I ILLINOIS Production Note Digital Rare Book Collections Rare Book & Manuscript Library University of Illinois Library at Urbana—Champaign ’ 2019 4,... w.» ha... u “2) K]; Mg“ “W4, , 44ng 3f fflFl,\/1F_ 1111.4, 151/141 1... "3' “2:. ‘ x ‘3', 1: L" ' :( ‘ I a" ‘ , w- ' 51 ii A 'f I (1 ‘ 'k I: x it Ail ‘ i ’2 1" i '{ .‘ .. fig 1 n.‘ g}: I . . I I A r I. . I 1 r‘ :“ I. ’3 2.: ‘ . . ( ‘ , ‘ mu 1 x e ; ;‘.. 14 V _ ; Truth and a Woman Truth and a Woman BY ANNA ROBESON BROWN HERBERT S. STONE & COMPANY CHICAGO :: 2: :: MDCCCCIII W: A;,_,M~FRC _<7:,,...*-——H . ”Hm : :V,,.-~._.‘,, " .. ‘ O _ A ;‘..____*,,V,-_...._.-’—4—mlh*_” COPYRIGHT, I 903, BY HERBERT S. STONE & C0. PUBLISHED MAY 23, 1903 "‘ . -. ..- ,, >‘M‘1 , , «- :4: max.” ~nu 96-5.4 .. 7 _ \wx jug £2." 5’33““ g, I “How beautiful, how beautiful it is—~ and how I love it! How I have longed for it these last months!” So saying, Miss Langland threw down her pen, rose quickly, and crossed to the door opening upon the veranda. A strong north wind hummed down the bay, the young birches all around the house strained and rustled,bent and recovered in the blast. Upon the water below an uneasy sail—boat quivered and danced at her mooring, im- patient to be off beyond the crescent horn ’ of rock where the onrush of great billows broke into spray. The tenderness of spring lingered in the young tips of the balsam firs, and to one fresh from the glow of a June near New York, the wind also had a touch of wintry austerity. The cottage, one of a little group upon a rocky bank, stood picturesquely I Truth and a Woman shaded by gray pine and mountain ash. A steep gabled roof followed the lines of the mountain above. The fall of the cliff to the water was sharp, so that the top branches of tall trees rose to the piazza-railing, and served to frame a little intimate view—-—the hills across the bay, the reef thrust out against the sea, the islet guarding the harbor-entrance with a friendly lighthouse; and finally, the cove itself, whose waters always seemed to share Miss Langland’s mood, her serenity or unrest, and whose aspect she had come to read as one reads the countenance of a friend. One of Mary Langland’s first actions on coming of age, three years before, was to purchase and build at Clear Harbor. She was accustomed to doing as she wished, and she had no one but herself to con- sider. She had been left an orphan while still at school. Her father was Mr. Nicholas Langland, the banker. His sec— 2 Truth and a Woman ond wife had, before her marriage been, perhaps, the best known among the beam tiful New York women of her day. Mary was her only child, and more than the usual affection united the second Mrs. Langland and her step—son Ralph. The family was prominent and wealthy. The young girl thus left alone was not likely to suffer so much from loneliness as from an excess of kindly attention, affection- ate interest, and admiration. Upon her début in society she was {already some- thing of a personage, and Clear Harbor had been first visited during the following summer in the search for rest. She loved the place, her cottage and grounds. It was always keen pleasure after a winter life apart from them to have her brother and his wife with her, and their little children; and after the hurry and fret of the city, she exulted in the freshness and the peace. Hitherto, she had spent the summer in building, 3 n. V_,____,r._r.a,.._.. ~- - ., ~ , ,, “A,“ “4...; “.34 van“..— Truth and a woman landscape-gardening, and experimenting; and it was something of a shock to feel at the outset of this particular June day, that really everything had been done which could be done. She liked Clear Harbor people, but she was getting a little weary of people in general, she told herself, and she had hitherto pur- posely wrapped herself up in the affairs of her tiny rock-garden ; what a pity it was not to build again! Ah, but now the joy of finding it all once more was strong in her. In the con- fusion of yesterday’s arrival there had been too much to do, trunks to unpack and servants to settle, for one to appre- ciate fully the fact of being there. Now she did so, looking from her own veranda upon the long dreamed-of, the well-known, upon the clearness and sparkle and fresh- ness, which her imagination could never adequately reproduce. She wondered, too, as one wonders idly at the beginning 4. Truth and a Woman of a season, what sort of a summer it would be; what it would hold for her; what the long days, following one another in turquoise and gold, would present her by way of interest. She left the doorway and leaned over the piazza—railing, looking down into the sea of undergrowth, all tumultuous in the wind. “This place always gives one such an odd feeling of crisis,” she thought, “the scene is set, the lights turned up, the thin undercurrent of the Violin-music—waiting, waiting, waiting—and for what? . . . ” She smiled. “Ralph would say it is because of the nervous climate. Ah, well, I shall grow fat here in a month, and he will see.” She glanced down at her own hand on _ the railing, a narrow, beautiful hand, but certainly much thinner than it might be. “That will all disappear in a little,” she thought with satisfaction. Then with a happy sigh, she turned back to her desk 5 Truth and a Woman and her interrupted letter. She picked up her pen and wrote: “I left this a moment ago to say good morning to my beloved harbor. If I could only give an idea of its beauty, to you in your hot, smelly little room! You must manage to get off in August and come up here. I don’t say for your own sake, because of course you would reply that did not matter, and you could not leave your poor people. No; I put it boldly on their account, for how are you going to teach them beauty unless you refresh your own knowledge of it sometimes? No, Julian, you must come; I will take no denial; in truth, I need ' some talks with you. I was not very polite at our last one, was I? Never mind, here I shall be better—there is nothing like Clear Harbor for making one religious. “ I am rather tired, and Ralph says too thin, but that will soon mend itself. Those 6 Truth and a Woman last days at Newport were too much, even for me. You will come, won’t you? “ Faithfully, “ MARY.” With a faint, significant smile Miss Langland re-read her letter, folded it, and addressed an envelope to “The Rev. Julian Anstyoe, Avenue A, New Yor .” This done, she crossed the name from her list, and wrote the date upon a fresh sheet of note-paper. But she got no further, for the temptation of that open door, the wind and sunshine without, became too strong. She went again out on the veranda and threw herself into a long chair, letting the breeze pour itself over her in a cool, steady stream. Gradually her eyes became filled with the intense blue of sea and sky, and she closed them, abandoning all her senses to a passive dream of pleasure. She failed to hear the step of her sister-in-law in the room behind her, and Mrs. Langland, 7 Truth and a Woman catching sight of the motionless figure, stopped with a half—shy hesitation in her face. Although she had been Dr. Lang- land’s wife for over six years, Joan had never overcome an odd sort of awe of his young sister. Her own quiet New Eng- land girlhood, modest, domestic, sub- servient, had not brought her into touch with the young woman of the day; she was not sure, even now, of the advisability of a separate latch-key and bank account, and before the clamor of city life she had still her moments of timidity. Mary in herself had been a positive revelation—in her independence, her wealth, her poise, her very accomplishments in the way of music and languages—to her quieter sister- in—law. And more wonderful even than Mary was Mary’s life—her unceasing social round; her crystallization, as it were, upon definite lines; her train of ad- mirers and their attentions; her clothes; her engagements; her friends, musical and 8 Truth and a Woman artistic and fashionable and notable; the men she had refused and would refuse; for Mrs. Langland all these things had a fascination like that of fiction. She was herself the gentlest of women, utterly con— tent in the wifehood and motherhood notes of her own life, and warmly attached to the younger girl, over whom she possessed more influence than would seem to be warranted by her somewhat conventional standards. But there remained always that touch of hesitation and reserve. It was some moments before she ventured out on the veranda with the inquiry, “ Do you think that is quite prudent, Mary?” “Not at all, ” Mary replied, smiling on her; “but it’s perfectly delicious just the same. It is so long since I have looked upon wind in any light but that of a dust— collector! Do come and try it, Joan dear.” Joan disappeared into the house, re- turning with an armful of wraps. She 9 Truth and a Woman covered Mary and then took the other long chair and shawl herself. “It is delicious,” she agreed, and in the pause that followed surveyed the younger woman. After a separation of some months she experienced a fresh admiration of Mary’s looks, and a fresh inclination to analyze their charm. More than ever she felt that her own pretensions to beauty could not stand against them, although there was a satisfaction in the thought that her husband did not agree with this opinion. He maintained that his step- sister’s appearance lacked the robust health, so characteristic of his wife’s. Joan, who was rather under middle height, had a fullness and roundness of figure which, spoke of a good digestion and seren- ity of mind. Her skin was fine if. a little florid, her eyes a decided blue and near- sighted, her hair that warm, light brown tint which is golden in the sunshine. She dressed sensibly and with taste, but it IO " Truth and a Woman was the garb of a woman with children, a busy doctor—husband, and a conscientious disposition. Mary Langland, on the contrary, was tall, so tall as to be in danger of ungainli— ness had she not been unusually well—pro- portioned, thus disguising her actual height. Unquestionably at the moment she was too thin, but the curve of her throat and shoulder, the slope and turn of her arm, the light, pliable grace of her whole figure, took the attention from this defect. Her hair was absolutely black, and so abundant it was difficult to dress becom— ingly. She had her mother’s regular features; her mouth, generously cut, had a responsive smilewready also in the very dark eyes, under brows a trifle too heavy perhaps, but for that very reason a better setting. When she was in looks her color was even and pure, if not strong—to-day a warm, creamy pallor replaced it. Her simple white 1 I Truth and a Woman duck skirt and white blouse, with the little accessories of stock and belt and so :forth, bore the imprint of a certain studied taste which was, moreover, ac— customed to lead rather than follow the fashion in these things. N o predomi— nance of her natural dignity, or of her always quiet manner, or of the atmosphere of formalism in which she had lived, could do away with the impression of an inner tumultuousness; and in her appearance, in its very predominance of nerves over physique, there was an underlying sug— gestion of fire and intensity, which may have had much to do with the fact that she had always had her own way. “I have been writing to Julian,” she said, after the pause. “He really ought to get off and come here for a holiday.” “He will not, you know,” replied Mrs. Langland. “ Do you think so?‘ I am not so sure.” She tapped with her foot the rail of her 12 Truth and a Woman Calcutta chair. “I had a long talk with Julian the day before I left town, and I succeeded in troubling him a good deal. He may, mind you I don’t say he will, but he may think it is worth while to make an effort to save my soul with those of his Hebrews and Italians.” “What do you mean?” Mary had expected this tone, and she smiled. She knew that the Reverend Julian Anstyce, her brother’s first cousin, was a being for whom Mrs. Langland possessed an almost exaggerated respect. Mr. Anstyce was about Mary’s own age, held very High Church views, and since ordination had devoted himself to work among the New York poor. He was also, by way of» being spiritual, director to the devout females of his family, and possibly Mary was a little tired of hearing his praises sung by them. She knew and appre- ciated the real beauty of his character, but she knew that in Joan’s opinion Mr. 13 .-..' Map-n- , , . , 'rvetnv- ‘.mvw.>"f.dy“yfil?nym;r' ‘hwf‘ryti‘ (a; ‘ mag... Truth and a Woman Anstyce ’ wasted valuable time on her- self. “ It was because I read those articles of Geraint’s, ” she continued, still tapping her chair, “and because I objected to Julian’s attacking them. Do you remem- ber? ” , “I am thankful to say I never even saw the things,” declared Mrs. Langland with fervor. , “Well, I read them,” proceeded Mary; “and as I had expected, Julian got the worst of it. Oh there was no doubt about it, I’m sorry to say. Geraint tossed him in the air like a bull. I asked Julian about the controversy — ” “I must say I wonder at your opening the subject when you knew how it must pain him,” said Mrs. Langland, indig- nantly. “How could you?” “My dear Joan, I wanted to hear what he would say.” “You always liked a little melodrama!” I4 Truth and ; a Woman Mary laughed mischievously at her sister’s tone. “Perhaps! In any case I wanted to see if he would drop the halo, for once. And those articles of Geraint’s were so eleven—such irony! I was curi— ous to see what he thought of them. ” She paused and added in a different tone, “'He is a good man. I do not mean for an instant that I would really plague him. ” “ You must have known it would plague him to have you read such a book as Pro- fessor Geraint’s,” said Joan, frankly. “You know how we are taught to regard such things. I do not wonder that Julian was grieved.” The younger woman’s face clouded with a certain constraint. Sincerely fond of her brother’s wife as she was, yet they were constantly meeting with little con- versational crises. Mary felt it hard to explain without offense, that in her world one read whatever was talked about—and that one could not ignore Geraint’s books I5 Truth and a Woman when most of the men and many of the women one met regarded them with more than toleration. She might herself be orthodox, and she was glad to think the same of . Joan, but horror on the subject was undoubtedly obsolete. “ Professor Geraint is a very brilliant man,” she said gently, “and very well known. However one may disagree with him, one has to acknowledge his ability. I was sorry that Julian had been tempted into the fight. Julian is very fervent, and of course he had right on his side, but he is no fighter, and you know as well as I do, that he cannot argue.” “When he had right on his side, I don’t see how you can say the other man had the best of it, ”rejoined Joan triumphantly. “My dear Joan, don’t suppose he thought so! Oh, no; the rather dreadful part of it was that he did not see at all that he was worsted in argument—that he had made the wrong answers, and that 16 Truth and a Woman the more Violent he became, the more people were tempted to sympathize with his opponent, who had kept his temper throughout. I tried to point it out to him, but he was annoyed because I had read Geraint’s articles, and 50—5” She checked; after all why pursue the topic? joan was a dear little woman, but— “ I am not at all surprised at his vexa— tion, as I said before. I should have thought he had more influence with you,” her sister—in—law was saying reproach- fully, and Mary answered, “Julian has the greatest possible influence with me,” in a tone suggesting that the topic had better be closed. A somewhat lengthy silence followed, during which each woman gazed upon the scene before her, pursuing her own train of thought: Mary’s whole soul Vibrating to the beauty she loved, and Joan, jarred from that delight into by—paths of anxiety—«as how the chil— dren should be kept off the float, or I7 Truth and a Woman ‘whether the butcher had raised his prices since last summer. “Clear Harbor promises to be crowded, ” she said suddenly, breaking in upon Mary’s dreams. “I heard in the Village that the Eldons are at Crow’s Nest already; and the Lanes and Uphams came to-day. I am glad, for Ralph’s sake rather than our own, however.” “ I suppose he is getting the office, straightened out?” Mary asked. Dr. Lang— land, who had a large Clear Harbor prac— tice, had refused to set up the parapher- nalia of an office in his sister’s pretty cot- tage, and had taken rooms for that pur- pose in the Village. I “No. I think he has just come in; I heard his voice.” Her husband’s step, indeed, sounded on the floor of the living-room. He stood in the open doorway and turned his gaze quizzically from one woman to the other. “Well, this is luxurious? said he. Dr. 18 Truth and a Woman- ’Langland was as large, heavy, and blonde as his step—sister was slender and dark. His features were strong and clumsy, his eyes keen and sharp, his manner decidedly brusque. He never minced words or thoughts. “I shall strike for higher wages as post— man,” he announced, drawing a package of letters from his pocket and throwing it into Mary’s lap, “if you have so many Correspondents. Your missives overflow and get lost on the way.” “Yes, the Eldons are here,” said Mary, and without heeding him, opened an en- velope. Mr.. Eldon was the editor of a leading monthly, and had been one of the first to build at Clear Harbor. “They want us to go to Strawberry Island for tea, in the launch, to-morrow. Have you a note too, Joan? This is very gay for so early in the season. I’m not sure that I like it.” She went on speaking while her eyes ran down the page. I 9 [:5 Truth and a Woman “Yes, Mrs. Eldon has written me also,” Joan said. “She does not say, however, who their guests are.” “She mentioned their names to me. Let me see—” Mary made a feint of hunting through the little note. “Oh, yes—Miss Passmore—the one that sings, you know, and—” she caught Joan’s eye with a little smile, “and Professor Ge- raint. ” “Oh,” said Joan, with a world of mean— ing in the monosyllable. Mary went on reading her letters. Not until Dr. Lang- ‘land had walked, whistling, to the other end of the veranda, where he stood with his back to his wife, did she look up, and say in a low voice: “You will not go, of course?” “Not go? Of course I shall go. I should like to meet Geraint of all things.” “ Oh, Mary, you cannot mean it.” “My dear Joan, I do mean it. It will be a positive experience to meet the man 20 Truth and a Woman who wrote that book, and one I shall cer- tainly not miss.” “ Don’t speak so loud; Ralph will hear.” “I’ve no possible objection to Ralph’s hearing!” Mary sat up with a quick movement, and raised her voice. She liked to contrast Joan’s tremulous shy— ness on the subject with her own clear— cut decision. “I shall do my best, more- over, to make friends with him!” “Whom? Make friends with whom?” asked her brother, turning quickly. ,His wife was looking uncomfortable, but Mary answered easily: “With Professor Geraint, Ralph—the man who wrote that book on ‘Science and Belief.’ He is staying with the El- dons, and we are asked to meet him. Joan thinks he is a kind of ogre, and that I ought not to go.” Poor Mrs. Langland would have given much for some of the younger woman’s fearless self-confidence. Knowing her hus— ZI 7- r: __W , .fnflmgf-gxs, igfig‘fiigflkfifl'flfi.'17‘1‘9 a" Truth and a Woman band. and shrinking from the topic itself, she could only murmur, protestingly, “ Mary, I Wish you would not, ” to Which her sister-in-law, as usual, paid no atten- tion Whatever. ‘22 II “Miss Langland, Mr. Geraint!” Mrs. Eldon made this introduction, and then moved on down the float to where the launch was waiting. Miss Langland smiled, and said, “ How do you do?” The man acknowledged the pre- sentation and her greeting by a low bow, a bow which spoke, in its formal precision and its touch of exaggeration, of a woman- less existence; then followed in silence their hostess’s lead. Mr. Geraint and Miss Langland took their places in the main body of the launch, opposite one another. A shrill, whistle blew, and the little boat puffed out into the harbor. ' The afternoon was not a particularly happy one for a water-party. The blue and gold of yesterday had given place to a sea land sky of restless gray, the breeze, merely cooling then, had now become chill 23 Truth and a Woman and searching. Mary gave a little shiver as she wrapped herself in her heavy ulster, feeling more than usually conscious of that sense of nervous oppression which had tormented her all day. She was alone, for Ralph had a patient and Joan had quietly refused the invitation. Although the cause made her impatient, Mary could. not but respect the dignified consistency of her sister—in—law’s attitude, as she could not but regret that it reflected on her own ready yielding to curiosity. Joan could do small things for conscience’ sake, whereas Mary was not sure whether she herself could do anything but great. The weather was certainly grim and raw enough to make her think with longing of her living—room fire. The party was small; all, save Geraint, were people about whom, in her present mood, she did not care. She had involuntarily taken it for granted that she would be placed next the object of her interest; but Geraint, seeing 24 1 Truth and a Woman a young woman of a type from which he instinctively withdrew, had taken pains to seat himself on the other side of the boat. Mary began to regret that she had come. She stole a glance now and then over the way. The bow had told her much, and she had to acknowledge to herself that she had rarely seen a face of more power. He was younger than she had supposed; a very tall man, lean and straight, with a massive head, and coloring dark almost as her own. The profile ' was turned toward her, broad forehead, large, deep- set, thick—lashed eye, heavy, straight nose, and jutting chin. His hair was thick and had almost a foreign turn. When she saw his full face, she noted that the mouth was sensitive as well as grim. “ Pretty much as I thought,” ran her in— ward'commentary; “ looks forcible, though not finished. Unused to society evi— dently; takes himself seriously; dresses 25 Truth and a Woman anyhow, from anywhere. I wonder where the Eldons picked him up?” Her eyes traveled to Mr. Eldon, who sat next Geraint, then to his wife, in the stern of the boat. They were rather out of Mary’s world, save as Clear Harbor had brought them into contact; but Alice Eldon was a woman she cordially liked. These thoughts ran through Miss Lang- land’s mind, as the launch steamed briskly toward the further barrier of islands. There was a good deal of motion, but hardly enough to disconcert the party, who, by the time all the wraps were taken out, and the ladies well settled in their shawls, had fallen into easy talk. Mary could no longer be silent, for the boy beside her was an old friend, and they had much to discuss by way of retrospect and anticipation. All the while, however, she found herself stealing occasional glances at the man opposite, who kept in silence his steady gaze seaward He had not 26 Truth and a Woman once since their introduction taken the trouble to look at herself, and in this there was both a challenge and an irritation. The launch ran up to the Strawberry Island float; and from their chrysalids of shawls the ladies emerged in short skirts, ready for the clamber to the cliffs, whence the surf was to be Viewed. There was a general reorganization, and the selection of partners for the walk. Miss Passmore gave Mary her chance. She called out interestedly, in her audible tones, “ Oh, Miss Langland, do tell us about Mr. Anstyce ———is he coming up this year?” “Not this summer, I fear,” Mary re- plied; “ he is too busy in his work.” She looked for a flash of interest in the face that listened, and it gave her an incentive. An unobtrusive lingering —-a momentary use of social dexterity,and Pro- fessor Geraint became her perfectly ob- vious partner for the walk. Mrs. Eldon, with an eye to this particular guest, saw 27 Truth and a VWoman the arrangement, and remarked that Miss Langland’s ulster was already over the Professor’s arm. She smiled to herself, and sprang rapidly up the path to join her husband. “So you are acquainted with Mr. Anstyce? ” began Geraint abruptly, with a characteristic drawing together of his heavy brows. “He is my cousin,” said Mary in ex— planation. Then she laughed very easily and lightly. “Although you must not think for that reason, Mr. Geraint, that I wholly approve of him.” “ I thought Mr. Anstyce was the kind of chap a woman always worships, ” said Geraint bluntly. “That depends on the woman. ” She spoke with an ease and freedom which caused him to look at her a second , time. Here was an alert, trig figure, whose dress he could not have described save that it looked suitable, a step which 28 Truth and a Woman readily kept pace with his own, a splendor of dark eyes and hair, and a face which, had he known it, was more animated than 'usual in the determination to win his in- terest. His tone lost its diffident abrupt— ness and became frank, as he asked: “What is it you don’t approve of in Mr. Anstyce?” “Oh, many questions— replied Miss Langland airily, “both of opinion and practice”; and she dilated upon them. Perhaps the Vision that her fancy con— jured up of Joan’s face at that instant, perhaps the mere exhilaration of Clear Harbor air, or it may be, a force subtler and stronger still, led her deliberately to the creation of a perverse impression. The talk of yesterday had left her, for some indefinite reason, annoyed both with Julian and with Joan; she took a certain pleasure in playing on Geraint’s sympathy with her spoken criticism of the one, and her unspoken criticism of the other. She 29 7? i.‘ z _, :W.~.. aha-mmm M~ fivr< V... _- elm >7“?sz , , ~ » \1urg- 'ru- Malta-”M ,4 r , ,. . aria, , , M a, , Truth and a Woman talked on, fulfilling her training in her conscious endeavor to attract him by the flattery of her apparently spontaneous accord. . “Julian is so dogmatic, you see “But such men always are, Miss Lang— land.” “I can’t stand bigotry, can you? Oh, but I know your whole fight has been against it.” “You are right,” he replied, deeply in- terested; “but I had not believed that many ladies thought so.” “Ah, Professor Geraint, I don’t believe you give the woman of the day credit for thinking on these subjects at all!” “Perhaps not.” This time he was not curt from indifference. Rather was it a sudden sense of her charm and her beauty and their personal appeal, which caused him a sort of wonder, and embarrassment, and self-consciousness. She saw this. It had a familiar note, 30 I)? y ._ +2.1,- A -A- ‘W~».n;.-~fh~.mm_ai swig.” ,3“; _‘ “,7.” 1 _«_ r“, V... Truth and a Woman so she hid her personality at once in the undergrowth of her subject, as a hunter might blot himself from sight at his prey’s first movement of suspicion. Meanwhile they had reached the cliffs, and the party scattered, intending to meet later on at tea in the club-house above. Some walked toward a point of rocks which jutted into the water, others found shelter under the crag. Miss Langland guided her companion toward a niche she knew, and there dropped upon a cushion of dried grasses. He threw himself down near by, without pausing in his eager “And as I was saying——” To the end of his life Geraint will not forget that day. Under a sky implacably gray moved a sullen, colorless sea. A dreary wind piped among the cliffs, its voice heard in the intervals when the air was not filled with the clash and thunder of great billows rolling in from the ocean. From where he sat, Geraint could follow 31 « i amazement»; Truth and a Woman the progress of each dark, distant line— to a ridge, to a moving hillock, to the immi— nent disaster, crackling white as it drew near, and then to the fall, the plunge, the shout, and recoil of the spray, the waste and ruin of waters and weeds. And when he turned his gaze from all this tumult and combat to the figure beside him, it seemed indescribably tranquil and steadfast. He took in little save a deep eye, a smooth hand, a voice having a quality altogether different from the voices to which he was accustomed. He was wholly unused to the society of young women, having in the abstract a view that they were soul— less and frivolous beings, destined by an inexorable process of evolution to become necessary wives and mothers. He had been wont to say truly that he had neither the time nor the talent for their society. ~ Miss Langland in her career, had en— countered nearly every kind of masculine temperament, from the most simple to the 32 Truth and a Woman most sophisticated. Na‘iveté like Ge- raint’s was not unfamiliar to her, and she exerted all her subtlest tact to set him at ease. From other subjects she slid very dexterously to the probable length of his stay at Clear Harbor. “I am hoping, ” he answered her in- quiry, “that I may be here for most of the summer. My friend Eldon has given me a most generous invitation, and I have been meaning ‘for some time to take a thorough rest.” “Ah, you have chosen the right place for a rest. There is no air like Clear Harbor. Here I live, in New York I merely rush and tear about, and wear myself to a thread. I too, am thoroughly tired out, so you may believe me. ” “It is a most tonic climate,” Geraint assented. “What is the nature of your work?” The question was asked in such entire good faith that Mary barely smiled. “ I work very little at anything, except 33 - “:rt'newz?)rf'maki“ var-4'70: Truth and a Woman ' perhaps music, ” she replied. “Did you think me a fellow-biologist? ” “ There are a great many young women at work in our laboratories at Chilling— worth,” said Geraint, “but none of them are in the least like you. ” She met his eyes with laughter in her own. “Are they not? Ah, but you have no idea what I can be when I try.” “I have no doubt that you have your own talents and abilities,” he turned to smile gently and admiringly upon her, “but you are not just the kind that come to us—you are much 1300—” He was going to say “beautiful,” but checked himself, a trifle blunderingly, and both sat silent for the seconds that a tremendous breaker hung curving and poised, dashed itself down, and filled the air about them with fine particles of salt mist. “You have no idea,” Mary said slowly, 34 Truth and a Woman T following with\her eyes the churning foam in the pool below, “how much interested I am in this work of yours. That book which came out last year set me thinking— I want to ask you about it——” She had begun to like the man, and so inevitably strengthened the impression she had made at first.‘ Her quick glance turned toward him, asked, deprecated, waited——with a deference wholly new and delightful; and the sympathy of such a woman was a draught that Geraint chanced never to have tasted in his life. Hardly realizing what he did, he soon launched out into words, nervous, accurate vivid; setting forth himself, his struggles, his failures, his success. He drew his boy- hood, its cramping poverty on a Pennsyl- vania farm, its concentrated, unceasing ambition toward an education. He told of his first start; the books studied while ‘tending store’; the benevolent uncle; and the no less poor, but otherwise proud 35 Truth and a Woman and hopeful student days, at Chilling— worth first and then at the Massachu- setts Institute of Technology. He depicted the fellowship which made a German university possible, and then came a description, warm, venerating, grateful, of his first friend Professor Haeckel. It was at Jena, and while work— ing under Haeckel’s direction, that he had made his first discovery, and written his first pamphlet; of which both theme and title were perfectly incomprehensible to his listener, who did gather, however, that they constituted a success. Other theses, followed, and other triumphs, and encouragement from elder scientists, and apparently the lightening of all burdens, and end of all struggles. But the con— trast was keen when he told of his dis— missal from his first professorship on ac— count of his freethought, and how that injustice had roused him to combat for his opinions. The two years which fol— 36 -....,. ___, _. ,-Mrmawmmgh\"w Truth and a Woman lowed had been hard, and he put much dry humor into the narration of his dwindling resources, rather lavishly spent in research and independent work, and the pinching necessity which led to the writing of articles—how he had hawked these from publishing-house to magazine— how timid editors shrank from them as if they had been packages of dynamite, and how chance led him to Paul Eldon his “second friend” as he put it, and of the sympathy and kindness of that reception. It was through the editor’s aid and back- ing that the articles got a hearing, al- though it was not their success which led eventually to his appointment at Chilling- worth. Mary had long ceased to listen perfunc— torily; she sat, deeply absorbed in the narrative, in the firmness and force which it revealed. Her eyes, interested, sympa- thetic, rested on his own, and he ad- dressed them directly. The incoming 3‘7 Truth and a Woman tide raged and foamed about their feet; more than once Geraint, on his unde- fended perch, was wetted with the spray; yet he seemed to notice this hardly at all. He turned toward her, he gesticulated at her; when the chilly wind of the wave’s recoil blew across him, he turned to her and smiled. A horn sounded from the club-house piazza, and Geraint broke off with a Vig- orous exclamation of disgust. “Why don’t they leave us alone!” he exclaimed, impatiently. “I hate a crowd. It’s much nicer here, where we can talk in peace.” “I think we must go,’ said Mary, and arose. He followed her up to the house with a telltale air of concentration. A ' fire crackled on the hearth and the party gathered around it were warming and drying their spray—dampened garments. Miss Langland saw an unmistakable in— tention in her companion’s face to get her 38 ) Truth and a Woman into a corner if possible, and continue their talk; so she deliberately placed herself in the center of the group about the fire, to frustrate this too prominent move. There, however, in the midst of all the laughter and chat, she kept a consciousness of his presence. Geraint was evidently of very little use in any generally social way. He stood about impatiently for awhile, and then went and sat down by Mrs. Eldon, drinking his tea abstractedly. He paid no attention to anything or to any one until the piano was opened, and then he listened with evident pleasure to Miss Passmore’s splendid soprano. _ When Mary took her turn he sprang up, came over eagerly, and leaned on the piano. Her voice was a contralto of un— usual quality, and she never sang better in her life. “That’s perfectly beautiful!” he cried out as she ended, in a voice audible all 39 Truth and a Woman over the room. “Please don’t stop! Please sing something else!” Mary smiled and nodded. During the song he leaned towards her, his hands clenched together, his brows knotted, his eyes fastened on her face with a most unconventional intensity of open admira- tion. “No, don’t get up,” he commanded, checking her attempt to rise. “Do you know that song—who’s is it P—‘ Still wie die Nacht,’ you do I’m sure; sing it.” And Mary, inwardly amused and alarmed, obeyed. Meanwhile a certain constraint had fallen upon the others. Mrs. Eldon glanced at her husband, he raised his eye— brows. When the third song came to an end, it was apparent to every one that she took Geraint away from the piano by main force, and that he was sulky because she did so. Mrs. Eldon liked Miss Lang- land; “But this sort of thing,” she told 40 Truth and a Woman herself, “will never do. He is much too defenseless. ” She kept Geraint, chafing, at her side until they returned through the woods to the launch. He then took matters into his own hands, despite her efforts, and followed Miss Langland into the bow, whither she had gone with young Rogers. The bench there was hardly comfortable for three, but Geraint drew on his over— coat with an air of finality, settled himself at Miss Langland’s side, and engaged her in conversation, as though the presence of young Rogers were purely accidental. Mary could not fail to see the smiles which greeted the younger man when he finally retreated to the body of the boat—though somehow she felt oddly indifferent to them. As for her companion, he took no more notice of young Rogers’s departure than he had of his presence. “On the cliffs over there I told you all about myself,” he said suddenly, turn- 41 Truth and a Woman ing his gaze from thegray line of hills to her face. “Now I want to hear about you!” “Ah, there is very little to tell about me—no struggles, no triumphs!” “I am sure you do yourself an injustice, ” cried Geraint, warmly. “I have never met a woman with such broad ideas—there must have been struggles for them, and against such a proselytizer as Anstyce ! ” There was even pride in his tone. Mary felt a momentary discomfort. He was taking for granted too much, she thought; ought she not to state her orthodoxy and uphold it against the enemy? But at the sight of his strong face, the sound of his strong words, she quailed inwardly and grew nervous. “I should not have asked,” said Ge— raint softly, as she was silent. “After all, I am a stranger, although somehow I had not felt so. And you are right, one should not speak of these things. I will 42 Truth and a Woman not again, only believe me, I have warm sympathy for such a struggle!” “I know you haVe, ” Mary murmured. Could one shut the door in the face of this intimate touch? She at least could not. The mere caress of the moved voice silenced opposition. Training, which ad— vises a young woman never to differ dia- metrically from any unmarried man, came to her assistance, and her conscience raised the banner of good—breeding. When she spoke again it was of Anstyce, and her respect for Geraint increased as she found that he brushed away Julian’s anathemas as though they were the buzzings of a fly. Another pause fell between them. The launch hissed through the gray, uneasy water, the hills rose to mountains and filled the northern sky. “ Do you climb?” asked Geraint, his eyes fastened upon the peaks. As she nodded assent, he continued, “So do I; at least I did a good many Alps—and I 43 ...\-w'.‘ Truth and a Woman should like to try these little fellows. Will you take me up one of them to-morrow? ” “Of course I ought not,” said Mary to herself, as she replied graciously, “ Cer- tainly, I think you would enjoy it. I will take you up Skytop for a beginning.” She rose as she spoke, realizing that the sail was nearly done, and Geraint, albeit dissatisfied, followed her obediently to the main cabin of the launch. 44 III When Mary awoke the following morn- ing, it was to a sense that life had crystal- lized into a definite point of interest— Geraint. She lay still awhile, considering. After all, one grew tired of being liked by the mere man of society and the times—— his feelings were lukewarm at best, his cult was indifference, his falling in love was always within the same decorous limits, and expressed in much the same terms. But here was a man it was worth one’s while to attract, solitary, strong, unused to women, and therefore simple to them—a man with incalculable fire, and a man of mark. These qualities promised much, and tempted irresistibly to the exertion of power. “And he will do me so much good,” she concluded her reflections. “I need 45 Truth and a Woman new thoughts and fresh ideas. Julian sees only one side, and he is too ascetic, really.” She rose, dressed herself in walking trim, smoothed the black coils of her hair, smiled at the touch of color beginning to show in her cheeks, and descended to the breakfast-table, singing. Dr. Ralph had gone out, but Joan] was there, seated between Betsy and Billy, mincing the chop of the first and answer- ing the questions of the second. On Mary’s entrance she glanced up, admir— ing, questioning. “Are you going to climb to-day?” she asked; “isn’t it rather soon after the long journey?” “I am going to take Professor Geraint up a mountain, ” Mary replied composedly, unfolding her napkin. “I feel quite equal to it, thank you. 7 Joan paled a little. “You have de- cided deliberately to take up this ac- 46 Truth and a Woman quaintance, then?” she asked, with a touch of effort in her low voice. “I think I have,” said Mary in the same tone. Billy broke the pause. “ I think Aunt Mary looks elva so well, mamma, ” he remarked, staring at her over his budding mustache of milk. “What made you say she wasn’t 6171a so well?” “Aunt Mary looked tired after the journey, dear,” said his mother, “but Clear Harbor soon makes people look well. Wipe your mouth, and go on with your breakfast, Billy—Betsy is nearly done.” She added constrainedly, busied about the child, “After all that has been said— after what we are so expressly taught? And when Julian—~” “I never professed to champion Julian, ” interrupted the other quickly. “ Dear Joan—do not let it concern you, or my health either. I think you can safely leave them both alone.” Joan said noth- ing further. She did not even point out 47 ' v, .i-I» >‘~'§‘-V’-,Wié’v}w “-7, “4V", \ Truth and a Woman that in her opinion Mary’s meal of half a saucer of cereal and a few strawberries was poor preparation for hard exercise. Only when she had seen her leave the house with Geraint’s tall, powerful figure beside her, did Joan take her courage in her hands, and walk to the village to seek her husband in his office. He was alone and rose at once on her appearance. Dr. Langland knew that no trifle brought his wife to him there. “Ralph,” she began, hesitatingly, “you know I have never ventured to interfere in Mary’s affairs; but do you like her to take up with this—With this free-thinker, Mr. Geraint? Indeed, I do not think I am narrow or bigoted, but he has been so talked about—dreadfully! And apart from his notorious atheism, he cannot be in Mary’s class; surely he is not a desirable acquaintance! If you would speak to her yourself—” “My dear,” said the Doctor frankly, 48 Truth and a Woman “you must know Mary as well as I do. She’s had her own way all her life. I’ve not a shade of authority over her. As to men, they’ve always been at her heels. Why, Lucifer in person wouldn’t stand a chance if he happened to interest her. That’s all in her world. I don’t think you quite under‘stand— ” “No,” Joan assented with a sigh, “it’s a world I don’t understand, I confess. But in this case—why, this man I actually disputed with 3‘ulian. ” “Oh, I remember—this is the chap who knocked Anstyce out last year?” Dr. Langland’s tone took a shade of interest. “Well, that’s all the more reason. Be— tween ourselves, Julian has been coming the spiritual director a little too strong over Mary lately, and she resents it. I am inclined to think he likes her more than he gives himself credit,” he went on reflectiveIV, but was cut short by a shocked ejaculation from his wife. 49 Truth and a Woman “Oh, Ralph, but you don’t know its very private, but Julian told me—he took a vow of celibacy last year before his bishop!” she cried, her wide blue eyes fixed upon her husband’s, and her voice reverent. Dr. Langland hastily re- treated. “Oh, he has, has he? Then I’m mis— taken of course, little woman, eh?” his face wore a quizzical smile. “ I don’t pro— fess to understand the genus archangel. Miserable sinners, like Mary and myself, are more in my line. But about this business,” he made haste to add, seeing his wife color sensitively, “you can’t do any good. I’d just let Mary alone. ” And with this Joan was forced to be content. In any case, she had done all that was possible. “When Julian comes he will exert his influence, ” she told her- self in comfort; “till then I can say noth— ing. ” She walked up the village street to the 50 Truth and a Woman harbor road, where a