without Mrs. Somers, papa," Es- 
 tella added, in a tone that mingled warning with 
 entreaty. 
 
 "I shall be glad to have Mrs. Somers go with 
 us," said her father. 
 
 She saw that he read this action of hers, as he 
 had others, in the light of his own complacent 
 beliefs, and knew that he took her presence as a 
 distinct sign of concession to himself. The thought 
 stung her a little, but she would not let it deter 
 her from her purpose. To serve and help Estella 
 she was prepared, if need be, to submit to even 
 more disagreeable things than she had yet borne. 
 To let Roger Hunt seriously interfere with this or 
 any other plan of action she considered just, would 
 be to assign him an importance he did not deserve.
 
 XXI. 
 
 As has been surmised, it was Estella's letter 
 to her mother, relating the interview with her 
 teacher, that had so suddenly loosened life's weak- 
 ened hold, and mercifully, at the moment when 
 new suffering for an old misdeed was at its height, 
 and remorse too severe to be borne. The greatest 
 dread from which Eleanor had suffered all these 
 years was about to be realized. Her child stood 
 on the edge of the discovery of her mother's shame. 
 
 The blow she had received was the harder to 
 bear that it had been so innocently dealt. The 
 horror and anguish Estella must suffer, her swift 
 instinctive revolt from one she had loved best, her 
 own helpless agony, these were the intense, de- 
 structive emotions that seized and overwhelmed 
 her in turn. The poor, spent frame could not long 
 endure these spiritual throes. One sinking spell 
 followed another, with one or two violent hemor- 
 rhages that threatened to spill life out at once with 
 their red flow. Between, were periods of white 
 unconscious exhaustion, that 'looked like death; 
 the grim angel hovering very near, eager for his 
 own. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was as much puzzled as alarmed 
 over this sudden change, and wholly unable to
 
 EOGER HUNT. 341 
 
 account for it. She had been out of the room 
 when Eleanor received her letter, who, warned of 
 its direful effects, made a superhuman effort, rose 
 partly from her bed and concealed it before her 
 return. From time to time words of faintly spoken 
 delirium dropped from the dying woman's lips. 
 
 "Estella, don't look at me like that! Es- 
 tella I am your mother! " and "Roger! Where 
 is Roger? I want Roger! " The doctor had been 
 hastily summoned, arrived and looked at his pa- 
 tient, and signified by a look to the nurse that the 
 end had come at last. It was he who had dis- 
 patched the message to Roger, returning to the 
 house and remaining there as much of the time as 
 he could spare from his other duties. 
 
 The sky was covered with the pale gray light of 
 early morning when the travelers reached their des- 
 tination. The doctor met them at the door, and 
 Roger went immediately to the sick-room, Mrs. 
 Somers and Estella stepping into the library to 
 remove their wraps and await his summons. Es- 
 tella' s face had a pinched and frightened look. 
 Superstitious dread, which is the first feeling death 
 arouses in the young, had for the time benumbed 
 other emofions. Mrs. Somers 's heart ached with 
 pity for her, as she helped remove her bonnet, but 
 she felt, also, a little distrust, and watched her 
 narrowly. She was full of anxious dread for what 
 might happen next. In spite of her evident agita- 
 tion, there was something in the girl's cold, stolid 
 look that alarmed her.
 
 342 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Estella," taking her hand and speaking in a 
 low, urgent tone. "Remember, she is dying. 
 She must see no difference she " 
 
 
 
 "You need not be afraid of me, Mrs. Somers," 
 Estella answered quietly, and withdrew her hand. 
 They remained waiting. 
 
 When Roger entered the room where his wife 
 was, she lay like one already dead, save for the 
 faint, irregular breath. He drew near the bed and 
 looked down on her. Death could not make that 
 face look whiter. Roger's too was colorless. Severe 
 emotions struggled in his breast ; he bit his lips 
 to still their trembling. He stood there, motion- 
 less, and there was not a sound in the room to dis- 
 turb the sleeper ; but something in that look of his, 
 which had been her strongest magnet in life, seemed 
 to pierce the mists of death and arrest the fleeing 
 spirit. A quiver passed over her face, a fluttering 
 sigh escaped her, and the eyes slowly uiiclqsed. 
 The film of death was already spreading over the 
 large blue iris, but a look of consciousness soon 
 gleamed through. She recognized him, and spoke 
 his name in an agitated whisper. He placed his 
 hand on hers, warningly : 
 
 "Do not try to talk," he said in a low tone. 
 
 She wound her fingers about his, with a hold 
 that was feeble, but which he could not resist, and 
 he sat down on the bedside. 
 
 "Don't leave me, Roger," she whispered, and 
 ^again closed her eyes. 
 
 At the same moment, Estella, whose ears were
 
 ROGER HUNT. 343 
 
 keenly alive to every sound from that direction, 
 caught something, more with spirit than with sense, 
 made a sign of silence to her companion, and 
 stepped softly to the open door, where she stood 
 listening. The movement was noiseless. Eleanor 
 could not have heard, yet seemed to, opening her 
 eyes with a look of startled inquiry. 
 
 "Estella! " she exclaimed in a sharp whisper. 
 
 "Hush," sa;d Roger, quietly. "She is here." 
 
