THE DESCENT OF MAN

AND OTHER STORIES

BY EDITH WHARTON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE DESCENT OF MAN, AND OTHER STORIES

The Descent of Man

The Other Two

Expiation

The Lady's Maid's Bell

The Mission of Jane

The Reckoning

The Letter

The Dilettante

The Quicksand

A Venetian Night's Entertainment

THE DESCENT OF MAN

I

When Professor Linyard came back from his holiday in the Maine woodsthe air of rejuvenation he brought with him was due less to theinfluences of the climate than to the companionship he had enjoyed onhis travels. To Mrs. Linyard's observant eye he had appeared to set outalone; but an invisible traveller had in fact accompanied him, and ifhis heart beat high it was simply at the pitch of his adventure: forthe Professor had eloped with an idea. 

No one who has not tried the experiment can divine its exhilaration. Professor Linyard would not have changed places with any hero ofromance pledged to a flesh-and-blood abduction. The most fascinatingfemale is apt to be encumbered with luggage and scruples: to take up agood deal of room in the present and overlap inconveniently into thefuture; whereas an idea can accommodate itself to a single molecule ofthe brain or expand to the circumference of the horizon. TheProfessor's companion had to the utmost this quality of adaptability. As the express train whirled him away from the somewhat inelasticcircle of Mrs. Linyard's affections, his idea seemed to be sittingopposite him, and their eyes met every moment or two in a glance ofjoyous complicity; yet when a friend of the family presently joined himand began to talk about college matters, the idea slipped out of sightin a flash, and the Professor would have had no difficulty in provingthat he was alone. 

But if, from the outset, he found his idea the most agreeable offellow-travellers, it was only in the aromatic solitude of the woodsthat he tasted the full savour of his adventure. There, during the longcool August days, lying full length on the pine-needles and gazing upinto the sky, he would meet the eyes of his companion bending over himlike a nearer heaven. And what eyes they were!--clear yet unfathomable, bubbling with inexhaustible laughter, yet drawing their freshness andsparkle from the central depths of thought! To a man who for twentyyears had faced an eye reflecting the obvious with perfect accuracy, these escapes into the inscrutable had always been peculiarly inviting;but hitherto the Professor's mental infidelities had been restricted byan unbroken and relentless domesticity. Now, for the first time sincehis marriage, chance had given him six weeks to himself, and he wascoming home with his lungs full of liberty. 

It must not be inferred that the Professor's domestic relations weredefective: they were in fact so complete that it was almost impossibleto get away from them. It is the happy husbands who are really inbondage; the little rift within the lute is often a passage to freedom. Marriage had given the Professor exactly what he had sought in it; acomfortable lining to life. The impossibility of rising to sentimentalcrises had made him scrupulously careful not to shirk the practicalobligations of the bond. He took as it were a sociological view of hiscase, and modestly regarded himself as a brick in that foundation onwhich the state is supposed to rest. Perhaps if Mrs. Linyard had caredabout entomology, or had taken sides in the war over the transmissionof acquired characteristics, he might have had a less impersonal notionof marriage; but he was unconscious of any deficiency in theirrelation, and if consulted would probably have declared that he didn'twant any woman bothering with his beetles. His real life had alwayslain in the universe of thought, in that enchanted region which, tothose who have lingered there, comes to have so much more colour andsubstance than the painted curtain hanging before it. The Professor'sparticular veil of Maia was a narrow strip of homespun woven in amonotonous pattern; but he had only to lift it to step into an empire. 

This unseen universe was thronged with the most seductive shapes: theProfessor moved Sultan-like through a seraglio of ideas. But of all thelovely apparitions that wove their spells about him, none had ever wornquite so persuasive an aspect as this latest favourite. For the otherswere mostly rather grave companions, serious-minded and elevatingenough to have passed muster in a Ladies' Debating Club; but this newfancy of the Professor's was simply one embodied laugh. It was, inother words, the smile of relaxation at the end of a long day's toil:the flash of irony that the laborious mind projects, irresistibly, overlabour conscientiously performed. The Professor had always been a hardworker. If he was an indulgent friend to his ideas, he was also a sterntask-master to them. For, in addition to their other duties, they hadto support his family: to pay the butcher and baker, and provide forJack's schooling and Millicent's dresses. The Professor's household wasa modest one, yet it tasked his ideas to keep it up to his wife'sstandard. Mrs. Linyard was not an exacting wife, and she took enoughpride in her husband's attainments to pay for her honours by turningMillicent's dresses and darning Jack's socks, and going to the Collegereceptions year after year in the same black silk with shiny seams. Itconsoled her to see an occasional mention of Professor Linyard'sremarkable monograph on the Ethical Reactions of the Infusoria, or anallusion to his investigations into the Unconscious Cerebration of theAmoeba. 

Still there were moments when the healthy indifference of Jack andMillicent reacted on the maternal sympathies; when Mrs. Linyard wouldhave made her husband a railway-director, if by this transformation shemight have increased her boy's allowance and given her daughter a newhat, or a set of furs such as the other girls were wearing. Of suchmoments of rebellion the Professor himself was not wholly unconscious. He could not indeed understand why any one should want a new hat; andas to an allowance, he had had much less money at college than Jack, and had yet managed to buy a microscope and collect a few "specimens";while Jack was free from such expensive tastes! But the Professor didnot let his want of sympathy interfere with the discharge of hispaternal obligations. He worked hard to keep the wants of his familygratified, and it was precisely in the endeavor to attain this end thathe at length broke down and had to cease from work altogether. 

To cease from work was not to cease from thought of it; and in theunwonted pause from effort the Professor found himself taking a generalsurvey of the field he had travelled. At last it was possible to lifthis nose from the loom, to step a moment in front of the tapestry hehad been weaving. From this first inspection of the pattern so longwrought over from behind, it was natural to glance a little farther andseek its reflection in the public eye. It was not indeed of his specialtask that he thought in this connection. He was but one of the greatarmy of weavers at work among the threads of that cosmic woof; and whathe sought was the general impression their labour had produced. 

When Professor Linyard first plied his microscope, the audience of theman of science had been composed of a few fellow-students, sympatheticor hostile as their habits of mind predetermined, but versed in thejargon of the profession and familiar with the point of departure. Inthe intervening quarter of a century, however, this little group hadbeen swallowed up in a larger public. Every one now read scientificbooks and expressed an opinion on them. The ladies and the clergy hadtaken them up first; now they had passed to the school-room and thekindergarten. Daily life was regulated on scientific principles; thedaily papers had their "Scientific Jottings"; nurses passedexaminations in hygienic science, and babies were fed and dandledaccording to the new psychology. 

The very fact that scientific investigation still had, to some minds, aflavour of heterodoxy, gave it a perennial interest. The mob had brokendown the walls of tradition to batten in the orchard of forbiddenknowledge. The inaccessible goddess whom the Professor had served inhis youth now offered her charms in the market-place. And yet it wasnot the same goddess after all, but a pseudo-science masquerading inthe garb of the real divinity. This false goddess had her ritual andher literature. She had her sacred books, written by false priests andsold by millions to the faithful. In the most successful of theseworks, ancient dogma and modern discovery were depicted in a closeembrace under the lime-lights of a hazy transcendentalism; and thetableau never failed of its effect. Some of the books designed on thispopular model had lately fallen into the Professor's hands, and theyfilled him with mingled rage and hilarity. The rage soon died: he cameto regard this mass of pseudo-literature as protecting the truth fromdesecration. But the hilarity remained, and flowed into the form of hisidea. And the idea--the divine, incomparable idea--was simply that heshould avenge his goddess by satirizing her false interpreters. Hewould write a skit on the "popular" scientific book; he would so heapplatitude on platitude, fallacy on fallacy, false analogy on falseanalogy, so use his superior knowledge to abound in the sense of theignorant, that even the gross crowd would join in the laugh against itsaugurs. And the laugh should be something more than the distension ofmental muscles; it should be the trumpet-blast bringing down the wallsof ignorance, or at least the little stone striking the giant betweenthe eyes. 

II

The Professor, on presenting his card, had imagined that it wouldcommand prompt access to the publisher's sanctuary; but the young manwho read his name was not moved to immediate action. It was clear thatProfessor Linyard of Hillbridge University was not a specific figure tothe purveyors of popular literature. But the publisher was an oldfriend; and when the card had finally drifted to his office on thelanguid tide of routine he came forth at once to greet his visitor. 

The warmth of his welcome convinced the Professor that he had beenright in bringing his manuscript to Ned Harviss. He and Harviss hadbeen at Hillbridge together, and the future publisher had been one ofthe wildest spirits in that band of college outlaws which yearly turnsout so many inoffensive citizens and kind husbands and fathers. TheProfessor knew the taming qualities of life. He was aware that many ofhis most reckless comrades had been transformed into prudentcapitalists or cowed wage-earners; but he was almost sure that he couldcount on Harviss. So rare a sense of irony, so keen a perception ofrelative values, could hardly have been blunted even by twenty years'intercourse with the obvious. 

The publisher's appearance was a little disconcerting. He looked as ifhe had been fattened on popular fiction; and his fat was full ofoptimistic creases. The Professor seemed to see him bowing into hisoffice a long train of spotless heroines laden with the maiden tributeof the hundredth thousand volume. 

Nevertheless, his welcome was reassuring. He did not disown his earlyenormities, and capped his visitor's tentative allusions by suchflagrant references to the past that the Professor produced hismanuscript without a scruple. 

"What--you don't mean to say you've been doing something in our line?"

The Professor smiled. "You publish scientific books sometimes, don'tyou?"

The publisher's optimistic creases relaxed a little. "H'm--it alldepends--I'm afraid you're a little _too_ scientific for us. We have abig sale for scientific breakfast foods, but not for the concentratedessences. In your case, of course, I should be delighted to stretch apoint; but in your own interest I ought to tell you that perhaps one ofthe educational houses would do you better. "

The Professor leaned back, still smiling luxuriously. 

"Well, look it over--I rather think you'll take it. "

"Oh, we'll _take_ it, as I say; but the terms might not--"

"No matter about the terms--"

The publisher threw his head back with a laugh. "I had no idea thatscience was so profitable; we find our popular novelists are thehardest hands at a bargain. "

"Science is disinterested, " the Professor corrected him. "And I have afancy to have you publish this thing. "

"That's immensely good of you, my dear fellow. Of course your name goeswith a certain public--and I rather like the originality of ourbringing out a work so out of our line. I daresay it may boom us both. "His creases deepened at the thought, and he shone encouragingly on theProfessor's leave-taking. 

Within a fortnight, a line from Harviss recalled the Professor to town. He had been looking forward with immense zest to this second meeting;Harviss's college roar was in his tympanum, and he pictured himselffollowing up the protracted chuckle which would follow his friend'sprogress through the manuscript. He was proud of the adroitness withwhich he had kept his secret from Harviss, had maintained to the lastthe pretense of a serious work, in order to give the keener edge to hisreader's enjoyment. Not since under-graduate days had the Professortasted such a draught of pure fun as his anticipations now poured forhim. 

This time his card brought instant admission. He was bowed into theoffice like a successful novelist, and Harviss grasped him with bothhands. 

"Well--do you mean to take it?" he asked, with a lingering coquetry. 

"Take it? Take it, my dear fellow? It's in press already--you'll excusemy not waiting to consult you? There will be no difficulty about terms, I assure you, and we had barely time to catch the autumn market. Mydear Linyard, why didn't you _tell_ me?" His voice sank to areproachful solemnity, and he pushed forward his own arm-chair. 

The Professor dropped into it with a chuckle. "And miss the joy ofletting you find out?"

"Well--it _was_ a joy. " Harviss held out a box of his best cigars. "Idon't know when I've had a bigger sensation. It was so deucedlyunexpected--and, my dear fellow, you've brought it so exactly to theright shop. "

"I'm glad to hear you say so, " said the Professor modestly. 

Harviss laughed in rich appreciation. "I don't suppose you had a doubtof it; but of course I was quite unprepared. And it's soextraordinarily out of your line--"

The Professor took off his glasses and rubbed them with a slow smile. 

"Would you have thought it so--at college?"

Harviss stared. "At college?--Why, you were the most iconoclasticdevil--"

There was a perceptible pause. The Professor restored his glasses andlooked at his friend. "Well--?" he said simply. 

"Well--?" echoed the other, still staring. "Ah--I see; you mean thatthat's what explains it. The swing of the pendulum, and so forth. Well, I admit it's not an uncommon phenomenon. I've conformed myself, forexample; most of our crowd have, I believe; but somehow I hadn'texpected it of you. "

The close observer might have detected a faint sadness under theofficial congratulation of his tone; but the Professor was too amazedto have an ear for such fine shades. 

"Expected it of me? Expected what of me?" he gasped. "What in heaven doyou think this thing is?" And he struck his fist on the manuscriptwhich lay between them. 

Harviss had recovered his optimistic creases. He rested a benevolenteye on the document. 

"Why, your apologia--your confession of faith, I should call it. Yousurely must have seen which way you were going? You can't have writtenit in your sleep?"

"Oh, no, I was wide awake enough, " said the Professor faintly. 

"Well, then, why are you staring at me as if I were _not?"_ Harvissleaned forward to lay a reassuring hand on his visitor's worncoat-sleeve. "Don't mistake me, my dear Linyard. Don't fancy there wasthe least unkindness in my allusion to your change of front. What isgrowth but the shifting of the stand-point? Why should a man beexpected to look at life with the same eyes at twenty and at--our age?It never occurred to me that you could feel the least delicacy inadmitting that you have come round a little--have fallen into line, soto speak. "

But the Professor had sprung up as if to give his lungs more room toexpand; and from them there issued a laugh which shook the editorialrafters. 

"Oh, Lord, oh Lord--is it really as good as that?" he gasped. 

Harviss had glanced instinctively toward the electric bell on his desk;it was evident that he was prepared for an emergency. 

"My dear fellow--" he began in a soothing tone. 

"Oh, let me have my laugh out, do, " implored the Professor. "I'll--I'llquiet down in a minute; you needn't ring for the young man. " He droppedinto his chair again, and grasped its arms to steady his shaking. "Thisis the best laugh I've had since college, " he brought out between hisparoxysms. And then, suddenly, he sat up with a groan. "But if it's asgood as that it's a failure!" he exclaimed. 

Harviss, stiffening a little, examined the tip of his cigar. "My dearLinyard, " he said at length, "I don't understand a word you're saying. "

The Professor succumbed to a fresh access, from the vortex of which hemanaged to fling out--"But that's the very core of the joke!"

Harviss looked at him resignedly. "What is?"

"Why, your not seeing--your not understanding--"

"Not understanding _what?"_

"Why, what the book is meant to be. " His laughter subsided again and hesat gazing thoughtfully at the publisher. "Unless it means, " he woundup, "that I've over-shot the mark. "

"If I am the mark, you certainly have, " said Harviss, with a glance atthe clock. 

The Professor caught the glance and interpreted it. "The book is askit, " he said, rising. 

The other stared. "A skit? It's not serious, you mean?"

"Not to me--but it seems you've taken it so. "

"You never told me--" began the publisher in a ruffled tone. 

"No, I never told you, " said the Professor. 

Harviss sat staring at the manuscript between them. "I don't pretend tobe up in such recondite forms of humour, " he said, still stiffly. "Ofcourse you address yourself to a very small class of readers. "

"Oh, infinitely small, " admitted the Professor, extending his handtoward the manuscript. 

Harviss appeared to be pursuing his own train of thought. "That is, " hecontinued, "if you insist on an ironical interpretation. "

"If I insist on it--what do you mean?"

The publisher smiled faintly. "Well--isn't the book susceptible ofanother? If _I_ read it without seeing--"

"Well?" murmured the other, fascinated. --"why shouldn't the rest of theworld?" declared Harviss boldly. "I represent the AverageReader--that's my business, that's what I've been training myself to dofor the last twenty years. It's a mission like another--the thing is todo it thoroughly; not to cheat and compromise. I know fellows who arepublishers in business hours and dilettantes the rest of the time. Well, they never succeed: convictions are just as necessary in businessas in religion. But that's not the point--I was going to say that ifyou'll let me handle this book as a genuine thing I'll guarantee tomake it go. "

The Professor stood motionless, his hand still on the manuscript. 

"A genuine thing?" he echoed. 

"A serious piece of work--the expression of your convictions. I tellyou there's nothing the public likes as much as convictions--they'llalways follow a man who believes in his own ideas. And this book isjust on the line of popular interest. You've got hold of a big thing. It's full of hope and enthusiasm: it's written in the religious key. There are passages in it that would do splendidly in a BirthdayBook--things that popular preachers would quote in their sermons. Ifyou'd wanted to catch a big public you couldn't have gone about it in abetter way. The thing's perfect for my purpose--I wouldn't let youalter a word of it. It'll sell like a popular novel if you'll let mehandle it in the right way. "

III

When the Professor left Harviss's office, the manuscript remainedbehind. He thought he had been taken by the huge irony of thesituation--by the enlarged circumference of the joke. In its originalform, as Harviss had said, the book would have addressed itself to avery limited circle: now it would include the world. The elect wouldunderstand; the crowd would not; and his work would thus serve a doublepurpose. And, after all, nothing was changed in the situation; not aword of the book was to be altered. The change was merely in thepublisher's point of view, and in the "tip" he was to give thereviewers. The Professor had only to hold his tongue and look serious. 

These arguments found a strong reinforcement in the large premium whichexpressed Harviss's sense of his opportunity. As a satire, the bookwould have brought its author nothing; in fact, its cost would havecome out of his own pocket, since, as Harviss assured him, no publisherwould have risked taking it. But as a profession of faith, as therecantation of an eminent biologist, whose leanings had hitherto beensupposed to be toward a cold determinism, it would bring in a steadyincome to author and publisher. The offer found the Professor in amoment of financial perplexity. His illness, his unwonted holiday, thenecessity of postponing a course of well-paid lectures, had combined todiminish his resources; and when Harviss offered him an advance of athousand dollars the esoteric savour of the joke became irresistible. It was still as a joke that he persisted in regarding the transaction;and though he had pledged himself not to betray the real intent of thebook, he held _in petto_ the notion of some day being able to take thepublic into his confidence. As for the initiated, they would know atonce: and however long a face he pulled, his colleagues would see thetongue in his cheek. Meanwhile it fortunately happened that, even ifthe book should achieve the kind of triumph prophesied by Harviss, itwould not appreciably injure its author's professional standing. Professor Linyard was known chiefly as a microscopist. On the structureand habits of a certain class of coleoptera he was the mostdistinguished living authority; but none save his intimate friends knewwhat generalizations on the destiny of man he had drawn from thesespecial studies. He might have published a treatise on the Filioquewithout disturbing the confidence of those on whose approval hisreputation rested; and moreover he was sustained by the thought thatone glance at his book would let them into its secret. In fact, so surewas he of this that he wondered the astute Harviss had cared to risksuch speedy exposure. But Harviss had probably reflected that even inthis reverberating age the opinions of the laboratory do not easilyreach the street; and the Professor, at any rate, was not bound tooffer advice on this point. 

The determining cause of his consent was the fact that the book wasalready in press. The Professor knew little about the workings of thepress, but the phrase gave him a sense of finality, of having beencaught himself in the toils of that mysterious engine. If he had hadtime to think the matter over, his scruples might have dragged himback; but his conscience was eased by the futility of resistance. 

IV

Mrs. Linyard did not often read the papers; and there was therefore aspecial significance in her approaching her husband one evening afterdinner with a copy of the _New York Investigator_ in her hand. Herexpression lent solemnity to the act: Mrs. Linyard had a limited butdistinctive set of expressions, and she now looked as she did when thePresident of the University came to dine. 

"You didn't tell me of this, Samuel, " she said in a slightly tremulousvoice. 

"Tell you of what?" returned the Professor, reddening to the margin ofhis baldness. 

"That you had published a book--I might never have heard of it if Mrs. Pease hadn't brought me the paper. "

Her husband rubbed his eye-glasses with a groan. "Oh, you would haveheard of it, " he said gloomily. 

Mrs. Linyard stared. "Did you wish to keep it from me, Samuel?" And ashe made no answer, she added with irresistible pride: "Perhaps youdon't know what beautiful things have been said about it. "

He took the paper with a reluctant hand. "Has Pease been sayingbeautiful things about it?"

"The Professor? Mrs. Pease didn't say he had mentioned it. "

The author heaved a sigh of relief. His book, as Harviss hadprophesied, had caught the autumn market: had caught and captured it. The publisher had conducted the campaign like an experiencedstrategist. He had completely surrounded the enemy. Every newspaper, every periodical, held in ambush an advertisement of "The Vital Thing. "Weeks in advance the great commander had begun to form his lines ofattack. Allusions to the remarkable significance of the coming work hadappeared first in the scientific and literary reviews, spreading thenceto the supplements of the daily journals. Not a moment passed without aquickening touch to the public consciousness: seventy millions ofpeople were forced to remember at least once a day that ProfessorLinyard's book was on the verge of appearing. Slips emblazoned with thequestion: _Have you read "The Vital Thing"?_ fell from the pages ofpopular novels and whitened the floors of crowded street-cars. Thequery, in large lettering, assaulted the traveller at the railwaybookstall, confronted him on the walls of "elevated" stations, andseemed, in its ascending scale, about to supplant the interrogations asto soap and stove-polish which animate our rural scenery. 

On the day of publication, the Professor had withdrawn to hislaboratory. The shriek of the advertisements was in his ears, and hisone desire was to avoid all knowledge of the event they heralded. Areaction of self-consciousness had set in, and if Harviss's cheque hadsufficed to buy up the first edition of "The Vital Thing" the Professorwould gladly have devoted it to that purpose. But the sense ofinevitableness gradually subdued him, and he received his wife's copyof the _Investigator_ with a kind of impersonal curiosity. The reviewwas a long one, full of extracts: he saw, as he glanced over them, howwell they would look in a volume of "Selections. " The reviewer began bythanking his author "for sounding with no uncertain voice that note ofringing optimism, of faith in man's destiny and the supremacy of good, which has too long been silenced by the whining chorus of a decadentnihilism.... It is well, " the writer continued, "when such reminderscome to us not from the moralist but from the man of science--when fromthe desiccating atmosphere of the laboratory there rises this gloriouscry of faith and reconstruction. "

The review was minute and exhaustive. Thanks no doubt to Harviss'sdiplomacy, it had been given to the _Investigator's_ "best man, " andthe Professor was startled by the bold eye with which his emancipatedfallacies confronted him. Under the reviewer's handling they made upadmirably as truths, and their author began to understand Harviss'sregret that they should be used for any less profitable purpose. 