mountain view caught the eye; and there paused an instant thinking of the climbers. The climbers in their turn were very far from thinking of Mrs. Langland. Skirting the edge of a little lake, they took a grassy track which turned gradually into a steep, stony path. Now it led over granite slopes, now dipped into the shadow of a young birchwood, the silver stems rising from a carpet of moss intensely green. And against this emerald velvet stood relieved the fluttering, silver-lined leaves, and the darker branches of pine. Then the wood gave way to bare lichen- covered rock, to iron—streaked boulders sheltering such alders as had held their own, stunted and desperate, against the sea—winds. Higher still came shale and cliff covered with huckleberry and moun- tain—ash, sumach, and ground—pine; the debris of spring storms, and the ruin of win- ter frosts. Mary walked lightly, quickly, 51 Truth and a Woman drinking in the air of the heights. Behind her moved Geraint, more slowly, but with the steady persistence and deep breathing of the old climber. When she sat down at last, she was breathless and panted a little. He looked at her with a smile. Below her right hand, the Sound stretched its clear length between the mountains, into the warm, misty, pastoral heart of the island. Beyond, at every point to which she turned her eyes, the sea lay, an absolute blue. The presence of this sea gave them a feeling of being at a much greater height than they really were; and its background lent dignity to the 'mountain peaks which huddled into the sky on the left. The never-ceasing wind of the upper air poured in a strong current along the ridge——the trees a few yards down roared in it, yet the green valley below held the warmth, the stillness of a June midday. There must be peace, profound and sunny, and white dust 52 Truth and a Woman hovering along the road—yet here, What tumult and chill! Not only the need of recovering her breath held Mary silent. She had chat— tered lightly, easily, While she had mounted easily and lightly—knowing that Geraint had no small talk and thus her— self supplying it. NOW, somehow in the isolation of their height and outlook, facing the persistent Wind and enduring mountains and encompassing sea, his subjects and interests seemed to become paramount. She felt that she wanted to hear him speak freely again, and to see the quick gray eyes, Which traveled from all points of the compass back to her face, lighten once more With fire and concentration. “I have been wondering,’ she began, as abruptly as Geraint himself might have done, “ever since our talk yesterday, Why you spoke of yourself as an unhappy sort of person. To my mind you should 53 ’ Truth and a Woman be most content, in having such things as friends, and convictions, and success.” He looked away from her into the hori— zon. “Ah, but you forget I am such a lonely man! There is no one left of my own family who is even friendly with me. I have had to fight it all through myself. Marriage was unlikely, so— ” Here she interrupted him. “ But why? ” “Because,” replied Geraint, slowly, “in the first place I see too little of women. I don’t understand them~——nor they me, as a rule. And then so few of them share. my feelings, my views.” She told herself that it was on his ac— count, to interest him, that she kept the conversation on these topics. “Is that necessary?” she asked. “ I know several happy marriages where peo— ple’s religious opinions are entirely differ— ent. They simply never mention the sub— ject. ” He made a gesture, half of disdain. 54 Truth and a Woman “Ah, you don’t know me, Miss Langland! Perhaps it’s unfortunate for me, but I’ve a higher ideal of the affair than that. And most people don’t care for the truth as I care. But to me, silence on the most vital point of all, constraint on the all— important subject, compromise on the tram—live that way, I couldn’t! Bet— ter, far better, stay as I am.” He spoke always with that hasty impe— riousness. She kept silence, and he turned and looked at her. “You see,” he went on, hesitatingly, “I’m rather a sensitive chap for all my hard shell. If I married, I should be—I should be immensely dependent on my wife. I should need her sympathy, and demand her help and criticism, and I ' should wish to think well of her judgment, and have confidence in it, and rely on it. So it would be essential we should think alike in fundamentals—however else we differed.” 55 Truth and a Woman “But you don’t mean to tell me,” said Mary, “that you can’t find such a woman!” “ Oh, I’ve met plenty of half-way women,” he replied dryly, “but in my whole life I’ve only met two women capa— ble of really understanding an abstract idea; and I wouldn’t marry either of those for—for the whole of this jeweled island with all its beauty!” “Personally, I don’t agree,” said Miss Langland, a trifle nettled. “Opinions about the universe don’t make people happy, believe me. A woman with digni- ty and intelligence would be mOre to the point.” “One who would go and talk me over with her priest—pah!” he shook his shoulders in disgust. “Ah, don’t you see! I’ve no indifference in me. I can’t take things lightly, and I couldn’t care for a person whom I despised intellec- tually. I should come to hate her if I thought she was a fool. It’s nOt in me to 56 Truth and a Woman compromise. I’m not that kind. It must be perfect accord, real sympathy, the highest happiness, or none at all. Ah, you who are so understanding~don’t you understand that?” His voice by turns scorned, commanded, and caressed. It rang and echoed in the convolutions of her being as if it would never die out. Somehow she was em- barrassed, she lacked her usual self- possession, the color came into her face, and she was stirred and fluttered. “And then,” Geraint went on, absently, “she must’ be other things as well—that would only be the first. She must be honest and whole—souled and courageous— I hate petty deceits, and diplomacies, and artificial ways. And she would be beautiful, with all that, and very strong—- a tower of strength and tenderness. Miss Langland, isn’t it foolish to have ideals?” He looked at her again, and she was her- self at the 1cok. 57 Truth and a Woman “I think it is more foolish not to have them,” she said; “but you will never realize yours. ” ' “Shall I not?” Geraint murmured. When’ she rose to her feet, he followed very reluctantly. “Is it time to go? What a pity! I hate to leave the heights to go down into the dust and heat. ” She gave him an odd look. “Better to go of one’s own free will than be forced to go,” said she, and set off briskly on the downward path. The pace exhilarated them both, and the descent was taken in high spirits and laughter, as though they 'were a couple of children. Joan said nothing when Mary came in late to dinner, nothing when the next afternoon she took Geraint for a row; still nothing, when two days later .he made his appearance on the veranda, just as the kettle was boiling for afternoon tea. He was Mary’s guest in Mary’s house, Joan could be nothing less than courteous; 58 , Truth ‘and a Woman she poured his tea, and when necessary, joined in the conversation. Privately, she thought his manners odious; and she was relieved that her husband was not there to add to her own discomfort by his scarcely veiled sympathy with the enemy. When Betsy and Billy clamored in and fell upon the plate of cakes, she gave them a cookie apiece and told them to run away. “Oh, don’t send off the little chap on my account,” said Geraint, warmly; for he liked children, and he saw a dawning congeniality in Billy’s freckled face; more— over, the child’s presence gave a finishing touch to his own sense of comfort in the home—like surroundings. “ Oh, it’s not that, thank you—go away with nurse, children,” said poor Mrs. Langland, suffering a real pang as the brown legs were raised to Geraint’s knee. “But we always stay,” remarked Betsy the logical; “and if it’s because of this man, mamma, he says he doesn’t mind!”, 59 Truth and a Woman “Do as I bid you,” said her mother with very rare coldness of tone, and sud— denly Geraint understood. He had been unconscious of Mrs. Langland’s stiffness before. He set down the child at once, and the two trotted away, bewildered and disappointed. Mary also understood, un- derstood with a strange vividness, both the constraint expressed by Joan’s ner— vously compressed mouth, and the touch of pain and irony which came into Ge— raint’s eyes. She seemed to realize also to the full, that Billy’s little spontaneous overture of friendship had been very, very pleasant to him; and she felt a wave of hot sympathy and indignation. . “What bigotry!” she thought, angrily; “ poor fellow!” She was that afternoon in an imprudent frame of mind, and her sister—in—law’s un- . spoken disapproval was all that was needed to push the mood to tangible re— sults. She swung into the pause which the 60 » -. ' u$f¥m~fi$e522¥$m Truth and a Woman little incident had created, with a rattling anecdote concerning a leading ecclesiastic —an anecdote, be it understood, in which the exemplar figured with less dignity than picturesqueness. Geraint, feeling her sym- pathy, laughed until the bitterness was all gone, and capped her story with another of the same kind, only more so. Neither anecdote was in bad taste, and Mrs. Langland would have heard them quite unofifended had she been sure of the teller; at the moment she felt a sense of outrage, and glanced across at Mary’s slender fig- ure, self—possessed and splendid from top to toe, with a bitter wonder and surprise. But Mary went on composedly stirring her tea. “You must not think Clear Harbor narrow-minded, ” she told Geraint ; “ there is a strong Church party, it is true, but there is more than a little leaven of the other kind. ” “I don’t need to be told that Miss Lang- 61 a Agigalmi, a4“: ,. ... Truth and a Woman land is intelligent,” said Geraint honestly and eagerly, and Mary smiled at him, a slow, deliberate smile. When he had gone and she herself was about to follow, Joan stayed her with a little gesture. Mary was already repent- ing in a measure that she had grieved Joan, although convinced that it was Joan’s fault. Mrs. Langland spoke with a quiet dignity rather rare with her. “May I ask you, when you receive Mr. Geraint hereafter, to excuse me?” she asked, her eyes fixed upon the tea-cups. “The subjects which you and he choose to joke about are most serious—most sacred—— to me. Of course this is your house, I am your guest, but I shall be obliged if—” “Dear Joan, I’m sorryflyou shall do just as you like!” Mary cried, impul— sively, coming toward her; “but don’t make too much out of itwwe didn’t say anything, surely!” “If you had told me that you shared 62 Truth and a Woman his opinions—” Joan began, somewhat mollified, though still quiet and cold; but Mary broke in with— > “ Ah, don’t turn it into anything so im— portant! It doesn’t mean that! One can’t be rude to the man, even if one differs from him,” she cried, rising impatient, pro- testing. Mrs. Langland looked at her, no longer cold, but steady and grave. “ I noticed Mr. Geraint rather care- fully, ” she said, With some deliberation. “We are absolute antagonists, of course, but we have one point in common. The subject is a very serious one to us both. Now, it is perfectly evident that he thinks you are on his side; and let me suggest, that it is not fair he should go on thinking so, if you are not. He is the last man to take such a deception lightly~ and it is a dangerous one at best. ” “You are making far too much out of the Whole thing—you are exaggerating it all,” said Mary, haughtily. “I Will 63 Truth and a Woman be answerable for my own actions, thank you, ” and she escaped into the house. She remained irritated against Joan for an hour or so, but soon overcame it, and by bedtime their relations seemed free and natural as before. But Joan was waiting, hoping, praying almost, for a letter from Julian Anstyce. The morn- ing it came she carried it herself to her sister-in—law, and lingered on the piazza while Mary opened it. It was a thick, long letter, and Mary read one page, and then glanced up into Joan’s anxious eyes. “He can’t possibly come,” she said; « “ isn’t it too disappointing?” And to Mrs. Langland’s ears the words bore an unmistakable accent of relief. 64 IV “Joan‘, ” said Dr. Langland to his wife, three weeks later, “Mary is not looking well.” He was obliged to repeat the remark be— fore she raised her eyes from her sewing. “ Don’t you think so, dear? ” “She is looking, if anything, rather worse,” reiterated the doctor emphat- ically, “than when we came a month ago. What do you think is the cause of it?” Joan was letting out a tuck in one of Betsy’s frocks; she turned the little gar- ment about, and bent her head over it. “Perhaps she is nervous,” she replied, evasively; “and she exercises too much and rests too little, I should say. You have often said the air here—” Dr. Langland put his hand under his wife’s chin, and raised her face to meet his 65 Truth and a Woman eyes. There was a sensitive moisture in her own. “Dear,” said he, “is this quite fair? What is it?” “ No, no,” said Joan, laying her hand on her husband’s, “it is not! But on any question touching our only difference, Ralph, I am over~sensitive, I think. You see, I cannot be sure that you would look on it asI do.” ' “ He is certainly with her all the time,” said Dr. Langland, frankly. “So you think it, is that?” “What else?” His wife laid down her work and spoke earnestly, ridding her mind of a pressing burden of anxiety. “Mary is very sensitive and quick; and she is not, she never has been, really grounded in her religious feeling. She has led a very worldly life, poor child! And this man, even I can see he is forceful and brilliant, full of specious arguments that appeal to her. Oh, Ralph, I have felt so 66 Truth and a Woman terribly about it, for I’ve no power over her to resist his influence; and I feel sure it is the doubt he is instilling into her, which is weighing on her mind!” Dr. Langland’s expression changed to one of amazement as he looked, hesitat- ingly, upon his wife’s face. “You think Geraint is trying to make her into an agnostic?” he asked. “I confess I hadn’t thought of that at all.” “Why, what could it be?” cried she, surprised 1n her turn. “Why, I thought, ” he said plainly, “that she might be falling 1n love with him.” “Oh, heavens, Ralph!” cried his wife, honestly shocked. She added, with a little haughty withdrawal of the head, “After all her chances—and he is not in her set at all!” Dr. Langland said nothing, and she con- tinued eagerly, yet with a characteristic touch of shyness, “I feel sure that you would not want Mary'to be influenced this 67 Truth and a Woman way. , I’ve often heard you say you hated a free-thinking woman. ’2 " i “It doesn’t seem to matter if I do. We’ve no influence, you say.” “ But there is one person who has—that is Julian. He has such fervor and faith, I believe he could interfere. I’ve been on the point of writing him.” “Mary said he positively could not come.” , “Mary did not really try. She did not tell him about this. If you will let me write him—” She IOOked beseechingly into her husband’s perplexed, reluctant . face. . “Oh, do as you like!” he ’said, shortly. “I’m not over—fond of AnStyce myself, you know. But perhaps he would be better than-” Dr. Langland checked himself on the point of a remark which had very little bearing on his half-sister’s religious opinions, and very much on her settlement in life. He pursued this thought uninter- 68 Truth and a Woman rupted by his wife’s grateful, ,“ Oh, thank you, dear!” andit led him until he caught himself looking at her where she sat, with a touch of something very like regret. This lack of sympathy upon one point un- doubtedly took something from the sen- sitiveness of their mutual understand- ~ ing, and in his own thoughtful moments he would have welcomed the freedom of discussion. But on the other hand, she never irked him; she said her gentle prayers in silenceand alone, she was sensi- ble and affectionate always. Dear little Joan! He stooped to kiss her, and she smiled under the caress with tender, satisfied tranquillity. At least she was ‘ happy, she felt no lack, thought Dr. Lang- land, as he left the room. Then he fell to wondering which of them was in the right about Geraint, and if he were really meddling with Mary’s religious views. “He is a perfectly unconventional per—V son—” ran Dr. Langland’s thoughts, as he 69 Truth and a Woman walked out to his buggy, “and nobody can say what he will do.” It chanced that very hour the subject had arisen for the first time between the two in question. During the weeks which had sped by so quietly, each day revolv- ing, it would seem, upon the same pivot, Joan’s reproach had sounded often in Mary’s ears. Her own unwonted vivid— ness of feeling had caused her to shut her mind, but the time was coming when she could do so no longer. Geraint had come to meet her as a close, a potent friend. At each talk he spoke more frankly, played more directly, more insistently, upon the chords of her sympathies. A mind like his had strong architectural lines with little superimposed ornament; the struc— ture of his intelligence compelled atten— tion, commanded respect, by the virtue of its stone and mortar, as it were, one could not ignore and forget these In each conversation, at every turn, he set forth 7O Truth and a Woman his convictions and his passion for them; and further, his reliance on her sharing them. Thus Mary had never the excuse of ignorance; in truth, she had no excuse whatever. What had at first been the mere conventional objection to difference grew to a positive fear of combat; and finally to what, if analyzed, looked to be perilously near the desire that he should think her what he wished her. The trou— ble was that one could not long be in his company without seeing his vital, his predominant, love of truth, a love which colored every speech and thought, and which at length led her to make a stand. That morning the conversation had hit upon the topic of his controversial bouts, and the pulpits which had thundered at him; and in his humorous and ironic strain he had assumed things to a point where even Mary’s uncertain spirit rebelled. All through his talk she was arming her— self with courage; at a certain laughing 71 Truth and a Woman phrase~——“As you and I think”—.she turned and drew her sword. “ Ah, but you must not say that, for I do not think with you——I am a Christian. ” Too tardy acknowledgment, it shamed her. Geraint turned to her a face puz- zled, but courteous, as he bent over the oars. “Ah, yes, 1; he said gently, “you were, of course; I forgot; and you were right to rebuke me. I should handle these things more tenderly, for they are like our outgrown baby clothes~they were dear to our fathers and mothers. ” Mary was ready. She shook her head. “No,” she said, “not that either. I have not outgrown them, I wear them still.” 4/ Geraint’s eyes flashed at her. “You do not mean, surely,” he asked in deep in- credulity, “that you are a believer? ’{ “That is what I am.” “But not the whole way?’: 72 Truth and a Woman “Yes; I think the whole way. ” “You believe in the inspiration of the Bible?” “Yes.” “In the divinity of Christ?” “Yes.” In the pause Geraint’s oars splashed the water. His face and figure stiffened. “Then I ought to ask your pardon,” he said, constrainedly; “I must often have given you pain.” “It is I who should be forgiven,” Mary replied in a low voice. “ I ought to have avowed this long before. I was cowardly about it.” He kept silence. His face had not worn that expression since the first day of their meeting, and as she watched, she realized that it mattered—that it mat— tered hideously—that somehow the safe- ty of her immortal soul was absolutely but little in comparison. This in itself was a thought no less dreadful, to find one’s 73 Truth and a Woman principles so pale against this poignancy of feeling. ' “ You won’t be angry?” she asked, with a certain tremulousness; “This will not make any difference-—” Geraint’s eyes met hers. “ How can I say that? It must make a difference. I never had a woman friend—I never had any friend so close as you. I had gained so much, it was wonderful! And now to hear you say that! If you will excuse my saying so thus bluntly, you were inex- cusableiuto deceive me; yes, and. disloyal to your own cause as well. ’f There was a kind of joy in feeling his lash. “I acknowledge it,” she said; “but I do not think you understand. ” “I don’t seem to understand anything,” cried Geraint with a gesture, “ except that we’re on opposite sides of the great cause— you and I!” “Ah, not necessarily on opposite sides I ” 74 Truth and a Woman “Does not your own prophet say, ‘He who is not with me is against me ’? ” ' \ The boat drifted upon the blue and golden ripples, the mist of an approach- ing fog-bank began to creep over the water, but gayly and lightly still, and touched with sunshine. Mary watched it all, dully wondering when the fog would conquer the sun—wondering if there had ever been more diabolical tor- ture devised for a woman, to whom was thus in one breath revealed the depth of her own bootless emotions, the shallow— ness of all things else. “I know I’m not the ordinary man about these things,” Geraint went on, his oar fiercely churning the water. “You must see that. To most men such ques— tions are outside of life—it is not good form, good policy, to be fiery about them. There is a comfortable, feather—bed assur- ance that it will all come right in the end. I can’t be like that. It isn’t that I tolerate 75 Truth and a Woman ——I don’t. I dislike—I hate Christianity. I disapprove of it—its cosmogony, its ethics, the whole monstrous falsehood. I couldn’t live by it myself, I don’t see any one who does—or could, the best of them. Of course I appreciate its value in the past, and the beauty of Christ’s personal character—but there’s no use pretending any more.” He got out the phrases defiantly- “Logically, there’s no other way to look at it. And if you have read and studied and thought, and still hold to a creed which asserts that men rise from the dead, that the sun stands J still, and that the Force which rules this “ world takes a personal interest in it—why, then, there’s no escape for us. ” The noise of battle raged in Mary’s ears. The fog streamers crept nearer, the sun was flickering, the gulls called overhead. “But suppose I hadn’t read and thought and studied?” She swung the tiller-rope around, scattering bright drops. “It all 76 ‘ Truth and a Woman seemed to me true in spirit, and beautiful to live by, enough to make one’s self and others happy and good. Why should I seek further? I had enough to do to act.” The relief which shot through her soul at his clearing face was as a trumpet—call after the routed legions. He leaned eager- ly toward her. “For a beginningflyes—but now? You remember what Emerson says about the choice between Repose and Truth? Sooner or later we all make it. You are too fine, too intelligent, not to choose aright. ” “Perhaps, if you thought— I should try~—” Mary murmured. The reproachful face of Julian passed before her inner Vision. But her eyes looked into Ge— raint’s and his glance caused her heart to contract and pulse and palpitate like a separate entity. He, too, seemed em- barrassed, for he said, “I could show you some books, perhaps—~” and faltering, left the sentence unfinished. 