 "Here." She threw a frightened glance around 
 the room. " She is here Estella Oh, Estella." 
 
 The imprisoned voice broke from its bounds and 
 escaped in a long, wailing cry. Estella heard it. 
 It frightened, but it also drew her. The long, sweet 
 habit of years was aroused. Obedience sprung 
 prompt and true to guide her. With a low, an- 
 swering cry she sped across the hall to her mo- 
 ther's room. On the threshold she paused, scarcely 
 a second, not from any waning purpose, only scared 
 back an instant by what she saw; her mother 
 struggling vainly to rise, stretching out weak, 
 trembling arms to her, that seemed at once to 
 beckon and try to shut out some dreaded sight. 
 Again came that wailing cry, like a prayer for 
 mercy : " Estella EsteUa. " 
 
 "Mother Mother! " she cried, and springing 
 forward caught her in her arms, pressing her pas- 
 sionately to her heart, letting wild tears of pity, 
 self-reproach, and the orphaned loss she now felt 
 for the first time rain down on her face and hair. 
 It was the first time Estella had ever addressed
 
 344 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 her mother by the stronger, truer term, and the 
 occasion was fit. It was love's baptism and sign 
 of pardoning grace. If joy could kill, Eleanor's 
 spirit would have made complete escape then, with 
 one glad, upward bound ; as it was, it only swooned 
 back into another period of unconsciousness. 
 
 A half hour passed, when the eyes again opened, 
 this time with the light of full intelligence in their 
 depths. She knew them all. 
 
 "Mamma," cried Estella, who was kneeling by 
 the bed, and with a little sob of happiness, "You 
 are better now you know us." 
 
 Her mother looked at her, infinite love and bless- 
 ing in the look. The doctor glanced at the nurse, 
 and they left the room. Mrs. Somers would have 
 followed, but Eleanor had seen her. An expres- 
 sion of pain crossed her face, and she looked at 
 her appealingly. Mrs. Somers stepped towards 
 her, took her hand and bending above her, pressed 
 a long kiss of sisterly affection on her brow. 
 They looked into each other's eyes, and in that 
 look Eleanor tasted the first draught of something 
 she had longed for all her life, a pure friendship, 
 whose power to understand, console, and strengthen 
 the stronger passion of love often misses. 
 
 "You have been so good to Estella; I wanted 
 to thank you," she said, faintly. 
 
 "I love Estella," was the reply. "It makes me 
 very happy to be able to do anything for her." 
 
 The dying woman gave a long sigh of thankful 
 content.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 345 
 
 "Love your father, Estella; take care of him," 
 she said as her look fell again on the young girl, 
 kneeling beside her. The eyes grew dimmer and 
 wandered restlessly. She murmured her husband's 
 name; he bent over her. 
 
 "Lift me up, Roger." He raised her in his 
 arms, sitting behind and letting her rest against 
 him. She moved her head until her cheek lay 
 against his breast. In the midst of her racking 
 grief and fright, the thought sped across Estella 's 
 brain that never before had she seen her father 
 and mother like this. 
 
 " Do you love me, Roger ? Say you love me. I 
 am dying, Roger." 
 
 Mrs. Somers had turned away, and 'could not 
 see him. If she had, she would have pitied him. 
 He was suffering acutely. His face was blanched 
 and nearly convulsed with the emotions fighting in 
 his breast; but he could not be other than him- 
 self, even in such a moment. Perhaps, for a pass- 
 ing instant he wished he could; perhaps he, too, 
 rebelled against that iron in his blood which would 
 not let him yield. His bearded lips rested a mo- 
 ment on her cheek, but he did not speak. 
 
 Happily, those who go through the world hun- 
 gering for love need so very little! A peaceful 
 smile spread over Eleanor's face. Estella sobbed 
 aloud, and called to her mother in imploring tones, 
 but won no answering word or look. The present 
 was dead to Eleanor ; so, too, was the nearer past ; 
 but the spirit on its flight to the future made one
 
 346 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 swift backward swoop to the years that were gone. 
 Child and husband had passed from sight ; Eleanor 
 was dreaming of her lover again. 
 
 "We love each other so," came in faintest ac- 
 cents from her lips. "Roger needs me. It can- 
 not be wrong when he needs me so." The words 
 died on her lips, the head fell gently forward, 
 she was dead. The love that had been the su- 
 preme motive of her life, caught and held her 
 again, at the last ; less to prove its worth than its 
 truth; yet there was one to whom, even here, it 
 failed to justify itself. 
 
 Who can estimate a single human deed? If 
 suffering can atone for error, then Eleanor had 
 atoned ! If a gentle and trusting heart, misled 
 by its own needs, and the holy wish to serve an- 
 other, waking too late to its own mistake, yet hum- 
 bly placing blame only on itself, is worth anything 
 in this world, then Eleanor's story has been worth 
 the telling. 
 
 Mrs. Somers stood long by the narrow coffin. 
 The face was not wholly peaceful, as Death so 
 often leaves it. A slight expression of care and 
 painful thought remained ; yet there was in it such 
 a look of suffering sweetness, such wells of tender- 
 ness seemed covered by those closed lids, that its 
 look was none the less one of benediction. 
 