The _Investigator_, as Harviss phrased it, "set the pace, " and theother journals followed, finding it easier to let their criticalman-of-all-work play a variation on the first reviewer's theme than tosecure an expert to "do" the book afresh. But it was evident that theProfessor had captured his public, for all the resources of theprofession could not, as Harviss gleefully pointed out, have carriedthe book so straight to the heart of the nation. There was somethingnoble in the way in which Harviss belittled his own share in theachievement, and insisted on the inutility of shoving a book which hadstarted with such headway on. 

"All I ask you is to admit that I saw what would happen, " he said witha touch of professional pride. "I knew you'd struck the right note--Iknew they'd be quoting you from Maine to San Francisco. Good asfiction? It's better--it'll keep going longer. "

"Will it?" said the Professor with a slight shudder. He was resigned toan ephemeral triumph, but the thought of the book's persistencyfrightened him. 

"I should say so! Why, you fit in everywhere--science, theology, natural history--and then the all-for-the-best element which is sopopular just now. Why, you come right in with the How-to-Relax series, and they sell way up in the millions. And then the book's so full oftenderness--there are such lovely things in it about flowers andchildren. I didn't know an old Dryasdust like you could have such a lotof sentiment in him. Why, I actually caught myself snivelling over thatpassage about the snowdrops piercing the frozen earth; and my wife wassaying the other day that, since she's read 'The Vital Thing, ' shebegins to think you must write the 'What-Cheer Column, ' in the_Inglenook. "_ He threw back his head with a laugh which ended in theinspired cry: "And, by George, sir, when the thing begins to slow offwe'll start somebody writing against it, and that will run us straightinto another hundred thousand. "

And as earnest of this belief he drew the Professor a supplementarycheque. 

V

Mrs. Linyard's knock cut short the importunities of the lady who hadbeen trying to persuade the Professor to be taken by flashlight at hisstudy table for the Christmas number of the _Inglenook_. On this pointthe Professor had fancied himself impregnable; but the unwonted smilewith which he welcomed his wife's intrusion showed that his defenceswere weakening. 

The lady from the _Inglenook_ took the hint with professionalpromptness, but said brightly, as she snapped the elastic around hernote-book: "I shan't let you forget me, Professor. "

The groan with which he followed her retreat was interrupted by hiswife's question: "Do they pay you for these interviews, Samuel?"

The Professor looked at her with sudden attention. "Not directly, " hesaid, wondering at her expression. 

She sank down with a sigh. "Indirectly, then?"

"What is the matter, my dear? I gave you Harviss's second cheque theother day--"

Her tears arrested him. "Don't be hard on the boy, Samuel! I reallybelieve your success has turned his head. "

"The boy--what boy? My success--? Explain yourself, Susan!"

"It's only that Jack has--has borrowed some money--which he can'trepay. But you mustn't think him altogether to blame, Samuel. Since thesuccess of your book he has been asked about so much--it's given thechildren quite a different position. Millicent says that wherever theygo the first question asked is, 'Are you any relation of the author of"The Vital Thing"?' Of course we're all very proud of the book; but itentails obligations which you may not have thought of in writing it. "

The Professor sat gazing at the letters and newspaper clippings on thestudy-table which he had just successfully defended from the camera ofthe _Inglenook_. He took up an envelope bearing the name of a popularweekly paper. 

"I don't know that the _Inglenook_ would help much, " he said, "but Isuppose this might. "

Mrs. Linyard's eyes glowed with maternal avidity. 

"What is it, Samuel?"

"A series of 'Scientific Sermons' for the Round-the-Gas-Log column of_The Woman's World_. I believe that journal has a larger circulationthan any other weekly, and they pay in proportion. "

He had not even asked the extent of Jack's indebtedness. It had been soeasy to relieve recent domestic difficulties by the timely productionof Harviss's two cheques, that it now seemed natural to get Mrs. Linyard out of the room by promising further reinforcements. TheProfessor had indignantly rejected Harviss's suggestion that he shouldfollow up his success by a second volume on the same lines. He hadsworn not to lend more than a passive support to the fraud of "TheVital Thing"; but the temptation to free himself from Mrs. Linyardprevailed over his last scruples, and within an hour he was at work onthe Scientific Sermons. 

The Professor was not an unkind man. He really enjoyed making hisfamily happy; and it was his own business if his reward for so doingwas that it kept them out of his way. But the success of "The VitalThing" gave him more than this negative satisfaction. It enlarged hisown existence and opened new doors into other lives. The Professor, during fifty virtuous years, had been cognizant of only two types ofwomen: the fond and foolish, whom one married, and the earnest andintellectual, whom one did not. Of the two, he infinitely preferred theformer, even for conversational purposes. But as a social instrumentwoman was unknown to him; and it was not till he was drawn into theworld on the tide of his literary success that he discovered thedeficiencies in his classification of the sex. Then he learned withastonishment of the existence of a third type: the woman who is fondwithout foolishness and intellectual without earnestness. Not that theProfessor inspired, or sought to inspire, sentimental emotions; but heexpanded in the warm atmosphere of personal interest which some of hisnew acquaintances contrived to create about him. It was delightful totalk of serious things in a setting of frivolity, and to be personalwithout being domestic. 

Even in this new world, where all subjects were touched on lightly, andemphasis was the only indelicacy, the Professor found himselfconstrained to endure an occasional reference to his book. It wasunpleasant at first; but gradually he slipped into the habit of hearingit talked of, and grew accustomed to telling pretty women just how "ithad first come to him. "

Meanwhile the success of the Scientific Sermons was facilitating hisfamily relations. His photograph in the _Inglenook_, to which the ladyof the note-book had succeeded in appending a vivid interview, carriedhis fame to circles inaccessible even to "The Vital Thing"; and theProfessor found himself the man of the hour. He soon grew used to thefunctions of the office, and gave out hundred-dollar interviews onevery subject, from labour-strikes to Babism, with a frequency whichreacted agreeably on the domestic exchequer. Presently his head beganto figure in the advertising pages of the magazines. Admiring readerslearned the name of the only breakfast-food in use at his table, of theink with which "The Vital Thing" had been written, the soap with whichthe author's hands were washed, and the tissue-builder which fortifiedhim for further effort. These confidences endeared the Professor tomillions of readers, and his head passed in due course from themagazine and the newspaper to the biscuit-tin and the chocolate-box. 

VI

The Professor, all the while, was leading a double life. While theauthor of "The Vital Thing" reaped the fruits of popular approval, thedistinguished microscopist continued his laboratory work unheeded saveby the few who were engaged in the same line of investigations. Hisdivided allegiance had not hitherto affected the quality of his work:it seemed to him that he returned to the laboratory with greater zestafter an afternoon in a drawing-room where readings from "The VitalThing" had alternated with plantation melodies and tea. He had longceased to concern himself with what his colleagues thought of hisliterary career. Of the few whom he frequented, none had referred to"The Vital Thing"; and he knew enough of their lives to guess thattheir silence might as fairly be attributed to indifference as todisapproval. They were intensely interested in the Professor's views onbeetles, but they really cared very little what he thought of theAlmighty. 

The Professor entirely shared their feelings, and one of his chiefreasons for cultivating the success which accident had bestowed on him, was that it enabled him to command a greater range of appliances forhis real work. He had known what it was to lack books and instruments;and "The Vital Thing" was the magic wand which summoned them to hisaid. For some time he had been feeling his way along the edge of adiscovery: balancing himself with professional skill on a plank ofhypothesis flung across an abyss of uncertainty. The conjecture was theresult of years of patient gathering of facts: its corroboration wouldtake months more of comparison and classification. But at the end ofthe vista victory loomed. The Professor felt within himself thatassurance of ultimate justification which, to the man of science, makesa life-time seem the mere comma between premiss and deduction. But hehad reached the point where his conjectures required formulation. Itwas only by giving them expression, by exposing them to the comment andcriticism of his associates, that he could test their final value; andthis inner assurance was confirmed by the only friend whose confidencehe invited. 

Professor Pease, the husband of the lady who had opened Mrs. Linyard'seyes to the triumph of "The Vital Thing, " was the repository of herhusband's scientific experiences. What he thought of "The Vital Thing"had never been divulged; and he was capable of such vast exclusionsthat it was quite possible that pervasive work had not yet reached him. In any case, it was not likely to affect his judgment of the author'sprofessional capacity. 

"You want to put that all in a book, Linyard, " was Professor Pease'ssumming-up. "I'm sure you've got hold of something big; but to see itclearly yourself you ought to outline it for others. Take myadvice--chuck everything else and get to work tomorrow. It's time youwrote a book, anyhow. "

_ It's time you wrote a book, anyhow!_ The words smote the Professorwith mingled pain and ecstasy: he could have wept over theirsignificance. But his friend's other phrase reminded him with a startof Harviss. "You have got hold of a big thing--" it had been thepublisher's first comment on "The Vital Thing. " But what a world ofmeaning lay between the two phrases! It was the world in which thepowers who fought for the Professor were destined to wage their finalbattle; and for the moment he had no doubt of the outcome. The next dayhe went to town to see Harviss. He wanted to ask for an advance on thenew popular edition of "The Vital Thing. " He had determined to drop acourse of supplementary lectures at the University, and to give himselfup for a year to his book. To do this, additional funds were necessary;but thanks to "The Vital Thing" they would be forthcoming. 

The publisher received him as cordially as usual; but the response tohis demand was not as prompt as his previous experience had entitledhim to expect. 

"Of course we'll be glad to do what we can for you, Linyard; but thefact is, we've decided to give up the idea of the new edition for thepresent. "

"You've given up the new edition?"

"Why, yes--we've done pretty well by 'The Vital Thing, ' and we'reinclined to think it's _your_ turn to do something for it now. "

The Professor looked at him blankly. "What can I do for it?" heasked--"what _more_" his accent added. 

"Why, put a little new life in it by writing something else. The secretof perpetual motion hasn't yet been discovered, you know, and it's oneof the laws of literature that books which start with a rush are apt toslow down sooner than the crawlers. We've kept 'The Vital Thing' goingfor eighteen months--but, hang it, it ain't so vital any more. Wesimply couldn't see our way to a new edition. Oh, I don't say it's deadyet--but it's moribund, and you're the only man who can resuscitate it. "

The Professor continued to stare. "I--what can I do about it?" hestammered. 

"Do? Why write another like it--go it one better: you know the trick. The public isn't tired of you by any means; but you want to makeyourself heard again before anybody else cuts in. Write anotherbook--write two, and we'll sell them in sets in a box: The Vital ThingSeries. That will take tremendously in the holidays. Try and let ushave a new volume by October--I'll be glad to give you a big advance ifyou'll sign a contract on that. "

The Professor sat silent: there was too cruel an irony in thecoincidence. 

Harviss looked up at him in surprise. 

"Well, what's the matter with taking my advice--you're not going out ofliterature, are you?"

The Professor rose from his chair. "No--I'm going into it, " he saidsimply. 

"Going into it?"

"I'm going to write a real book--a serious one. "

"Good Lord! Most people think 'The Vital Thing' 's serious. "

"Yes--but I mean something different. "

"In your old line--beetles and so forth?"

"Yes, " said the Professor solemnly. 

Harviss looked at him with equal gravity. "Well, I'm sorry for that, "he said, "because it takes you out of our bailiwick. But I supposeyou've made enough money out of 'The Vital Thing' to permit yourself alittle harmless amusement. When you want more cash come back tous--only don't put it off too long, or some other fellow will havestepped into your shoes. Popularity don't keep, you know; and thehotter the success the quicker the commodity perishes. "

He leaned back, cheerful and sententious, delivering his axioms withconscious kindliness. 

The Professor, who had risen and moved to the door, turned back with awavering step. 

"When did you say another volume would have to be ready?" he faltered. 

"I said October--but call it a month later. You don't need any pushingnowadays. "

"And--you'd have no objection to letting me have a little advance now?I need some new instruments for my real work. "

Harviss extended a cordial hand. "My dear fellow, that's talking--I'llwrite the cheque while you wait; and I daresay we can start up thecheap edition of 'The Vital Thing' at the same time, if you'll pledgeyourself to give us the book by November. --How much?" he asked, poisedabove his cheque-book. 

In the street, the Professor stood staring about him, uncertain and alittle dazed. 

"After all, it's only putting it off for six months, " he said tohimself; "and I can do better work when I get my new instruments. "

He smiled and raised his hat to the passing victoria of a lady in whosecopy of "The Vital Thing" he had recently written:

_Labor est etiam ipsa voluptas. _

THE OTHER TWO

I

WAYTHORN, on the drawing-room hearth, waited for his wife to come downto dinner. 

It was their first night under his own roof, and he was surprised athis thrill of boyish agitation. He was not so old, to be sure--hisglass gave him little more than the five-and-thirty years to which hiswife confessed--but he had fancied himself already in the temperatezone; yet here he was listening for her step with a tender sense of allit symbolized, with some old trail of verse about the garlanded nuptialdoor-posts floating through his enjoyment of the pleasant room and thegood dinner just beyond it. 

They had been hastily recalled from their honeymoon by the illness ofLily Haskett, the child of Mrs. Waythorn's first marriage. The littlegirl, at Waythorn's desire, had been transferred to his house on theday of her mother's wedding, and the doctor, on their arrival, brokethe news that she was ill with typhoid, but declared that all thesymptoms were favorable. Lily could show twelve years of unblemishedhealth, and the case promised to be a light one. The nurse spoke asreassuringly, and after a moment of alarm Mrs. Waythorn had adjustedherself to the situation. She was very fond of Lily--her affection forthe child had perhaps been her decisive charm in Waythorn's eyes--butshe had the perfectly balanced nerves which her little girl hadinherited, and no woman ever wasted less tissue in unproductive worry. Waythorn was therefore quite prepared to see her come in presently, alittle late because of a last look at Lily, but as serene andwell-appointed as if her good-night kiss had been laid on the brow ofhealth. Her composure was restful to him; it acted as ballast to hissomewhat unstable sensibilities. As he pictured her bending over thechild's bed he thought how soothing her presence must be in illness:her very step would prognosticate recovery. 

His own life had been a gray one, from temperament rather thancircumstance, and he had been drawn to her by the unperturbed gayetywhich kept her fresh and elastic at an age when most women's activitiesare growing either slack or febrile. He knew what was said about her;for, popular as she was, there had always been a faint undercurrent ofdetraction. When she had appeared in New York, nine or ten yearsearlier, as the pretty Mrs. Haskett whom Gus Varick had unearthedsomewhere--was it in Pittsburgh or Utica?--society, while promptlyaccepting her, had reserved the right to cast a doubt on its owndiscrimination. Inquiry, however, established her undoubted connectionwith a socially reigning family, and explained her recent divorce asthe natural result of a runaway match at seventeen; and as nothing wasknown of Mr. Haskett it was easy to believe the worst of him. 

Alice Haskett's remarriage with Gus Varick was a passport to the setwhose recognition she coveted, and for a few years the Varicks were themost popular couple in town. Unfortunately the alliance was brief andstormy, and this time the husband had his champions. Still, evenVarick's stanchest supporters admitted that he was not meant formatrimony, and Mrs. Varick's grievances were of a nature to bear theinspection of the New York courts. A New York divorce is in itself adiploma of virtue, and in the semi-widowhood of this second separationMrs. Varick took on an air of sanctity, and was allowed to confide herwrongs to some of the most scrupulous ears in town. But when it wasknown that she was to marry Waythorn there was a momentary reaction. Her best friends would have preferred to see her remain in the role ofthe injured wife, which was as becoming to her as crape to a rosycomplexion. True, a decent time had elapsed, and it was not evensuggested that Waythorn had supplanted his predecessor. Still, peopleshook their heads over him, and one grudging friend, to whom heaffirmed that he took the step with his eyes open, replied oracularly:"Yes--and with your ears shut. "

Waythorn could afford to smile at these innuendoes. In the Wall Streetphrase, he had "discounted" them. He knew that society has not yetadapted itself to the consequences of divorce, and that till theadaptation takes place every woman who uses the freedom the law accordsher must be her own social justification. Waythorn had an amusedconfidence in his wife's ability to justify herself. His expectationswere fulfilled, and before the wedding took place Alice Varick's grouphad rallied openly to her support. She took it all imperturbably: shehad a way of surmounting obstacles without seeming to be aware of them, and Waythorn looked back with wonder at the trivialities over which hehad worn his nerves thin. He had the sense of having found refuge in aricher, warmer nature than his own, and his satisfaction, at themoment, was humorously summed up in the thought that his wife, when shehad done all she could for Lily, would not be ashamed to come down andenjoy a good dinner. 

The anticipation of such enjoyment was not, however, the sentimentexpressed by Mrs. Waythorn's charming face when she presently joinedhim. Though she had put on her most engaging teagown she had neglectedto assume the smile that went with it, and Waythorn thought he hadnever seen her look so nearly worried. 

"What is it?" he asked. "Is anything wrong with Lily?"

"No; I've just been in and she's still sleeping. " Mrs. Waythornhesitated. "But something tiresome has happened. "

He had taken her two hands, and now perceived that he was crushing apaper between them. 

"This letter?"

"Yes--Mr. Haskett has written--I mean his lawyer has written. "

Waythorn felt himself flush uncomfortably. He dropped his wife's hands. 

"What about?"

"About seeing Lily. You know the courts--"

"Yes, yes, " he interrupted nervously. 

Nothing was known about Haskett in New York. He was vaguely supposed tohave remained in the outer darkness from which his wife had beenrescued, and Waythorn was one of the few who were aware that he hadgiven up his business in Utica and followed her to New York in order tobe near his little girl. In the days of his wooing, Waythorn had oftenmet Lily on the doorstep, rosy and smiling, on her way "to see papa. "

"I am so sorry, " Mrs. Waythorn murmured. 

He roused himself. "What does he want?"

"He wants to see her. You know she goes to him once a week. "

"Well--he doesn't expect her to go to him now, does he?"

"No--he has heard of her illness; but he expects to come here. "

"_Here?_"

Mrs. Waythorn reddened under his gaze. They looked away from each other. 

"I'm afraid he has the right.... You'll see.... " She made a proffer ofthe letter. 

Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal. He stood staring aboutthe softly lighted room, which a moment before had seemed so full ofbridal intimacy. 

"I'm so sorry, " she repeated. "If Lily could have been moved--"

"That's out of the question, " he returned impatiently. 

"I suppose so. "

Her lip was beginning to tremble, and he felt himself a brute. 

"He must come, of course, " he said. "When is--his day?"

"I'm afraid--to-morrow. "

"Very well. Send a note in the morning. "

The butler entered to announce dinner. 

Waythorn turned to his wife. "Come--you must be tired. It's beastly, but try to forget about it, " he said, drawing her hand through his arm. 

"You're so good, dear. I'll try, " she whispered back. 

Her face cleared at once, and as she looked at him across the flowers, between the rosy candle-shades, he saw her lips waver back into a smile. 

"How pretty everything is!" she sighed luxuriously. 

He turned to the butler. "The champagne at once, please. Mrs. Waythornis tired. "

In a moment or two their eyes met above the sparkling glasses. Her ownwere quite clear and untroubled: he saw that she had obeyed hisinjunction and forgotten. 

Waythorn moved away with a gesture of refusal

II

A small effaced-looking man. 

WAYTHORN, the next morning, went down town earlier than usual. Haskettwas not likely to come till the afternoon, but the instinct of flightdrove him forth. He meant to stay away all day--he had thoughts ofdining at his club. As his door closed behind him he reflected thatbefore he opened it again it would have admitted another man who had asmuch right to enter it as himself, and the thought filled him with aphysical repugnance. 

He caught the "elevated" at the employees' hour, and found himselfcrushed between two layers of pendulous humanity. At Eighth Street theman facing him wriggled out and another took his place. Waythornglanced up and saw that it was Gus Varick. The men were so closetogether that it was impossible to ignore the smile of recognition onVarick's handsome overblown face. And after all--why not? They hadalways been on good terms, and Varick had been divorced beforeWaythorn's attentions to his wife began. The two exchanged a word onthe perennial grievance of the congested trains, and when a seat attheir side was miraculously left empty the instinct ofself-preservation made Waythorn slip into it after Varick. 

The latter drew the stout man's breath of relief. 

"Lord--I was beginning to feel like a pressed flower. " He leaned back, looking unconcernedly at Waythorn. "Sorry to hear that Sellers isknocked out again. "

"Sellers?" echoed Waythorn, starting at his partner's name. 

Varick looked surprised. "You didn't know he was laid up with the gout?"

"No. I've been away--I only got back last night. " Waythorn felt himselfreddening in anticipation of the other's smile. 

"Ah--yes; to be sure. And Sellers's attack came on two days ago. I'mafraid he's pretty bad. Very awkward for me, as it happens, because hewas just putting through a rather important thing for me. "

"Ah?" Waythorn wondered vaguely since when Varick had been dealing in"important things. " Hitherto he had dabbled only in the shallow poolsof speculation, with which Waythorn's office did not usually concernitself. 

It occurred to him that Varick might be talking at random, to relievethe strain of their propinquity. That strain was becoming momentarilymore apparent to Waythorn, and when, at Cortlandt Street, he caughtsight of an acquaintance, and had a sudden vision of the picture he andVarick must present to an initiated eye, he jumped up with a mutteredexcuse. 

"I hope you'll find Sellers better, " said Varick civilly, and hestammered back: "If I can be of any use to you--" and let the departingcrowd sweep him to the platform. 

At his office he heard that Sellers was in fact ill with the gout, andwould probably not be able to leave the house for some weeks. 

"I'm sorry it should have happened so, Mr. Waythorn, " the senior clerksaid with affable significance. "Mr. Sellers was very much upset at theidea of giving you such a lot of extra work just now. "

"Oh, that's no matter, " said Waythorn hastily. He secretly welcomed thepressure of additional business, and was glad to think that, when theday's work was over, he would have to call at his partner's on the wayhome. 