77 Truth and a Woman When they spoke again it was of other things. But at parting she met his glance, touched his hand, with a consciousness of crisis. Two days later she received from him three books and a letter. “I go away to—morrow for ten days to give a lecture,” Geraint wrote with a sig- nificant absence of prefix, “and it seems a good time, while I am out of the way, to call your attention to these books. Were I here, I should infallibly talk to you about them, and they are best pondered over alone. In regard to Spencer’s ‘First Principles,’ there is at present certain reaction from its doctrine, due mainly to recent minor technical discoveries and developments; but I am, at present, unable to find any other single work presenting better or more clearly ‘the heart of the mystery.’ It is also true that I have but rarely come across a woman capable of really grasping the abstracter portions—A 78 Truth and a Woman not that they are difficult, but that she is ' untrained—yet I seem to have no fear for you. You are wonderfully quick and sound, and I am confident of its effect on you. I have given much thought to the question of my right to influence your thoughts, but friendship, surely, has its obligations, and you have come to count wonderfully in my life. This is a sort of test, and I await it—how eagerly I will not tell you now. “A. G.” She was alone in her room when she read these words, and dropped her head into her hands for an instant, swept by an overwhelming wave of delicious confusion. This spent, she saw there was a postscript, and read: “Of course, the proper way to do the thing would be historically, with special attention to the Germans, and to those Frenchmen who immediately preceded , Darwin, but I ventured to change the 79 Truth and a Woman order in your case. What you wish is knowledge of modern opinion on this Vital subject, and if I judge you rightly, an ethical basis as well. As you read ‘ German, you can go into that part of it at anytime.” This little hint of the professor, of anxious amour propre, brought back her self-possession; and she turned to the en— closed books. Renan’s “Vie de Jésus” was one of his she had not read. “The Origin of Species” she had once opened, and had closed again with a certain in— credulity at the influence obtained by such mere accurate statement, unvitalized by any literary spark. The Spencer was the one with which she felt least acquaint- ed, and it seemed to also deal with the more “august things”; themes wide and majestic, worthy (thus her mind uncon- sciously phrased it) of her own considera- tion. There was not wanting either a little inward pride , at her graduation to 80 Truth and a Woman these high and significant matters; and presently her imagination set. to work on the interview after Geraint’s return———paint- ing in the most agreeable hues her own quickness, her ease of comprehension, her logical handling of these new ideas, and his wonder, delight, and deepened intensity of look. And the recollection of that look went through the woman to her finger—tips, obliterating all thoughts save of one God and his worshiper. Exhilarated, she romped with the chil- dren in the twilight, and when they were carried off, threw a shawl about her shoulders and went out upon the veranda. The fog had gone out to sea after all. Behind the hills a splendid sunset died, leaving a long feather of pinkish cloud upon the eastern sky. Over the bay hung a young moon; the water lapped and stirred in a full tide, nacrous, and cloudy with tender reflections. There was not a breath of wind, yet as Mary stood there, 81 Truth and a Woman still herself in the stillness, the bushes crackled as though some one stealthily moved through them. She was not dis- turbed, for her very soul, at that instant, seemed to have its own colors, perfumes, and silences, multiplied from the color and perfume and silence without. By and by the crackling ceased. It was Geraint himself, who, like any boyish lover, had turned back to her dwelling in the hope of a final Vision. He stood hidden in the bushes, breathless, his eyes upon the figure above him in the dusky veranda. The day was one full of significance to him. Deep in his soli— tary soul, there had lain hidden secret and beautiful ideals of love and being loved, of wife and child, of the woman, Stimu- lating, understanding, who was tofi'reveal to him the color of life. And now it seemed to him that he had found her, more beautiful even than his dreams—~if she was to be one with him in thought and sacred 82 - \tr: ‘. Truth and a Woman belief. And as he gazed on her he could not doubt her—it seemed he looked upon his prospect of happiness; the very soft- ness of the twilight and perfume of the pine-woods breathed it to him. She vanished, and Geraint, with a sigh, felt that the night mist had risen, and was chill. He walked home, his hat pulled over his brow, his hands in his pockets, feverishly following her as she opened the books he had sent. He had been from the first too deeply in love to realize even an inkling of the truth. 83 V “ M 3/ Dear 7mlz’an:———You will forgive my letter I feel sure when you hear the reason. Knowing you and your ideas of duty, I should never venture to urge you when you had once said ‘no,’ only that you cannot realize why you should come here. I am very much troubled, and there is no one to whom I can turn. The bishop is, of course, a most delightful man, and most kind and learned, but he is not just the sort of person one can easily ask such a thing—and he would probably laugh at me if I did. Whereas with you it is en- tirely different. ” Mrs. Langland bit her pen-handle, and reread the above lines. Even to her it seemed that a certain coherency was lacking. She rushed on. “It is about Mary. I fear she is in a very dangerous state spiritually, and she 84 Truth and a Woman is undergoing the worst possible influences. There is a man here named Geraint, whOm I think you know of, a rank infidel, whose books are dreadful. He is a professor somewhere, I believe, and is a man of specious clevemess——indeed, a most insid- ious enemy to the church. One would have thought Mary sufficiently ‘rooted and grounded’ to have avoided such society, but for some reason, and in spite of all I can say, she allows this man to pay her the ,most marked attention. All Clear Harbor is talking about them. He is staying at the Eldons’ (I always thought them odd people), and he is here all the time. But if it were only that! He is giving her books, and I am afraid she is listening and falling away. You can un— derstand that all this is distressing me dreadfully. I do not know what to do. I have no influence over her. If you would only come and talk to her! She sent to the library to-day for a book of Professor 85 Truth and a Woman Huxley’s. You know I am not narrow- minded, but I do think that one should be absolutely settled before one reads those things, and often not then. I cannot help Wishing Ralph had not read so many, but he is sound at heart, I think, and my prayers are constant. They did not have the book—I am so thankful! But I have no doubt Geraint has them all, and if you do not come and do some— thing, I fear Mary will be lost. ” Mrs. Langland paused again. There was much more she might say, but she felt as if her earnestness impeded her eX- pression. The letter seemed a clumsy instrument, but she could do no better. She sealed and addressed it. The voice of Billy arose in a Whine. “I Wish Aunt Mary wouldn’t re-ad—” said the little boy, discontentedly. “She won’t play horse——just sits and re—ads! Muvver, I’m never going to learn to re—ad. ” “Come With me to the post—office, dear,” 86 Truth and a Woman Mrs. Langland suggested cheerfully, but she stooped and kissed him fiercely. “ Mother’s blessed baby!” “Oh, you kiff me too hard,” Billy pro— tested. “ Will you be my horse, mamma ?” The little dialogue had reached Mary’s ears, where she lay in her favorite chair on the piazza. She heard the child’s babble about the room, the jingle of the bells on his worsted reins, and the clap of the door after the two. She could go on with her book in peace. But instead, she looked outward over the sunny water. Geraint had been gone four days. Dread had crept upon her for the first time that morning, dread of him, of his gods, of the future. She had been read- ing “First Principles” steadily, conscien- tiously, and it was as if she advanced along a mountain-pass to emerge upon the gulf, upon the beginning, upon the chaos before the beginning, upon dark- ness, upon space unutterable, nebulous, 87 Truth and a Woman pulsing with huge forces, a thing im- measurable, beyond grasp of the mind. And when she raised her eyes in affright to the beloved, tangible earth, the hills spread out, the crystal water——they too seemed to shift and blend, to lose the material character, and become mere dust and froth of an incomprehensible universe, before which her soul quailed. This sense of awe and of repugnance was dominant through all her minor perplexi— ties, for she was not able to read easily, and swiftly to master, as she had thought in her confidence. There were sentences she went over twice, thrice, and in the end only clutched at the vanishing skirts of an abstraction. She had had the usual modern educa- tion, and had transformed it into the usual heterogeneous culture. She had insight, an artistic sense, and natural facility, accustomed to look upon no subject as beyond its reach. With this tempera- 88 Truth and a Woman ment, with this equipment, she had ap- plied herself light-heartedly to this ter- rific problem, as though it were a new art, only to be baffled, ignored, and over— turned. The sensation was novel, mortifying; she threw down the book, and went for a brisk pull up the bay in the teeth of a rising wind. She came home courageous and defiant, and carried her head that evening higher than ever. The mail brought her a letter from Geraint, a letter to read and reread, full of things unsaid. Late that night she answered it, but told nothing of her thoughts. He was to re- turn for Mrs. Eldon’s musicale, to which they had all been invited; she told herself they would have a talk there. Meanwhile she galloped through the other volumes, which spoke to her mind only of fine liter— ary criticism, and of the breeding of pouter- pigeons, and laid them aside with a sense of let-down—the pistols seemed, somehow, 89 Truth and a Woman to have missed fire. Then she returned to the charge with fine spirit, and read and read on, looked with scared eyes at the heavens which had not fallen on her devoted head, at the world about, and those she loved, which, truth to tell, seemed very much the same as be- fore. Could it be possible that there was no effect, that after all it made no particular difference? And yet, if it made a difference to him—one must! The acknowledgment of defeat came only with the night. She sat, with the book in her hand, her hair falling about her, in her own quiet room. The shutters were open to the warm damp air without. And when he found it out, what would he think, what would he say? She had a dread of the grim mouth and the lighten- ing of those eyes. To acknowledge that these pages meant nothing to her, that the oracles were dumb, that no signs shat- tered the heavens, that she found no in- 90 _._. ,, . ,.... Truth and a Woman ward illumination, that she could say her prayers on honest knees this night as all the others of her life. Could one tell him, could one explain how the unused brain shrank before the strain of such thoughts; how one grew timid, and the book distasteful; then how one grew proud, and those ideas unimportant; and distant thunder rolled among the hills, but never over one’s own traditional shrine? Could one let him see the truth one did not even let one’s self see too clearly—the lack of intellect to understand, the lack of power to try, the empty room which he and she both thought of as rich with tal— ents, opportunities, capabilities, “thrones, dominations, princes, powers”? Ah, no; that he must never see, because one loved him, with a woman’s intense, sensitive, craving love—which could not relin- quish, which must possess—. Strange that this feeling was as fiery 9I ,rr/ “ Truth and a Woman as the other cold, and that in the same breath which revealed to her her limita— tions in one direction there was revealed a depth and power of emotion of which she‘xhad never dreamed. She slipped to her knees, praying pas— sionately, praying as Joan might have prayed, not to lose him, not to lose the happiness within her grasp. Love seemed to reveal the very meaning of prayer. She arose, desperate and exalted, resolved to forget his speech of test, to win him, by hook or crook, in woman’s fashion, by sheer force of love. What did the books matter? She caught sight of herself in the mirror, saw her own excited, imperious beauty, in its loose wrappings, its flowing hair. She came nearer, studying it. What did the books matter? The face in the mirror softened, the eyes grew moist and languid, then the whole flamed into a blush at her own thoughts. What did the books matter? 92 Truth and a Woman “Help me!” she whispered to the image, and it smiled assurance. One grew half shy before it. She turned away, and the sober, brown—clad philosopher caught her gaze, fallen ignominiously upon his face. She picked the book up, and fluttered the leaves impatiently. Perhaps for an instant, it flashed through her mind that it might be better to be outspoken with Geraint—that he would prefer it. Ah, but after all, when he came to love her, he would not care so much about these vague, distant questions—they were all very well before one had met a Mary Langland. Did it matter so much how the universe came into being? She put out her lamp, and lay down. She smiled to herself many times in the dark. 93 VI The little steamboat which plowed her way among the islands came up to the wharf, laden with freight and black with passengers. There had been an over— night change to fine, cool, breezy weather, the north wind, roaring down the Sound, heaped up the water, sang through the pines, and drove the fog farther and farther out to sea. Such of the passengers who tried sitting under this chilly current, although beaten on by an unmitigated summer sun, huddled closer in their wraps, and agreed that it was a nervous climate. While the gang—plank was being run out, two men, strangers to each other, stood side by side near it, visibly impatient for the moment of landing. They were about the same age, and each carried a suit- case. The one was of middle height, thin, blonde, with brown eyes, a nervous mouth, 94 - .-\ ,—~~ .,, u . - , .. v4... ,__..4. , .,l~v...‘, Wu.“ n.»u~;~arn.,p....,..., ,_ . . ..-~ . ... .7 “M w *- W _. Truth and a Woman and an expression of great sweetness. He was pale from city life, a pallor accen- tuated by his very yellow hair, and lightly marked eyebrows. He Wore the habit of a clergyman—he would have called it a priest. The other was very tall, broad—shouldered, and strongly built, with a fiery gray eye, and hair that had an almost foreign turn to it. His dress was somewhat careless, and his expression was somewhat grim. The one was Julian Anstyce; the other was Arthur Geraint. Under no other circumstances could these two have traveled so long in the same conveyance without each discovering the other’s identity. On this occasion they saw nothing. They passed and repassed one another on the upper deck, each walking nervously, with head bent, hands clasped behind the back, each in a fever of impatience, each in a state of preoccupa- tion which wrapped him, as it were, in a veil apart from his fellowmen. Now and 95 Truth and a Woman again, pausing within touching distance of each other, they looked out over the wonderful cold northern sea, toward the blue bubbles of mountains~looked with eyes equally unseeing, with minds equally concentrated and tense. Each fretted at the slow progress of the vessel. Ge- raint smoked pipe after pipe, Anstyce, who denied himself that solace, walked and walked and walked. An observer might have noted that neither man had slept the night before. In their haste on landing they jostled one another, and the two pairs of eyes met, the brown and the gray, with a flash of antagonism. Anstyce, the more cour- teous, murmured, “I beg your pardon,” and fell back. Geraint, unheeding, pushed before him to the wharf, and thence walked swiftly, suit-case in hand, up the road to the left. Mr. Anstyce followed more deliberately, took a cut—under and directed the driver 96 ’7‘“ '43:»; _.. , “mac...“ » ”Managua? - :.- 7— . Truth and a Woman to Dr. Langland’s. The slight incident of his encounter passed immediately from his mind. Seen under the shadow of the carriage-top his face looked very tired and gray, and his reddened lids blinked before the white glare of the road. His mouth was compressed. When Joan saw him alighting at the gate, she could hardly believe her eyes. The next instant she ran down the path to greet him. “Julian, how good of you! Oh, I am so glad you have come!” she cried. “I came at once. Where’s Mary?’_’ Mr. Anstyce spoke in the tone of a man who had suppressed himself for days. “What a pity! She drove to Bar Harbor an hour ago,” said Joan, her face falling. “There is a musicale at the Eldons’ and she wished to get something for her dress. If we had only known!” “When does she return?” asked Mr. Anstyce, with unconcealed disappoint- 97 Truth and a Woman ment. “ My stay must be very short. I am cutting a great deal as it is, but of course your letter couldn’t be disre- garded.” He stooped to kiss Betsy and Billy, whose four fat, brown legs under two large round hats made their appear- ance at this moment. “She will be back shortly after lunch- eon,” Mrs. Langland replied, urging him toward the house. “But you must be so ‘ hungry—that dreadful breakfast in Rock- land! Let me at least have you made some coffee.” She was in a flutter of gratification, of relief, of importance, of apology, such as no one else, not even her husband, had ever raised in her. “Ralph has a bad case on one of the islands, that is why he is not here to welcome you. Billy, take Cousin Julian’s umbrella!” She would have carried the suit-case her- self if Mr. Anstyce had let her. He fol- lowed her to the house with that swiftness which characterized all his movements, 98 Truth and a Woman but once there he waved aside the idea of food. “ I had quite enough, thank you. Bad? why, I really didn’t notice. NOW, if you don’t mind, Joan, I want to go into this matter at once. 1; Mrs. Langland would sooner have thought of disobeying the Archangel Michael than this peremptory young man. She sent away Betsy and Billy therefore, and took the chair he indicated, prepared to answer his first question, “When did she first meet this man?” Their con- versation lasted perhaps an hour. If Joan had ever owned to a doubt as to the advisability of sending for Julian, his manner dissipated it. This manner was serious enough to make her account, at the opening a trifle apologetic, grow sympathetically full and detailed. And even Joan herself marveled at the heat of his zeal, the fury of his disapproval. She had expected him to be concerned, 99 Truth and a Woman anxious, agitated perhaps—«but she had scarcely been prepared for the note of a fiery personal rancor in his attitude. “ He really feels it,” she thought, in the pause after the catechism. Anstyce sat somberly in his chair, his brows drawn. She ventured the suggestion: “And now you have heard everything, you must be so tired. Won’t you let me—?” He cut her short. “No, thanks; I’ve an errand first of all. Did you say this man is staying at the Eldons’ ? ” “Yes; he is their guest.” Then com- prehension broke on her. “Julian, you are not going there? ” “ I am, at once.” Joan was speechless. “Mary would not like it,” was all she could say. “I daresay she may not like it at all!” Mr. Anstyce rose, and looked about for his soft, black hat. “But I don’t think Mary has shown herself worthy of having her 100 ,quv 7‘." ", -«‘ — .7 ,, . ' j . A" _ .-...,i.._‘.. .. ._ A. A, ,. 