 "She loved much! " were the words in which the 
 living woman summed up her thoughts ; and others 
 from the same sacred source came floating across 
 her memory : " A broken and a contrite heart, O 
 Lord, thou wilt not despise! "
 
 XXII. 
 
 MR. and Mrs. Clarke sat at breakfast in their 
 sumptuously appointed dining-room, the second 
 morning after Eleanor's death. This was the day 
 of the funeral, and Mrs. Clarke informed her hus- 
 band that he must accompany herself and Nina; 
 the occasion being one that demanded the presence 
 of the entire family. 
 
 "I didn't know anybody but women ever went 
 to funerals," he grumbled. 
 
 "It's time the men began to observe a few of 
 the proprieties. Of course you must go. They 
 are our nearest neighbors." 
 
 " I ' ve got an appointment with a man from 
 Denver at eleven o'clock. It 's a cool thousand 
 out of my pocket if I don't meet it." 
 
 "I thought it was about time that man from 
 Denver was making his appearance," she replied 
 ironically. 
 
 "He's here this time, for certain. Why can't 
 you and Nina go without me?" A servant en- 
 tered from the kitchen with a plate of hot cakes, 
 and his wife looked at him warningly. At the 
 same time Nina, who was late, came into the room 
 from the opposite side, and took her place, list- 
 lessly, at the table. She looked as if she had not 
 slept well.
 
 348 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "Hello, Nina!" her father addressed her, jo- 
 cosely. "This is the third time you 've been late 
 to breakfast this week. You 're getting on first- 
 rate. Pretty soon you '11 be as high-toned as any- 
 body. I noticed yon didn't have any trouble get- 
 tin' down to breakfast when young Norris was 
 here. That 's the way with you girls. There 
 was your mother, now, before we were married, 
 she was as sweet and polite as honey. She never 
 corrected my bad grammar then " 
 
 "Thomas! " exclaimed his wife in her severest 
 tone. 
 
 He leaned back in his chair, and drew out his 
 watch. "Well, it 's time I was off," he said, but 
 weakened again, when he caught his partner's eye. 
 
 "There's this much about it," he added in an 
 injured tone. "When you and Nina get off to 
 Europe, then I can do as I like " 
 
 "To Europe ! " exclaimed Nina. "Are we going 
 to Europe, really, mamma? Do let us go! " 
 
 "I didn't know as you would care about it." 
 
 "I do care about it. I should like to go right 
 away." 
 
 Nina Clarke was still in a tumultuous mental 
 state. She had been longing for the past few 
 days to get away from her present surroundings, 
 to go far from home, where she could think things 
 over quietly, could still importunate thoughts that 
 kept rising against her will, and allay the fever in 
 her veins. Her mother had kept her plans quietly 
 to herself until now. Europe seemed to Nina a 
 heaven-sent boon and means of escape.
 
 EOGER HUNT. 349 
 
 "Well, your mother can't start this morning," 
 said her father. "She 's in the undertaking busi- 
 ness just now; she 's got this funeral on her 
 hands." He looked in vain for a sign of encour- 
 agement from his daughter to this kind of fun- 
 making, then cast his eyes helplessly towards the 
 servant-maid, who had again entered the room to 
 bring Nina a warm plate, and now beat a precipi- 
 tate retreat back to the kitchen. 
 
 "Thomas! " said his wife reprovingly. "I do 
 wish you would be careful how you speak before 
 the servants." 
 
 "Why, then, are they always around ?" he asked 
 complainingly. Thomas Clarke liked his estate of 
 social leadership very much, but he found some of 
 its details wearisome. He missed the simpler ways 
 of their early married life, when they ate their 
 meals in unattended privacy, and his wife handed 
 him his cup of coffee across the table, receiving 
 a plate of meat and vegetables in return. Mrs. 
 Clarke pressed her foot on a button and summoned 
 the maid again. 
 
 "Tell Peter we shall want the carriage at ten." 
 The maid responded with a respectful, "Yes, 
 ma'am," and went out. 
 
 "A carriage to go a block and a half.! " ex- 
 claimed her husband. 
 
 "It is for the cemetery," she explained. 
 
 He drew himself up. "Now, see here! I 
 draw the line somewheres. I ain't a-goiii' to no 
 cemet'ry."
 
 350 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 She looked at him thoughtfully a minute. 
 
 "Well, I don't know as it will be necessary," 
 she replied in a conciliatory tone. "Perhaps it 
 will do if Nina and I go there." 
 
 "It will have to do," he said, feeling himself 
 grow stronger as the opposition weakened. "I 
 don't see why you can't go to the funeral without 
 me, too," he added, with the same discontent as 
 before. 
 
 " Thomas, I am ashamed of you ! When we are 
 under such obligations to Professor Hunt! " 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me it was the professor's 
 funeral?" he asked, with pretended accession of 
 interest. Nina rose and left the table. His wife 
 looked at him more severely than before. 
 
 "I'd naturally feel more interest, wouldn't I, 
 if it was somebody's funeral I knew," he said de- 
 fensively. "I never saw Mrs. Hunt in my life." 
 