He was late for luncheon, and turned in at the nearest restaurantinstead of going to his club. The place was full, and the waiterhurried him to the back of the room to capture the only vacant table. In the cloud of cigar-smoke Waythorn did not at once distinguish hisneighbors; but presently, looking about him, he saw Varick seated a fewfeet off. This time, luckily, they were too far apart for conversation, and Varick, who faced another way, had probably not even seen him; butthere was an irony in their renewed nearness. 

Varick was said to be fond of good living, and as Waythorn satdespatching his hurried luncheon he looked across half enviously at theother's leisurely degustation of his meal. When Waythorn first saw himhe had been helping himself with critical deliberation to a bit ofCamembert at the ideal point of liquefaction, and now, the cheeseremoved, he was just pouring his _cafe double_ from its littletwo-storied earthen pot. He poured slowly, his ruddy profile bent abovethe task, and one beringed white hand steadying the lid of thecoffee-pot; then he stretched his other hand to the decanter of cognacat his elbow, filled a liqueur-glass, took a tentative sip, and pouredthe brandy into his coffee-cup. 

Waythorn watched him in a kind of fascination. What was he thinkingof--only of the flavor of the coffee and the liqueur? Had the morning'smeeting left no more trace in his thoughts than on his face? Had hiswife so completely passed out of his life that even this odd encounterwith her present husband, within a week after her remarriage, was nomore than an incident in his day? And as Waythorn mused, another ideastruck him: had Haskett ever met Varick as Varick and he had just met?The recollection of Haskett perturbed him, and he rose and left therestaurant, taking a circuitous way out to escape the placid irony ofVarick's nod. 

It was after seven when Waythorn reached home. He thought the footmanwho opened the door looked at him oddly. 

"How is Miss Lily?" he asked in haste. 

"Doing very well, sir. A gentleman--"

"Tell Barlow to put off dinner for half an hour, " Waythorn cut him off, hurrying upstairs. 

He went straight to his room and dressed without seeing his wife. Whenhe reached the drawing-room she was there, fresh and radiant. Lily'sday had been good; the doctor was not coming back that evening. 

At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers's illness and of the resultingcomplications. She listened sympathetically, adjuring him not to lethimself be overworked, and asking vague feminine questions about theroutine of the office. Then she gave him the chronicle of Lily's day;quoted the nurse and doctor, and told him who had called to inquire. Hehad never seen her more serene and unruffled. It struck him, with acurious pang, that she was very happy in being with him, so happy thatshe found a childish pleasure in rehearsing the trivial incidents ofher day. 

After dinner they went to the library, and the servant put the coffeeand liqueurs on a low table before her and left the room. She lookedsingularly soft and girlish in her rosy pale dress, against the darkleather of one of his bachelor armchairs. A day earlier the contrastwould have charmed him. 

He turned away now, choosing a cigar with affected deliberation. 

"Did Haskett come?" he asked, with his back to her. 

"Oh, yes--he came. "

"You didn't see him, of course?"

She hesitated a moment. "I let the nurse see him. "

That was all. There was nothing more to ask. He swung round toward her, applying a match to his cigar. Well, the thing was over for a week, atany rate. He would try not to think of it. She looked up at him, atrifle rosier than usual, with a smile in her eyes. 

"Ready for your coffee, dear?"

He leaned against the mantelpiece, watching her as she lifted thecoffee-pot. The lamplight struck a gleam from her bracelets and tippedher soft hair with brightness. How light and slender she was, and howeach gesture flowed into the next! She seemed a creature all compact ofharmonies. As the thought of Haskett receded, Waythorn felt himselfyielding again to the joy of possessorship. They were his, those whitehands with their flitting motions, his the light haze of hair, the lipsand eyes.... 

She set down the coffee-pot, and reaching for the decanter of cognac, measured off a liqueur-glass and poured it into his cup. 

Waythorn uttered a sudden exclamation. 

"What is the matter?" she said, startled. 

"Nothing; only--I don't take cognac in my coffee. "

"Oh, how stupid of me, " she cried. 

Their eyes met, and she blushed a sudden agonized red. 

III

TEN DAYS later, Mr. Sellers, still house-bound, asked Waythorn to callon his way down town. 

The senior partner, with his swaddled foot propped up by the fire, greeted his associate with an air of embarrassment. 

"I'm sorry, my dear fellow; I've got to ask you to do an awkward thingfor me. "

Waythorn waited, and the other went on, after a pause apparently givento the arrangement of his phrases: "The fact is, when I was knocked outI had just gone into a rather complicated piece of business for--GusVarick. "

"Well?" said Waythorn, with an attempt to put him at his ease. 

"Well--it's this way: Varick came to me the day before my attack. Hehad evidently had an inside tip from somebody, and had made about ahundred thousand. He came to me for advice, and I suggested his goingin with Vanderlyn. "

"Oh, the deuce!" Waythorn exclaimed. He saw in a flash what hadhappened. The investment was an alluring one, but required negotiation. He listened intently while Sellers put the case before him, and, thestatement ended, he said: "You think I ought to see Varick?"

"I'm afraid I can't as yet. The doctor is obdurate. And this thingcan't wait. I hate to ask you, but no one else in the office knows theins and outs of it. "

Waythorn stood silent. He did not care a farthing for the success ofVarick's venture, but the honor of the office was to be considered, andhe could hardly refuse to oblige his partner. 

"Very well, " he said, "I'll do it. "

That afternoon, apprised by telephone, Varick called at the office. Waythorn, waiting in his private room, wondered what the others thoughtof it. The newspapers, at the time of Mrs. Waythorn's marriage, hadacquainted their readers with every detail of her previous matrimonialventures, and Waythorn could fancy the clerks smiling behind Varick'sback as he was ushered in. 

Varick bore himself admirably. He was easy without being undignified, and Waythorn was conscious of cutting a much less impressive figure. Varick had no head for business, and the talk prolonged itself fornearly an hour while Waythorn set forth with scrupulous precision thedetails of the proposed transaction. 

"I'm awfully obliged to you, " Varick said as he rose. "The fact is I'mnot used to having much money to look after, and I don't want to makean ass of myself--" He smiled, and Waythorn could not help noticingthat there was something pleasant about his smile. "It feels uncommonlyqueer to have enough cash to pay one's bills. I'd have sold my soul forit a few years ago!"

Waythorn winced at the allusion. He had heard it rumored that a lack offunds had been one of the determining causes of the Varick separation, but it did not occur to him that Varick's words were intentional. Itseemed more likely that the desire to keep clear of embarrassing topicshad fatally drawn him into one. Waythorn did not wish to be outdone incivility. 

"We'll do the best we can for you, " he said. "I think this is a goodthing you're in. "

"Oh, I'm sure it's immense. It's awfully good of you--" Varick brokeoff, embarrassed. "I suppose the thing's settled now--but if--"

"If anything happens before Sellers is about, I'll see you again, " saidWaythorn quietly. He was glad, in the end, to appear the moreself-possessed of the two. 

The course of Lily's illness ran smooth, and as the days passedWaythorn grew used to the idea of Haskett's weekly visit. The firsttime the day came round, he stayed out late, and questioned his wife asto the visit on his return. She replied at once that Haskett had merelyseen the nurse downstairs, as the doctor did not wish any one in thechild's sick-room till after the crisis. 

The following week Waythorn was again conscious of the recurrence ofthe day, but had forgotten it by the time he came home to dinner. Thecrisis of the disease came a few days later, with a rapid decline offever, and the little girl was pronounced out of danger. In therejoicing which ensued the thought of Haskett passed out of Waythorn'smind and one afternoon, letting himself into the house with a latchkey, he went straight to his library without noticing a shabby hat andumbrella in the hall. 

In the library he found a small effaced-looking man with a thinnishgray beard sitting on the edge of a chair. The stranger might have beena piano-tuner, or one of those mysteriously efficient persons who aresummoned in emergencies to adjust some detail of the domesticmachinery. He blinked at Waythorn through a pair of gold-rimmedspectacles and said mildly: "Mr. Waythorn, I presume? I am Lily'sfather. "

Waythorn flushed. "Oh--" he stammered uncomfortably. He broke off, disliking to appear rude. Inwardly he was trying to adjust the actualHaskett to the image of him projected by his wife's reminiscences. Waythorn had been allowed to infer that Alice's first husband was abrute. 

"I am sorry to intrude, " said Haskett, with his over-the-counterpoliteness. 

"Don't mention it, " returned Waythorn, collecting himself. "I supposethe nurse has been told?"

"I presume so. I can wait, " said Haskett. He had a resigned way ofspeaking, as though life had worn down his natural powers of resistance. 

Waythorn stood on the threshold, nervously pulling off his gloves. 

"I'm sorry you've been detained. I will send for the nurse, " he said;and as he opened the door he added with an effort: "I'm glad we cangive you a good report of Lily. " He winced as the _we_ slipped out, butHaskett seemed not to notice it. 

"Thank you, Mr. Waythorn. It's been an anxious time for me. "

"Ah, well, that's past. Soon she'll be able to go to you. " Waythornnodded and passed out. 

In his own room, he flung himself down with a groan. He hated thewomanish sensibility which made him suffer so acutely from thegrotesque chances of life. He had known when he married that his wife'sformer husbands were both living, and that amid the multiplied contactsof modern existence there were a thousand chances to one that he wouldrun against one or the other, yet he found himself as much disturbed byhis brief encounter with Haskett as though the law had not obliginglyremoved all difficulties in the way of their meeting. 

Waythorn sprang up and began to pace the room nervously. He had notsuffered half so much from his two meetings with Varick. It wasHaskett's presence in his own house that made the situation sointolerable. He stood still, hearing steps in the passage. 

"This way, please, " he heard the nurse say. Haskett was being takenupstairs, then: not a corner of the house but was open to him. Waythorndropped into another chair, staring vaguely ahead of him. On hisdressing-table stood a photograph of Alice, taken when he had firstknown her. She was Alice Varick then--how fine and exquisite he hadthought her! Those were Varick's pearls about her neck. At Waythorn'sinstance they had been returned before her marriage. Had Haskett evergiven her any trinkets--and what had become of them, Waythorn wondered?He realized suddenly that he knew very little of Haskett's past orpresent situation; but from the man's appearance and manner of speechhe could reconstruct with curious precision the surroundings of Alice'sfirst marriage. And it startled him to think that she had, in thebackground of her life, a phase of existence so different from anythingwith which he had connected her. Varick, whatever his faults, was agentleman, in the conventional, traditional sense of the term: thesense which at that moment seemed, oddly enough, to have most meaningto Waythorn. He and Varick had the same social habits, spoke the samelanguage, understood the same allusions. But this other man... It wasgrotesquely uppermost in Waythorn's mind that Haskett had worn amade-up tie attached with an elastic. Why should that ridiculous detailsymbolize the whole man? Waythorn was exasperated by his ownpaltriness, but the fact of the tie expanded, forced itself on him, became as it were the key to Alice's past. He could see her, as Mrs. Haskett, sitting in a "front parlor" furnished in plush, with apianola, and a copy of "Ben Hur" on the centre-table. He could see hergoing to the theatre with Haskett--or perhaps even to a "ChurchSociable"--she in a "picture hat" and Haskett in a black frock-coat, alittle creased, with the made-up tie on an elastic. On the way homethey would stop and look at the illuminated shop-windows, lingeringover the photographs of New York actresses. On Sunday afternoonsHaskett would take her for a walk, pushing Lily ahead of them in awhite enameled perambulator, and Waythorn had a vision of the peoplethey would stop and talk to. He could fancy how pretty Alice must havelooked, in a dress adroitly constructed from the hints of a New Yorkfashion-paper; how she must have looked down on the other women, chafing at her life, and secretly feeling that she belonged in a biggerplace. 

For the moment his foremost thought was one of wonder at the way inwhich she had shed the phase of existence which her marriage withHaskett implied. It was as if her whole aspect, every gesture, everyinflection, every allusion, were a studied negation of that period ofher life. If she had denied being married to Haskett she could hardlyhave stood more convicted of duplicity than in this obliteration of theself which had been his wife. 

Waythorn started up, checking himself in the analysis of her motives. What right had he to create a fantastic effigy of her and then passjudgment on it? She had spoken vaguely of her first marriage asunhappy, had hinted, with becoming reticence, that Haskett had wroughthavoc among her young illusions.... It was a pity for Waythorn's peaceof mind that Haskett's very inoffensiveness shed a new light on thenature of those illusions. A man would rather think that his wife hasbeen brutalized by her first husband than that the process has beenreversed. 

"Why, how do you do?" she said with a distinct note of pleasure

IV

"MR. WAYTHORN, I don't like that French governess of Lily's. "

Haskett, subdued and apologetic, stood before Waythorn in the library, revolving his shabby hat in his hand. 

Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over the evening paper, stared backperplexedly at his visitor. 

"You'll excuse my asking to see you, " Haskett continued. "But this ismy last visit, and I thought if I could have a word with you it wouldbe a better way than writing to Mrs. Waythorn's lawyer. "

Waythorn rose uneasily. He did not like the French governess either;but that was irrelevant. 

"I am not so sure of that, " he returned stiffly; "but since you wish itI will give your message to--my wife. " He always hesitated over thepossessive pronoun in addressing Haskett. 

The latter sighed. "I don't know as that will help much. She didn'tlike it when I spoke to her. "

Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he asked. 

"Not since the first day I came to see Lily--right after she was takensick. I remarked to her then that I didn't like the governess. "

Waythorn made no answer. He remembered distinctly that, after thatfirst visit, he had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett. She hadlied to him then, but she had respected his wishes since; and theincident cast a curious light on her character. He was sure she wouldnot have seen Haskett that first day if she had divined that Waythornwould object, and the fact that she did not divine it was almost asdisagreeable to the latter as the discovery that she had lied to him. 

"I don't like the woman, " Haskett was repeating with mild persistency. "She ain't straight, Mr. Waythorn--she'll teach the child to beunderhand. I've noticed a change in Lily--she's too anxious toplease--and she don't always tell the truth. She used to be thestraightest child, Mr. Waythorn--" He broke off, his voice a littlethick. "Not but what I want her to have a stylish education, " he ended. 

Waythorn was touched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haskett; but frankly, I don'tquite see what I can do. "

Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on the table, and advanced tothe hearth-rug, on which Waythorn was standing. There was nothingaggressive in his manner; but he had the solemnity of a timid manresolved on a decisive measure. 

"There's just one thing you can do, Mr. Waythorn, " he said. "You canremind Mrs. Waythorn that, by the decree of the courts, I am entitledto have a voice in Lily's bringing up. " He paused, and went on moredeprecatingly: "I'm not the kind to talk about enforcing my rights, Mr. Waythorn. I don't know as I think a man is entitled to rights he hasn'tknown how to hold on to; but this business of the child is different. I've never let go there--and I never mean to. "

The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken. Shamefacedly, in indirect ways, he had been finding out about Haskett; and all that he had learned wasfavorable. The little man, in order to be near his daughter, had soldout his share in a profitable business in Utica, and accepted a modestclerkship in a New York manufacturing house. He boarded in a shabbystreet and had few acquaintances. His passion for Lily filled his life. Waythorn felt that this exploration of Haskett was like groping aboutwith a dark-lantern in his wife's past; but he saw now that there wererecesses his lantern had not explored. He had never inquired into theexact circumstances of his wife's first matrimonial rupture. On thesurface all had been fair. It was she who had obtained the divorce, andthe court had given her the child. But Waythorn knew how manyambiguities such a verdict might cover. The mere fact that Haskettretained a right over his daughter implied an unsuspected compromise. Waythorn was an idealist. He always refused to recognize unpleasantcontingencies till he found himself confronted with them, and then hesaw them followed by a special train of consequences. His next dayswere thus haunted, and he determined to try to lay the ghosts byconjuring them up in his wife's presence. 

When he repeated Haskett's request a flame of anger passed over herface; but she subdued it instantly and spoke with a slight quiver ofoutraged motherhood. 

"It is very ungentlemanly of him, " she said. 

The word grated on Waythorn. "That is neither here nor there. It's abare question of rights. "

She murmured: "It's not as if he could ever be a help to Lily--"

Waythorn flushed. This was even less to his taste. "The question is, "he repeated, "what authority has he over her?"

She looked downward, twisting herself a little in her seat. "I amwilling to see him--I thought you objected, " she faltered. 

In a flash he understood that she knew the extent of Haskett's claims. Perhaps it was not the first time she had resisted them. 

"My objecting has nothing to do with it, " he said coldly; "if Hasketthas a right to be consulted you must consult him. "

She burst into tears, and he saw that she expected him to regard her asa victim. 

Haskett did not abuse his rights. Waythorn had felt miserably sure thathe would not. But the governess was dismissed, and from time to timethe little man demanded an interview with Alice. After the firstoutburst she accepted the situation with her usual adaptability. Haskett had once reminded Waythorn of the piano-tuner, and Mrs. Waythorn, after a month or two, appeared to class him with thatdomestic familiar. Waythorn could not but respect the father'stenacity. At first he had tried to cultivate the suspicion that Haskettmight be "up to" something, that he had an object in securing afoothold in the house. But in his heart Waythorn was sure of Haskett'ssingle-mindedness; he even guessed in the latter a mild contempt forsuch advantages as his relation with the Waythorns might offer. Haskett's sincerity of purpose made him invulnerable, and his successorhad to accept him as a lien on the property. 

Mr. Sellers was sent to Europe to recover from his gout, and Varick'saffairs hung on Waythorn's hands. The negotiations were prolonged andcomplicated; they necessitated frequent conferences between the twomen, and the interests of the firm forbade Waythorn's suggesting thathis client should transfer his business to another office. 

Varick appeared well in the transaction. In moments of relaxation hiscoarse streak appeared, and Waythorn dreaded his geniality; but in theoffice he was concise and clear-headed, with a flattering deference toWaythorn's judgment. Their business relations being so affablyestablished, it would have been absurd for the two men to ignore eachother in society. The first time they met in a drawing-room, Varicktook up their intercourse in the same easy key, and his hostess'sgrateful glance obliged Waythorn to respond to it. After that they ranacross each other frequently, and one evening at a ball Waythorn, wandering through the remoter rooms, came upon Varick seated beside hiswife. She colored a little, and faltered in what she was saying; butVarick nodded to Waythorn without rising, and the latter strolled on. 

In the carriage, on the way home, he broke out nervously: "I didn'tknow you spoke to Varick. "

Her voice trembled a little. "It's the first time--he happened to bestanding near me; I didn't know what to do. It's so awkward, meetingeverywhere--and he said you had been very kind about some business. "

"That's different, " said Waythorn. 

She paused a moment. "I'll do just as you wish, " she returned pliantly. "I thought it would be less awkward to speak to him when we meet. "

Her pliancy was beginning to sicken him. Had she really no will of herown--no theory about her relation to these men? She had acceptedHaskett--did she mean to accept Varick? It was "less awkward, " as shehad said, and her instinct was to evade difficulties or to circumventthem. With sudden vividness Waythorn saw how the instinct haddeveloped. She was "as easy as an old shoe"--a shoe that too many feethad worn. Her elasticity was the result of tension in too manydifferent directions. Alice Haskett--Alice Varick--Alice Waythorn--shehad been each in turn, and had left hanging to each name a little ofher privacy, a little of her personality, a little of the inmost selfwhere the unknown god abides. 

"Yes--it's better to speak to Varick, " said Waythorn wearily. 

"Earth's Martyrs. " By Stephen Phillips. 

V

THE WINTER wore on, and society took advantage of the Waythorns'acceptance of Varick. Harassed hostesses were grateful to them forbridging over a social difficulty, and Mrs. Waythorn was held up as amiracle of good taste. Some experimental spirits could not resist thediversion of throwing Varick and his former wife together, and therewere those who thought he found a zest in the propinquity. But Mrs. Waythorn's conduct remained irreproachable. She neither avoided Varicknor sought him out. Even Waythorn could not but admit that she haddiscovered the solution of the newest social problem. 

He had married her without giving much thought to that problem. He hadfancied that a woman can shed her past like a man. But now he saw thatAlice was bound to hers both by the circumstances which forced her intocontinued relation with it, and by the traces it had left on hernature. With grim irony Waythorn compared himself to a member of asyndicate. He held so many shares in his wife's personality and hispredecessors were his partners in the business. If there had been anyelement of passion in the transaction he would have felt lessdeteriorated by it. The fact that Alice took her change of husbandslike a change of weather reduced the situation to mediocrity. He couldhave forgiven her for blunders, for excesses; for resisting Hackett, for yielding to Varick; for anything but her acquiescence and her tact. She reminded him of a juggler tossing knives; but the knives were bluntand she knew they would never cut her. 

And then, gradually, habit formed a protecting surface for hissensibilities. If he paid for each day's comfort with the small changeof his illusions, he grew daily to value the comfort more and set lessstore upon the coin. He had drifted into a dulling propinquity withHaskett and Varick and he took refuge in the cheap revenge ofsatirizing the situation. He even began to reckon up the advantageswhich accrued from it, to ask himself if it were not better to own athird of a wife who knew how to make a man happy than a whole one whohad lacked opportunity to acquire the art. For it _was_ an art, andmade up, like all others, of concessions, eliminations andembellishments; of lights judiciously thrown and shadows skillfullysoftened. His wife knew exactly how to manage the lights, and he knewexactly to what training she owed her skill. He even tried to trace thesource of his obligations, to discriminate between the influences whichhad combined to produce his domestic happiness: he perceived thatHaskett's commonness had made Alice worship good breeding, whileVarick's liberal construction of the marriage bond had taught her tovalue the conjugal virtues; so that he was directly indebted to hispredecessors for the devotion which made his life easy if not inspiring. 

From this phase he passed into that of complete acceptance. He ceasedto satirize himself because time dulled the irony of the situation andthe joke lost its humor with its sting. Even the sight of Haskett's haton the hall table had ceased to touch the springs of epigram. The hatwas often seen there now, for it had been decided that it was betterfor Lily's father to visit her than for the little girl to go to hisboarding-house. Waythorn, having acquiesced in this arrangement, hadbeen surprised to find how little difference it made. Haskett was neverobtrusive, and the few visitors who met him on the stairs were unawareof his identity. Waythorn did not know how often he saw Alice, but withhimself Haskett was seldom in contact. 