2;)“: -,.l Myrf ,, .m“ . s. w. > ~ Truth and a Woman likings paid attention to. If she deliber- ately puts herself in danger, why, I must save her in spite of herself.” His voicewas decided; joan could pro- test no further. She saw him set out, with an expression half—beseeching, half- admiring, with a feeling of inward dread, for what would Mary say? And Ralph— whose special hatred was ecclesiastical interference——Ralph would be furious! Both would blame her, and with both Mary and Ralph against her, poor Joan felt that even Julian’s approVal was a thin shield indeed. Meanwhile Mr. Anstyce set out at a brisk pace toward the Eldons’ large and comfortable cottage. The distance was short, he knew the way, and he traversed it quickly. He walked with a town—bred directness, not pausing to breathe or admire, up between the double row of hollyhocks to the long, low, green house, overlooking the Sound. The blow he IOI " 7 ”“1”“ " "A W'“ 1. '» , ‘ - .77 :‘ulnnum. A. wm-rzmrvmw ,...H._ , “M v.. ,. c; Truth and a Woman struck upon the knocker had a challenging note, and his whole air was of a man riding a high purpose, combative, deter- mined, and proud. The maid showed him into the main living-room, large, airy, full of flowers, wicker chairs, lounges, and easy cushions. She left him, standing erect and stiff among these reposeful temptations, and took his card upstairs to Geraint. Ans- tyce heard her footfall overhead on the wood of the corridor. His gaze traveled out of the window, and rested, with the first real touch of pleasure, upon the ruffled, purple sea, the bulwark of moun- tains behind it. “ To one who has been long in city pent ’Tis very sweet to look upon the fair And open face of heaven,” he thought reverently. Then at a step behind him, he turned. The man who had jostled him on the boat that morning stood regarding him. 102 Truth and a Woman Geraint’s face was merely surprised. He had come downstairs aggressively, with “What can the dominie want with me?” in his thoughts; but had at once recognized the young man who stood so absorbedly looking from the window. “What can I do for you?” he asked, stiffly, but courteously. “Won’t you sit down?” “ Professor Geraint, ” asked Julian, also stiffly, “may I have a few minutes’ talk with you? Shall we be undisturbed here?” “ My host and hostess are out sailing,” replied Geraint, in his clear voice; “we can talk quite privately here, I think, for awhile.” He did not again ask the visitor to be seated. Instead he took himself the largest easy—chair, the softest cushions. Julian, with an odd, repugnance, seated himself upon the edge of a sofa, upright, holding his cane. Geraint laid his head 103 Truth and a Woman back, and his arms out, in ostentatious relaxation. “Didn’t we travel on the boat together, this morning?” he asked. Julian assented. “Sorry I didn’t know who it was,” said Geraint, breezily; “we might have beguiled the journey with a rousing bit of contro— versy. ” He was not tactful, nor even barely polite; and undoubtedly the sight of the ill-omened black habit whetted his tongue. “ I wasn’t in train for controversy this morning,” said Julian coldly, feeling in his turn the prick of antagonism. “I have come, Mr. Geraint, ” he went on, choosing his words, “on what I know is a delicate matter, and I ought to begin by asking your permission to open a subject which may seem an intrusion.” “That is the privilege of your class, Mr. Anstyce, ” rejoined Geraint smoothly. Julian kept his temper. “And I must ask 104 a: , >.~...., ._ .. . 7 . “7‘ ”.717. .l..,.. ,.,., «1.7 _7._ 7., .. ,7 ~ “7 . L- 7.,_z"—r.rr,s:gtwm . mam :_;_.‘..w ' ' Truth and a Woman your forbearance,” he said, with admira- ble dignity, “if I introduce the name ofa lady.” The blood rushed to Geraint’s face. “You ask too much/T he said in a low tone. Julian also" flushed; his voice at the beginning of his next speech was ill— assured. , “ You may not know that besides being Miss Langland’s cousin, I have always stood as her spiritual director; as the one responsible, sacredly responsible, for her moral and religious welfare. She was a motherless young girl, and she brought to me most of her questions and difficulties in these matters. It was I who, just ordained myself, prepared her for con- firmation. I am telling you these things because I want you to appreciate why I came to you, I want to give you a reason whose cogency you will feel and under— stand.” He had gained full self—possession, and 105 Truth and a Woman his voice was earnest and firm. Geraint’s face was turned away, but he preserved what the other felt to be a contemptuous silence. That it was silence, however, was better than Julian had hoped. To be allowed to speak meant much, for he had great faith in his own persuasive eloquence. It had done so much, surely it could not fail him now. “That we are old antagonists I know,” he continued; “but from that very fact I want you to feel that I believe as fully in your honesty as I do in my own. ” “Thank you,” cut in dryly from Ge— raint’s chair. “I heard this morning from Mrs. Lang— land,” Julian’s supple voice began to take on the colors and tones of oratory, “how intimate you have become with her sister, how influential, and in what directions she believes you to be exerting your in- fluence. She may have been mistaken? “She wasn’t mistaken,” said Geraint. 106 Truth and a Woman “I thought not,” said Julian, excitedly; “and, unthinkingly, may you not be doing Miss Langland the gravest possible injury? I have known her, as I say, for years; I know her womanly nature, its intense need, its whole reliance on a per- sonal and loving God. in the universe. Perhaps—it is to be supposed—a man like yourself may by force of intellect build up a loveless and fancied self—suffi— cient creed by which he can live; but he cannot expect to impose this creed on a woman whose very nature looks daily out of itself for aid, requires Divine sus- tenance, lives by Divine protection. Do you not feel the truth of this?” He paused, feeling that his appeal had been single and strong; but the other remained silent for so long that finally Julian re— peated, with a tone of impatience: “Why don’t you answer me? ” “I was waiting,” answered Geraint’s voice from the shadow of the chair, “ to 107 Truth and a Woman hear if you had a shadow of justification for your interference.” “ It seems to me what I stated is enough,” said Julian, controlling himself. “Cousin and spiritual director——isn’t it a little absurd?” asked Geraint. “Does Miss Langland know of your coming?” “She does not. ” “Would she approve if she did?” “Pardon me, but that is not the ques- tion, ” cried out Julian; “I have acted as a minister of God, on an errand of his send— ing. That should be enough for us both. It is impossible for me to believe that you will refuse what I ask.” Geraint shifted his position and looked at the priest. The vexation had passed from his face, leaving it contemplative. “It seems to me,” he said quietly,“ that no one has a right to open the question except Miss Langland herself.” The face of Mr. Anstyce grew a shade paler. Geraint watched him Curiously. 108 Truth and a Woman “I confess I had not thought you would persistently evade the point,” Julian said hurriedly. “ You cannot personally wish to divide a family by the bitterest of all dissensions! Apart from all other rea- sons, you have known Miss Langland but a few weeks, you have no pOssible shadow of right to influence her in such a vital question. For a passing mood of com— bativeness you cannot wish to destroy her peace, to bring upon her soul the awful blackness of doubt. And I must repeat, since you evidently do not appreciate it, that hers is a nature dependent on faith, that its beautiful spontaneity comes from its freedom from intellectual questioning. It is, in fact, spiritual beauty. This living trust of the Christian, Mr. Geraint, you must appreciate; I cannot have appealed to you in vain. ” “Mr. Anstyce, ” said Geraint, “your every word is an insult to your cousin. Every woman, as well as every man, 109 Truth and a Woman counts in the world by Virtue of what in herself she really is. I might deny all you have said. I might assert that Miss Lang- land’s ideas had become unsettled before I met her, that contact with me crystal- lized them, if it has done that. But I will take my stand instead on principles. Yes; I have done my best to influence her, and I shall do my best to influence her towards and for the truth.” “The truth!” Julian struck his stick Violently on the floor. “ I have heard that word upon your lips before, directed against all which is most beautiful and sacred—the church, the Holy Scriptures, our Lord’s passion itself—but I never heard it flaunted more impudently! What right, I repeat, what right have you to come into this young girl’s life, and try to lead her toward what you yourself acknowledge to be mere nebulous agnosti- cism? ” The words whirled from his mouth, his 1 IO Truth and a Woman eyes glowed; at that instant he seemed in his own mind. to fight Apollyon. The fervor of intensity of his words roused Geraint at last. He suddenly straight- ened up, and spoke firmly. “A man has such a right over the woman he means to make his wife. ” The words fell on the priest’s fire, and killed it. “You shall never marry Mary Lang- land,” he said unsteadily. Geraint smiled. “I will certainly try. Don’t you think we’ve had about enough of this?” But Julian took no notice; he was on his feet. “You shall never marry her,” he cried. “I will prevent it. I will fight it myself with my last breath. ’7 He was in such a confusion of anger as only to wonder dully why Geraint stood watching him; why Geraint was not angry too. III Truth and a Woman “I will repeat your own words, by what right?” “I have stated my spiritual rights!” “You coward!” said Geraint, all his controlled force exploding in the epithet. “ HOW dare you lie, when your coming here, your words, your gestures, your face, your voice, everything, shows that you are in love with her yourself!” There was a complete silence. Anstyce groped for the sofa, and sat down. Geraint threw himself into his chair, rearranged" the cushions, steadily watching the other meanwhile. Then he began to speak _. evenly, quietly, with little pauses between his sentences. , “That’s the trouble with you fellows,” he said. “That’s why you’re losing your grip. You try so hard to deceive yourselves, and something beneath it all gives you away. Oh, I know all about it. I’ve been through the mill. God! how I wrestled and prayed, studied and prayed IIZ Truth and a Woman again, begged and battled, and always that unconquerable reason in me would not give in. You see for yourself, no matter what it is, somehow that truth prevails. I knew in an instant why you had come to—day. ” “You do not know, ” Julian said, monot- onously, “ that I am under a vow of celib- acy, and therefore—” “You are quite beyond the reach of natural laws,” finished Geraint, with dry tenderness. There was another silence, then Julian got to his feet. “The conversation has taken a turn—— but I maintain what I have asked you!” he said with a spent fierceness. The other laid a hand on his arm. “Look here, Anstyee, ” he said sternly, “drop that, please! We’ re just two men after the same woman. You’re too fine a fellow for this stage business. Go home and get rid of your vows and your cos- I13 Truth and a Woman tume; turn in and win the woman you love if you can, against me, honestly, like a man!” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. Julian, silent, went toward the door. On the threshold he paused. “You do not know her; I do!” he said. Geraint idly watched him go down the pathway where the pink and white holly- hocks brushed against his long black coat. 114 VII In the intervals of persuading Billy that a jelly-fish is an undesirable bed-fellow, Mrs. Langland tried to review and under— stand the events of the day. They seemed to be diverse and incomprehensible; Ju— lian’s arrival and their talk, his departure on his errand, his long, long absence while she waited luncheon for him, and worried and speculated; and then his re- appearance merely to tell her he had been sent for, and to take his bag and go,‘ without rest, without luncheon, without even seeing Mary! Joan did not wish to accuse Julian of caprice, but indeed his conduct was unaccountable on other grounds. Then her mind rehearsed Mary’s return home an hour later—buoyant, in the highest spirits, and with the strangest indifference to the whole story of Julian’s manifestation. She had apparently no 115 ”3.,“ 7 ATV“; ,A Truth and a Woman thought save for the musicale at Mrs. Eldon’s; Joan had marveled at her, as she sat drinki'ng her tea and chattering of Bar Harbor encounters, she marvelled later when Mary somewhat excitedly shut herself up to dress. At the present hour of twenty minutes to eight, the murmur of voices behind her closed door Showed her occupation. No musicale, even if sung by the celes— tial choirs in person, would keep Mrs. Langland from herself putting her chil- dren to bed. She had slipped hastily into a pretty, simple, high-necked frock, suited in her mind to Clear Harbor festivities, and then hurried off to the nursery. But her mind was less with the children’s day and its philosophy than usual. “Aunty looks perfectly beautiful, ” an— nounced Betsy, breaking in upon her mother’s task of going through Billy’s pockets, whence she had just extracted a sea—urchin clamoring for interment. “She’s 116 Truth and a Woman got her mos’ spangly frock on. Why aren’t your frocks some spangly, mamma ?” Her mother paid little heed. Very slowly Billy drew out of his knicker— bockers; and very slowly he turned around to have his other garments unbuttoned. The little girl, meanwhile, surveyed her mother with an eye made critical by its contemplation of the splendors in the other room. “Your dress covers you all up,” she remarked presently. “ Aunty’s jus’ comes to here.” Betsy’s small forefinger drew an imaginary line across the front of her pinafore. “The rest of it is all spangles and shiny strings. It looks as if they would fall off, but aunty says they wouldn’t. Why don’t you wear a falling— off dress, mamma? ” “Because I don’t want to to-night, dear,” her mother replied, a little coldly. Inwardly she was thinking, “Her black and silver is her very handsomest of all, 117 Truth and a Woman fit for Newport. I think she must be crazy!” “Mamma,’ asked Billy, in tones of in- quiry, “which of the apostles is Cousin Julian?” “ What do you mean, Billy?” “Why, why, ’cause I asked nurse what he did, and she said he followed God, like the apostles. But he don’t look like any of them that I’ve seen, ” continued Billy, comfortably, “ ’cept a tiny bit like John the Baptist. ” “John the Baptist!” interposed Betsy shrilly; “why, he had lots nicer clothes than Cousin Julian! He don’t look a speck like John the Baptist!” “Yes he does, when he— ” began Billy, argumentatively; but his mother cut him short. “ Never mind now, dear, ” said she, know— ing that Billy on theological topics was interminable; “hurry and get undressed like good babies, Mother is in a hurry.” 118 ) Truth and a Woman Notwithstanding her haste, the music had already begun when they reached the Eldons’. The large living-room was quite filled with people, comfortably placed about the piano. Geraint, passionately fond of music as he was, chose to hide him- self at one end of a broad window—seat whence he could command a view of the door. A curtain hung before him, and thus he could at will shut out the sight of the people and the lights, and become at once alone with the splendor of a white moon without, over the sea. The night was a rare one, for it was mild, clear, without a touch of dampness, per- fumed with sweet—briar, the full moon- light giving a strange and beautiful dis— tinctness. The sea was a sheet of smooth silver, and here and there the black curve of a canoe crossed it. In the pauses of the music Geraint could hear voices from a glittering yacht, anchored just below. He was in a fever of nervous expec— 119 Truth and a Woman tancy. Would Anstyce see her? What would he say? What evil might he not do? Oh, why could not he, Geraint, learn to be politic, and smooth the rough edges. of his tongue? She was late, he knew that achingly, perhaps she was not coming. Perhaps Anstyce had persuaded her. ' Thus he fumed, unquiet under the un— quiet music, when there was a stir at the door, and he caught sight of Dr. Lang— land’s eye—glasses. He saw Mrs. Eldon rise from her place near by, smile a greet- ing, and whisper a direction; he saw Dr. Langland open a rout-chair for his wife. Then Geraint became aware of a turning of heads and a momentary wave of atten— tion away from the pianist, and then his own heart bolted and started off at a gallop. Mary entered; Mary in her glory. Up to that moment he had seen her only in the simplest of summer dress; the short, trig walking-skirt and blouse, studiously 120 Truth and a Woman fresh and plain. Now she stood there, , clothed—to Geraint’s ignorant eyes—as in a vision, in marvelous silver tissue re- lieved by black and silver scales. The , curves of her young figure were revealed by this wonder; and there were deep red roses against the flower—like white of her breast. Out of the black folds sloped her shoulders, rounded and firm and white as milk, in a perfect curve to the slender throat and nape, where lay the masses of black hair, living and glossy and soft. When she moved it went all through one with a keen pleasure. And there is no English word to describe the bend of her neck. She had the color of an expectant woman, and it intensified her beauty like a magic touch. All the arid boyhood of Arthur Geraint, all his pure, starved, womanless youth, all his lonely manhood, rose at the sight and marveled. The big, bare laboratory flashed before him, with its familiar bulks, IZI Truth and a Woman and vessels, and instruments; and sundry demure, aproned figures, pale and angular, with stained hands, and tightly twisted hair—with which the idea of woman had been for him most tangibly connected hitherto. Another picture followed, the home of a friend, ugly and commonplace, active children interrupting their talk, the round face, the ample, ill—dressed figure, the kind common voice, the hurry, the laughter, and the busyness of his friend’s wife. From these contrasts he awoke, to turn worshiping eyes across the room to where she sat, rare, dainty, in all her delicate perfection, in all her poise, and her beauty, and her pride. He was too far away to catch her eye, so he sheltered himself behind the curtain to gaze deliciously on her. The piano had given way to a voice, some one was sing— ing in French—the strain wandered vague— ly through his thoughts. The song ceased, and a buzz of voices filled his ear in its I22 Truth and a Woman place. A tall, fine-looking man, whom Geraint knew by sight for a prominent New York banker, had drawn his chair to Miss Langland’s side, and was talking and laughing with her. He seemed to be— long indisputably to her world. There was a hush, and a much—haired man stood by the piano with a Violin tucked under his chin. Its tenuous sweet- ness filled the air, rose purely, failed to a whisper, swung to a dance—measure with a lilt and a thump, like the ringing of wooden—shod feet. A second well—looking man (Geraint had seen him that day on the box of his four—in—hand) drew his chair cautiously within whispering dis- tance, and leaned forward over Miss Langland’s shoulder. She turned to an— swer, and Geraint could see the sparkle of her eye, her greeting smile. They were too well—bred to talk, but they remained in the same position, the man beside her, the man bent forward from behind, she 123 Truth and a Woman seemingly content. A wave 3 of heat rushed over Geraint, and objects danced before his vision. He had never been jealous before. The violin music grew nervous, strained; it seemed triumphantly to call his gaze to the figures across the room, and then to mock his passion of uneasiness. To think that she could care for him, he had been a fool! When all men admired her, and when her world was full of ad- miration, when Anstyce himself, under his vow, had not escaped! When she sat there so incredibly beautiful! The man beside her had taken her fan; the man behind her trifled with the scarf over the back of her chair. The violin rose and rose—~illimitably. Geraint was wholly hidden by the cur- tain. Noiselessly he opened the case— ment—window, and slid softly out among the nasturtiums into the quiet moonlight. The stress of the violin followed him. 124 . why. . . 