 There were many others in Garrison who were 
 saying the same ; but though Eleanor was so lit- 
 tle known, personally, her long illness, the se- 
 cluded life it had necessitated, and her husband's 
 reputation as a writer and man of gifts, combined to 
 surround her image with something like romance. 
 People who had never caught a glimpse of her 
 spoke of her in hushed and reverent tones. The 
 impression deepened that here had been a life of 
 self-abnegating sweetness, of hidden trial and con- 
 quest, too little noted when among them. 
 
 After the funeral, Mrs. Clarke called on her 
 neighbor, taking Nina with her. The former gave
 
 EOGEB HUNT. 351 
 
 most of her attention to Mrs. Somers, near whom 
 sat Estella. Roger and Nina sat a little apart, 
 but though his face was turned in her direction, 
 and he kept his eyes on her, she detected signs of 
 absent-mindedness. Twice when she asked him a 
 question he failed to reply, and she saw he was 
 listening to what Mrs. Somers was saying to her 
 mother. When she told him she was going abroad, 
 he had only smiled and wished her a pleasant voy- 
 age. At parting he seemed not to remember that 
 he was not likely to see her again, unless he took 
 pains to do so; and she had a heart-sick feeling 
 when she left him that he would not do this. She 
 had been so long accustomed to consider herself 
 preeminent in his thoughts, necessary to him, that 
 she was deeply hurt and puzzled now. It would 
 be long before she could understand of how light 
 and passing a nature the relation now ending had 
 been to him; but it was fortunate that her last 
 feeling about him should be mixed with one of 
 self-injury. She tried to excuse him in her 
 thoughts, but the hurt feeling remained, and even 
 then was beginning to work a cure deeper than its 
 own. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke carried her neighborly attentions to 
 the extent of asking Mrs. Somers to drive. The 
 conversation naturally turned upon Roger Hunt. 
 
 "You knew him when he was young?" Mrs. 
 Clarke inquired. 
 
 Mrs. Somers said yes. 
 
 "We think a great deal of him in Garrison.
 
 352 EOGER HUNT. 
 
 To be sure, he is not very social, and some people 
 are a little prejudiced against him, on account of 
 his radical views, you know, but it will be a loss 
 to the place if he goes away." 
 
 Her listener said Mr. Hunt was a man of many 
 accomplishments. 
 
 "I shall always feel under the greatest obliga- 
 tions to him for what he has done for Nina. She 
 studied with him, you know." 
 
 No, Mrs. Somers did n't know. She would not 
 have supposed Mr. Hunt would like teaching. 
 
 "I don't think he does, but of course it was 
 different with Nina. We are such near friends. 
 Did you know his wife too?" 
 
 Mrs. Somers did not ask, "Which wife? " 
 
 "How fortunate that he should have run across 
 you at Monroe. It is so good in YOU to take 
 charge of Estella." 
 
 "I am very fond of Estella," was the reply. 
 Mrs. Clarke remembered then that her compan- 
 ion was a widow. She wondered if but such 
 thoughts were unbecoming. In harmless ineffec- 
 tive talk of this kind the drive came to an end. 
 Mrs. Clarke would have been righteously indig- 
 nant had she known how near she had been, twice, 
 or rather how far, from making discoveries she 
 would have claimed she had a right to know ; but 
 in Mrs. Somers, as with her brother, she had met 
 one who had a strong instinctive dislike of hurting 
 any one, and felt its reactive indignity as well. 
 Mrs. Somers did not shrink sometimes from of-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 353 
 
 fending and even hurting her friends in her own 
 person. She let them see plainly, when she thought 
 it necessary, what she thought of them, but she 
 could not harm them otherwise. Thus Roger Hunt 
 escaped unhurt a second time. 
 
 Deeply as Estella had loved her mother, sincere 
 and complete as had been her final surrender to 
 that love, loyal as she meant to be to it still, it was 
 impossible that a deeper loss than Death's, which 
 no grave could cover, and which needed no carved 
 tombstone to repair the memory of, should not 
 be uppermost in her thoughts. To Mrs. Somers 
 it seemed providential that since Eleanor must die, 
 she should have died at this time. Estella could 
 never judge her mother, dead, as she might have 
 judged her living. In a vague, unsatisfied way 
 she saw that her mother had suffered more than 
 she had sinned; but she did not yet see how suf- 
 fering atoned for sin, still less how it removed the 
 results from those who were innocent. Mrs. Som- 
 ers's answer had not contented her here. 
 
 Estella had cause enough for unhappiness, but 
 the most real grief brings some opportunity for 
 self-indulgence. There is an element of the facti- 
 tious even in the sharpest suffering; the melan- 
 choly egotism of the unhappy is an indisputable 
 fact. This is, perhaps, because the power to suf- 
 fer affects us like any other form of discovered 
 strength, and increases self-love. It seems to set 
 us apart from others, to remove us from common-
 
 354 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 place levels, and to make a distinct personality 
 of us for the first time. This is why too great 
 indulgence in grief is as fatal to character as any 
 other form of indulgence, vitiating judgment, let- 
 ting imagination rule in reason's place, making 
 true feeling the cause of selfish and weak-minded 
 display. 
 
 Mrs. Somers kept a watchful eye on her young 
 charge, and read all her thoughts. There was 
 another, more slight but real, cause of suffering 
 here, which she had foreseen. Eleanor's last words 
 to her daughter, "Love your father, Estella; take 
 care of him," had returned to the daughter again 
 and again, their import darkened by the remem- 
 brance they aroused that her father was her father. 
 