One afternoon, however, he learned on entering that Lily's father waswaiting to see him. In the library he found Haskett occupying a chairin his usual provisional way. Waythorn always felt grateful to him fornot leaning back. 

"I hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Waythorn, " he said rising. "I wanted tosee Mrs. Waythorn about Lily, and your man asked me to wait here tillshe came in. "

"Of course, " said Waythorn, remembering that a sudden leak had thatmorning given over the drawing-room to the plumbers. 

He opened his cigar-case and held it out to his visitor, and Haskett'sacceptance seemed to mark a fresh stage in their intercourse. Thespring evening was chilly, and Waythorn invited his guest to draw uphis chair to the fire. He meant to find an excuse to leave Haskett in amoment; but he was tired and cold, and after all the little man nolonger jarred on him. 

The two were inclosed in the intimacy of their blended cigar-smoke whenthe door opened and Varick walked into the room. Waythorn roseabruptly. It was the first time that Varick had come to the house, andthe surprise of seeing him, combined with the singular inopportunenessof his arrival, gave a new edge to Waythorn's blunted sensibilities. Hestared at his visitor without speaking. 

Varick seemed too preoccupied to notice his host's embarrassment. 

"My dear fellow, " he exclaimed in his most expansive tone, "I mustapologize for tumbling in on you in this way, but I was too late tocatch you down town, and so I thought--" He stopped short, catchingsight of Haskett, and his sanguine color deepened to a flush whichspread vividly under his scant blond hair. But in a moment he recoveredhimself and nodded slightly. Haskett returned the bow in silence, andWaythorn was still groping for speech when the footman came in carryinga tea-table. 

The intrusion offered a welcome vent to Waythorn's nerves. "What thedeuce are you bringing this here for?" he said sharply. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, but the plumbers are still in thedrawing-room, and Mrs. Waythorn said she would have tea in thelibrary. " The footman's perfectly respectful tone implied a reflectionon Waythorn's reasonableness. 

"Oh, very well, " said the latter resignedly, and the footman proceededto open the folding tea-table and set out its complicated appointments. While this interminable process continued the three men stoodmotionless, watching it with a fascinated stare, till Waythorn, tobreak the silence, said to Varick: "Won't you have a cigar?"

He held out the case he had just tendered to Haskett, and Varick helpedhimself with a smile. Waythorn looked about for a match, and findingnone, proffered a light from his own cigar. Haskett, in the background, held his ground mildly, examining his cigar-tip now and then, andstepping forward at the right moment to knock its ashes into the fire. 

The footman at last withdrew, and Varick immediately began: "If I couldjust say half a word to you about this business--"

"Certainly, " stammered Waythorn; "in the dining-room--"

But as he placed his hand on the door it opened from without, and hiswife appeared on the threshold. 

She came in fresh and smiling, in her street dress and hat, shedding afragrance from the boa which she loosened in advancing. 

"Shall we have tea in here, dear?" she began; and then she caught sightof Varick. Her smile deepened, veiling a slight tremor of surprise. "Why, how do you do?" she said with a distinct note of pleasure. 

As she shook hands with Varick she saw Haskett standing behind him. Hersmile faded for a moment, but she recalled it quickly, with a scarcelyperceptible side-glance at Waythorn. 

"How do you do, Mr. Haskett?" she said, and shook hands with him ashade less cordially. 

The three men stood awkwardly before her, till Varick, always the mostself-possessed, dashed into an explanatory phrase. 

"We--I had to see Waythorn a moment on business, " he stammered, brick-red from chin to nape. 

Haskett stepped forward with his air of mild obstinacy. "I am sorry tointrude; but you appointed five o'clock--" he directed his resignedglance to the time-piece on the mantel. 

She swept aside their embarrassment with a charming gesture ofhospitality. 

"I'm so sorry--I'm always late; but the afternoon was so lovely. " Shestood drawing her gloves off, propitiatory and graceful, diffusingabout her a sense of ease and familiarity in which the situation lostits grotesqueness. "But before talking business, " she added brightly, "I'm sure every one wants a cup of tea. "

She dropped into her low chair by the tea-table, and the two visitors, as if drawn by her smile, advanced to receive the cups she held out. 

She glanced about for Waythorn, and he took the third cup with a laugh. 

EXPIATION

I. 

"I CAN never, " said Mrs. Fetherel, "hear the bell ring without ashudder. "

Her unruffled aspect--she was the kind of woman whose emotions nevercommunicate themselves to her clothes--and the conventional backgroundof the New York drawing-room, with its pervading implication of animminent tea-tray and of an atmosphere in which the social functionshave become purely reflex, lent to her declaration a relief not lost onher cousin Mrs. Clinch, who, from the other side of the fireplace, agreed with a glance at the clock, that it _was_ the hour for bores. 

"Bores!" cried Mrs. Fetherel impatiently. "If I shuddered at _them_, Ishould have a chronic ague!"

She leaned forward and laid a sparkling finger on her cousin's shabbyblack knee. "I mean the newspaper clippings, " she whispered. 

Mrs. Clinch returned a glance of intelligence. "They've begun already?"

"Not yet; but they're sure to now, at any minute, my publisher tellsme. "

Mrs. Fetherel's look of apprehension sat oddly on her small features, which had an air of neat symmetry somehow suggestive of being set inorder every morning by the housemaid. Some one (there were rumors thatit was her cousin) had once said that Paula Fetherel would have beenvery pretty if she hadn't looked so like a moral axiom in a copy-bookhand. 

Mrs. Clinch received her confidence with a smile. "Well, " she said, "Isuppose you were prepared for the consequences of authorship?"

Mrs. Fetherel blushed brightly. "It isn't their coming, " sheowned--"it's their coming _now_. "

"Now?"

"The Bishop's in town. "

Mrs. Clinch leaned back and shaped her lips to a whistle whichdeflected in a laugh. "Well!" she said. 

"You see!" Mrs. Fetherel triumphed. 

"Well--weren't you prepared for the Bishop?"

"Not now--at least, I hadn't thought of his seeing the clippings. "

"And why should he see them?"

"Bella--_won't_ you understand? It's John. "

"John?"

"Who has taken the most unexpected tone--one might almost say out ofperversity. "

"Oh, perversity--" Mrs. Clinch murmured, observing her cousin betweenlids wrinkled by amusement. "What tone has John taken?"

Mrs. Fetherel threw out her answer with the desperate gesture of awoman who lays bare the traces of a marital fist. "The tone of beingproud of my book. "

The measure of Mrs. Clinch's enjoyment overflowed in laughter. 

"Oh, you may laugh, " Mrs. Fetherel insisted, "but it's no joke to me. In the first place, John's liking the book is so--so--such a falsenote--it puts me in such a ridiculous position; and then it has set himwatching for the reviews--who would ever have suspected John of knowingthat books were _reviewed?_ Why, he's actually found out about theClipping Bureau, and whenever the postman rings I hear John rush out ofthe library to see if there are any yellow envelopes. Of course, whenthey _do_ come he'll bring them into the drawing-room and read themaloud to everybody who happens to be here--and the Bishop is sure tohappen to be here!"

Mrs. Clinch repressed her amusement. "The picture you draw is a luridone, " she conceded, "but your modesty strikes me as abnormal, especially in an author. The chances are that some of the clippingswill be rather pleasant reading. The critics are not all union men. "

Mrs. Fetherel stared. "Union men?"

"Well, I mean they don't all belong to the well-knownSociety-for-the-Persecution-of-Rising-Authors. Some of them have evenbeen known to defy its regulations and say a good word for a newwriter. "

"Oh, I dare say, " said Mrs. Fetherel, with the laugh her cousin'sepigram exacted. "But you don't quite see my point. I'm not at allnervous about the success of my book--my publisher tells me I have noneed to be--but I _am_ afraid of its being a succes de scandale. "

"Mercy!" said Mrs. Clinch, sitting up. 

The butler and footman at this moment appeared with the tea-tray, andwhen they had withdrawn, Mrs. Fetherel, bending her brightly rippledhead above the kettle, continued in a murmur of avowal, "The title, even, is a kind of challenge. "

"'Fast and Loose, '" Mrs. Clinch mused. "Yes, it ought to take. "

"I didn't choose it for that reason!" the author protested. "I shouldhave preferred something quieter--less pronounced; but I was determinednot to shirk the responsibility of what I had written. I want people toknow beforehand exactly what kind of book they are buying. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Clinch, "that's a degree of conscientiousness thatI've never met with before. So few books fulfil the promise of theirtitles that experienced readers never expect the fare to come up to themenu. "

"'Fast and Loose' will be no disappointment on that score, " her cousinsignificantly returned. "I've handled the subject without gloves. I'vecalled a spade a spade. "

"You simply make my mouth water! And to think I haven't been able toread it yet because every spare minute of my time has been given tocorrecting the proofs of 'How the Birds Keep Christmas'! There's aninstance of the hardships of an author's life!"

Mrs. Fetherel's eye clouded. "Don't joke, Bella, please. I suppose toexperienced authors there's always something absurd in the nervousnessof a new writer, but in my case so much is at stake; I've put so muchof myself into this book and I'm so afraid of being misunderstood... Ofbeing, as it were, in advance of my time... Like poor Flaubert.... I_know_ you'll think me ridiculous... And if only my own reputation wereat stake, I should never give it a thought... But the idea of draggingJohn's name through the mire... "

Mrs. Clinch, who had risen and gathered her cloak about her, stoodsurveying from her genial height her cousin's agitated countenance. 

"Why did you use John's name, then?"

"That's another of my difficulties! I _had_ to. There would have beenno merit in publishing such a book under an assumed name; it would havebeen an act of moral cowardice. 'Fast and Loose' is not an ordinarynovel. A writer who dares to show up the hollowness of socialconventions must have the courage of her convictions and be willing toaccept the consequences of defying society. Can you imagine Ibsen orTolstoy writing under a false name?" Mrs. Fetherel lifted a tragic eyeto her cousin. "You don't know, Bella, how often I've envied you sinceI began to write. I used to wonder sometimes--you won't mind my sayingso?--why, with all your cleverness, you hadn't taken up some moreexciting subject than natural history; but I see now how wise you were. Whatever happens, you will never be denounced by the press!"

"Is that what you're afraid of?" asked Mrs. Clinch, as she grasped thebulging umbrella which rested against her chair. "My dear, if I hadever had the good luck to be denounced by the press, my brougham wouldbe waiting at the door for me at this very moment, and I shouldn't haveto ruin this umbrella by using it in the rain. Why, you innocent, ifI'd ever felt the slightest aptitude for showing up social conventions, do you suppose I should waste my time writing 'Nests Ajar' and 'How toSmell the Flowers'? There's a fairly steady demand for pseudo-scienceand colloquial ornithology, but it's nothing, simply nothing, to theravenous call for attacks on social institutions--especially by thoseinside the institutions!"

There was often, to her cousin, a lack of taste in Mrs. Clinch'spleasantries, and on this occasion they seemed more than usuallyirrelevant. 

"'Fast and Loose' was not written with the idea of a large sale. "

Mrs. Clinch was unperturbed. "Perhaps that's just as well, " shereturned, with a philosophic shrug. "The surprise will be all thepleasanter, I mean. For of course it's going to sell tremendously;especially if you can get the press to denounce it. "

"Bella, how _can_ you? I sometimes think you say such things expresslyto tease me; and yet I should think you of all women would understandmy purpose in writing such a book. It has always seemed to me that themessage I had to deliver was not for myself alone, but for all theother women in the world who have felt the hollowness of our socialshams, the ignominy of bowing down to the idols of the market, but havelacked either the courage or the power to proclaim their independence;and I have fancied, Bella dear, that, however severely society mightpunish me for revealing its weaknesses, I could count on the sympathyof those who, like you"--Mrs. Fetherel's voice sank--"have passedthrough the deep waters. "

Mrs. Clinch gave herself a kind of canine shake, as though to free herample shoulders from any drop of the element she was supposed to havetraversed. 

"Oh, call them muddy rather than deep, " she returned; "and you'll find, my dear, that women who've had any wading to do are rather shy ofstirring up mud. It sticks--especially on white clothes. "

Mrs. Fetherel lifted an undaunted brow. "I'm not afraid, " sheproclaimed; and at the same instant she dropped her tea-spoon with aclatter and shrank back into her seat. "There's the bell, " sheexclaimed, "and I know it's the Bishop!"

It was in fact the Bishop of Ossining, who, impressively announced byMrs. Fetherel's butler, now made an entry that may best be described asnot inadequate to the expectations the announcement raised. The Bishopalways entered a room well; but, when unannounced, or preceded by a LowChurch butler who gave him his surname, his appearance lacked theimpressiveness conferred on it by the due specification of his diocesandignity. The Bishop was very fond of his niece Mrs. Fetherel, and oneof the traits he most valued in her was the possession of a butler whoknew how to announce a bishop. 

Mrs. Clinch was also his niece; but, aside from the fact that shepossessed no butler at all, she had laid herself open to her uncle'scriticism by writing insignificant little books which had a way ofgoing into five or ten editions, while the fruits of his own episcopalleisure--"The Wail of Jonah" (twenty cantos in blank verse), and"Through a Glass Brightly; or, How to Raise Funds fora MemorialWindow"--inexplicably languished on the back shelves of a publishernoted for his dexterity in pushing "devotional goods. " Even thisindiscretion the Bishop might, however, have condoned, had his niecethought fit to turn to him for support and advice at the painfuljuncture of her history when, in her own words, it became necessary forher to invite Mr. Clinch to look out for another situation. Mr. Clinch's misconduct was of the kind especially designed by Providenceto test the fortitude of a Christian wife and mother, and the Bishopwas absolutely distended with seasonable advice and edification; sothat when Bella met his tentative exhortations with the curt remarkthat she preferred to do her own housecleaning unassisted, her uncle'sgrief at her ingratitude was not untempered with sympathy for Mr. Clinch. 

It is not surprising, therefore, that the Bishop's warmest greetingswere always reserved for Mrs. Fetherel; and on this occasion Mrs. Clinch thought she detected, in the salutation which fell to her share, a pronounced suggestion that her own presence was superfluous--a hintwhich she took with her usual imperturbable good humor. 

II

Left alone with the Bishop, Mrs. Fetherel sought the nearest refugefrom conversation by offering him a cup of tea. The Bishop acceptedwith the preoccupied air of a man to whom, for the moment, tea is but asubordinate incident. Mrs. Fetherel's nervousness increased; andknowing that the surest way of distracting attention from one's ownaffairs is to affect an interest in those of one's companion, shehastily asked if her uncle had come to town on business. 

"On business--yes--" said the Bishop in an impressive tone. "I had tosee my publisher, who has been behaving rather unsatisfactorily inregard to my last book. "

"Ah--your last book?" faltered Mrs. Fetherel, with a sickening sense ofher inability to recall the name or nature of the work in question, anda mental vow never again to be caught in such ignorance of acolleague's productions. 

"'Through a Glass Brightly, '" the Bishop explained, with an emphasiswhich revealed his detection of her predicament. "You may remember thatI sent you a copy last Christmas?"

"Of course I do!" Mrs. Fetherel brightened. "It was that delightfulstory of the poor consumptive girl who had no money, and two littlebrothers to support--"

"Sisters--idiot sisters--" the Bishop gloomily corrected. 

"I mean sisters; and who managed to collect money enough to put up abeautiful memorial window to her--her grandfather, whom she had neverseen--"

"But whose sermons had been her chief consolation and support duringher long struggle with poverty and disease. " The Bishop gave thesatisfied sigh of the workman who reviews his completed task. "Atouching subject, surely; and I believe I did it justice; at least, somy friends assured me. "

"Why, yes--I remember there was a splendid review of it in the'Reredos'!" cried Mrs. Fetherel, moved by the incipient instinct ofreciprocity. 

"Yes--by my dear friend Mrs. Gollinger, whose husband, the late DeanGollinger, was under very particular obligations to me. Mrs. Gollingeris a woman of rare literary acumen, and her praise of my book wasunqualified; but the public wants more highly seasoned fare, and theapproval of a thoughtful churchwoman carries less weight than thesensational comments of an illiterate journalist. " The Bishop lent ameditative eye on his spotless gaiters. "At the risk of horrifying you, my dear, " he added, with a slight laugh, "I will confide to you that mybest chance of a popular success would be to have my book denounced bythe press. "

"Denounced?" gasped Mrs. Fetherel. "On what ground?"

"On the ground of immorality. " The Bishop evaded her startled gaze. "Such a thing is inconceivable to you, of course; but I am onlyrepeating what my publisher tells me. If, for instance, a critic couldbe induced--I mean, if a critic were to be found, who called inquestion the morality of my heroine in sacrificing her own health andthat of her idiot sisters in order to put up a memorial window to hergrandfather, it would probably raise a general controversy in thenewspapers, and I might count on a sale of ten or fifteen thousandwithin the next year. If he described her as morbid or decadent, itmight even run to twenty thousand; but that is more than I permitmyself to hope. In fact, I should be satisfied with any general chargeof immorality. " The Bishop sighed again. "I need hardly tell you that Iam actuated by no mere literary ambition. Those whose opinion I mostvalue have assured me that the book is not without merit; but, thoughit does not become me to dispute their verdict, I can truly say that myvanity as an author is not at stake. I have, however, a special reasonfor wishing to increase the circulation of 'Through a Glass Brightly';it was written for a purpose--a purpose I have greatly at heart--"

"I know, " cried his niece sympathetically. "The chantry window--?"

"Is still empty, alas! and I had great hopes that, under Providence, mylittle book might be the means of filling it. All our wealthyparishioners have given lavishly to the cathedral, and it was for thisreason that, in writing 'Through a Glass, ' I addressed my appeal moreespecially to the less well-endowed, hoping by the example of myheroine to stimulate the collection of small sums throughout the entirediocese, and perhaps beyond it. I am sure, " the Bishop feelinglyconcluded, "the book would have a wide-spread influence if people couldonly be induced to read it!"

His conclusion touched a fresh thread of association in Mrs. Fetherel'svibrating nerve-centers. "I never thought of that!" she cried. 

The Bishop looked at her inquiringly. 

"That one's books may not be read at all! How dreadful!" she exclaimed. 

He smiled faintly. "I had not forgotten that I was addressing anauthoress, " he said. "Indeed, I should not have dared to inflict mytroubles on any one not of the craft. "

Mrs. Fetherel was quivering with the consciousness of her involuntaryself-betrayal. "Oh, uncle!" she murmured. 

"In fact, " the Bishop continued, with a gesture which seemed to brushaway her scruples, "I came here partly to speak to you about yournovel. 'Fast and Loose, ' I think you call it?"

Mrs. Fetherel blushed assentingly. 

"And is it out yet?" the Bishop continued. 

"It came out about a week ago. But you haven't touched your tea, and itmust be quite cold. Let me give you another cup... "

"My reason for asking, " the Bishop went on, with the blandinexorableness with which, in his younger days, he had been known tocontinue a sermon after the senior warden had looked four times at hiswatch--"my reason for asking is, that I hoped I might not be too lateto induce you to change the title. "

Mrs. Fetherel set down the cup she had filled. "The title?" shefaltered. 

The Bishop raised a reassuring hand. "Don't misunderstand me, dearchild; don't for a moment imagine that I take it to be in anywayindicative of the contents of the book. I know you too well for that. My first idea was that it had probably been forced on you by anunscrupulous publisher--I know too well to what ignoble compromises onemay be driven in such cases!... " He paused, as though to give her theopportunity of confirming this conjecture, but she preserved anapprehensive silence, and he went on, as though taking up the secondpoint in his sermon--"Or, again, the name may have taken your fancywithout your realizing all that it implies to minds more alive thanyours to offensive innuendoes. It is--ahem--excessively suggestive, andI hope I am not too late to warn you of the false impression it islikely to produce on the very readers whose approbation you would mostvalue. My friend Mrs. Gollinger, for instance--"

Mrs. Fetherel, as the publication of her novel testified, was in theorya woman of independent views; and if in practise she sometimes failedto live up to her standard, it was rather from an irresistible tendencyto adapt herself to her environment than from any conscious lack ofmoral courage. The Bishop's exordium had excited in her that sense ofopposition which such admonitions are apt to provoke; but as he went onshe felt herself gradually enclosed in an atmosphere in which hertheories vainly gasped for breath. The Bishop had the immensedialectical advantage of invalidating any conclusions at variance withhis own by always assuming that his premises were among the necessarylaws of thought. This method, combined with the habit of ignoring anyclassifications but his own, created an element in which the firstcondition of existence was the immediate adoption of his standpoint; sothat his niece, as she listened, seemed to feel Mrs. Gollinger'sMechlin cap spreading its conventual shadow over her rebellious browand the "Revue de Paris" at her elbow turning into a copy of the"Reredos. " She had meant to assure her uncle that she was quite awareof the significance of the title she had chosen, that it had beendeliberately selected as indicating the subject of her novel, and thatthe book itself had been written indirect defiance of the class ofreaders for whose susceptibilities she was alarmed. The words werealmost on her lips when the irresistible suggestion conveyed by theBishop's tone and language deflected them into the apologetic murmur, "Oh, uncle, you mustn't think--I never meant--" How much farther thiscurrent of reaction might have carried her, the historian is unable tocomputer, for at this point the door opened and her husband entered theroom. 

"The first review of your book!" he cried, flourishing a yellowenvelope. "My dear Bishop, how lucky you're here!"