2..:..: Truth and a Woman Mrs. Eldon was too busy to notice his departure, but Mary waited and won- dered and waited again. Her excitement lent her vivacity; she had more than her share of masculine attention, and she was too well trained to seem preoccupied. But her disappointment was bitter. Where was he? She knew he had been there, for some one had told her so; but why had he not come? What kept him away? Where was he? She sat restlessly through the pro- gramme, scanning each moment the room and the door. It was a positive relief to rise at last, free to look about for him. Her two cavaliers did not abandon her, they were joined by others; she moved toward the dining-room with an atten- tive train. , Geraint was not in the dining—room. Mary found it close and crowded, and sug- gested a turn on the veranda. Geraint was not on the veranda. She came back 125 . Truth and a Woman into the music-room, and sat there awhile. He was not there. He did not come. Suddenly she felt she could not stand it any longer. She felt she could not face any more people, or hear them admire her pretty gown, put on, poor pitiful wretch that she was, for his eyes only, which had not beheld it. Was he not evidently avoiding her? She must make her escape, must get home, to give at last freedom to her oppressed throat with its ache of tears. Somehow, she managed to get rid of the man who was with her. She said a hurried word to her hostess about a headache; and then, unob- served, slipped on her cloak. Naturally, Mrs. Eldon thought she was with her brother, but as a matter of fact, Mary carefully avoided both Ralph and Joan. She knew the way, she must go home alone, she must be safe and hidden in her own room when they arrived. Their probable anxiety about her could not be 126 Truth and a Woman helped; she felt quite incapable of con- sidering any one’s feelings at that moment but her own. _ She saw her chance, openeda side door, and flitted away into the woods to find the little path which would bring her out a yard from her own cottage—door. She crossed the carriage—road and left it be— hind. She could hear the rattle of buck— boards and the voices at the gate. She welcomed the silence and solitude. With the scarf over her head, the cloak thrown about her, her high-heeled slippers catch- ing in the roots and stones, her beautiful dress heedlessly caught up, she fled into the velvet shadows of the pine—wood. Once hidden, the tears began, unheeded, to pour over her cheeks. She cried wildly as she ran. And thus Geraint met her, a sobbing, stumbling, fleeing figure, which at sight of him, gasped and stood dumb. It was in a little open space, filled full of moon- 127 Truth and a Woman light like a silver cup. Geraint had heard her weeping progress for quite a moment before she caught sight of him. 3 “Miss Langland!” he cried out in amazement. “How do you do?” sobbed Mary, with bent head like a criminal. The phrase was but instinctive; Geraint drew nearer. “What is the matter? What has hap— pened?” he said in the deepest concern. L“ You are alone! And look. ” He stooped and lifted reverently a yard or so of the shining train, which she had been dragging over the pine—needles. “You are leaving a train of spangles behind you like Hop 0’ My Thumb!” “I thought you—~you didn’t believe in fairy tales!” she tried to steady her voice while she wiped her eyes on her scarf. Her handkerchief, in that gown, was quite unattainable. “What made you cry? ” asked Geraint in a low voice. As he spoke, he seemed to 128 Truth and a Woman know, exquisitely, why she had wept. And the cloak had fallen back, and she stood there, in all the beauty he had wor~ shiped afar off—stood there, near to him, alone, and his. Her pride had been all washed away by her tears. “Why wouldn’t you come and talk to me?” she said. “I was jealous as a school-boy, ” an- swered Geraint. In the silence he heard her murmur, “ Oh, I am glad!” He met her eyes, answering his own. He said nothing further, he took her in his arms. 129 VIII Fate granted them at least a week of an exalted happiness. Mary did not even have a bad quarter of an hour when she told Joan, “ I am going to marry Mr. Geraint. ” Since the evening of the musi- cale, when, following Joan’s fright and anxiety, Mary had appeared with Ge— raint “bringing her home”——a Mary radi- ant, confused, shamelessly indifferent to the ruin of her most becoming evening gown— Joan had set her teeth and been prepared. She suffered in silence Geraint’s constant presence at the house, Mary’s utter pre— occupation, the demoralization of all ar- rangements and all engagements. She kept reminding herself that it was Mary’s house; she tried to keep Betsy and Billy away from Geraint, (little wretches, they were always on his knees adoring him!) and unable to get her husband to discuss 130 mm, .,W,M:,,a,m , Truth and a Woman the subject, she poured forth her sorrows in a long letter to Julian. The answer came in due course, and contained a piece of information so important that Joan, instinctively reverting to an old habit, sought Mary, with the letter open in her hand. “I have a dreadful piece of news,” she said, gravely, “ We have lost Julian! ” Mary was dreaming in her long chair. She turned her head and seemed to awake. » “Why, what do you mean? ” “Just what I say,” Joan held out the letter. “He sails in a week’s time to join the Brotherhood of St. John the Evangelist at Cowley.” Mary did not even sit up. “He does? Why, what on earth has he decided to do that for? Poor Julian!” she said, inter- estedly enough, but with a manner so in contrast to what it would have been a few months back at such news, that her sister-in-law’s heart grew heavy and cold. 131 Truth and a Woman “Of course it makes no difference to you now, _’_’ she could not- refrain from say- ing. “On the contrary,’ replied Mary, very gently, “ I am very, very fond of Julian, you know. May I have the letter?” She held out a hand for it, a hand which, even in the midst of her other thoughts, Joan noticed for its thinness. Yet Mary’s color and eyes were bright. She read the letter in silence, and then glanced up thoughtfully. The day was foggy, a thick gray curtain hid the water, the trees were Spangled with drops. The room was filled with that curious, diffused, yellowish light, which told of sunshine above the fog-bank. “ Poor Julian!” Mary said again. “I am so sorry he felt he must do this. ” “ He has more sense of duty than most people,” said Mrs. Langland, still coldly. Her own heart was swelling with a positive sense of loss, and resentment at Mary’s 132 7 Truth and a Woman pity. She did not realize that this pity was born of the past week, and was pity for the celibate alone. “ Have you any explanation of this in your own mind?” Mary asked her sister. She relaxed as she spoke into her former idle, resting position, and this added an— other straw to Mrs. Langland’s burden of, injuries. “I daresay your engagement may have had something to do with it,” she said, with unusual openness and courage. There was a pause, and then Mary’s hand went out and was laid upon Joan’s in a rare caress. “Joan, dear,” she spoke in a shy, hesitating voice, “I want to tell you. Of course, you think that because I’m going to marry Arthur I think as he does. Well, I wanted you to know——the things he gave me to read didn’t make a bit of difference. I’m just where I was—I still believe—J thought you’d be glad.” 133 Truth and a Woman “He knows this?” asked Joan quickly, as the cold hands clasped. “Oh, we don’t talk about it at all,” said Mary, evasively. She picked up a maga— zine and opened it. A number of emo— tions passed over Mrs. Langland’s usually tranquil face. She said, “Oh, Mary!” in a suppressed, hurried way, and then went out of the room. Her face was not glad; it was uneasy. She glanced back at the girl’s figure stretched luxuriously on the lounge; and she pressed her hands together. “I am afraid!” she whispered to her- self; “I am afraid!” “My cousin, Julian Anstyce, has gone into a brotherhood,” Mary told Geraint, an hour later. The two were in a row- boat, although the fog was still heavy. They took care, however, to keep close to the shrouded shore, lest they should be carried out to sea and lost. Geraint wore a sweater, Mary was sheltered in a 134 Truth and a Woman heavy plaid. Dimly seen from va—\ rious Clear Harbor cottage piazzas, they were yet recognized, and their manifestly unsuitable occupation added fuel to the cheerful fire of gossip. “Eh?” Geraint asked, absently. He was lost in gazing. _ “It is an English order—what they call the Cowley Fathers,” Mary explained. “I can’t think why he has done it! He seemed so content and happy in his mis- sion—work. ” Geraint was silent. “I suppose that was the reason of his sudden flying Visit to us,” she went on, half to herself. “It was to say good by.” “Are you fond of your cousin?” he asked her. “Very, very fond. We were always much together, and Julian has been such a friend, and such a helper. He is so good, Arthur, I am sure if you once met him you could not fail to like and appreciate him, his fervor, his sweetness, his self- 135 Truth and a Woman abnegation. You would be the first to admire them. N ow you will probably never meet, and I am so sorry!” Her regretful tone irritated Geraint. He dug an oar deep in the water, and the boat spun around. “By the way,” he asked, suddenly, “I never asked about those books I sent you—before,—~before the beginning? Did you ever read any of them?” Her face became flooded with color. “ Oh, yes,” she replied with indifference. “You did? I’m so glad! Which?” “ I read all three,” she answered. “You are better than I,” said Geraint, with tenderness. “I confess I’ve thought of nothing but you. But do tell me, darling, have you not learned a great deal? And don’t you feel better about my views?” “I never criticised your views. Don’t you think this is getting a little too chilly, Arthur?” 136 Truth and a. Woman Obediently he began to pull toward the shore. . “ I thought about it so much during that week I was away,” he said; “you were never out of my mind. It was really a test to which I would have hesitated put— ting any other woman, but not you, with your wonderful mind, and your breadth of view—not that I expected so much at once-~only those ideas mark such an epoch in one’s life.” A cold puff of fog blew down between them, chilling and obscuring. Mary drew her hood further over her face. “I thought and thought about it—for I knew your quick intelligence. I even jotted down a few notes in reply to prob— able questions and objections of yours. And then came—that night—and I’ve never thought of them since. I’ll look them up and bring them to—morrow. ” His tone was playful, but there was an undertone of inquiry. I37 Truth and a Woman “You needn’t trouble to do that,” she replied hastily; “ I haven’t any questions. ” “ You were quite satisfied then?” asked he, seemingly more puzzled than pleased. “Oh, don’t let’s talk about that sort of thing now! ” she cried out nervously; “we love each other.” There was a pause of some minutes while Geraint made fast the boat and helped her out. They mounted the steps, and entered the thick, warm pine-wood where the fog had not penetrated. There sheltered, instinctively the lovers looked at one another, and Geraint with a gentle firmness put his arms around her. “You must forgive me,” his eyes were on her drooping face, “if I do talk about ‘that sort of thing’ a little notwithstand— ing. Dear love, you must take me for what I am; you know what all this means to me, and I know what disturbing changes it must mean to you. I’ve been all through that myself, dear. Don’t 138 Truth and a Woman let’s bar such a topic, however sacred, but tell me!” He whispered this into the shadow of her hair. She drew a long, desperate breath, and put both hands up against his breast. “I’d rather not talk of it, Arthur.” “ I know, dearest, but to me? ” There was no escape. She knew his persistent force, and she must gather strength to meet it. If only the reading had wrought some effect there might have been the refuge of lying. But to Geraint, who stood for truth, whatever Mary might believe—— She grew suddenly brave. “There isn’t anything to tell. you. Those bOOks didn’t make any difference at all.” “ No difference?” he looked purely amazed. It was as though she had told him that the sun made no difference. “But of course you saw the contradic- I39 Truth and a Woman tion between facts and biblical tradition?” he continued, knitting his brows. “ It all may be so. It seems to me one has got to have something to believe in,” said Mary, pitifully. “ Why won’t the truth do?” “Oh, Arthur, don’t, don’t let’s get into a religious argument—it only gets us so heated! People are bound to differ!” she implored him, with all her inborn dread of combat, with all her tremulous consciousness of love. He loosed her, and they walked on a pace or two in silence. V “Did you follow the argument in favor of evolution at all, Mary?” he asked, in a cool, dispassionate voice. And suddenly, at the words, she seemed to be on the mountain—top, and to hear him say, “I should come to hate her if I thought she was a fool! ” “Oh, of course I followed the argu— ment, closely!” she asserted with vehe— I40 Truth and a Woman mence, “ and it is most wonderful, logical, masterly—” “Yet it made no difference to your life at all!” he said under his breath. She looked at him; she had never seen him wear that face before; it had been reserved for his classes, or for Anstyce. At sight of it, her courage ran. “I think, perhaps, parts of it were hard for me to understand,” she began to ex— plain hurriedly; “ and that’s the reason-— it’s hard when you’ve never done much reading of that kind. Some of the terms—— and it’s all so abstract—J meant to ask you,” she drew breath, and went all the way, “to explain some of it, so that I might understand better what the main conclusions are, and how you feel about them.” Geraint’s face cleared; the lover re- turned to it. “It’s stupid of me not to have thought of that before,” he said eagerly; “ of course 141 Truth and a Woman you lack the training, and it’s hard for you. I think it’s wonderful, darling, you fol- lowed it all even as much as you did. We’ll read the Spencer aloud, that’s much better. Shall I run up and get it now?” “Oh, not now—my head’s too tired—— to-morrow, ” Mary murmured. Perhaps it was only her morbid imagination which detected a chill in his reply, “If you wish then, to—morrow. ” She prayed he might forget, but he was not Arthur Geraint for nothing. If his insistence seems disproportioned, even cruel, remember his life, his ideals; remem— ber that he, too, was by nature a prosely— tizer, that his whole strength had been given to a fight against organized religion. It was impossible that he should not open the discussion with the woman he loved; it was impossible that he should not try for her complete sympathy. He read and read, rapidly, with occa— sional comment, frequent criticism and 142 Truth and a Woman explanation, always with enthusiasm. The more he read the more she saw that he had no conception whatever of her limitations. It was as though he pulled her by the hand through a blinding, thorny thicket, while he, himself a head taller, exclaimed at the beauty of the View. At first she made brave efforts. “Read that again,” she would say, “I didn’t quite catch it.” “ ‘If the First Cause is limited,’ ”read Ge- raint, “ ‘ and there consequently lies some— thing outside of it, this something must have no First Cause——must be uncaused. But if we admit that there can be some— thing uncaused, there is no reason to assume a cause for anything. If beyond that finite region over which the First Cause extends there lies a region which we are compelled to regard as infinite, over which it does not extend—if we ad- mit that there is an infinite uncaused surrounding the finite caused, we tacitly I43 Truth and a Woman abandon the hypothesis of causation alto- gether. Thus it is impossible to consider the First Cause as finite. And if it cannot be finite it must be infinite.’ Well,” see— ing her hesitation, “surely nothing could be clearer? ” “Oh, nothing!” she rejoined quickly, and closed her eyes. “There’s a part coming, about the ‘ Relativity of Knowledge,’ which you may find a trifle stiff,” he resumed cheerfully, “but I’ll go slowly, and explain all I can. This, of course, is more or less plain sail- 7’ ing. And he bent once more over the book. Her troubled eyes wandered seaward. Through the mist of sentences, every tenth word of which was new, there pierced to her mind only a few vague terms, and an immense wonder. Did Arthur really think that this sort of thing~—the First Cause and the Absolute—these vast intangible abstractions which made one I44 Truth and a Woman giddy, could stand instead of the beloved figure, with fragrant robes, gentle eyes, and sparkling aureole, the Christ to Whom her soul made daily its personal peti- tions? Was there anything to take the place of that friend, on Whose strength the weary and heavy-laden placed their burdens? She had never given definite thought to her own creed until she saW it in contrast to the naked formlessness of his. “You are not listening!” Geraint said, suddenly. “Oh, yes—yes, indeed!” she turned toward him. “Then tell me—What do you gather is his conclusion on the subject of Ultimate Religious Ideas?” “ N OW you have your regular professor- voice, ” said she playfully, slipping an arm around his neck, “and I am your poor little class come up for examination!” Her touch, her caress, had their potent I45 Truth and a Woman fascination, and he gave himself up to them. The subject changed very ab— ruptly from the abstract to the concrete. Mary laid her head on her lover’s shoul— der. “Arthur!” “ Beloved?” “ Suppose—suppose I can never see this as you do?” “See What as I do?” “ Oh, the Absolute—and all those things.” “ But if you understand clearly—you must. ” “Oh, yes, I do understand, of course, and I shall try—I am trying,” she said, laying her cheek against his, “but people are very different—temperament, you know, makes such a difference. All that has no color in it. ” “ No; the Truth is colorless, I admit.” “Suppose I should want to stay an Episcopalian. It wouldn’t really matter, would it?” 146 Truth and a Woman “Mary, I couldn’t say that,” he an- swered in a pained voiCe. “You can’t realize what it means to» me if you say it. You remain in error! Inevitably’ it would make a difference. ". ‘ ‘ ‘ , “But not in your love iform‘e?” Geraint was logical. _, ' “j In a sense, in my love for you. ” , “Your love cannot 'be, very strong, then,” said Mary, and drew away. He heard, perhaps for the first time, the per- sonal note of Woman; he did not draw her back. “I thought, Arthur, you cared for me more than that. ” “I don’t think you understand, ” said Geraint. She detected and resented the shade of weariness in his voice. . “I understand one thing,” was her quick and proud reply, “which is, that, manlike, you want to hammer me into your own ways of thinking.” “On the contrary, I want to help you 147 Truth and a Woman to some ways of thinking that I can re- spect, ” he replied quietly. “So you don’t respect my own ways, even!” she cried in a choked voice. It was verging perilously near a quarrel. Geraint was an impatient man, but he con- trolled himself at the sight of a tear on her cheek. He put his arms around her again. “But, dearest, I thought you wanted this, and if you can understand and appreciate these things, you must be open—minded about them as well!” he argued. “I always thought you so wonderfully flexi- ble. ” The past tense brought terror to her eyes again. “Oh, I do appreciate them, honestly,” she protested, and hid her face on his shoulder. “I only said, ‘suppose’ and you were so hard on me ! ” “I was a beast,” said Geraint; then humor coming to his rescue, he laughed. , “Aren’t we a ridiculous pair?’_’ he said, 148 Truth and a Woman and turned around to reopen the neg— lected volume. “Oh, don’t let us read any more to- day, ” she begged him; and Geraint re- plied, “Very well, dearest! for the sake of the present delicious harmony.” I49 IX Unhappily there were occasions when that harmony was less easily restored. She was playing a difficult game. At every turn her reserves were threatened, and it seemed as if her integral differences with him, as well as her whole intellectual barrenness would be revealed. She de- fended the door of her inner, her true self, with the desperation of one who perhaps realized the emptiness of the place within. She knew only two facts, that she loved him, and therefore she must never let him see that, by birth, training, tempera- ment, environment, she stood as strongly for the conservative and traditional as he for the radical and scientific; that theirs were differences of class, almost of race. And to hold him, under these circum- stances meant, she thought, to give little, to demand much, to keep him restless, to I 50 Truth and a Woman play back and forth—poor little conven— tional code, with which she trifled with death. I They quarreled, lightly, almost humor~ ously, at first; deeper with each deeper occasion. A concession which to her was a mere matter of good form, was to him a question of principle. For instance, he would be married in church for her sake only, but it must be a ceremony'bare of music, flowers,‘ or staring crowds. And when she wondered, and was a little hurt, he said: “I am perhaps wrong even to concede that much.” , She began to find out, little by little, some of the worldly aspects of union with a man who stood on Geraint’s ground. She must go to Chillingworth to live, a suggestion distastefully suburban and provincial—and even there, he warned her, some prominent people would not call on her. When she almost involuntarily replied 151 Truth and a Woman that one need not trumpet forth one’s differences with the world—he turned on her his sudden, fiery gaze, and cried: “This is just what I have done, and shall do while I live ! ” “ You splendid Arthur!” she rejoined swept along with him to a glow of feeling and admiration. And all that day she went about warm and high—hearted. Then, unfortunately, upon that very evening, she started the subject of Julian Anstyce. She had had a letter from Julian in answer to the one telling him of her engagement—-—a letter fulminating detonations in a way to make one shiver with a partly pleasurable sense of some— thing dangerous. Whether it was the influence of this letter, or reaction, or a mere wish to experiment, or just that tiny guiding tendency toward the melo- dramatic—she chose that moment to see Julian’s virtues and to sing Julian’s praises to her lover. Arthur Geraint had 152 Truth and a Woman no philosophic phlegm; he had his own merits and controls, but patience and toleration were not among them. To him Anstyce, personally and typically, em- bodied something noxious, if not dis- gusting, to be exterminated as it were by insect—powder; and he declared this view, and more, too, with vigor and point. Mary was not only shocked, but con— temptuous; such an attitude toward an established order of things struck her as in bad taste. “I think you are forgetting that Julian is a gentleman,” she remarked, with a touch of her ‘Langland’ manner.” “And therefore above my criticism!” Geraint said, quick and bitterly. “ Arthur, I didn’t say that!” He had never exercised self-control so much in all h1s life as he had done during the short period of his engagement. “Mary, I’ve told you again and again, you must take me for what I am—for my I53 («3‘ .