 The dying should pay more heed to these last 
 words of theirs which impose heavy penalties 
 sometimes! These to Estella, when she recalled 
 them, seemed to shut her within prison doors. 
 Her lot in life was fixed. She must give the 
 years to come to one who would not care for the 
 gift. Her mother had not stopped to think of 
 that; she had thought only of her father. She 
 wished to make her own supreme object in life 
 her daughter's as well, the latter reflected with 
 some bitterness. But what did it matter ? What 
 did anything matter whether she studied any 
 more or not, was ignorant or learned, loved or 
 despised? Love could only mean pity for such as 
 she. She was a disgraced creature, about whom 
 the truth must not be spoken, who must go through
 
 ROGER HUNT. 355 
 
 life in daily expectation of meeting some new sign 
 of scorn or distrust in others. The thought grew 
 intolerable. 
 
 Mrs. Somers sympathized keenly with the young 
 girl, and admitted the sincerity of her suffering, 
 but she neither despaired, nor bestowed false sym- 
 pathy on her. She had often been blamed for 
 failing sensibility in matters of this kind. She 
 declined to wear her heart on her sleeve, while 
 years' exercise of the faculties resident in another 
 place, the head, gave her an increasing respect for 
 that organ. She knew women enough, who, in 
 her place, would have done nothing but mourn and 
 sentimentalize over Estella, weighting her spirits 
 still more with the load of their own depressed 
 fears and forebodings, who would have succumbed 
 at once to the child's callow judgment that her lot 
 must be separate and distinct from that of other 
 girls, that most of life's opportunities were closed 
 to her, that she must spend her days in trying to 
 retrieve the errors of others; a duty not the less 
 imperative that it promised to achieve nothing. 
 
 They would have told Estella that though the sin 
 was not hers, she must sit always in its shadow; 
 that to refuse to do this would be an act of rebel- 
 lion against heaven and society. They would 
 tell her she must not hope to escape the bonds of 
 heritage and circumstance, that people do not make 
 their own lives, but must be content to walk in the 
 paths prescribed by Providence and human con- 
 vention. There was science as well as piety in
 
 356 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 these conclusions, and theoretically, Mrs. Somers 
 held to most of these prescribed opinions of the 
 good and the fortunate, but she reserved the right 
 of application. 
 
 The first thing to do, she argued, was to get 
 Estella back to school and at work, even though 
 the year was so near the close. She wished to do 
 the nearest, most natural thing, first. It was a 
 general principle with her that it is not necessary 
 to reconstruct the universe before sweeping your 
 front steps. More opportunities than were needed 
 were likely to present themselves, with a nature 
 like Estella' s to deal with, to talk over her affairs 
 and make an abstract settlement of the case in hand. 
 In the mean time, half the difficulty was met and 
 conquered by proceeding as if nothing had hap- 
 pened that need essentially to change Estella's 
 prospects or future duties. The third day after 
 the funeral, she told Estella that they had better 
 prepare to return the next afternoon. 
 
 "I am not going back to Monroe," said Estella. 
 
 "Indeed! How is that?" 
 
 "I must stay with my father." She spoke with 
 downcast face, not meeting her friend's eye. 
 
 "Your father is going away." 
 
 "It makes no difference. I cannot leave him. 
 You you heard what mamma said," her voice 
 breaking. 
 
 "You give her words a meaning she never in- 
 tended, I am sure. Your father would not wish it 
 either, I believe. Have you spoken with him?"
 
 ROGER HUNT. 357 
 
 Estella said no. "Why should she not have 
 meant them?" she broke out. "She put him first 
 in everything, as now I must do. But he will not 
 care ; he will not care for anything I can do, any 
 more than, he cared " 
 
 "Estella!" The girl dropped her face in her 
 hands, and began to weep. Mrs. Somers waited 
 a minute, then drew a chair and sat down beside 
 her. 
 
 "Estella, I wish to speak with you. You are 
 not in a condition to see anything pertaining to 
 yourself in the right light : you must, therefore, 
 let others see and think for you. I am sure your 
 mother did not mean you were to give up your 
 work, and not return to your place in school " 
 
 "I cannot go back, Mrs. Somers, I cannot go 
 back." 
 
 "My dear child, what do you expect to gain by 
 staying here?" 
 
 " I shall be by myself ; I shall not have to meet 
 strangers, people who would despise me " 
 
 "When you are as old as I am, Estella, you 
 will know that we are our own worst and most 
 dangerous society when we are in trouble. And 
 as for people despising you, people will have just 
 that opinion of you which your own character and 
 behavior warrant, no other. See now, "taking the 
 grief-worn face in her hands and turning it to- 
 wards her, " I have known all about you from the 
 first, and do I despise you? " smiling at her ten- 
 derly.
 
 358 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 "You care for me only because you are sorry for 
 me," the girl replied, turning her eyes obstinately 
 away. 
 
 "You don't believe that when you say it," said 
 the other, with a touch of rebuke. 
 
 "Oh, no no," leaning forward and throwing 
 herself in her friend's arms. "You are good, but 
 others are not like you. Forgive me, but I am so 
 miserable, I cannot bear to live. No girl was 
 ever so wretched as I am." 
 