Though the trials of married life have been classified and cataloguedwith exhaustive accuracy, there is one form of conjugal misery whichhas perhaps received inadequate attention; and that is the suffering ofthe versatile woman whose husband is not equally adapted to all hermoods. Every woman feels for the sister who is compelled to wear abonnet which does not "go" with her gown; but how much sympathy isgiven to her whose husband refuses to harmonize with the pose of themoment? Scant justice has, for instance, been done to the misunderstoodwife whose husband persists in understanding her; to the submissivehelpmate whose taskmaster shuns every opportunity of browbeating her;and to the generous and impulsive being whose bills are paid withphilosophic calm. Mrs. Fetherel, as wives go, had been fairly exemptfrom trials of this nature, for her husband, if undistinguished bypronounced brutality or indifference, had at least the negative meritof being her intellectual inferior. Landscape gardeners, who are awareof the usefulness of a valley in emphasizing the height of a hill, canform an idea of the account to which an accomplished woman may turnsuch deficiencies; and it need scarcely be said that Mrs. Fetherel hadmade the most of her opportunities. It was agreeably obvious to everyone, Fetherel included, that he was not the man to appreciate such awoman; but there are no limits to man's perversity, and he did his bestto invalidate this advantage by admiring her without pretending tounderstand her. What she most suffered from was this fatuous approval:the maddening sense that, however she conducted herself, he wouldalways admire her. Had he belonged to the class whose conversationalsupplies are drawn from the domestic circle, his wife's name wouldnever have been off his lips; and to Mrs. Fetherel's sensitiveperceptions his frequent silences were indicative of the fact that shewas his one topic. 

It was, in part, the attempt to escape this persistent approbation thathad driven Mrs. Fetherel to authorship. She had fancied that even themost infatuated husband might be counted onto resent, at leastnegatively, an attack on the sanctity of the hearth; and heranticipations were heightened by a sense of the unpardonableness of heract. Mrs. Fetherel's relations with her husband were in factcomplicated by an irrepressible tendency to be fond of him; and therewas a certain pleasure in the prospect of a situation that justifiedthe most explicit expiation. 

These hopes Fetherel's attitude had already defeated. He read the bookwith enthusiasm, he pressed it on his friends, he sent a copy to hismother; and his very soul now hung on the verdict of the reviewers. Itwas perhaps this proof of his general ineptitude that made his wifedoubly alive to his special defects; so that his inopportune entrancewas aggravated by the very sound of his voice and the hopelessaberration of his smile. Nothing, to the observant, is more indicativeof a man's character and circumstances than his way of entering a room. The Bishop of Ossining, for instance, brought with him not only anatmosphere of episcopal authority, but an implied opinion on the verbalinspiration of the Scriptures, and on the attitude of the church towarddivorce; while the appearance of Mrs. Fetherel's husband produced animmediate impression of domestic felicity. His mere aspect implied thatthere was a well-filled nursery upstairs; that this wife, if she didnot sew on his buttons, at least superintended the performance of thattask; that they both went to church regularly, and that they dined withhis mother every Sunday evening punctually at seven o'clock. 

All this and more was expressed in the affectionate gesture with whichhe now raised the yellow envelope above Mrs. Fetherel's clutch; andknowing the uselessness of begging him not to be silly, she said, witha dry despair, "You're boring the Bishop horribly. "

Fetherel turned a radiant eye on that dignitary. "She bores us allhorribly, doesn't she, sir?" he exulted. 

"Have you read it?" said his wife, uncontrollably. 

"Read it? Of course not--it's just this minute come. I say, Bishop, you're not going--?"

"Not till I've heard this, " said the Bishop, settling himself in hischair with an indulgent smile. 

His niece glanced at him despairingly. "Don't let John's nonsensedetain you, " she entreated. 

"Detain him? That's good, " guffawed Fetherel. "It isn't as long as oneof his sermons--won't take me five minutes to read. Here, listen tothis, ladies and gentlemen: 'In this age of festering pessimism anddecadent depravity, it is no surprise to the nauseated reviewer to openone more volume saturated with the fetid emanations of the sewer--'"

Fetherel, who was not in the habit of reading aloud, paused with agasp, and the Bishop glanced sharply at his niece, who kept her gazefixed on the tea-cup she had not yet succeeded in transferring to hishand. --"'Of the sewer, '" her husband resumed; "'but his wonder isproportionately great when he lights on a novel as sweetly inoffensiveas Paula Fetherel's "Fast and Loose. " Mrs. Fetherel is, we believe, anew hand at fiction, and her work reveals frequent traces ofinexperience; but these are more than atoned for by her pure, freshview of life and her altogether unfashionable regard for the reader'smoral susceptibilities. Let no one be induced by its distinctlymisleading title to forego the enjoyment of this pleasant picture ofdomestic life, which, in spite of a total lack of force incharacter-drawing and of consecutiveness in incident, may be describedas a distinctly pretty story. '"

III

It was several weeks later that Mrs. Clinch once more brought theplebeian aroma of heated tram-cars and muddy street-crossings into theviolet-scented atmosphere of her cousin's drawing-room. 

"Well, " she said, tossing a damp bundle of proof into the corner of asilk-cushioned bergere, "I've read it at last and I'm not so awfullyshocked!"

Mrs. Fetherel, who sat near the fire with her head propped on a languidhand, looked up without speaking. 

"Mercy, Paula, " said her visitor, "you're ill. "

Mrs. Fetherel shook her head. "I was never better, " she said, mournfully. 

"Then may I help myself to tea? Thanks. "

Mrs. Clinch carefully removed her mended glove before taking a butteredtea-cake; then she glanced again at her cousin. 

"It's not what I said just now--?" she ventured. 

"Just now?"

"About 'Fast and Loose'? I came to talk it over. "

Mrs. Fetherel sprang to her feet. "I never, " she cried dramatically, "want to hear it mentioned again!"

"Paula!" exclaimed Mrs. Clinch, setting down her cup. 

Mrs. Fetherel slowly turned on her an eye brimming with theincommunicable; then, dropping into her seat again, she added, with atragic laugh, "There's nothing left to say. "

"Nothing--?" faltered Mrs. Clinch, longing for another tea-cake, butfeeling the inappropriateness of the impulse in an atmosphere socharged with the portentous. "Do you mean that everything _has_ beensaid?" She looked tentatively at her cousin. "Haven't they been nice?"

"They've been odious--odious--" Mrs. Fetherel burst out, with anineffectual clutch at her handkerchief. "It's been perfectlyintolerable!"

Mrs. Clinch, philosophically resigning herself to the propriety oftaking no more tea, crossed over to her cousin and laid a sympathizinghand on that lady's agitated shoulder. 

"It _is_ a bore at first, " she conceded; "but you'll be surprised tosee how soon one gets used to it. "

"I shall--never--get--used to it--" Mrs. Fetherel brokenly declared. 

"Have they been so very nasty--all of them?"

"Every one of them!" the novelist sobbed. 

"I'm so sorry, dear; it _does_ hurt, I know--but hadn't you ratherexpected it?"

"Expected it?" cried Mrs. Fetherel, sitting up. 

Mrs. Clinch felt her way warily. "I only mean, dear, that I fanciedfrom what you said before the book came out--that you ratherexpected--that you'd rather discounted--"

"Their recommending it to everybody as a perfectly harmless story?"

"Good gracious! Is _that_ what they've done?"

Mrs. Fetherel speechlessly nodded. 

"Every one of them?"

"Every one--"

"Whew!" said Mrs. Clinch, with an incipient whistle. 

"Why, you've just said it yourself!" her cousin suddenly reproached her. 

"Said what?"

"That you weren't so _awfully_ shocked--"

"I? Oh, well--you see, you'd keyed me up to such a pitch that it wasn'tquite as bad as I expected--"

Mrs. Fetherel lifted a smile steeled for the worst. "Why not say atonce, " she suggested, "that it's a distinctly pretty story?"

"They haven't said _that?_"

"They've all said it. "

"My poor Paula!"

"Even the Bishop--"

"The Bishop called it a pretty story?"

"He wrote me--I've his letter somewhere. The title rather scaredhim--he wanted me to change it; but when he'd read the book he wrotethat it was all right and that he'd sent several copies to his friends. "

"The old hypocrite!" cried Mrs. Clinch. "That was nothing butprofessional jealousy. "

"Do you think so?" cried her cousin, brightening. 

"Sure of it, my dear. His own books don't sell, and he knew thequickest way to kill yours was to distribute it through the diocesewith his blessing. "

"Then you don't really think it's a pretty story?"

"Dear me, no! Not nearly as bad as that--"

"You're so good, Bella--but the reviewers?"

"Oh, the reviewers, " Mrs. Clinch jeered. She gazed meditatively at thecold remains of her tea-cake. "Let me see, " she said, suddenly; "do youhappen to remember if the first review came out in an important paper?"

"Yes--the 'Radiator. '"

"That's it! I thought so. Then the others simply followed suit: theyoften do if a big paper sets the pace. Saves a lot of trouble. Now ifyou could only have got the 'Radiator' to denounce you--"

"That's what the Bishop said!" cried Mrs. Fetherel. 

"He did?"

"He said his only chance of selling 'Through a Glass Brightly' was tohave it denounced on the ground of immorality. "

"H'm, " said Mrs. Clinch. "I thought he knew a trick or two. " She turnedan illuminated eye on her cousin. "You ought to get _him_ to denounce'Fast and Loose'!" she cried. 

Mrs. Fetherel looked at her suspiciously. "I suppose every book muststand or fall on its own merits, " she said in an unconvinced tone. 

"Bosh! That view is as extinct as the post-chaise and thepacket-ship--it belongs to the time when people read books. Nobody doesthat now; the reviewer was the first to set the example, and the publicwere only too thankful to follow it. At first they read the reviews;now they read only the publishers' extracts from them. Even these arerapidly being replaced by paragraphs borrowed from the vocabulary ofcommerce. I often have to look twice before I am sure if I am reading adepartment-store advertisement or the announcement of a new batch ofliterature. The publishers will soon be having their 'fall and springopenings' and their 'special importations for Horse-Show Week. ' But theBishop is right, of course--nothing helps a book like a rousing attackon its morals; and as the publishers can't exactly proclaim theimpropriety of their own wares, the task has to be left to the press orthe pulpit. "

"The pulpit--?" Mrs. Fetherel mused. 

"Why, yes--look at those two novels in England last year--"

Mrs. Fetherel shook her head hopelessly. "There is so much moreinterest in literature in England than here. "

"Well, we've got to make the supply create the demand. The Bishop couldrun your novel up into the hundred thousands in no time. "

"But if he can't make his own sell--?"

"My dear, a man can't very well preach against his own writings!"

Mrs. Clinch rose and picked up her proofs. 

"I'm awfully sorry for you, Paula dear, " she concluded, "but I can'thelp being thankful that there's no demand for pessimism in the fieldof natural history. Fancy having to write 'The Fall of a Sparrow, ' or'How the Plants Misbehave!'"

IV

Mrs. Fetherel, driving up to the Grand Central Station one morningabout five months later, caught sight of the distinguished novelist, Archer Hynes, hurrying into the waiting-room ahead of her. Hynes, onhis side, recognizing her brougham, turned back to greet her as thefootman opened the carriage-door. 

"My dear colleague! Is it possible that we are traveling together?"

Mrs. Fetherel blushed with pleasure. Hynes had given her two columns ofpraise in the Sunday "Meteor, " and she had not yet learned to disguiseher gratitude. 

"I am going to Ossining, " she said, smilingly. 

"So am I. Why, this is almost as good as an elopement. "

"And it will end where elopements ought to--in church. "

"In church? You're not going to Ossining to go to church?"

"Why not? There's a special ceremony in the cathedral--the chantrywindow is to be unveiled. "

"The chantry window? How picturesque! What _is_ a chantry? And why doyou want to see it unveiled? Are you after copy--doing something in theHuysmans manner? 'La Cathedrale, ' eh?"

"Oh, no. " Mrs. Fetherel hesitated. "I'm going simply to please myuncle, " she said, at last. 

"Your uncle?"

"The Bishop, you know. " She smiled. 

"The Bishop--the Bishop of Ossining? Why, wasn't he the chap who madethat ridiculous attack on your book? Is that prehistoric ass youruncle? Upon my soul, I think you're mighty forgiving to travel all theway to Ossining for one of his stained-glass sociables!"

Mrs. Fetherel's smile flowed into a gentle laugh. "Oh, I've neverallowed that to interfere with our friendship. My uncle felt dreadfullyabout having to speak publicly against my book--it was a great dealharder for him than for me--but he thought it his duty to do so. He hasthe very highest sense of duty. "

"Well, " said Hynes, with a shrug, "I don't know that he didn't do you agood turn. Look at that!"

They were standing near the book-stall, and he pointed to a placardsurmounting the counter and emblazoned with the conspicuousannouncement: "Fast and Loose. New Edition with Author's Portrait. Hundred and Fiftieth Thousand. "

Mrs. Fetherel frowned impatiently. "How absurd! They've no right to usemy picture as a poster!"

"There's our train, " said Hynes; and they began to push their waythrough the crowd surging toward one of the inner doors. 

As they stood wedged between circumferent shoulders, Mrs. Fetherelbecame conscious of the fixed stare of a pretty girl who whisperedeagerly to her companion: "Look Myrtle! That's Paula Fetherel rightbehind us--I knew her in a minute!"

"Gracious--where?" cried the other girl, giving her head a twist whichswept her Gainsborough plumes across Mrs. Fetherel's face. 

The first speaker's words had carried beyond her companion's ear, and alemon-colored woman in spectacles, who clutched a copy of the "Journalof Psychology" on one drab-cotton-gloved hand, stretched her disengagedhand across the intervening barrier of humanity. 

"Have I the privilege of addressing the distinguished author of 'Fastand Loose'? If so, let me thank you in the name of the Woman'sPsychological League of Peoria for your magnificent courage in raisingthe standard of revolt against--"

"You can tell us the rest in the car, " said a fat man, pressing hisgood-humored bulk against the speaker's arm. 

Mrs. Fetherel, blushing, embarrassed and happy, slipped into the spaceproduced by this displacement, and a few moments later had taken herseat in the train. 

She was a little late, and the other chairs were already filled by acompany of elderly ladies and clergymen who seemed to belong to thesame party, and were still busy exchanging greetings and settlingthemselves in their places. 

One of the ladies, at Mrs. Fetherel's approach, uttered an exclamationof pleasure and advanced with outstretched hand. "My dear Mrs. Fetherel! I am so delighted to see you here. May I hope you are goingto the unveiling of the chantry window? The dear Bishop so hoped thatyou would do so! But perhaps I ought to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Gollinger"--she lowered her voice expressively--"one of your uncle'soldest friends, one who has stood close to him through all this sadbusiness, and who knows what he suffered when he felt obliged tosacrifice family affection to the call of duty. "

Mrs. Fetherel, who had smiled and colored slightly at the beginning ofthis speech, received its close with a deprecating gesture. 

"Oh, pray don't mention it, " she murmured. "I quite understood how myuncle was placed--I bore him no ill will for feeling obliged to preachagainst my book. "

"He understood that, and was so touched by it! He has often told methat it was the hardest task he was ever called upon to perform--and, do you know, he quite feels that this unexpected gift of the chantrywindow is in some way a return for his courage in preaching thatsermon. "

Mrs. Fetherel smiled faintly. "Does he feel that?"

"Yes; he really does. When the funds for the window were somysteriously placed at his disposal, just as he had begun to despair ofraising them, he assured me that he could not help connecting the factwith his denunciation of your book. "

"Dear uncle!" sighed Mrs. Fetherel. "Did he say that?"

"And now, " continued Mrs. Gollinger, with cumulative rapture--"now thatyou are about to show, by appearing at the ceremony to-day, that therehas been no break in your friendly relations, the dear Bishop'shappiness will be complete. He was so longing to have you come to theunveiling!"

"He might have counted on me, " said Mrs. Fetherel, still smiling. 

"Ah, that is so beautifully forgiving of you!" cried Mrs. Gollinger, enthusiastically. "But then, the Bishop has always assured me that yourreal nature was very different from that which--if you will pardon mysaying so--seems to be revealed by your brilliant but--er--rathersubversive book. 'If you only knew my niece, dear Mrs. Gollinger, ' healways said, 'you would see that her novel was written in all innocenceof heart;' and to tell you the truth, when I first read the book Ididn't think it so very, _very_ shocking. It wasn't till the dearBishop had explained tome--but, dear me, I mustn't take up your time inthis way when so many others are anxious to have a word with you. "

Mrs. Fetherel glanced at her in surprise, and Mrs. Gollinger continued, with a playful smile: "You forget that your face is familiar tothousands whom you have never seen. We all recognized you the momentyou entered the train, and my friends here are so eager to make youracquaintance--even those"--her smile deepened--"who thought the dearBishop not _quite unjustified_ in his attack on your remarkable novel. "

V

A religious light filled the chantry of Ossining Cathedral, filteringthrough the linen curtain which veiled the central window, and minglingwith the blaze of tapers on the richly adorned altar. 

In this devout atmosphere, agreeably laden with the incense-like aromaof Easter lilies and forced lilacs, Mrs. Fetherel knelt with a sense ofluxurious satisfaction. Beside her sat Archer Hynes, who had rememberedthat there was to be a church scene in his next novel, and that hisimpressions of the devotional environment needed refreshing. Mrs. Fetherel was very happy. She was conscious that her entrance had sent athrill through the female devotees who packed the chantry, and she hadhumor enough to enjoy the thought that, but for the good Bishop'sdenunciation of her book, the heads of his flock would not have beenturned so eagerly in her direction. Moreover, as she had entered shehad caught sight of a society reporter, and she knew that her presence, and the fact that she was accompanied by Hynes, would be conspicuouslyproclaimed in the morning papers. All these evidences of the success ofher handiwork might have turned a calmer head than Mrs. Fetherel's; andthough she had now learned to dissemble her gratification, it stillfilled her inwardly with a delightful glow. 

The Bishop was somewhat late in appearing, and she employed theinterval in meditating on the plot of her next novel, which was alreadypartly sketched out, but for which she had been unable to find asatisfactory denouement. By a not uncommon process of ratiocination, Mrs. Fetherel's success had convinced her of her vocation. She was surenow that it was her duty to lay bare the secret plague-spots ofsociety, and she was resolved that there should be no doubt as to thepurpose of her new book. Experience had shown her that where she hadfancied she was calling a spade a spade she had in fact been alludingin guarded terms to the drawing-room shovel. She was determined not torepeat the same mistake, and she flattered herself that her comingnovel would not need an episcopal denunciation to insure its sale, however likely it was to receive this crowning evidence of success. 

She had reached this point in her meditations when the choir burst intosong and the ceremony of the unveiling began. The Bishop, almost alwaysfelicitous in his addresses to the fair sex, was never more so thanwhen he was celebrating the triumph of one of his cherished purposes. There was a peculiar mixture of Christian humility and episcopalexultation in the manner with which he called attention to theCreator's promptness in responding to his demand for funds, and he hadnever been more happily inspired than in eulogizing the mysterious giftof the chantry window. 

Though no hint of the donor's identity had been allowed to escape him, it was generally understood that the Bishop knew who had given thewindow, and the congregation awaited in a flutter of suspense thepossible announcement of a name. None came, however, though the Bishopdeliciously titillated the curiosity of his flock by circling evercloser about the interesting secret. He would not disguise from them, he said, that the heart which had divined his inmost wish had been awoman's--is it not to woman's intuitions that more than half thehappiness of earth is owing? What man is obliged to learn by thelaborious process of experience, woman's wondrous instinct tells her ata glance; and so it had been with this cherished scheme, thisunhoped-for completion of their beautiful chantry. So much, at least, he was allowed to reveal; and indeed, had he not done so, the windowitself would have spoken for him, since the first glance at itstouching subject and exquisite design would show it to have originatedin a woman's heart. This tribute to the sex was received with anaudible sigh of contentment, and the Bishop, always stimulated by suchevidence of his sway over his hearers, took up his theme with gatheringeloquence. 

Yes--a woman's heart had planned the gift, a woman's hand had executedit, and, might he add, without too far withdrawing the veil in whichChristian beneficence ever loved to drape its acts--might he add that, under Providence, a book, a simple book, a mere tale, in fact, had hadits share in the good work for which they were assembled to give thanks?

At this unexpected announcement, a ripple of excitement ran through theassemblage, and more than one head was abruptly turned in the directionof Mrs. Fetherel, who sat listening in an agony of wonder andconfusion. It did not escape the observant novelist at her side thatshe drew down her veil to conceal an uncontrollable blush, and thisevidence of dismay caused him to fix an attentive gaze on her, whilefrom her seat across the aisle, Mrs. Gollinger sent a smile of unctuousapproval. 

"A book--a simple book--" the Bishop's voice went on above this flutterof mingled emotions. "What is a book? Only a few pages and a littleink--and yet one of the mightiest instruments which Providence hasdevised for shaping the destinies of man . .. One of the most powerfulinfluences for good or evil which the Creator has placed in the handsof his creatures... "

The air seemed intolerably close to Mrs. Fetherel, and she drew out herscent-bottle, and then thrust it hurriedly away, conscious that she wasstill the center of an unenviable attention. And all the while theBishop's voice droned on... 

"And of all forms of literature, fiction is doubtless that which hasexercised the greatest sway, for good or ill, over the passions andimagination of the masses. Yes, my friends, I am the first toacknowledge it--no sermon, however eloquent, no theological treatise, however learned and convincing, has ever inflamed the heart andimagination like a novel--a simple novel. Incalculable is the powerexercised over humanity by the great magicians of the pen--a power everenlarging its boundaries and increasing its responsibilities as populareducation multiplies the number of readers.... Yes, it is the novelist'shand which can pour balm on countless human sufferings, or inoculatemankind with the festering poison of a corrupt imagination.... "

Mrs. Fetherel had turned white, and her eyes were fixed with a blindstare of anger on the large-sleeved figure in the center of the chancel. 

"And too often, alas, it is the poison and not the balm which theunscrupulous hand of genius proffers to its unsuspecting readers. But, my friends, why should I continue? None know better than an assemblageof Christian women, such as I am now addressing, the beneficent orbaleful influences of modern fiction; and so, when I say that thisbeautiful chantry window of ours owes its existence in part to theromancer's pen"--the Bishop paused, and bending forward, seemed to seeka certain face among the countenances eagerly addressed to his--"when Isay that this pen, which for personal reasons it does not become me tocelebrate unduly--"

Mrs. Fetherel at this point half rose, pushing back her chair, whichscraped loudly over the marble floor; but Hynes involuntarily laid awarning hand on her arm, and she sank down with a confused murmur aboutthe heat. 