‘x "Sam v? Q», ii? Fifiif’wm‘fa as? a? :th Truth and a Woman real self. I can’t pretend, dear! I’m not that kind. I don’t like your cousin.” “Poor Julian, just because he is a priest?” “For a dozen reasons,’ shortly. ‘ “ But after we are married,” Mary asked, “you will be nice to him for my sake? We have always been such friends, and Julian has been close to me in many ways.” “Of course you will see your cousin when and where you please,” he said, not looking at her; “but I will not meet him, nor will I have him in my house. ” “Oh, Arthur!” Geraint threw some pebbles into the water, in silence. “ I think you have forgotten,’ she re- peated very quietly, “that he is a minis- ter of the church. You can’t be so bigoted as to keep him away from me. ” ~ Geraint breathed hard. “I’d deny you I54 9 he replied, Truth and a Woman no independence, ” he said; “but you don’t, you won’t understand, Mary! A priest in my house—confessing my wife—intimate with her! God! I couldn’t stand it—it would drive me mad ! ” “You’re surely not jealous of an ascetic like Julian?” - “ Ascetic ! ” Geraint sprang up and burst forth; “why, the fellow’s madly in love with you, and jealous of. me! He all but acknowledged it to me himself. And you ask me to have him round, and with you—— when he hates me like hell! You ask more than any man could stand!” “If it is true, I think you ought to be sorry for him,” said Mary, very pale, because she felt it was true. Geraint swore. “If I were a milk-sop, I might!” he replied savagely. , “Arthur, there’s no need to be so vio- lent ! ” “If I am, you brought it on yourself!” he cried; “all your sympathy is for A I55 Truth and a Woman Anstyce. I can’t be patient and smile, and swallow it all, even from you. I’ve given in too much already, and you seem to expect me to take anything because I come of plain people, and have had an uphill life. I shall be master in my own house, and if you’re to be my wife, you’ll have no priests fooling round you, and there’s an end of it!” It was his wounded sensitiveness which spoke; but the tone was indefensibly rude. “I think I had better go,” said Miss Langland, with dignity. She rose in si- lence, and without a backward look, walked down the path to the homeward road. Geraint fumed and fretted for twenty- four hours, because he was a proud man. Mary walked home wholly self-possessed, and having reached there, went straight— way to her bed with the worst head— ache she remembered ever to have had in' her life. Between the pain and the 156 Truth and a Woman opium she could not manage to think much about Geraint. Her brother watched her, and his wife watched him, knowing from a certain brisk taciturnity, that Dr. Langland was worried. Only once,~ however, did he mention the subject. “ Do you think there’s anything the matter?” he asked Joan, suddenly. The opium had at last taken effect and Mary was asleep. Joan shook her head. “ I don’t know,” she replied; then ventured, “She doesn’t look at all right, Ralph, to me.” Dr. Langland nodded, rather grimly, over his pipe. “ Is there anything you see to worry you?” finally hazarded his wife. “ There are certain symptoms I don’t altogether like,” he rejoined. “When we get home I think I’ll take her to see Bernard.” Dr. Bernard was the famous physician to whom he had been assistant. The 157 Truth and a Woman children ran in just then and the subject was dropped. Mary awoke at noon the following day, painless, but weak and dull and numbed “with a sensation,” as she put it in her thoughts, “as if I’d been born yesterday.” There was a little note from Geraint, beg- ging her to meet him, as usual, at their familiar tryst by the shore; a note con- taining unconditional surrender, and a prayer for pardon. “These last hours have been horrible,” he wrote; “and although I daresay I deserve it, I cannot bear your displeasure, it makes the world so hideously empty! Do meet me and forgive me! A. ” The opium had, as it were, cast a thick veil over all their quarrel. Of course she would go to him, for in comparison, what did anything or anybody matter? She struggled up; and despite Joan’s protests, started in to dress. It took her a long time, for she was weak; but once out of 158 Truth and a Woman doors, the tonic air and sunshine wonder— fully revived her. She walked but slowly, however, and when she came in sight of the accustomed bench, she saw that he was already there. As she approached he stood up. . “ I was afraid you were not coming,” he said simply. . “I have been in bed with a dreadful headache, ” said Mary, and smiled on him. Then he saw how pale and suffering was her face. . “Dearest, I’m a brute—it was all my fault!” he cried, impetuously; but she put her hand against his mouth to stop further self—upbraiding. They sat quietly awhile, and she leaned weakly, trustfully against him. Presently she whispered, “Dearest, promise me something.” He bent his head nearer to hear. “Don’t let’s ever talk about theology and religion again. Let’s leave them I59 Truth and a Woman alone. Promise me, Arthur! Don’t let’s risk another quarrel. Let us keep silence on that one topic, and simply never open it. I’m sure that’s best. And however we differ, or may differ, we love each other. Let’s never mention it again. Promise!” She kissed him softly, and he held her closer, more tenderly. He promised, but his eyes wandered out over the illimit- able gray sea; and there came into them a great sadness, for in that promise he renounced what was, perhaps, the clearest ideal of his life. 160 X The summer moved on toward its golden end. LaX August days had come; the blazon of the goldenrod was in every hedge, the royal aster was in every thicket. Yachts, like the gulls, had rested awhile in the harbor, and now spread their wings for home. Furious gales had battered the mountains, spouted rain upon the valleys, and died out, leaving skies purified and re- freshed, and seas purple and turbulent, and rejoicing in the wind. Fogs threat- ened, crept up—dense, insidious—emufl‘ied the island, and were in their turn routed and driven seaward, their ragged legions flying before the western sunbeams. Dr. Langland’s face had burned a fine nut color; his wife had gained in weight; and Betsy and Billy showed the sum- mer’s progress by a perceptible lengthening of lusty brown legs. Only Mary moved 161 Truth and a Woman about, slow and pale, a question in her eyes, the warring of indefinable forces in her face. She and Geraint had not quarreled again. But oh! how many times she was beaten down at night in a fierce outburst of tears, at the thought of the earlier days when they had quarreled, to end the quarrel in an intensity of revived emotion! That had been as life beside the death of this daily constraint, this hourly tripping up on what might not be said, the chill of this pause between them. In this pause, this constraint, this chill, she seemed to hear the approaching footsteps of her doom—advancing, so her ,morbid fancy \ pictured it——to the death of that sudden, fiery, wonderful love . wherewith he had loved her. For she told herself that his love was going out with the summer days. In her self-torture she reckoned with things infinitesimal, unspoken words, im- agined thoughts, fancied looks, pauses 162 H Truth and a Woman misconstrued, until the total loomed huge and horrible. And the fear, the crawling fear, that he would find her out, that he had found her out perhaps, and was keep— ing silence pitifully, though he knew she had little knowledge, and less training, and no capacity for the thoughts and ideas he valued; only love, nothing but sheer love! Oh, if she had only not deceived him at the first! If she had not pretended to in— terests which she spontaneously lacked; if she had but shown him her true self, what it was, what it was not—~that self, passionate, facile, artistic, high-strung, tasteful, intelligent, but not impersonal, not logical, not intellectual even! Yet when she prayed this, there came always the seemingly inevitable conclusion, then not the woman for Geraint’s wife—and her whole nature rose and shrieked down that conclusion. She was not well, she was not normal, 163 Truth and a Woman she was in the hands of implacable facts—— or one would not conceive such poignant miseries from conditions half—imaginary. To say “Had she been other,” is to epitomize the whole tragedy. Yet in truth there was no diminution in Geraint’s love, only an adaptation to new conditions. To a sensitive man or wo- man, adaptations are always trying. He, too, had his black nights. He, too, paced his room, facing the irreconcilable; try- ing to understand that he must relinquish his hope of a perfectly sympathetic mar— riage. He was impersonal, and he real— ized quite fully that somehow they had missed the mark; that their married happi— ness was not to be an indigenous growth, but a careful cultivation. Yet there was no instant’s hesitation; she was the only possible woman for him; he loved her, and he hoped for the future in that love. It was Mary herself, her own attitude made morbid by the attitude of others, 164 Truth and a Woman who cast doubt upon that love, upon that future. If she had only been at one with him, how bravely would they two have stood together and against the world! But Julian’s anathemas; Joan’s disapproba- tion on one side, Ralph’s indifference on the other; fancied or magnified slights to Geraint from her acquaintances; his name coupled with horror, in a chance copy of “The Churchman” ;—-—how could she bear all this when she herself was upon the other side, when his view seemed the radical, dangerous, crass: and the other the conservative, aesthetic, and well-bred? Another woman might have taken refuge in the thought of conversion, but Mary was of too modern a school for such hope. Her only wish was that the whole subject might be buried between them»; and yet they never talked without the significant pause, the deliberate change of subject, at which her heart grew cold. And Geraint, his passion overclouded for 16 5 Truth and a Woman a time by the other problems, did not take her into his arms as before, and crush out all differences upon her lips. During the moving-on of the slow days, her doubts and fears grew, self-fed, until she inwardly cried out that she must know, must be assured, by some spon— taneous test, that he loved her still. Thus character acting under its own laws be- comes Destiny. In a feverish instant she conceived the idea that she would like to be married by the bishop. The plan struck her as felicitous, and she laid it before him fully and energetically. “You See, ” she explained, “he likes me, and would like to please us. We’ve done so much for St. Margaret’s. The window is in memory of mother, and we gave the bell. Joan and I have done a great deal of the embroidery for altar—cloths and stoles. I was confirmed there, too—~not . that you are interested in that, I know, 166 Truth and a Woman Arthur, but I wanted you to understand; And I think it would be good policy, for, however quiet our wedding was, it would start us right with certain people, who may think that you—” she paused, but he understood. She meant that to have the bishop marry them would be the best possible answer to any criticism of her choice; it would have, also, a certain indefinite social significance. Geraint’s faint smile had a touch of bitterness—ah, how mistaken he had been to think that she could take him for what he was! They sat side by side on their favorite bench in the midst of the balsam-wood. To right and left stretched the little path, carpeted with reddish needles. Glimpses of the bay shone through the thinned branches. It was as blue, clear, golden, as during the first days when they sat here together. Yet there was a change. The water’s glitter was cruder and colder, the sky had- the blueness of an icicle, the hill— 167 Truth and a Woman ' tops showed their grim granite, the breeze brought the scent of drying sweet- fern and bay, and an acrid whiff of dead goldenrod. The}? scene was the same; summer only was lacking. All this passed through Geraint’s mind as he sat delib— erating what to reply. His profile was turned toward her, and her eyes yearned on him as she looked. “What do you think? ’.’ she asked slowly. “I am afraid, ” said Geraint, slowly, “that you run the risk of a refusal.” “ After what I have just told you? ” “You forget, or else ignore,” he said, “ the man you are going to marry, and his relation toward the organization your bishop represents.” “But he speaks to you, Arthur; I’ve seen him. ”_ “My dear Mary, he is a man of the world, he speaks to everybody.” ' _ “ You think he would refuse to marry us, because of your private opinions?” she cried. I68 Truth and a Woman “They are not private, that’s the trou- ble. And in any case,” Geraint went on, as she remained silent, “I think I would rather you did not ask him. ’1 “But why?” “Can’t you see, dear? I am going to be married in a church for your sake, in— consistent with my expressed, my reit- erated views though it is. I have no part in the church or her sacraments—to me their influence is negative, if not bad. The sanctity of our marriage takes nothing from the place, to me I mean; still it seems a necessary concession, and I am going to make it. Find some quiet, obscure, sin- cere little church, and some quiet, obscure, honest minister in it, and I will stand up with you before him as I would before any good man. But to ask your bishop—the High Churchman—the apostle of all the frippery I so detest; your bishop with whOm I’ve had many a tilt in the press; ask him to administer in person, and publicly to 169 . .r ‘_"m’w.,.,. qu rum.” “aw Truth and a Woman, me, one of their sacraments! Well, I think a sense of humor should forbid it, Mary, if nothing else. ” “I am sure he would do it,” she per— sisted; “between ourselves, Arthur, I don’t think he could well refuse a Lang- lcmd. ” “If he consented, I should utterly despise him, ” said Geraint; “but he is an honest man and he will not consent. Be- sides, you forget that a woman takes the social standing of her husband.” She had spoken wholly unconscious of wounding him, and at these words she herself was wounded. She thought him cold, when he was only impersonal and taking it for granted that she was also. Therefore, instead of making the warm, proud assent which rose to her lips, she became herself quiet and cold. If she could only rouse him to a rush of emotion, she thought~the rules of the game re- quired the man to yield and the woman 17o Truth and a Woman to hold back. She must exert her power. “I don’t agree with you,” said she; “ and I would rather ask him.” “I beg that you will not, Mary. ”- “ But you will consent if I ask it,” she looked at him, “for my sake—because you love me? ” “ But it isn’t a question of love!” cried Geraint; “it’s a question of fitness, a question of taste! I want to spare you the mortification of a refusal.” , “He will not refuse me. ” “Then he is an unfit person to adminis- ter the sacrament in question!” “Arthur!” “You know I don’t want to vex you, Mary; but this proposition isn’t reason— able; it can’t be done.” “I’ll take the responsibility. If you love me, Arthur, as you say— ” “ But that isn’t the question!” “ Surely it is for me to judge?” 171 Truth and a Woman Her voice grew lower and lower, quies- cent. Her heart seemed to herself to be dying slowly, dying of fear. She was looking at him steadily, desperately. If he would only turn and take her into his arms with the tumultuous fire of a month ago! But until he did she must cling to her point. Geraint jumped up, and walked about. “Mary, there are some things a man can’t give up for love. Believe me, a woman does wrong to ask it. I am the best judge of this thing, and you must not do it!” Still no tenderness, no caress! She must go on, she must conquer, or must she say to herself he loved her no longer? She began to speak very slowly. “I have been afraid we have been making a mistake. Now I see it. I think, Arthur, we had better give this up, and let our engagement come to an end.” 172 Truth and a Woman He turned a shocked face toward her. “You are not serious, Mary?” She nodded. Her heart began to beat. Ah, now he would be aroused! How she would move him, and how gloriously she would give in! “I am serious. It is plain that you do not deeply, really love me. You cannot make the smallest concession, you must always put your own wishes first. I think we had better say good by. ” He gazed at her. She spoke quietly; she stood before him pale, and to his eyes determined. How could he, direct, sincere himself, guess her real object? To a nature like Geraint’s, such a speech ad- mitted of no discussion. He bowed his head, murmured something, and turned. Mary held by the bench and closed her eyes. She knew him, she thought—he was proud, but he would come back, and take her in his arms again, imploring. She had never really doubted that he 173 Truth and a Woman would do this. She kept her eyes closed and waited for the exquisite moment. After a long quiver, she reopened them slowly. There was a stillness of hot sunshine upon all the wood. The breeze had dropped; the water fiercely reflected the noonday glare. There was not the sound of a living thing in the world, and even the tap of his very footfall upon the path had utterly ceased. I74 XI “It has ended,” said Dr. Langland, thoughtfully, “ very much as one might have expected. It is true, I had begun to like Geraint fairly well—a fine fellow, with a directness of character which is rare. But they belong to such totally different worlds. ’? His wife did not answer for a moment. The hour was late; the fire had died down. The house was very quiet, and they spoke in low voices. Overhead, a footfall, slow, light, uneasy, paced the floor of Mary’s room. “She has always had her own way, she has been the center of things all her life,” he proceeded, half to himself. “ I can see . her now, tiny, delicate, dark—eyed crea- ture, imperious, dramatic. For she acted ——acted always; even her affections and sorrows were tinged with it. Her child- I75 Truth and a Woman hood was full of storms. And my father and my step—mother laughed, cajoled, admired—never restrained. She never knew the meaning of the word ‘renuncia— tion.’ ” “She is learning it to—night, ’_’ said Joan, who was crying quietly. , “Poor child!” said the brother, and asked again, “What was it she said to you?” “She came in,” Mrs. Langland’s voice trembled, “ and I saw at once something » was wrong. I did not stop to think, I just cried out, ‘Oh, Mary, what is it?’ She pushed off my hand, and then she said, ‘You ought to know, Joan, that my engagement is broken.’ And I just stood there and said stupidly, ‘Oh, Mary, why?’ Ralph, she turned on the stairs and looked at me, and said, ‘Be- cause he found me out.’ What could she have meant by that?” The Doctor shook his head in silence. I76 Truth and a Woman In the pause, the troubled footstep moved to and fro. Mrs. Langland crept closer to her husband. “Do you hear?” she whispered; “she has not stopped once, and it is so late! Oh, Ralph, can I do anything?” “Dear, I don’t believe you can.” Dr. Langland threw his cigar into the ashes with a movement of perpleXity. “If I only had not doubted the whole thing from the first, if only—but there! Do you think she cares for this man, Joan? ” “Oh, Ralph; and listen to that! ” “Then what’s it all about?” said Dr. Langland, roughly. Joan’s wet eyes an- swered him. “I don’t know,” said she, simply; “but I know she loves him. ” “Well, well, she’ll get over it, I sup- pose, or—— “Or?” Joan began, but a glance at his face checked her. She saw that he was trying to banish the same thought. I77 Truth and a Woman “Let’s go up,” said he, rising abruptly, to put out the lamp. They mounted the stair, and paused at the door; Joan rapped. “Mary, dear,” said her sweet, ill-assured voice, “it is very late! Do go to bed!” .