 "There, Estella, let us stop right there. You 
 are unhappy, and you have cause for unhappiness. 
 Let us admit that; but don't try to measure your 
 grief with other people's, nor with what may come 
 to you in the future. Wait until the cause of 
 your trouble lies in some wrong action of your 
 own. Come, now, suppose it was only some phys- 
 ical disease you were suffering from," going back 
 to a style of reasoning she had employed before. 
 "Suppose you had been very ill, and were too 
 weak to walk, and I wanted to wheel you out 
 into the sunshine. Would you refuse to let me, 
 dear?" Her listener was silent, still keeping her 
 face hidden. 
 
 "I don't say I 'm going to bring back your old 
 happiness; the old happiness never comes back. 
 I do not ask you to believe anything I say about 
 yourself or any new happiness in the future ; I only 
 ask you to trust me." 
 
 With words like these the girl was won back to 
 confidence. Her stormy emotions were quieted for
 
 ROGER HUNT. 359 
 
 a time, at least, and she received the further sug- 
 gestions Mrs. Somers made with passive quiet. 
 
 "But you must speak to papa," Estella said. 
 
 "My dear, you are the one to do that." It then 
 occurred to Mrs. Somers that they had been taking 
 a good deal for granted. 
 
 "No no," said Estella, in a voice and manner 
 that threatened another breakdown, " I cannot talk 
 with him. Do not ask me," and Mrs. Somers, 
 though she disliked it much, made her way to the 
 study. 
 
 Roger's bearing toward her the past three days 
 had been one of stiff politeness, nothing more, and 
 the had not before spoken with him alone. She 
 dreaded a renewal of old conflicts, and wished to 
 make the interview as short as possible; stating 
 her errand at once and declining the chair he of- 
 fered her. She told him she must return the next 
 day, and expressed the hope that Estella would 
 accompany her. He listened with impassive face 
 and eyes bent to the floor. 
 
 "Estella will return to her school, soon, of 
 course." She did not seem to notice the mental 
 reservation implied here. 
 
 "I was sure that must be your wish." 
 
 " Do you mean that Estella is unwilling to go 
 back? " he asked, catching an unexpressed mean- 
 ing in her words. 
 
 "Naturally she looks upon her return with some 
 dread." 
 
 "Why?"
 
 360 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 She recognized the tone, and not wishing to be 
 caught in any more wordy combats, shifted her 
 ground. 
 
 "She construes something her mother said into 
 a wish, on her part, that she should remain with 
 you." He thought of this a moment; Mrs. Som- 
 ers doubted if he recalled Eleanor's words. 
 
 "Estella is to go with me then?" she asked 
 again, as he kept silent. He looked at her signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 " How can you expect me to place my daughter 
 in the hands of my enemy?" He pronounced the 
 words "my enemy " as if he were some high digni- 
 tary of state. 
 
 "I am not your enemy, Roger." 
 
 "Are you my friend?" She hesitated. 
 
 " Probably not, in your sense of the term. Cer- 
 tainly I am not your flatterer." 
 
 " I do not seek flattery from my friends; I seek 
 only their confidence." 
 
 "It is their misfortune when they cannot give 
 it." 
 
 "Indeed, I quite agree with you there," lifting 
 his head. "I would rather be misjudged than to 
 misjudge others." 
 
 "So would I," she replied, leaving the applica- 
 tion to fall where it might. 
 
 "It should be taken as a proof of some clem- 
 ency and patience on my part, I think, if, after 
 what has passed between us, I consent to leave 
 Estella in your care."
 
 ROGER HUNT. 361 
 
 " From your point of view, yes ; I am willing to 
 admit that." 
 
 " Very well ! And what, may I ask, is to be my 
 relation to the household of which my daughter is 
 a member?" 
 
 "As Estella's father, you will receive all respect 
 from me that is due you." 
 
 He smiled sarcastically. Estella's father ! His 
 estate was reduced indeed; but since he believed 
 an important concession had been made, he gave 
 his consent to her wish, and the interview closed.
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Two days after the departure of Mrs. Somers 
 and Estella, the little stone cottage was closed, and 
 the key placed in the hands of a real-estate agent, 
 with instructions to sell ; while Roger went west- 
 ward to carry out the literary enterprise that had 
 been assigned him. Mrs. Clarke and Nina left 
 home for New York within the following week, the 
 former telling her friends that they should remain 
 away at least a year. Nina was to acquire the 
 Parisian accent in her French, and to profit by 
 other advantages of a foreign tour. Mr. Clarke 
 shut up the house and took rooms in the hotel 
 which he owned, down town; the neighborhood 
 had a deserted look. 
 
 As Mrs. Somers had foreseen, Estella's life after 
 her return to Monroe was varied with many con- 
 trtdictory moods. She kept a careful oversight of 
 the girl, but not of a small, exacting order, letting 
 her fall back on herself at times, striving to culti- 
 vate a healthy self-reliance, and to keep her mind 
 occupied with rational objects outside itself. 
 