"--When I confess that this pen, which for once at least has proveditself so much mightier than the sword, is that which was inspired totrace the simple narrative of 'Through a Glass Brightly'"--Mrs. Fetherel looked up with a gasp of mingled relief and anger--"when Itell you, my dear friends, that it was your Bishop's own work whichfirst roused the mind of one of his flock to the crying need of achantry window, I think you will admit that I am justified incelebrating the triumphs of the pen, even though it be the modestinstrument which your own Bishop wields. "

The Bishop paused impressively, and a faint gasp of surprise anddisappointment was audible throughout the chantry. Something verydifferent from this conclusion had been expected, and even Mrs. Gollinger's lips curled with a slightly ironic smile. But ArcherHynes's attention was chiefly reserved for Mrs. Fetherel, whose facehad changed with astonishing rapidity from surprise to annoyance, fromannoyance to relief, and then back again to something very likeindignation. 

The address concluded, the actual ceremony of the unveiling was aboutto take place, and the attention of the congregation soon reverted tothe chancel, where the choir had grouped themselves beneath the veiledwindow, prepared to burst into a chant of praise as the Bishop drewback the hanging. The moment was an impressive one, and every eye wasfixed on the curtain. Even Hynes's gaze strayed to it for a moment, butsoon returned to his neighbor's face; and then he perceived that Mrs. Fetherel, alone of all the persons present, was not looking at thewindow. Her eyes were fixed in an indignant stare on the Bishop; aflush of anger burned becomingly under her veil, and her handsnervously crumpled the beautifully printed program of the ceremony. 

Hynes broke into a smile of comprehension. He glanced at the Bishop, and back at the Bishop's niece; then, as the episcopal hand wassolemnly raised to draw back the curtain, he bent and whispered in Mrs. Fetherel's ear:

"Why, you gave it yourself! You wonderful woman, of course you gave ityourself!"

Mrs. Fetherel raised her eyes to his with a start. Her blush deepenedand her lips shaped a hasty "No"; but the denial was deflected into theindignant murmur--"It wasn't _his_ silly book that did it anyhow!"

THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL

I

IT was the autumn after I had the typhoid. I'd been three months inhospital, and when I came out I looked so weak and tottery that the twoor three ladies I applied to were afraid to engage me. Most of my moneywas gone, and after I'd boarded for two months, hanging about theemployment-agencies, and answering any advertisement that looked anyway respectable, I pretty nearly lost heart, for fretting hadn't mademe fatter, and I didn't see why my luck should ever turn. It didthough--or I thought so at the time. A Mrs. Railton, a friend of thelady that first brought me out to the States, met me one day andstopped to speak to me: she was one that had always a friendly way withher. She asked me what ailed me to look so white, and when I told her, "Why, Hartley, " says she, "I believe I've got the very place for you. Come in to-morrow and we'll talk about it. "

The next day, when I called, she told me the lady she'd in mind was aniece of hers, a Mrs. Brympton, a youngish lady, but something of aninvalid, who lived all the year round at her country-place on theHudson, owing to not being able to stand the fatigue of town life. 

"Now, Hartley, " Mrs. Railton said, in that cheery way that always mademe feel things must be going to take a turn for the better--"nowunderstand me; it's not a cheerful place i'm sending you to. The houseis big and gloomy; my niece is nervous, vaporish; her husband--well, he's generally away; and the two children are dead. A year ago, I wouldas soon have thought of shutting a rosy active girl like you into avault; but you're not particularly brisk yourself just now, are you?and a quiet place, with country air and wholesome food and early hours, ought to be the very thing for you. Don't mistake me, " she added, for Isuppose I looked a trifle downcast; "you may find it dull, but youwon't be unhappy. My niece is an angel. Her former maid, who died lastspring, had been with her twenty years and worshipped the ground shewalked on. She's a kind mistress to all, and where the mistress iskind, as you know, the servants are generally good-humored, so you'llprobably get on well enough with the rest of the household. And you'rethe very woman I want for my niece: quiet, well-mannered, and educatedabove your station. You read aloud well, I think? That's a good thing;my niece likes to be read to. She wants a maid that can be something ofa companion: her last was, and I can't say how she misses her. It's alonely life... Well, have you decided?"

"Why, ma'am, " I said, "I'm not afraid of solitude. "

"Well, then, go; my niece will take you on my recommendation. I'lltelegraph her at once and you can take the afternoon train. She has noone to wait on her at present, and I don't want you to lose any time. "

I was ready enough to start, yet something in me hung back; and to gaintime I asked, "And the gentleman, ma'am?"

"The gentleman's almost always away, I tell you, " said Mrs. Ralston, quick-like--"and when he's there, " says she suddenly, "you've only tokeep out of his way. "

I took the afternoon train and got out at D---- station at about fouro'clock. A groom in a dog-cart was waiting, and we drove off at a smartpace. It was a dull October day, with rain hanging close overhead, andby the time we turned into the Brympton Place woods the daylight wasalmost gone. The drive wound through the woods for a mile or two, andcame out on a gravel court shut in with thickets of tall black-lookingshrubs. There were no lights in the windows, and the house _did_ look abit gloomy. 

I had asked no questions of the groom, for I never was one to get mynotion of new masters from their other servants: I prefer to wait andsee for myself. But I could tell by the look of everything that I hadgot into the right kind of house, and that things were done handsomely. A pleasant-faced cook met me at the back door and called the house-maidto show me up to my room. "You'll see madam later, " she said. "Mrs. Brympton has a visitor. "

I hadn't fancied Mrs. Brympton was a lady to have many visitors, andsomehow the words cheered me. I followed the house-maid upstairs, andsaw, through a door on the upper landing, that the main part of thehouse seemed well-furnished, with dark panelling and a number of oldportraits. Another flight of stairs led us up to the servants' wing. Itwas almost dark now, and the house-maid excused herself for not havingbrought a light. "But there's matches in your room, " she said, "and ifyou go careful you'll be all right. Mind the step at the end of thepassage. Your room is just beyond. "

I looked ahead as she spoke, and half-way down the passage, I saw awoman standing. She drew back into a doorway as we passed, and thehouse-maid didn't appear to notice her. She was a thin woman with awhite face, and a darkish stuff gown and apron. I took her for thehousekeeper and thought it odd that she didn't speak, but just gave mea long look as she went by. My room opened into a square hall at theend of the passage. Facing my door was another which stood open: thehouse-maid exclaimed when she saw it. 

"There--Mrs. Blinder's left that door open again!" said she, closing it. 

"Is Mrs. Blinder the housekeeper?"

"There's no housekeeper: Mrs. Blinder's the cook. "

"And is that her room?"

"Laws, no, " said the house-maid, cross-like. "That's nobody's room. It's empty, I mean, and the door hadn't ought to be open. Mrs. Brymptonwants it kept locked. "

She opened my door and led me into a neat room, nicely furnished, witha picture or two on the walls; and having lit a candle she took leave, telling me that the servants'-hall tea was at six, and that Mrs. Brympton would see me afterward. 

I found them a pleasant-spoken set in the servants' hall, and by whatthey let fall I gathered that, as Mrs. Railton had said, Mrs. Brymptonwas the kindest of ladies; but I didn't take much notice of their talk, for I was watching to see the pale woman in the dark gown come in. Shedidn't show herself, however, and I wondered if she ate apart; but ifshe wasn't the housekeeper, why should she? Suddenly it struck me thatshe might be a trained nurse, and in that case her meals would ofcourse be served in her room. If Mrs. Brympton was an invalid it waslikely enough she had a nurse. The idea annoyed me, I own, for they'renot always the easiest to get on with, and if I'd known, I shouldn'thave taken the place. But there I was, and there was no use pulling along face over it; and not being one to ask questions, I waited to seewhat would turn up. 

When tea was over, the house-maid said to the footman: "Has Mr. Ranfordgone?" and when he said yes, she told me to come up with her to Mrs. Brympton. 

Mrs. Brympton was lying down in her bedroom. Her lounge stood near thefire and beside it was a shaded lamp. She was a delicate-looking lady, but when she smiled I felt there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. Shespoke very pleasantly, in a low voice, asking me my name and age and soon, and if I had everything I wanted, and if I wasn't afraid of feelinglonely in the country. 

"Not with you I wouldn't be, madam, " I said, and the words surprised mewhen I'd spoken them, for I'm not an impulsive person; but it was justas if I'd thought aloud. 

She seemed pleased at that, and said she hoped I'd continue in the samemind; then she gave me a few directions about her toilet, and saidAgnes the house-maid would show me next morning where things were kept. 

"I am tired to-night, and shall dine upstairs, " she said. "Agnes willbring me my tray, that you may have time to unpack and settle yourself;and later you may come and undress me. "

"Very well, ma'am, " I said. "You'll ring, I suppose?"

I thought she looked odd. 

"No--Agnes will fetch you, " says she quickly, and took up her bookagain. 

Well--that was certainly strange: a lady's maid having to be fetched bythe house-maid whenever her lady wanted her! I wondered if there wereno bells in the house; but the next day I satisfied myself that therewas one in every room, and a special one ringing from my mistress'sroom to mine; and after that it did strike me as queer that, wheneverMrs. Brympton wanted anything, she rang for Agnes, who had to walk thewhole length of the servants' wing to call me. 

But that wasn't the only queer thing in the house. The very next day Ifound out that Mrs. Brympton had no nurse; and then I asked Agnes aboutthe woman I had seen in the passage the afternoon before. Agnes saidshe had seen no one, and I saw that she thought I was dreaming. To besure, it was dusk when we went down the passage, and she had excusedherself for not bringing a light; but I had seen the woman plain enoughto know her again if we should meet. I decided that she must have beena friend of the cook's, or of one of the other women-servants: perhapsshe had come down from town for a night's visit, and the servantswanted it kept secret. Some ladies are very stiff about having theirservants' friends in the house overnight. At any rate, I made up mymind to ask no more questions. 

In a day or two, another odd thing happened. I was chatting oneafternoon with Mrs. Blinder, who was a friendly disposed woman, and hadbeen longer in the house than the other servants, and she asked me if Iwas quite comfortable and had everything I needed. I said I had nofault to find with my place or with my mistress, but I thought it oddthat in so large a house there was no sewing-room for the lady's maid. 

"Why, " says she, "there _is_ one; the room you're in is the oldsewing-room. "

"Oh, " said I; "and where did the other lady's maid sleep?"

At that she grew confused, and said hurriedly that the servants' roomshad all been changed about last year, and she didn't rightly remember. 

That struck me as peculiar, but I went on as if I hadn't noticed:"Well, there's a vacant room opposite mine, and I mean to ask Mrs. Brympton if I mayn't use that as a sewing-room. "

To my astonishment, Mrs. Blinder went white, and gave my hand a kind ofsqueeze. "Don't do that, my dear, " said she, trembling-like. "To tellyou the truth, that was Emma Saxon's room, and my mistress has kept itclosed ever since her death. "

"And who was Emma Saxon?"

"Mrs. Brympton's former maid. "

"The one that was with her so many years?" said I, remembering whatMrs. Railton had told me. 

Mrs. Blinder nodded. 

"What sort of woman was she?"

"No better walked the earth, " said Mrs. Blinder. "My mistress loved herlike a sister. "

"But I mean--what did she look like?"

Mrs. Blinder got up and gave me a kind of angry stare. "I'm no greathand at describing, " she said; "and I believe my pastry's rising. " Andshe walked off into the kitchen and shut the door after her. 

II

I HAD been near a week at Brympton before I saw my master. Word camethat he was arriving one afternoon, and a change passed over the wholehousehold. It was plain that nobody loved him below stairs. Mrs. Blinder took uncommon care with the dinner that night, but she snappedat the kitchen-maid in a way quite unusual with her; and Mr. Wace, thebutler, a serious, slow-spoken man, went about his duties as if he'dbeen getting ready for a funeral. He was a great Bible-reader, Mr. Wacewas, and had a beautiful assortment of texts at his command; but thatday he used such dreadful language that I was about to leave the table, when he assured me it was all out of Isaiah; and I noticed thatwhenever the master came Mr. Wace took to the prophets. 

About seven, Agnes called me to my mistress's room; and there I foundMr. Brympton. He was standing on the hearth; a big fair bull-neckedman, with a red face and little bad-tempered blue eyes: the kind of mana young simpleton might have thought handsome, and would have been liketo pay dear for thinking it. 

He swung about when I came in, and looked me over in a trice. I knewwhat the look meant, from having experienced it once or twice in myformer places. Then he turned his back on me, and went on talking tohis wife; and I knew what _that_ meant, too. I was not the kind ofmorsel he was after. The typhoid had served me well enough in one way:it kept that kind of gentleman at arm's-length. 

"This is my new maid, Hartley, " says Mrs. Brympton in her kind voice;and he nodded and went on with what he was saying. 

In a minute or two he went off, and left my mistress to dress fordinner, and I noticed as I waited on her that she was white, and chillto the touch. 

Mr. Brympton took himself off the next morning, and the whole housedrew a long breath when he drove away. As for my mistress, she put onher hat and furs (for it was a fine winter morning) and went out for awalk in the gardens, coming back quite fresh and rosy, so that for aminute, before her color faded, I could guess what a pretty young ladyshe must have been, and not so long ago, either. 

She had met Mr. Ranford in the grounds, and the two came back together, I remember, smiling and talking as they walked along the terrace undermy window. That was the first time I saw Mr. Ranford, though I hadoften heard his name mentioned in the hall. He was a neighbor, itappeared, living a mile or two beyond Brympton, at the end of thevillage; and as he was in the habit of spending his winters in thecountry he was almost the only company my mistress had at that season. He was a slight tall gentleman of about thirty, and I thought himrather melancholy-looking till I saw his smile, which had a kind ofsurprise in it, like the first warm day in spring. He was a greatreader, I heard, like my mistress, and the two were forever borrowingbooks of one another, and sometimes (Mr. Wace told me) he would readaloud to Mrs. Brympton by the hour, in the big dark library where shesat in the winter afternoons. The servants all liked him, and perhapsthat's more of a compliment than the masters suspect. He had a friendlyword for every one of us, and we were all glad to think that Mrs. Brympton had a pleasant companionable gentleman like that to keep hercompany when the master was away. Mr. Ranford seemed on excellent termswith Mr. Brympton too; though I couldn't but wonder that two gentlemenso unlike each other should be so friendly. But then I knew how thereal quality can keep their feelings to themselves. 

As for Mr. Brympton, he came and went, never staying more than a day ortwo, cursing the dulness and the solitude, grumbling at everything, and(as I soon found out) drinking a deal more than was good for him. AfterMrs. Brympton left the table he would sit half the night over the oldBrympton port and madeira, and once, as I was leaving my mistress'sroom rather later than usual, I met him coming up the stairs in such astate that I turned sick to think of what some ladies have to endureand hold their tongues about. 

The servants said very little about their master; but from what theylet drop I could see it had been an unhappy match from the beginning. Mr. Brympton was coarse, loud and pleasure-loving; my mistress quiet, retiring, and perhaps a trifle cold. Not that she was not alwayspleasant-spoken to him: I thought her wonderfully forbearing; but to agentleman as free as Mr. Brympton I daresay she seemed a little offish. 

Well, things went on quietly for several weeks. My mistress was kind, my duties were light, and I got on well with the other servants. Inshort, I had nothing to complain of; yet there was always a weight onme. I can't say why it was so, but I know it was not the lonelinessthat I felt. I soon got used to that; and being still languid from thefever, I was thankful for the quiet and the good country air. Nevertheless, I was never quite easy in my mind. My mistress, knowing Ihad been ill, insisted that I should take my walk regular, and ofteninvented errands for me:--a yard of ribbon to be fetched from thevillage, a letter posted, or a book returned to Mr. Ranford. As soon asI was out of doors my spirits rose, and I looked forward to my walksthrough the bare moist-smelling woods; but the moment I caught sight ofthe house again my heart dropped down like a stone in a well. It wasnot a gloomy house exactly, yet I never entered it but a feeling ofgloom came over me. 

Mrs. Brympton seldom went out in winter; only on the finest days didshe walk an hour at noon on the south terrace. Excepting Mr. Ranford, we had no visitors but the doctor, who drove over from D---- about oncea week. He sent for me once or twice to give me some trifling directionabout my mistress, and though he never told me what her illness was, Ithought, from a waxy look she had now and then of a morning, that itmight be the heart that ailed her. The season was soft and unwholesome, and in January we had a long spell of rain. That was a sore trial tome, I own, for I couldn't go out, and sitting over my sewing all day, listening to the drip, drip of the eaves, I grew so nervous that theleast sound made me jump. Somehow, the thought of that locked roomacross the passage began to weigh on me. Once or twice, in the longrainy nights, I fancied I heard noises there; but that was nonsense, ofcourse, and the daylight drove such notions out of my head. Well, onemorning Mrs. Brympton gave me quite a start of pleasure by telling meshe wished me to go to town for some shopping. I hadn't known till thenhow low my spirits had fallen. I set off in high glee, and my firstsight of the crowded streets and the cheerful-looking shops quite tookme out of myself. Toward afternoon, however, the noise and confusionbegan to tire me, and I was actually looking forward to the quiet ofBrympton, and thinking how I should enjoy the drive home through thedark woods, when I ran across an old acquaintance, a maid I had oncebeen in service with. We had lost sight of each other for a number ofyears, and I had to stop and tell her what had happened to me in theinterval. When I mentioned where I was living she rolled up her eyesand pulled a long face. 

"What! The Mrs. Brympton that lives all the year at her place on theHudson? My dear, you won't stay there three months. "

"Oh, but I don't mind the country, " says I, offended somehow at hertone. "Since the fever I'm glad to be quiet. "

She shook her head. "It's not the country I'm thinking of. All I knowis she's had four maids in the last six months, and the last one, whowas a friend of mine, told me nobody could stay in the house. "

"Did she say why?" I asked. 

"No--she wouldn't give me her reason. But she says to me, _Mrs. Ansey_, she says, _if ever a young woman as you know of thinks of going there, you tell her it's not worth while to unpack her boxes_. "

"Is she young and handsome?" said I, thinking of Mr. Brympton. 

"Not her! She's the kind that mothers engage when they've gay younggentlemen at college. "

Well, though I knew the woman was an idle gossip, the words stuck in myhead, and my heart sank lower than ever as I drove up to Brympton inthe dusk. There _was_ something about the house--I was sure of it now... 

When I went in to tea I heard that Mr. Brympton had arrived, and I sawat a glance that there had been a disturbance of some kind. Mrs. Blinder's hand shook so that she could hardly pour the tea, and Mr. Wace quoted the most dreadful texts full of brimstone. Nobody said aword to me then, but when I went up to my room Mrs. Blinder followed me. 

"Oh, my dear, " says she, taking my hand, "I'm so glad and thankfulyou've come back to us!"

That struck me, as you may imagine. "Why, " said I, "did you think I wasleaving for good?"

"No, no, to be sure, " said she, a little confused, "but I can't a-bearto have madam left alone for a day even. " She pressed my hand hard, and, "Oh, Miss Hartley, " says she, "be good to your mistress, as you'rea Christian woman. " And with that she hurried away, and left me staring. 

A moment later Agnes called me to Mrs. Brympton. Hearing Mr. Brympton'svoice in her room, I went round by the dressing-room, thinking I wouldlay out her dinner-gown before going in. The dressing-room is a largeroom with a window over the portico that looks toward the gardens. Mr. Brympton's apartments are beyond. When I went in, the door into thebedroom was ajar, and I heard Mr. Brympton saying angrily:--"One wouldsuppose he was the only person fit for you to talk to. "

"I don't have many visitors in winter, " Mrs. Brympton answered quietly. 

"You have _me!_" he flung at her, sneering. 

"You are here so seldom, " said she. 

"Well--whose fault is that? You make the place about as lively as afamily vault--"

With that I rattled the toilet-things, to give my mistress warning andshe rose and called me in. 

The two dined alone, as usual, and I knew by Mr. Wace's manner atsupper that things must be going badly. He quoted the prophetssomething terrible, and worked on the kitchen-maid so that she declaredshe wouldn't go down alone to put the cold meat in the ice-box. I feltnervous myself, and after I had put my mistress to bed I washalf-tempted to go down again and persuade Mrs. Blinder to sit upawhile over a game of cards. But I heard her door closing for thenight, and so I went on to my own room. The rain had begun again, andthe drip, drip, drip seemed to be dropping into my brain. I lay awakelistening to it, and turning over what my friend in town had said. Whatpuzzled me was that it was always the maids who left... 

After a while I slept; but suddenly a loud noise wakened me. My bellhad rung. I sat up, terrified by the unusual sound, which seemed to goon jangling through the darkness. My hands shook so that I couldn'tfind the matches. At length I struck a light and jumped out of bed. Ibegan to think I must have been dreaming; but I looked at the bellagainst the wall, and there was the little hammer still quivering. 

I was just beginning to huddle on my clothes when I heard anothersound. This time it was the door of the locked room opposite minesoftly opening and closing. I heard the sound distinctly, and itfrightened me so that I stood stock still. Then I heard a footstephurrying down the passage toward the main house. The floor beingcarpeted, the sound was very faint, but I was quite sure it was awoman's step. I turned cold with the thought of it, and for a minute ortwo I dursn't breathe or move. Then I came to my senses. 

"Alice Hartley, " says I to myself, "someone left that room just now andran down the passage ahead of you. The idea isn't pleasant, but you mayas well face it. Your mistress has rung for you, and to answer her bellyou've got to go the way that other woman has gone. "

Well--I did it. I never walked faster in my life, yet I thought Ishould never get to the end of the passage or reach Mrs. Brympton'sroom. On the way I heard nothing and saw nothing: all was dark andquiet as the grave. When I reached my mistress's door the silence wasso deep that I began to think I must be dreaming, and was half-mindedto turn back. Then a panic seized me, and I knocked. 

There was no answer, and I knocked again, loudly. To my astonishmentthe door was opened by Mr. Brympton. He started back when he saw me, and in the light of my candle his face looked red and savage. 

_"You!"_ he said, in a queer voice. _"How many of you are there, inGod's name?"_

At that I felt the ground give under me; but I said to myself that hehad been drinking, and answered as steadily as I could: "May I go in, sir? Mrs. Brympton has rung for me. "

"You may all go in, for what I care, " says he, and, pushing by me, walked down the hall to his own bedroom. I looked after him as he went, and to my surprise I saw that he walked as straight as a sober man. 