“Dear Joan, don’t worry!” came from within. “I shall go very soon. ” Dr. and Mrs. Langland passed in silence to their own room. At the voice their eyes had met, but they kept silence until the door was safely shut behind them. . , “I shall take her down to see Bernard next week, ” remarked the Doctor, de— cidedly, as he turned the key in the lock. But in this determination he was balked by his sister herself. She appeared at the breakfast—table, a stiffened, pallid, terrify- ing figure, whose eyes gave the lie to the forcedly natural voice and manner. After— wards she played horse with the children,‘ ran until she gasped for breath, decked 178 Truth and a Woman out in the reins and bells; ran until strength left her, and she sank down, warding off the embraces of her little drivers, who saw no difference between their own spontaneous and her tragic gayety. Joan came out, and begged her to stop; but “ No!” she cried and was off again—— Billy screaming at her heels, the bells jingling in her flight. And Joan stood on the veranda, and wept foolish tears. All day they beheld Mary thus, lifting with sheer effort the weight of her daily life. Before lunch she read to Joan, read in a brazen voice, without faltering. At the meal she chattered fast, and they saw how her will made her swallow a few mouthfuls. Then, disregarding all pro- test, she took the boat out for two hours, and returned, drenched with spray, beat- en with weariness. “I’m so tired. I be- lieve I could take a nap,” she said, with a faint satisfaction; and going up to her I79 Truth and a Woman room dropped at once into a sleep of exhaustion. ~ The sight of this daily, terrible effort of will had its effect even on Dr. Langland. He tried to assert an authority, to announce his plan, but the raising of her hand, the darkening of her gaze, checked him. When he suggested leaving Clear Harbor, she replied that she meant to stay; when he commanded, she smiled; when he urged a physician, she ignored him. She seemed to be sustained by a desperate, danger- ous, fateful courage; and she made her silent fight, like a mountain-climber on a glissade—a glissade leading to a gulf. By a continuous physical exercise followed by deadening physical exhaustion, she managed to shut out thought, and inch by inch, hour by hour, day by day, she kept herself in hand. Joan’s heart ached for her; Joan’s pas- sionate prayers rose for her; Joan, waking at midnight, stifled her own sobs at the 180 Truth and a Woman sound of the fatal footfall from the adjoin- ing room. So the weeks passed, the mockery of the September’s banners and pageantry, the splendor of color on the hills, in the even— ing skies, on the shouting, wind—beaten seas. To Mary Langland it seemed as though the outlook upon landscape and sea, the glitter, the cold aurora after sun— set, were eaten into her soul as by a corro— sive acid. The memory of what had passed infested the place with a taint; she felt that there was no hatred equal to, her hate of Clear Harbor—of its hard color, its pitiless wind, its treacherous sea; and there were times when she could hardly restrain her impulse to run away. V She stayed until her customary date, the first of October; and then left to make a round of Visits near New York. . Her brother and sister-in—law were far from satisfied; they parted from her reluctantly enough; but the fact that she seemed 181 Truth and a Wornan willing to make the visits had its encour- agement. ‘ A month later Dr. Langland received a letter from her, written at her town house. It told him, briefly and lightly, that she was feeling rather badly, that the aunt who chaperoned her was worried, and that she would like to see him. , Dr. Langland dropped everything and went at once, cursing his own lack of au- thority. The house had all the unrest- ful, shrouded appearance of a place un— prepared for a sudden arrival. Mary’s aunt was out, but her brother was shown at once into her own boudoir. Here, at least, was comparative order. Silver trinkets were in their cabinet, photo- graphs of Betsy, and Billy stood on the mantel-shelf, a clear fire took off the chill of disuse, white fur rugs lay on the floor, and great vases of roses stood about. Not that Ralph Langland noticed these things; his attention was concentrated 182 Truth and a Woman upon his sister. She greeted him with a smile, curiously distant and indifferent and idle. He sat down, frowning. The crisp autumn weather hardly war- ranted the ermine cloak in which she had wrapped herself. Seen against the yel— lowish fur, her face was dead white. The temples had grown transparent to the beating of veins there. Her eyes were contracted and dull; there was a little wrinkle of pain between the brows. He noticed the prominent cheek—bones. “ How long have you been running down like this?” he asked, curtly. “Why do you wear that fur thing in this hot room? ” She had been chilly, chilly to her finger— tips; but somehow, she answered Ralph perversely. His matter-of—factness jarred her always. She did not understand that his abruptness was due to anxiety. So she answered, deprecatingly: “It is so becoming—and I hate an ugly invalid!’f 183 Truth and a Woman Dr. Ralph snorted. “ So even for me— you must get yourself up like an actress! What’s been the trouble?” She smiled at the epithet, and went on, ‘ still idly, to tell him about herself. Her nervous headaches had increased; until during last week she had had almost no sleep. Then yesterday a rather long fainting—fit had much alarmed her aunt. To-day she felt better, but strangely weak; she really did not seem to have the strength to dress. She thought, perhaps, it was best for her to see a doctor. “ I shall go to see Bernard myself ;” with these words Dr. Langland rose. “Of course you will not go out this morn- ing. His office hours are on now, but I’ll see if he will not come here first on his round.” “But Ralph, stop a minute! You know how busy Dr. Bernard always is. He may not be able to come for ever so long. And I’m so nervously tired. If I could 184 Truth and a woman only get a nap. Can’t you give me some— thing to make me sleep? ” He considered. “Ah, please do!” Mary begged; “I hardly feel that it’s fair to Dr. Bernard, when so much of my shakiness is due to lack of sleep. And he may not get here till afternoon.” “Well, it won’t hurt, I daresay. I’ll send you something when I pass the druggist’s. Let aunty give it to you, mind, or Foster, it can’t be carelessly taken. She can keep it in her room, too. I’ll be back just as soon as I can get through.” She nodded at him gratefully. “ Tell them to send me up the newspaper, ” she said as he left the room. ’ Dr. Langland went downstairs. His first anxiety had been in a measure re- lieved by her tone and manner; neverthe- less, he was going to get Bernard as quickly as possible. He spoke in the hall 185 Truth and a Woman to Parry, Who had been his father’s but— ler and was devoted to “Miss Mary. ” “ Parry, when the doctor comes, send him up to Miss Mary’s sitting—room. ” “Yes, sir.” “ And When Miss Vansant comes in give her this.” He scribbled a feW lines to reassure Mary’s rather nervous relative, unheeding the butler’s remarks: “Miss Vansant didn’t want to go out, sir, but she had to. You see they only came in last night, and we are all upset. She told me to tell you she did not Wish to leave Miss Mary, but Miss Mary made her.” “Oh, I understand! Take up the morn- ing paper, Will you?” Then Dr. Langland snatched his hat, and hurried at his quick, energetic pace in the direction of the apothecary’s. There were his own patients to be thOught of, and he had no time to lose. Mary’s maid tapped softly on her door, 186 Truth and a Woman and begged to know how Miss Langland was feeling, and if there was anything to do. “Rather better, I think, Foster. Yes; pull up the shade. I’ll just glance at that paper. What time is it? ” “ Not yet ten o’clock, ’m. ” “You might put the kettle on, ” said Mary; “ I may feel like a cup of tea, prese ently. Oh, and Foster, when the medi- cine comes just bring it here to me. Per— ' fect nonsense, ” she told herself indiga nantly, “to give it to aunty. Ralph loves to plague me.” Foster filled the kettle, and lit the alcohol lamp beneath, stirred the fire, wheeled Mary’s couch nearer the window, and departed on multitudinous house- hold duties. The room was very peaceful and sunny. After a time the kettle began to croon softly to itself. The rose scent was warm in the air, and Mary inhaled it with pleas- ure. " 187 Truth and a Woman She was too weak to have any sensa- tions to speak of. Sleep was her only de- sire, and this quiet seemed to promise it. Her hair felt heavy, she loosened the long braids. For a long five minutes she lay, watching the sunshine touch the rose— petals in the window, and hearing the whispered chat between the fire and the tea—kettle. She was conscious of having, temporarily at least, worn out the capa- city for feeling; conscious of a mere animal- like enjoyment of warmth and scent and sunshine, of a physical numbness and drowsiness. It was with this quiescence, this negative condition of relief, that she picked up the newspaper, and opened it. “Among the scientists who will gather this morning at the Ethical Congress is Professor Arthur Geraint of the Biological Department at Chillingworth University. He is well known for his agnostic writ- ings, and will read a paper at the session. He is staying —” There followed the 188 Truth and a Woman name of the hotel. She read it a second, a third time. Then she knew, then she understood, that the very foundations of her pride had crumbled at the name— that her soul knew she must see him to live. The knowledge was instantaneous, fundamental, and certain. She drew breath and sat up; the newspaper slid to the floor. She passed her hand over her forehead, and drew it away, wet with perspiration. Medicine! The doctors! Why, she had been dying all these weeks, and now she must live, she must live! The soul had its supply of life like the body, and hers had been cut off. Why had she let him go? Because she had not guessed, had not known what she knew now. It had needed this daily withering, this hourly drying up, this spiritual suffocation and revolt, to teach her that he was her life. Now she was afraid of death—struggled away from it, desperately. Ah, he had 189 7 r_.~e';~—{e W, ' Truth and a Woman loved her once! Perhaps he loved her then, perhaps he loved her now! And if not, at least there would not be this slow dying, there would be a sharp blow, a fierce agony—then the end. It would not be that either, for she had made him love her before, she would make him love her again, she would be so piteous, so intense, so humble! She threw off her cloak and stood up. “The room’s burning up!” she cried aloud, and threw open the window. Below was the quiet, ordinary street. She paced up and down feverishly while she thought. The meeting was to begin at half—past eleven. There was time to get word to him, to bring him at once. All her weak- ness had vanished. She felt erect and strong—a warrior going to battle. She stood at the open window, and drew in breaths of the crisp air which was begin— ning to get raw. Clouds covered the sky, and the sunshine was gone. 190 Truth and a Woman _ She sat down and wrote him a mad little note. She folded and sealed it and rang for Foster. She heard with incredulous ears the hall—clock chime a quarter—past ten. “ I want James to take this at once,” she told the maid. “He must give it to the gentleman to whom it is addressed, and let me know when he returns. What have you there?” “A parcel from the druggist’s, ma’am.’ ’ She snatched the bottle, and set it on her desk. She laughed out loud at the thought of a sleeping—draught. Then she caught the curious gaze of Foster. “Take the note at once!” said she, and shut the door in the maid’s face. She walked the floor, talking to herself. She rang the bell every ten minutes for James till he returned. James was a young footman, rosy, embarrassed, and respectful. He was a little afraid of his mistress as she stood there, tense with impatience. 191 Truth and. a Woman “The clerk at the hotel said the gentle- man was in his room, ma’am. A bell—boy took the note right up.” “Very well, you can go.” She looked at the clock in the next room. Half an hour would certainly bring him, but in order to provide against every possible contingency, she would not begin to expect him for an hour. “And I’ll rest! I’ll rest!” she whis- pered. Her face was burning, as her mind burnt with wild fancies of abnegation, and devotion, and passion. She put herself into her long chair again. The scent of roses was heavier in the room, and the disregarded kettle hummed and bubbled. She closed her eyes, laid back her head, and waited. 192 XII It never occurred to the rosy and re— spectful James to doubt the word of the magnificent individual behind the desk of the hotel. He saw his mistress’s note carried off by a bell-boy, and so retired with the serenity of a mission fulfilled. As a matter of fact, the bell—boy had a flirtation with a chamber-maid on the back stairs. This impeded the progress of the note some fifteen or twenty minutes, and when at last the bell-boy ran with it the rest of the flight, Geraint was quietly descending in the elevator. The boy brought the note back to the desk, with word that the “gentleman had gone out.” The head—clerk considered during a half—hour of many duties. Unquestion— ably his jurisdiction did not extend beyond the doors of the hotel, and yet he carried I93 Truth and a Woman distinctly in mind the smart, quiet livery of the rosy and respectful James. During a few seconds’ leisure he examined the note, and the quality of the stationery was not without effect. It chanced that he knew who and where Geraint was. He called a boy, and dispatched him with the missive to the hall where the Ethical Congress was holding its opening session. Thus, a full hour from the date of its supposed delivery, was Mary’s letter hand— ed to Arthur Geraint, where he sat on the stage, waiting for the introductory address to conclude, before rising himself. The sight of the square blue—gray en— velope sent all the lights of the auditorium dancing before his eyes. He was one of a row of men, the youngest present, although it is true that his temples had frosted a little since the summer. The row sat, immobile, attentive; Professor A., monist; Professor 3, ethical culturist; Mr. C., positivist; and the Reverend D., Rabbi. I94 Truth and a Woman Weary faces all, elderly, worn, and sad— dened; gray and thoughtful faces, with the gaze of reflection or of contemplation. All seemed to Geraint to wear a quiet indifference, as if life and feeling had not the power to sway them any longer. Strange place, strange company, in which to receive Mary’s mad little note, fierce with human pain and passion, whose craving words seemed almost to scorch the paper on which they were written! That “ Come to me, come to me!” which was its burden. What could he do? He was the next speaker, the chief speaker in— deed on that morning’s programme, some— thing of an honorable position. Could he excuse himself now—impossible! It would be an insult to the Committee, to the audience, to those elder men who had come to listen. Yet to remain—with her words calling him, with the giddy thought of her caress, of reconciliation—this was torture, like the durance of imprisonment. I95 Truth and a Woman But Arthur Geraint had never hesitated at what he believed to be right; he might be harsh, austere, but he held his code straitly, and he did not now hesitate. He sighed restlessly. Oh, to see her again, to ask pardon, to forget their differ- ences, to remember only their joys! He had suffered keenly, although he had work, health, and the power to’ make them fruitful. He had never quite under- stood it all. He had waited and waited for her to send some word. He had tried to embitter himself with the thought that she had never cared as he had cared. He had told himself that she had not been wholly open with him, that those last weeks had been touched with dis- trust which their parting had merely crys— tallized. Some hint of her uncertainty, of her fear, had reached him—and made him conscious of her reserves. The thought that she had played, pretended ——-this he could not bear. The note mo— 196 Truth and a Woman mentarily dispelled the suspicion, but it had been there. Even now, his first, in— tensest feeling was that this time there would be no shuffling, she would be open, sincere, courageous, they would take life from a new standpoint, and they would be everything to each other. The audience broke into decorous clap- ping as the speaker ended, an applause which swelled into a welcome when Ge- praint slowly rose. He walked forward and laid his papers upon the reading—desk. He put her note away into his pocket, and faced the deeply attentive silence in the audience. All the strength in him rose in one swift violent effort to command him- self and his subject, to blot out those tumultuous memories, to check and con- trol the fever which possessed him. The roll of manuscript seemed so thick, so close! He glanced at the title, and in a fury of impatience at his own modera- tion, deliberately changed it. With his I97 Truth and a Woman watch in his hand, he announced as his subject: “ Some Debasing Influences of Christian— ity. ” * =1: * * :1: At last it was over. He felt that he had not done badly. But he had neither savored the subject nor relished the effect. He had thrown at the crowd his irony, his denunciation, and his appeal, and had seen them spurred and swayed. He had not cared. He had been conscious, without triumph, of producing a sensation, deep— ening it by his epithets, heightening it by his scorn. He had been perfectly con— scious of a wave of antagonism. He felt quite indifferent. He merely dragged the burden of these moments which kept him from her. Even the Committee, knowing him, were amazed. The gray, elderly faces were alert and uneasy; glances under raised eyebrows went from one to another 198 v .1 ' - ‘ "Fawn; ‘ '- v r “3"!5‘1?” .\" ' ‘ ........ '3'...’ ’ _ xi“. , u, .msxzwu. Truth and a Woman of the line. “ He must be younger than . we thought,” a whisper ran. “How long since you and I have felt like that!” And when he finished, amid faint and timid clapping, the chairman was doubly surprised to find Geraint apparently so regardless of what he had done, so anxious to get away. They let him go; they breathed perhaps more freely when he was gone. Geraint hurried into the street. It was a cloudy noon, with a raw, rising wind. The time was after one. He would not let himself think, he shut out thought and ran for a car. At the bottom of his heart there was a vague anxiety and terror. It was not at all unnatural, seeing his frock—coat and his air of authority, that Parry should have taken him for the eX— pected doctor, and ushered him upstairs immediately. There was a door ajar, at which Parry knocked, and in response to a murmur, motioned to Geraint. He I99 Truth and a Woman pushed open the door, entered, and closed it behind him. The room was rose—scented, and warm and still. There was a couch with a heap of white fur on it. The fire had gone out. Mary stood beside her desk, holding by it. At his step she turned, and they faced one another. He saw her face, shriveled and wan, and how she clutched the desk for support, and the steady frightened piteousness of her eyes. “Well?” he said. His battling emotions made his voice deep and very quiet, for that was his way. She swayed at the sound, and there came an odd light into her face. “You are too late,” she said. “What do you mean?” Her eyes watched, entreated, as if watching, entreating for a sign. The voice came brokenly from her lips. “I thought—you were not coming. I thought —you did not care. I waited—so long! 200 :u figuéyifimyw'r Truth and :a Woman So I took—” She made a little gesture from where she stood, and ‘Geraint saw a small, dark, corrugated bottle there by her hand. “ Mary!” he cried, frozen. Still her piteous eyes watched. “What matter?” she whispered; “you did not care!” , “Oh, God!” cried Geraint in a gasp. The fear and horror together took action from him. He had her in his arms, he held her there, he kissed her eyes, her hair, her thin hands, he panted out mad words with his mouth against hers. Her weak grasp held him. He saw the last touch of utter happiness in her face, the swim- ming eyes, the half—open mouth, under the fire of his words, the storm of his kisses. He struggled to escape, to go for help, but she clung to him, panting. “No, wait! No——!” I Then he felt her weight in his arms. The long seconds it took to cross the 201 Truth and a Woman room, the dash downstairs, the sight of Dr. Langland in the lower hall, Geraint will remember to the end of life. He grasped the physician’s coat-sleeve and met his gaze. “Your sister has taken—poison!” The low words sent a pallor all over the other’s face. He shook ofl Geraint’s hand, and they turned upstairs, racing in silence. Ralph opened the door. The room was warm, and rose-scented and still, utterly still. Mary Langland lay, face downward, upon a chair. 202 XIII [FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM Mrss VAN- SANT, NEW YORK, To THE REV. JULIAN ANSTYCE, COWLEY, ENGLAND] * * * * You have already my cabled reply to your message. This is the first moment I have had to give you any de- tails. What has passed is bewildering to all of us, but I will tell you all I know myself. The trouble was in her fainting ——-but I must try to be more coherent. It seems evident that she grasped at the pretense of having taken poison as a final, desperate, pitiful effort to move him and win him back. Had she been able to carry out her plan, why then, in his arms, forgiven, beloved, held against his breast— she was perhaps right in thinking that his relief would have made her deception seem trifling and unimportant. But she had undergone a long strain, and the sub- 203 Truth and a Woman tle irony of nature swept her conscious- ness from her at the moment of confession. Geraint, of course, thought death had come, and rushed for help. In the hall he found Ralph. So it chanced that when she revived it was not alone with her lover, and that lover shaken and softened ——but before Ralph also; Ralph holding the untouched bottle in his hand, and furiously angry. I have told Ralph that I think he was harsh. He took the worst possible time to speak, and the worst possible view of her deception. And it appears, moreover, that he had always doubted her real feel- ings, doubted the engagement, even sus- pected her of sending Geraint away for effect, and of recalling him for no better reason. What had passed seemed to him proof of insincerity, sensationalism. You will say how could he, how could he! as I did—and then how could Geraintl—but- they are alike in many ways! 204. wax: 5‘ ...- s.“ i _ 7.. a. 1 u—A—e . . ~ 4 Al‘s . .k'.: . ,. « » A ' l.,, 1.,“ . wnwtzkpgavvmmfl’flflwgfif Truth and a Woman I do not know what Ralph said, some scathing accusation of malingering, of playing on her lover’s feelings, which must have cut Geraint to the quick. Then Ralph came out leaving them together, and in a few moments Geraint followed with a face like a stone. I saw him leave the house. When I went in to Mary she had fainted again, and she revived only to fall into a frightful convulsion. Dr. Bernard pronounced it meningitis. He says very little. Though the acute " stage of her illness is now, I trust, past, she seems to make no gain whatever toward convalescence. She is docile and quiet, lies without interest or movement, does not speak, does not smile. She did not even look up when Joan brought the children to the door. Oh, Julian, it may be true that she has brought this on herself—but the currents ' are so swift, and some of us set forth in such rough waters! 205 Truth and a Woman We women, do we not lack courage, faith, knowledge; are we not, all of us, apt to be led in crises by some travestying impulse of mere melodrama? Yet, oh 'poor Mary! We do not often pay for this reproach as she has paid. Lost, broken as she is, I cannot but look on her as one who has seen sights and storms belonging to other more passionate times than ours. That last scene between them, what it must have been! THE END. 206 PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS COMPANY, AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. i g ‘51.“; aigm‘h.