 Roger had made no attempt to settle the future 
 relation of his two children, a matter concerning 
 which he was not altogether indifferent, but which 
 he felt unequal to. Mrs. Somers, sensible of a lit-
 
 ROGER HUNT. 363 
 
 tie compunction for the feelings she had cherished 
 against young Watson, and her rather careless 
 treatment of him, had written him from Garrison, 
 giving an account of Eleanor's death, speaking of 
 her own and Estella's speedy return, and counsel- 
 ing him to remain where he was. Since Estella 
 had now full knowledge of things he meant to 
 help preserve her in ignorance of, he did not him- 
 self see why he should upset all his plans and seri- 
 ously hinder his work by leaving Monroe. He was 
 glad Mrs. Somers's romantic demands had abated. 
 
 The first meeting between brother and sister was 
 painful, but each felt the need of the other too 
 much willingly to consent to lose sight of each 
 other, or even to forego the help and happiness 
 that were promised in an openly acknowledged re- 
 lation. 
 
 Rather to Mrs. Somers's consternation, there- 
 fore, these two young people, equally serious and 
 conscientious, inheriting, too, from their father, 
 the courage that could meet and conquer a diffi- 
 culty, resolved to let the relation between them 
 be known. It was Estella whose wish in the mat- 
 ter was most anxious, though she was not the first 
 to express it, keeping strict guard on it, instead; 
 for she felt that hers was the position representing 
 greatest guilt and reproach, that it was not for 
 her to make advances. Her brother represented 
 the side of the injured, and might well hesitate to 
 ally himself, even thus indirectly, with the father 
 who had forsaken him. To Estella this reunion
 
 364 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 with her brother stood in a measure for a degree 
 of reconcilement with her father, for, remembering 
 her mother's words, she would not have entered 
 into any bond or agreement that excluded him. 
 What Watson himself thought on this point he did 
 not say. His father -had written him just before 
 leaving home, renewing his former offer, on the 
 same conditions, which the son, in a brief but re- 
 spectfully worded reply, had again declined. For 
 Estella's sake, though she knew nothing of this 
 affair, he would avoid a quarrel, but he could ac- 
 cept no help from such a source. Estella could not 
 help but understand this feeling, which she felt 
 much secret sympathy for, but nevertheless some- 
 times tried to overcome. 
 
 "He is our father," she said to him one day. 
 "We have to remember that, and he has always 
 been good to me. I I can't think he is bad. I 
 don't believe Mrs. Somers thinks so either, and 
 she knows him so well, though they do not seem to 
 be friends any more. People do such wrong things 
 sometimes, when they are only trying to do the 
 right thing," and she sighed. 
 
 She had been brought up in such a different 
 atmosphere from her brother that they often failed 
 to find a common point of view in the discussion 
 of their problems. Though so much younger, he 
 caught glimpses of mental expanse in her, the 
 power to weigh and judge a question on its own 
 merits, that excited both his admiration and alarm. 
 His own mental processes seemed stiff and cramped
 
 ROGER HUNT. 365 
 
 beside hers, but he still distrusted a little those 
 freer methods which inevitably tended, he thought, 
 towards license. He listened to his sister's talk, 
 at once so unrestrained and thoughtful, with grave 
 and brooding face ; a new ideal of character began 
 slowly to rise before him, as unlike that which his 
 aunt had striven to realize in him as it was op- 
 posed to that other, so different, his father had 
 tried to embody. The mental currents were break- 
 ing from the icy fastnesses of social prejudice and 
 distrust, gaining a warmth and elasticity never felt 
 before. His step grew firmer and more buoyant. 
 He was learning to hold his head erect, to like and 
 trust his fellow-creatures. 
 
 In Estella, womanly tenderness, bereft of its 
 chief objects in a mother dead and a father par- 
 tially estranged, had found something new to ca- 
 ress and cling to. She still had her periods of 
 melancholy introspection, of morbid complaint 
 against fate. The old sense of injury would return, 
 shame and a sudden distaste for everything, the 
 revived memory of lost illusions and ideals. She 
 would pass days in this dejected state of mind, but 
 had the wisdom at such times to keep away from 
 her brother, or at least to hide her feeling from 
 him, knowing she would only do him harm. It 
 was Mrs. Somers who was made the sharer of these 
 downcast moods, not because they were selfishly 
 imposed on her, but because she had learned to 
 read signs here, as well as those that prophesied the 
 weather. Sometimes she let the mood spend itself,
 
 366 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 at others set herself to work to coax, laugh, or 
 reason it out of existence. 
 
 One day when she and Estella were walking 
 along the street, they met two women in black 
 habits, each with a long swinging rosary by her 
 side. They belonged to a cloistered institution on 
 the outskirts of the town. Estella looked at them 
 pensively. 
 
 "How pure and peaceful their faces are," she 
 said to her companion. 
 
 "They are very weak and empty faces, I think," 
 was the reply. 
 
 "How can you say that! " Estella rejoined, in a 
 reproving tone. "I am sure they are very good." 
 
 "Oh, I dare say they are good enough," lightly. 
 "But they don't look as if they ever had an idea." 
 
 "Ideas do not always bring happiness," the other 
 said, with a touch of youthful wdsdom. 
 
 "They do something better; they teach you how 
 to get along without it," but the young have little 
 use for heroic conclusions of this kind. 
 
 "Every one is on an equality with them," said 
 Estella, pursuing the subject; "the poor with the 
 rich, the unfortunate with the fortunate." 
 