I found my mistress lying very weak and still, but she forced a smilewhen she saw me, and signed to me to pour out some drops for her. Afterthat she lay without speaking, her breath coming quick, and her eyesclosed. Suddenly she groped out with her hand, and "_Emma_, " says she, faintly. 

"It's Hartley, madam, " I said. "Do you want anything?"

She opened her eyes wide and gave me a startled look. 

"I was dreaming, " she said. "You may go, now, Hartley, and thank youkindly. I'm quite well again, you see. " And she turned her face awayfrom me. 

III

THERE was no more sleep for me that night, and I was thankful whendaylight came. 

Soon afterward, Agnes called me to Mrs. Brympton. I was afraid she wasill again, for she seldom sent for me before nine, but I found hersitting up in bed, pale and drawn-looking, but quite herself. 

"Hartley, " says she quickly, "will you put on your things at once andgo down to the village for me? I want this prescription made up--" hereshe hesitated a minute and blushed--"and I should like you to be backagain before Mr. Brympton is up. "

"Certainly, madam, " I said. 

"And--stay a moment--" she called me back as if an idea had just struckher--"while you're waiting for the mixture, you'll have time to go onto Mr. Ranford's with this note. "

It was a two-mile walk to the village, and on my way I had time to turnthings over in my mind. It struck me as peculiar that my mistressshould wish the prescription made up without Mr. Brympton's knowledge;and, putting this together with the scene of the night before, and withmuch else that I had noticed and suspected, I began to wonder if thepoor lady was weary of her life, and had come to the mad resolve ofending it. The idea took such hold on me that I reached the village ona run, and dropped breathless into a chair before the chemist'scounter. The good man, who was just taking down his shutters, stared atme so hard that it brought me to myself. 

"Mr. Limmel, " I says, trying to speak indifferent, "will you run youreye over this, and tell me if it's quite right?"

He put on his spectacles and studied the prescription. 

"Why, it's one of Dr. Walton's, " says he. "What should be wrong withit?"

"Well--is it dangerous to take?"

"Dangerous--how do you mean?"

I could have shaken the man for his stupidity. 

"I mean--if a person was to take too much of it--by mistake ofcourse--" says I, my heart in my throat. 

"Lord bless you, no. It's only lime-water. You might feed it to a babyby the bottleful. "

I gave a great sigh of relief, and hurried on to Mr. Ranford's. But onthe way another thought struck me. If there was nothing to concealabout my visit to the chemist's, was it my other errand that Mrs. Brympton wished me to keep private? Somehow, that thought frightened meworse than the other. Yet the two gentlemen seemed fast friends, and Iwould have staked my head on my mistress's goodness. I felt ashamed ofmy suspicions, and concluded that I was still disturbed by the strangeevents of the night. I left the note at Mr. Ranford's--and, hurryingback to Brympton, slipped in by a side door without being seen, as Ithought. 

An hour later, however, as I was carrying in my mistress's breakfast, Iwas stopped in the hall by Mr. Brympton. 

"What were you doing out so early?" he says, looking hard at me. 

"Early--me, sir?" I said, in a tremble. 

"Come, come, " he says, an angry red spot coming out on his forehead, "didn't I see you scuttling home through the shrubbery an hour or moreago?"

I'm a truthful woman by nature, but at that a lie popped outready-made. "No, sir, you didn't, " said I, and looked straight back athim. 

He shrugged his shoulders and gave a sullen laugh. "I suppose you thinkI was drunk last night?" he asked suddenly. 

"No, sir, I don't, " I answered, this time truthfully enough. 

He turned away with another shrug. "A pretty notion my servants have ofme!" I heard him mutter as he walked off. 

Not till I had settled down to my afternoon's sewing did I realize howthe events of the night had shaken me. I couldn't pass that locked doorwithout a shiver. I knew I had heard someone come out of it, and walkdown the passage ahead of me. I thought of speaking to Mrs. Blinder orto Mr. Wace, the only two in the house who appeared to have an inklingof what was going on, but I had a feeling that if I questioned themthey would deny everything, and that I might learn more by holding mytongue and keeping my eyes open. The idea of spending another nightopposite the locked room sickened me, and once I was seized with thenotion of packing my trunk and taking the first train to town; but itwasn't in me to throw over a kind mistress in that manner, and I triedto go on with my sewing as if nothing had happened. 

I hadn't worked ten minutes before the sewing-machine broke down. Itwas one I had found in the house, a good machine, but a trifle out oforder: Mrs. Blinder said it had never been used since Emma Saxon'sdeath. I stopped to see what was wrong, and as I was working at themachine a drawer which I had never been able to open slid forward and aphotograph fell out. I picked it up and sat looking at it in a maze. Itwas a woman's likeness, and I knew I had seen the face somewhere--theeyes had an asking look that I had felt on me before. And suddenly Iremembered the pale woman in the passage. 

I stood up, cold all over, and ran out of the room. My heart seemed tobe thumping in the top of my head, and I felt as if I should never getaway from the look in those eyes. I went straight to Mrs. Blinder. Shewas taking her afternoon nap, and sat up with a jump when I came in. 

"Mrs. Blinder, " said I, "who is that?" And I held out the photograph. 

She rubbed her eyes and stared. 

"Why, Emma Saxon, " says she. "Where did you find it?"

I looked hard at her for a minute. "Mrs. Blinder, " I said, "I've seenthat face before. "

Mrs. Blinder got up and walked over to the looking-glass. "Dear me! Imust have been asleep, " she says. "My front is all over one ear. Andnow do run along, Miss Hartley, dear, for I hear the clock strikingfour, and I must go down this very minute and put on the Virginia hamfor Mr. Brympton's dinner. "

IV

TO all appearances, things went on as usual for a week or two. The onlydifference was that Mr. Brympton stayed on, instead of going off as heusually did, and that Mr. Ranford never showed himself. I heard Mr. Brympton remark on this one afternoon when he was sitting in mymistress's room before dinner. 

"Where's Ranford?" says he. "He hasn't been near the house for a week. Does he keep away because I'm here?"

Mrs. Brympton spoke so low that I couldn't catch her answer. 

"Well, " he went on, "two's company and three's trumpery; I'm sorry tobe in Ranford's way, and I suppose I shall have to take myself offagain in a day or two and give him a show. " And he laughed at his ownjoke. 

The very next day, as it happened, Mr. Ranford called. The footman saidthe three were very merry over their tea in the library, and Mr. Brympton strolled down to the gate with Mr. Ranford when he left. 

I have said that things went on as usual; and so they did with the restof the household; but as for myself, I had never been the same sincethe night my bell had rung. Night after night I used to lie awake, listening for it to ring again, and for the door of the locked room toopen stealthily. But the bell never rang, and I heard no sound acrossthe passage. At last the silence began to be more dreadful to me thanthe most mysterious sounds. I felt that _someone_ were cowering there, behind the locked door, watching and listening as I watched andlistened, and I could almost have cried out, "Whoever you are, come outand let me see you face to face, but don't lurk there and spy on me inthe darkness!"

Feeling as I did, you may wonder I didn't give warning. Once I verynearly did so; but at the last moment something held me back. Whetherit was compassion for my mistress, who had grown more and moredependent on me, or unwillingness to try a new place, or some otherfeeling that I couldn't put a name to, I lingered on as if spell-bound, though every night was dreadful to me, and the days but little better. 

For one thing, I didn't like Mrs. Brympton's looks. She had never beenthe same since that night, no more than I had. I thought she wouldbrighten up after Mr. Brympton left, but though she seemed easier inher mind, her spirits didn't revive, nor her strength either. She hadgrown attached to me, and seemed to like to have me about; and Agnestold me one day that, since Emma Saxon's death, I was the only maid hermistress had taken to. This gave me a warm feeling for the poor lady, though after all there was little I could do to help her. 

After Mr. Brympton's departure, Mr. Ranford took to coming again, though less often than formerly. I met him once or twice in thegrounds, or in the village, and I couldn't but think there was a changein him too; but I set it down to my disordered fancy. 

The weeks passed, and Mr. Brympton had now been a month absent. Weheard he was cruising with a friend in the West Indies, and Mr. Wacesaid that was a long way off, but though you had the wings of a doveand went to the uttermost parts of the earth, you couldn't get awayfrom the Almighty. Agnes said that as long as he stayed away fromBrympton, the Almighty might have him and welcome; and this raised alaugh, though Mrs. Blinder tried to look shocked, and Mr. Wace said thebears would eat us. 

We were all glad to hear that the West Indies were a long way off, andI remember that, in spite of Mr. Wace's solemn looks, we had a verymerry dinner that day in the hall. I don't know if it was because of mybeing in better spirits, but I fancied Mrs. Brympton looked better too, and seemed more cheerful in her manner. She had been for a walk in themorning, and after luncheon she lay down in her room, and I read aloudto her. When she dismissed me I went to my own room feeling quitebright and happy, and for the first time in weeks walked past thelocked door without thinking of it. As I sat down to my work I lookedout and saw a few snow-flakes falling. The sight was pleasanter thanthe eternal rain, and I pictured to myself how pretty the bare gardenswould look in their white mantle. It seemed to me as if the snow wouldcover up all the dreariness, indoors as well as out. 

The fancy had hardly crossed my mind when I heard a step at my side. Ilooked up, thinking it was Agnes. 

"Well, Agnes--" said I, and the words froze on my tongue; for there, inthe door, stood Emma Saxon. 

I don't know how long she stood there. I only know I couldn't stir ortake my eyes from her. Afterward I was terribly frightened, but at thetime it wasn't fear I felt, but something deeper and quieter. Shelooked at me long and long, and her face was just one dumb prayer tome--but how in the world was I to help her? Suddenly she turned, and Iheard her walk down the passage. This time I wasn't afraid to follow--Ifelt that I must know what she wanted. I sprang up and ran out. She wasat the other end of the passage, and I expected her to take the turntoward my mistress's room; but instead of that she pushed open the doorthat led to the backstairs. I followed her down the stairs, and acrossthe passageway to the back door. The kitchen and hall were empty atthat hour, the servants being off duty, except for the footman, who wasin the pantry. At the door she stood still a moment, with another lookat me; then she turned the handle, and stepped out. For a minute Ihesitated. Where was she leading me to? The door had closed softlyafter her, and I opened it and looked out, half-expecting to find thatshe had disappeared. But I saw her a few yards off, hurrying across thecourt-yard to the path through the woods. Her figure looked black andlonely in the snow, and for a second my heart failed me and I thoughtof turning back. But all the while she was drawing me after her; andcatching up an old shawl of Mrs. Blinder's I ran out into the open. 

Emma Saxon was in the wood-path now. She walked on steadily, and Ifollowed at the same pace, till we passed out of the gates and reachedthe high-road. Then she struck across the open fields to the village. By this time the ground was white, and as she climbed the slope of abare hill ahead of me I noticed that she left no foot-prints behindher. At sight of that, my heart shrivelled up within me, and my kneeswere water. Somehow, it was worse here than indoors. She made the wholecountryside seem lonely as the grave, with none but us two in it, andno help in the wide world. 

Once I tried to go back; but she turned and looked at me, and it was asif she had dragged me with ropes. After that I followed her like a dog. We came to the village, and she led me through it, past the church andthe blacksmith's shop, and down the lane to Mr. Ranford's. Mr. Ranford's house stands close to the road: a plain old-fashionedbuilding, with a flagged path leading to the door between box-borders. The lane was deserted, and as I turned into it, I saw Emma Saxon pauseunder the old elm by the gate. And now another fear came over me. I sawthat we had reached the end of our journey, and that it was my turn toact. All the way from Brympton I had been asking myself what she wantedof me, but I had followed in a trance, as it were, and not till I sawher stop at Mr. Ranford's gate did my brain begin to clear itself. Itstood a little way off in the snow, my heart beating fit to strangleme, and my feet frozen to the ground; and she stood under the elm andwatched me. 

I knew well enough that she hadn't led me there for nothing. I feltthere was something I ought to say or do--but how was I to guess whatit was? I had never thought harm of my mistress and Mr. Ranford, but Iwas sure now that, from one cause or another, some dreadful thing hungover them. _She_ knew what it was; she would tell me if she could;perhaps she would answer if I questioned her. 

It turned me faint to think of speaking to her; but I plucked up heartand dragged myself across the few yards between us. As I did so, Iheard the house-door open, and saw Mr. Ranford approaching. He lookedhandsome and cheerful, as my mistress had looked that morning, and atsight of him the blood began to flow again in my veins. 

"Why, Hartley, " said he, "what's the matter? I saw you coming down thelane just now, and came out to see if you had taken root in the snow. "He stopped and stared at me. "What are you looking at?" he says. 

I turned toward the elm as he spoke, and his eyes followed me; butthere was no one there. The lane was empty as far as the eye couldreach. 

A sense of helplessness came over me. She was gone, and I had not beenable to guess what she wanted. Her last look had pierced me to themarrow; and yet it had not told me! All at once, I felt more desolatethan when she had stood there watching me. It seemed as if she had leftme all alone to carry the weight of the secret I couldn't guess. Thesnow went round me in great circles, and the ground fell away fromme.... 

A drop of brandy and the warmth of Mr. Ranford's fire soon brought meto, and I insisted on being driven back at once to Brympton. It wasnearly dark, and I was afraid my mistress might be wanting me. Iexplained to Mr. Ranford that I had been out for a walk and had beentaken with a fit of giddiness as I passed his gate. This was trueenough; yet I never felt more like a liar than when I said it. 

When I dressed Mrs. Brympton for dinner she remarked on my pale looksand asked what ailed me. I told her I had a headache, and she said shewould not require me again that evening, and advised me to go to bed. 

It was a fact that I could scarcely keep on my feet; yet I had no fancyto spend a solitary evening in my room. I sat downstairs in the hall aslong as I could hold my head up; but by nine I crept upstairs, tooweary to care what happened if I could but get my head on a pillow. Therest of the household went to bed soon afterward; they kept early hourswhen the master was away, and before ten I heard Mrs. Blinder's doorclose, and Mr. Wace's soon after. 

It was a very still night, earth and air all muffled in snow. Once inbed I felt easier, and lay quiet, listening to the strange noises thatcome out in a house after dark. Once I thought I heard a door open andclose again below: it might have been the glass door that led to thegardens. I got up and peered out of the window; but it was in the darkof the moon, and nothing visible outside but the streaking of snowagainst the panes. 

I went back to bed and must have dozed, for I jumped awake to thefurious ringing of my bell. Before my head was clear I had sprung outof bed, and was dragging on my clothes. _It is going to happen now_, Iheard myself saying; but what I meant I had no notion. My hands seemedto be covered with glue--I thought I should never get into my clothes. At last I opened my door and peered down the passage. As far as mycandle-flame carried, I could see nothing unusual ahead of me. Ihurried on, breathless; but as I pushed open the baize door leading tothe main hall my heart stood still, for there at the head of the stairswas Emma Saxon, peering dreadfully down into the darkness. 

For a second I couldn't stir; but my hand slipped from the door, and asit swung shut the figure vanished. At the same instant there cameanother sound from below stairs--a stealthy mysterious sound, as of alatch-key turning in the house-door. I ran to Mrs. Brympton's room andknocked. 

There was no answer, and I knocked again. This time I heard some onemoving in the room; the bolt slipped back and my mistress stood beforeme. To my surprise I saw that she had not undressed for the night. Shegave me a startled look. 

"What is this, Hartley?" she says in a whisper. "Are you ill? What areyou doing here at this hour?"

"I am not ill, madam; but my bell rang. "

At that she turned pale, and seemed about to fall. 

"You are mistaken, " she said harshly; "I didn't ring. You must havebeen dreaming. " I had never heard her speak in such a tone. "Go back tobed, " she said, closing the door on me. 

But as she spoke I heard sounds again in the hall below: a man's stepthis time; and the truth leaped out on me. 

"Madam, " I said, pushing past her, "there is someone in the house--"

"Someone--?"

"Mr. Brympton, I think--I hear his step below--"

A dreadful look came over her, and without a word, she dropped flat atmy feet. I fell on my knees and tried to lift her: by the way shebreathed I saw it was no common faint. But as I raised her head therecame quick steps on the stairs and across the hall: the door was flungopen, and there stood Mr. Brympton, in his travelling-clothes, the snowdripping from him. He drew back with a start as he saw me kneeling bymy mistress. 

"What the devil is this?" he shouted. He was less high-colored thanusual, and the red spot came out on his forehead. 

"Mrs. Brympton has fainted, sir, " said I. 

He laughed unsteadily and pushed by me. "It's a pity she didn't choosea more convenient moment. I'm sorry to disturb her, but--"

I raised myself up, aghast at the man's action. 

"Sir, " said I, "are you mad? What are you doing?"

"Going to meet a friend, " said he, and seemed to make for thedressing-room. 

At that my heart turned over. I don't know what I thought or feared;but I sprang up and caught him by the sleeve. 

"Sir, sir, " said I, "for pity's sake look at your wife!"

He shook me off furiously. 

"It seems that's done for me, " says he, and caught hold of thedressing-room door. 

At that moment I heard a slight noise inside. Slight as it was, heheard it too, and tore the door open; but as he did so he dropped back. On the threshold stood Emma Saxon. All was dark behind her, but I sawher plainly, and so did he. He threw up his hands as if to hide hisface from her; and when I looked again she was gone. 

He stood motionless, as if the strength had run out of him; and in thestillness my mistress suddenly raised herself, and opening her eyesfixed a look on him. Then she fell back, and I saw the death-flutterpass over her.... 

We buried her on the third day, in a driving snow-storm. There were fewpeople in the church, for it was bad weather to come from town, andI've a notion my mistress was one that hadn't many near friends. Mr. Ranford was among the last to come, just before they carried her up theaisle. He was in black, of course, being such a friend of the family, and I never saw a gentleman so pale. As he passed me, I noticed that heleaned a trifle on a stick he carried; and I fancy Mr. Brympton noticedit too, for the red spot came out sharp on his forehead, and allthrough the service he kept staring across the church at Mr. Ranford, instead of following the prayers as a mourner should. 

When it was over and we went out to the graveyard, Mr. Ranford haddisappeared, and as soon as my poor mistress's body was underground, Mr. Brympton jumped into the carriage nearest the gate and drove offwithout a word to any of us. I heard him call out, "To the station, "and we servants went back alone to the house. 

THE MISSION OF JANE

I

LETHBURY, surveying his wife across the dinner table, found histransient conjugal glance arrested by an indefinable change in herappearance. 

"How smart you look! Is that a new gown?" he asked. 

Her answering look seemed to deprecate his charging her with theextravagance of wasting a new gown on him, and he now perceived thatthe change lay deeper than any accident of dress. At the same time, henoticed that she betrayed her consciousness of it by a delicate, almostfrightened blush. It was one of the compensations of Mrs. Lethbury'sprotracted childishness that she still blushed as prettily as ateighteen. Her body had been privileged not to outstrip her mind, andthe two, as it seemed to Lethbury, were destined to travel togetherthrough an eternity of girlishness. 

"I don't know what you mean, " she said. 

Since she never did, he always wondered at her bringing this out as afresh grievance against him; but his wonder was unresentful, and hesaid good-humoredly: "You sparkle so that I thought you had on yourdiamonds. "

She sighed and blushed again. 

"It must be, " he continued, "that you've been to a dressmaker'sopening. You're absolutely brimming with illicit enjoyment. "

She stared again, this time at the adjective. His adjectives alwaysembarrassed her: their unintelligibleness savored of impropriety. 

"In short, " he summed up, "you've been doing something that you'rethoroughly ashamed of. "

To his surprise she retorted: "I don't see why I should be ashamed ofit!"

Lethbury leaned back with a smile of enjoyment. When there was nothingbetter going he always liked to listen to her explanations. 

"Well--?" he said. 

She was becoming breathless and ejaculatory. "Of course you'lllaugh--you laugh at everything!"

"That rather blunts the point of my derision, doesn't it?" heinterjected; but she rushed on without noticing:

"It's so easy to laugh at things. "

"Ah, " murmured Lethbury with relish, "that's Aunt Sophronia's, isn'tit?"

Most of his wife's opinions were heirlooms, and he took a quaintpleasure in tracing their descent. She was proud of their age, and sawno reason for discarding them while they were still serviceable. Some, of course, were so fine that she kept them for state occasions, likeher great-grandmother's Crown Derby; but from the lady known as AuntSophronia she had inherited a stout set of every-day prejudices thatwere practically as good as new; whereas her husband's, as she noticed, were always having to be replaced. In the early days she had fanciedthere might be a certain satisfaction in taxing him with the fact; butshe had long since been silenced by the reply: "My dear, I'm not a richman, but I never use an opinion twice if I can help it. "

She was reduced, therefore, to dwelling on his moral deficiencies; andone of the most obvious of these was his refusal to take thingsseriously. On this occasion, however, some ulterior purpose kept herfrom taking up his taunt. 

"I'm not in the least ashamed!" she repeated, with the air of shaking abanner to the wind; but the domestic atmosphere being calm, the bannerdrooped unheroically. 

"That, " said Lethbury judicially, "encourages me to infer that youought to be, and that, consequently, you've been giving yourself theunusual pleasure of doing something I shouldn't approve of. "

She met this with an almost solemn directness. "No, " she said. "Youwon't approve of it. I've allowed for that. "

"Ah, " he exclaimed, setting down his liqueur-glass. "You've worked outthe whole problem, eh?"

"I believe so. "

"That's uncommonly interesting. And what is it?"

She looked at him quietly. "A baby. "

If it was seldom given her to surprise him, she had attained thedistinction for once. 

"A baby?"

"Yes. "

"A--human baby?"

"Of course!" she cried, with the virtuous resentment of the woman whohas never allowed dogs in the house. 

Lethbury's puzzled stare broke into a fresh smile. "A baby I sha'n'tapprove of? Well, in the abstract I don't think much of them, I admit. Is this an abstract baby?"

Again she frowned at the adjective; but she had reached a pitch ofexaltation at which such obstacles could not deter her. 