 "I don't know about that. It is the business of 
 some of the nuns out there at St. Mary's to scrub 
 the floors, and of others to sit in the parlor and 
 entertain visitors. Human nature is the same, 
 whether you find it in a convent, or a dry goods 
 store." 
 
 "They do not care if they do have to work,"
 
 ROGER HUNT. 367 
 
 said Estella, "it is part of their religion. They go 
 there because they have suffered, and wish to hide 
 away from the world." 
 
 "They go there, more likely, because they were 
 picked up on the streets when they were little 
 homeless beggars, have been brought up there, and 
 know no better." Estella was silent a few mo- 
 ments ; she felt sure this was a very partial state- 
 ment of the case. 
 
 "You dislike them, I suppose, because you do 
 not believe as they do. You are a free-thinker, 
 like papa." The words were spoken quietly, with 
 no thought of giving offense, but Mrs. Somers 
 winced and changed the subject. 
 
 The last days of the school year passed rapidly. 
 When the term closed Charles Watson entered a 
 law-office, for preparatory work during vacation in 
 the profession he meant to enter. Mrs. Somers 
 made her plans for a summer trip through New 
 England, where she was to visit different points of 
 interest, and describe the same in the correspond- 
 ence column of one of the Chicago dailies. Estella 
 obtained permission from her father to go with her, 
 and was looking forward, with a young eagerness 
 which no contradictory moods or dark memories 
 could destroy, to her first long journey. They 
 returned to Monroe in the fall, in time for Estella 
 to enter the regular course in the university. Mrs. 
 Somers will take a house, and thus provide a home 
 for the brother and sister ; the former will hold his 
 position as assistant a year longer.
 
 368 ROGER HUNT. 
 
 The relation between brother and sister was now 
 well known, though it had been explained in its 
 full details to no one, not even to Mrs. Black. 
 There is still a little mystery attached to them in 
 the popular mind, leading to romantic speculation 
 in some quarters, wise shaking of the head in oth- 
 ers, but to more indifference in all ; for the popular 
 mind, like the individual, is occupied with its own 
 affairs, and disappoints alike our fears and our ex- 
 pectations by the measure of interest it takes in 
 ours. The world went on much the same when it 
 became known that Estella Hunt was Charles 
 Watson's half-sister; and when Mrs. Somers saw 
 that the university walls had not tumbled down, 
 nor an earthquake opened to swallow the town, 
 and hide its moral deformities, she breathed more 
 freely, and said the right thing had been done. 
 
 The brother, as well as the sister, is coming to 
 regard her as chief counselor and friend. Es- 
 tella, loving her more each day, grows penitent 
 from time to time, for the trouble and care she 
 gives, the small repayment she seems able to make 
 for the continued kindness she receives, while 
 Watson deems his own case one of pure and un- 
 mitigated charity, so that Mrs. Somers, who has 
 learned to be happy without entire self-justifica- 
 tion, is more content than either. These other 
 two, who have youth's exaltation of purpose, and 
 who for many years to come will live in the 
 shadow of another's misdoing, will be longer in 
 learning this.
 
 ROGER HUNT. 369 
 
 And Roger ? The series of essays describing his 
 excursion to the Pacific coast was more widely read 
 than anything he had before written. The enter- 
 prise took him forward several paces in that liter- 
 ary reputation he is still working to win. Though 
 he has not yet reached a very high round on 
 fame's ladder, he has secured a firm foothold, 
 with added strength for climbing. It is no small 
 credit to him, in his own eyes, nor should it be in 
 others', that his success, so far, has been won by 
 no meretricious methods, that the claim to schol- 
 arship and a high standard of work, has been 
 strengthened with every successive effort. He is 
 no penny-a-liner, nor hack workman, who employs 
 his talents to satisfy the modern greed for the sen- 
 sational and the entertaining! He is of another 
 species and cult than these poor worldlings ! While 
 naturally gratified at the recognition thus far re- 
 ceived, had he not reached it, he would have 
 found means to console himself in his disappoint- 
 ment. He would have remembered Milton and 
 Keats, and possessed his soul in a proud patience. 
 He is as able now as ever to stand alone ; and by 
 those who know him best he is permitted to do so. 
 He often recalls, with pious gratitude, and an in- 
 creased sense of desert, that twice within his late 
 career he has been seriously menaced, but that in 
 both cases he was able to avert the danger and teach 
 his enemies a lesson. He is convinced that neither 
 Mortimer Gray nor Kitty Somers is likely to in- 
 terfere in his affairs again. 
 '
 
 370 BOGEB HUNT. 
 
 He thinks of the wife of his youth as a hardened 
 creature, who deliberately planned his shame and 
 ruin ; of Eleanor as one for whom he sacrificed all, 
 but who was able to give him in return almost 
 nothing; of his two children, whose love for each 
 other seems to place them in league against him- 
 self, with an increasing feeling of self -injury. His 
 friends grow fewer as he grows older, but that 
 only proves how hard it is to gain friends on terms 
 of a high understanding. Mrs. Somers, when she 
 saw him last, during a flying visit he paid Estella 
 on his way to the East, repeated to the picture on 
 the mantel what she had said before, that he did 
 not change much. He never will.
 
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