"It's the loveliest baby--" she murmured. 

"Ah, then it's concrete. It exists. In this harsh world it draws itsbreath in pain--"

"It's the healthiest child I ever saw!" she indignantly corrected. 

"You've seen it, then?"

Again the accusing blush suffused her. "Yes--I've seen it. "

"And to whom does the paragon belong?"

And here indeed she confounded him. "To me--I hope, " she declared. 

He pushed his chair back with an inarticulate murmur. "To _you_--?"

"To _us_, " she corrected. 

"Good Lord!" he said. If there had been the least hint of hallucinationin her transparent gaze--but no: it was as clear, as shallow, as easilyfathomable as when he had first suffered the sharp surprise of strikingbottom in it. 

It occurred to him that perhaps she was trying to be funny: he knewthat there is nothing more cryptic than the humor of the unhumorous. 

"Is it a joke?" he faltered. 

"Oh, I hope not. I want it so much to be a reality--"

He paused to smile at the limitations of a world in which jokes werenot realities, and continued gently: "But since it is one already--"

"To us, I mean: to you and me. I want--" her voice wavered, and hereyes with it. "I have always wanted so dreadfully... It has been such adisappointment... Not to... "

"I see, " said Lethbury slowly. 

But he had not seen before. It seemed curious, now, that he had neverthought of her taking it in that way, had never surmised any hiddendepths beneath her outspread obviousness. He felt as though he hadtouched a secret spring in her mind. 

There was a moment's silence, moist and tremulous on her part, awkwardand slightly irritated on his. 

"You've been lonely, I suppose?" he began. It was odd, having suddenlyto reckon with the stranger who gazed at him out of her trivial eyes. 

"At times, " she said. 

"I'm sorry. "

"It was not your fault. A man has so many occupations; and women whoare clever--or very handsome--I suppose that's an occupation too. Sometimes I've felt that when dinner was ordered I had nothing to dotill the next day. "

"Oh, " he groaned. 

"It wasn't your fault, " she insisted. "I never told you--but when Ichose that rose-bud paper for the front room upstairs, I alwaysthought--"

"Well--?"

"It would be such a pretty paper--for a baby--to wake up in. That wasyears ago, of course; but it was rather an expensive paper... And ithasn't faded in the least... " she broke off incoherently. 

"It hasn't faded?"

"No--and so I thought... As we don't use the room for anything ... Nowthat Aunt Sophronia is dead... I thought I might... You might... Oh, Julian, if you could only have seen it just waking up in its crib!"

"Seen what--where? You haven't got a baby upstairs?"

"Oh, no--not _yet_, " she said, with her rare laugh--the girlishbubbling of merriment that had seemed one of her chief graces in theearly days. It occurred to him that he had not given her enough thingsto laugh about lately. But then she needed such very elementary things:it was as difficult to amuse her as a savage. He concluded that he wasnot sufficiently simple. 

"Alice, " he said, almost solemnly, "what _do_ you mean?"

She hesitated a moment: he saw her gather her courage for a supremeeffort. Then she said slowly, gravely, as though she were pronouncing asacramental phrase:

"I'm so lonely without a little child--and I thought perhaps you'd letme adopt one.... It's at the hospital... Its mother is dead... And Icould... Pet it, and dress it, and do things for it... And it's such agood baby... You can ask any of the nurses... It would never, _never_bother you by crying... "

II

Lethbury accompanied his wife to the hospital in a mood of chastenedwonder. It did not occur to him to oppose her wish. He knew, of course, that he would have to bear the brunt of the situation: the jokes at theclub, the inquiries, the explanations. He saw himself in the comic roleof the adopted father, and welcomed it as an expiation. For in hisrapid reconstruction of the past he found himself cutting a shabbierfigure than he cared to admit. He had always been intolerant of stupidpeople, and it was his punishment to be convicted of stupidity. As hismind traversed the years between his marriage and this unexpectedassumption of paternity, he saw, in the light of an overheatedimagination, many signs of unwonted crassness. It was not that he hadceased to think his wife stupid: she _was_ stupid, limited, inflexible;but there was a pathos in the struggles of her swaddled mind, in itsblind reachings toward the primal emotions. He had always thought shewould have been happier with a child; but he had thought itmechanically, because it had so often been thought before, because itwas in the nature of things to think it of every woman, because hiswife was so eminently one of a species that she fitted into all thegeneralizations on the sex. But he had regarded this generalization asmerely typical of the triumph of tradition over experience. Maternitywas no doubt the supreme function of primitive woman, the one end towhich her whole organism tended; but the law of increasing complexityhad operated in both sexes, and he had not seriously supposed that, outside the world of Christmas fiction and anecdotic art, such truismshad any special hold on the feminine imagination. Now he saw that thearts in question were kept alive by the vitality of the sentiments theyappealed to. 

Lethbury was in fact going through a rapid process of readjustment. Hismarriage had been a failure, but he had preserved toward his wife theexact fidelity of act that is sometimes supposed to excuse anydivagation of feeling; so that, for years, the tie between them hadconsisted mainly in his abstaining from making love to other women. Theabstention had not always been easy, for the world is surprisinglywell-stocked with the kind of woman one ought to have married but didnot; and Lethbury had not escaped the solicitation of suchalternatives. His immunity had been purchased at the cost of takingrefuge in the somewhat rarified atmosphere of his perceptions; and hisworld being thus limited, he had given unusual care to its details, compensating himself for the narrowness of his horizon by the minutefinish of his foreground. It was a world of fine shadings and thenicest proportions, where impulse seldom set a blundering foot, and thefeast of reason was undisturbed by an intemperate flow of soul. To sucha banquet his wife naturally remained uninvited. The diet would havedisagreed with her, and she would probably have objected to the otherguests. But Lethbury, miscalculating her needs, had hitherto supposedthat he had made ample provision for them, and was consequently atliberty to enjoy his own fare without any reproach of mendicancy at hisgates. Now he beheld her pressing a starved face against the windows ofhis life, and in his imaginative reaction he invested her with a pathosborrowed from the sense of his own shortcomings. 

In the hospital, the imaginative process continued with increasingforce. He looked at his wife with new eyes. Formerly she had been tohim a mere bundle of negations, a labyrinth of dead walls and bolteddoors. There was nothing behind the walls, and the doors ledno-whither: he had sounded and listened often enough to be sure ofthat. Now he felt like a traveller who, exploring some ancient ruin, comes on an inner cell, intact amid the general dilapidation, andpainted with images which reveal the forgotten uses of the building. 

His wife stood by a white crib in one of the wards. In the crib lay achild, a year old, the nurse affirmed, but to Lethbury's eye a meredateless fragment of humanity projected against a background ofconjecture. Over this anonymous particle of life Mrs. Lethbury leaned, such ecstasy reflected in her face as strikes up, in Correggio'sNight-piece, from the child's body to the mother's countenance. It wasa light that irradiated and dazzled her. She looked up at an inquiry ofLethbury's, but as their glances met he perceived that she no longersaw him, that he had become as invisible to her as she had long been tohim. He had to transfer his question to the nurse. 

"What is the child's name?" he asked. 

"We call her Jane, " said the nurse. 

III

Lethbury, at first, had resisted the idea of a legal adoption; but whenhe found that his wife's curiously limited imagination prevented herregarding the child as hers till it had been made so by process of law, he promptly withdrew his objection. On one point only he remainedinflexible; and that was the changing of the waif's name. Mrs. Lethbury, almost at once, had expressed a wish to rechristen it: shefluctuated between Muriel and Gladys, deferring the moment of decisionlike a lady wavering between two bonnets. But Lethbury was unyielding. In the general surrender of his prejudices this one alone held out. 

"But Jane is so dreadful, " Mrs. Lethbury protested. 

"Well, we don't know that _she_ won't be dreadful. She may grow up aJane. "

His wife exclaimed reproachfully. "The nurse says she's the loveliest--"

"Don't they always say that?" asked Lethbury patiently. He was preparedto be inexhaustibly patient now that he had reached a firm foothold ofopposition. 

"It's cruel to call her Jane, " Mrs. Lethbury pleaded. 

"It's ridiculous to call her Muriel. "

"The nurse is _sure_ she must be a lady's child. "

Lethbury winced: he had tried, all along, to keep his mind off thequestion of antecedents. 

"Well, let her prove it, " he said, with a rising sense of exasperation. He wondered how he could ever have allowed himself to be drawn intosuch a ridiculous business; for the first time he felt the full ironyof it. He had visions of coming home in the afternoon to a housesmelling of linseed and paregoric, and of being greeted by a chronichowl as he went up stairs to dress for dinner. He had never been aclub-man, but he saw himself becoming one now. 

The worst of his anticipations were unfulfilled. The baby wassurprisingly well and surprisingly quiet. Such infantile remedies asshe absorbed were not potent enough to be perceived beyond the nursery;and when Lethbury could be induced to enter that sanctuary, there wasnothing to jar his nerves in the mild pink presence of his adopteddaughter. Jars there were, indeed: they were probably inevitable in thedisturbed routine of the household; but they occurred between Mrs. Lethbury and the nurses, and Jane contributed to them only a placidstare which might have served as a rebuke to the combatants. 

In the reaction from his first impulse of atonement, Lethbury notedwith sharpened perceptions the effect of the change on his wife'scharacter. He saw already the error of supposing that it could work anytransformation in her. It simply magnified her existing qualities. Shewas like a dried sponge put in water: she expanded, but she did notchange her shape. From the stand-point of scientific observation it wascurious to see how her stored instincts responded to thepseudo-maternal call. She overflowed with the petty maxims of theoccasion. One felt in her the epitome, the consummation, of centuriesof animal maternity, so that this little woman, who screamed at a mouseand was nervous about burglars, came to typify the cave-mother rendingher prey for her young. 

It was less easy to regard philosophically the practical effects of herborrowed motherhood. Lethbury found with surprise that she was becomingassertive and definite. She no longer represented the negative side ofhis life; she showed, indeed, a tendency to inconvenient affirmations. She had gradually expanded her assumption of motherhood till itincluded his own share in the relation, and he suddenly found himselfregarded as the father of Jane. This was a contingency he had notforeseen, and it took all his philosophy to accept it; but there weremoments of compensation. For Mrs. Lethbury was undoubtedly happy forthe first time in years; and the thought that he had tardilycontributed to this end reconciled him to the irony of the means. 

At first he was inclined to reproach himself for still viewing thesituation from the outside, for remaining a spectator instead of aparticipant. He had been allured, for a moment, by the vision ofsevered hands meeting over a cradle, as the whole body of domesticfiction bears witness to their doing; and the fact that no suchconjunction took place he could explain only on the ground that it wasa borrowed cradle. He did not dislike the little girl. She stillremained to him a hypothetical presence, a query rather than a fact;but her nearness was not unpleasant, and there were moments when hertentative utterances, her groping steps, seemed to loosen the dryaccretions enveloping his inner self. But even at such moments--momentswhich he invited and caressed--she did not bring him nearer to hiswife. He now perceived that he had made a certain place in his life forMrs. Lethbury, and that she no longer fitted into it. It was too lateto enlarge the space, and so she overflowed and encroached. Lethburystruggled against the sense of submergence. He let down barrier afterbarrier, yielded privacy after privacy; but his wife's personalitycontinued to dilate. She was no longer herself alone: she was herselfand Jane. Gradually, in a monstrous fusion of identity, she becameherself, himself and Jane; and instead of trying to adapt her to aspare crevice of his character, he found himself carelessly squeezedinto the smallest compartment of the domestic economy. 

IV

He continued to tell himself that he was satisfied if his wife washappy; and it was not till the child's tenth year that he felt a doubtof her happiness. 

Jane had been a preternaturally good child. During the eight years ofher adoption she had caused her foster-parents no anxiety beyond thoseconnected with the usual succession of youthful diseases. But herunknown progenitors had given her a robust constitution, and she passedunperturbed through measles, chicken-pox and whooping-cough. If therewas any suffering it was endured vicariously by Mrs. Lethbury, whosetemperature rose and fell with the patient's, and who could not hearJane sneeze without visions of a marble angel weeping over a brokencolumn. But though Jane's prompt recoveries continued to belie suchpremonitions, though her existence continued to move forward on an evenkeel of good health and good conduct, Mrs. Lethbury's satisfactionshowed no corresponding advance. Lethbury, at first, was disposed toadd her disappointment to the long list of feminine inconsistencieswith which the sententious observer of life builds up his favoriteinduction; but circumstances presently led him to take a kindlier viewof the case. 

Hitherto his wife had regarded him as a negligible factor in Jane'sevolution. Beyond providing for his adopted daughter, and effacinghimself before her, he was not expected to contribute to herwell-being. But as time passed he appeared to his wife in a new light. It was he who was to educate Jane. In matters of the intellect, Mrs. Lethbury was the first to declare her deficiencies--to proclaim them, even, with a certain virtuous superiority. She said she did not pretendto be clever, and there was no denying the truth of the assertion. Now, however, she seemed less ready, not to own her limitations, but toglory in them. Confronted with the problem of Jane's instruction, shestood in awe of the child. 

"I have always been stupid, you know, " she said to Lethbury with a newhumility, "and I'm afraid I sha'n't know what is best for Jane. I'msure she has a wonderfully good mind, and I should reproach myself if Ididn't give her every opportunity. " She looked at him helplessly. "Youmust tell me what ought to be done. "

Lethbury was not unwilling to oblige her. Somewhere in his mentallumber-room there rusted a theory of education such as usually lingersamong the impedimenta of the childless. He brought this out, refurbished it, and applied it to Jane. At first he thought his wifehad not overrated the quality of the child's mind. Jane seemedextraordinarily intelligent. Her precocious definiteness of mind wasencouraging to her inexperienced preceptor. She had no difficulty infixing her attention, and he felt that every fact he imparted was beingetched in metal. He helped his wife to engage the best teachers, andfor a while continued to take an ex-official interest in his adopteddaughter's studies. But gradually his interest waned. Jane's ideas didnot increase with her acquisitions. Her young mind remained a merereceptacle for facts: a kind of cold-storage from which anything thathad been put there could be taken out at a moment's notice, intact butcongealed. She developed, moreover, an inordinate pride in the capacityof her mental storehouse, and a tendency to pelt her public with itscontents. She was overheard to jeer at her nurse for not knowing whenthe Saxon Heptarchy had fallen, and she alternately dazzled anddepressed Mrs. Lethbury by the wealth of her chronological allusions. She showed no interest in the significance of the facts she amassed:she simply collected dates as another child might have collected stampsor marbles. To her foster-mother she seemed a prodigy of wisdom; butLethbury saw, with a secret movement of sympathy, how the aptitudes inwhich Mrs. Lethbury gloried were slowly estranging her from theirpossessor. 

"She is getting too clever for me, " his wife said to him, after one ofJane's historical flights, "but I am so glad that she will be acompanion to you. "

Lethbury groaned in spirit. He did not look forward to Jane'scompanionship. She was still a good little girl: but there wassomething automatic and formal in her goodness, as though it were akind of moral calisthenics that she went through for the sake ofshowing her agility. An early consciousness of virtue had moreoverconstituted her the natural guardian and adviser of her elders. Beforeshe was fifteen she had set about reforming the household. She tookMrs. Lethbury in hand first; then she extended her efforts to theservants, with consequences more disastrous to the domestic harmony;and lastly she applied herself to Lethbury. She proved to him bystatistics that he smoked too much, and that it was injurious to theoptic nerve to read in bed. She took him to task for not going tochurch more regularly, and pointed out to him the evils of desultoryreading. She suggested that a regular course of study encourages mentalconcentration, and hinted that inconsecutiveness of thought is a signof approaching age. 

To her adopted mother her suggestions were equally pertinent. Sheinstructed Mrs. Lethbury in an improved way of making beef stock, andcalled her attention to the unhygienic qualities of carpets. She pouredout distracting facts about bacilli and vegetable mould, anddemonstrated that curtains and picture-frames are a hot-bed of animalorganisms. She learned by heart the nutritive ingredients of theprincipal articles of diet, and revolutionized the cuisine by anattempt to establish a scientific average between starch andphosphates. Four cooks left during this experiment, and Lethbury fellinto the habit of dining at his club. 

Once or twice, at the outset, he had tried to check Jane's ardor; buthis efforts resulted only in hurting his wife's feelings. Jane remainedimpervious, and Mrs. Lethbury resented any attempt to protect her fromher daughter. Lethbury saw that she was consoled for the sense of herown inferiority by the thought of what Jane's intellectualcompanionship must be to him; and he tried to keep up the illusion byenduring with what grace he might the blighting edification of Jane'sdiscourse. 

V

As Jane grew up, he sometimes avenged himself by wondering if his wifewas still sorry that they had not called her Muriel. Jane was not ugly;she developed, indeed, a kind of categorical prettiness that might havebeen a projection of her mind. She had a creditable collection offeatures, but one had to take an inventory of them to find out that shewas good-looking. The fusing grace had been omitted. 

Mrs. Lethbury took a touching pride in her daughter's first steps inthe world. She expected Jane to take by her complexion those whom shedid not capture by her learning. But Jane's rosy freshness did not workany perceptible ravages. Whether the young men guessed the axioms onher lips and detected the encyclopaedia in her eye, or whether theysimply found no intrinsic interest in these features, certain it is, that, in spite of her mother's heroic efforts, and of incessant callson Lethbury's purse, Jane, at the end of her first season, had droppedhopelessly out of the running. A few duller girls found herinteresting, and one or two young men came to the house with the objectof meeting other young women; but she was rapidly becoming one of thesocial supernumeraries who are asked out only because they are onpeople's lists. 

The blow was bitter to Mrs. Lethbury; but she consoled herself with theidea that Jane had failed because she was too clever. Jane probablyshared this conviction; at all events she betrayed no consciousness offailure. She had developed a pronounced taste for society, and wentout, unweariedly and obstinately, winter after winter, while Mrs. Lethbury toiled in her wake, showering attentions on oblivioushostesses. To Lethbury there was something at once tragic andexasperating in the sight of their two figures, the one conciliatory, the other dogged, both pursuing with unabated zeal the elusive prize ofpopularity. He even began to feel a personal stake in the pursuit, notas it concerned Jane, but as it affected his wife. He saw that thelatter was the victim of Jane's disappointment: that Jane was not abovethe crude satisfaction of "taking it out" of her mother. Experiencechecked the impulse to come to his wife's defence; and when hisresentment was at its height, Jane disarmed him by giving up thestruggle. 

Nothing was said to mark her capitulation; but Lethbury noticed thatthe visiting ceased, and that the dressmaker's bills diminished. At thesame time, Mrs. Lethbury made it known that Jane had taken upcharities; and before long Jane's conversation confirmed thisannouncement. At first Lethbury congratulated himself on the change;but Jane's domesticity soon began to weigh on him. During the day shewas sometimes absent on errands of mercy; but in the evening she wasalways there. At first she and Mrs. Lethbury sat in the drawing-roomtogether, and Lethbury smoked in the library; but presently Jane formedthe habit of joining him there, and he began to suspect that he wasincluded among the objects of her philanthropy. 

Mrs. Lethbury confirmed the suspicion. "Jane has grown veryserious-minded lately, " she said. "She imagines that she used toneglect you, and she is trying to make up for it. Don't discourageher, " she added innocently. 

Such a plea delivered Lethbury helpless to his daughter'sministrations: and he found himself measuring the hours he spent withher by the amount of relief they must be affording her mother. Therewere even moments when he read a furtive gratitude in Mrs. Lethbury'seye. 

But Lethbury was no hero, and he had nearly reached the limit ofvicarious endurance when something wonderful happened. They never quiteknew afterward how it had come about, or who first perceived it; butMrs. Lethbury one day gave tremulous voice to their inferences. 

"Of course, " she said, "he comes here because of Elise. " The young ladyin question, a friend of Jane's, was possessed of attractions which hadalready been found to explain the presence of masculine visitors. 

Lethbury risked a denial. "I don't think he does, " he declared. 

"But Elise is thought very pretty, " Mrs. Lethbury insisted. 

"I can't help that, " said Lethbury doggedly. 

He saw a faint light in his wife's eyes; but she remarked carelessly:"Mr. Budd would be a very good match for Elise. "

Lethbury could hardly repress a chuckle: he was so exquisitely awarethat she was trying to propitiate the gods. 

For a few weeks neither said a word; then Mrs. Lethbury once morereverted to the subject. 

"It is a month since Elise went abroad, " she said. 

"Is it?"

"And Mr. Budd seems to come here just as often--"

"Ah, " said Lethbury with heroic indifference; and his wife hastilychanged the subject. 

Mr. Winstanley Budd was a young man who suffered from an excess ofmanner. Politeness gushed from him in the driest seasons. He was alwaysperforming feats of drawing-room chivalry, and the approach of the mostunobtrusive female threw him into attitudes which endangered thefurniture. His features, being of the cherubic order, did not lendthemselves to this role; but there were moments when he appeared todominate them, to force them into compliance with an aquiline ideal. The range of Mr. Budd's social benevolence made its object hard todistinguish. He spread his cloak so indiscriminately that one could notalways interpret the gesture, and Jane's impassive manner had theeffect of increasing his demonstrations: she threw him into paroxysmsof politeness. 

At first he filled the house with his amenities; but gradually itbecame apparent that his most dazzling effects were directedexclusively to Jane. Lethbury and his wife held their breath and lookedaway from each other. They pretended not to notice the frequency of Mr. Budd's visits, they struggled against an imprudent inclination to leavethe young people too much alone. Their conclusions were the result ofindirect observation, for neither of them dared to be caught watchingMr. Budd: they behaved like naturalists on the trail of a rarebutterfly. 

In his efforts not to notice Mr. Budd, Lethbury centred his attentionson Jane; and Jane, at this crucial moment, wrung from him a reluctantadmiration. While her parents went about dissembling their emotions, she seemed to have none to conceal. She betrayed neither eagerness norsurprise; so complete was her unconcern that there were moments whenLethbury feared it was obtuseness, when he could hardly help whisperingto her that now was the moment to lower the net. 

Meanwhile the velocity of Mr. Budd's gyrations increased with the ardorof courtship: his politeness became incandescent, and Jane foundherself the centre of a pyrotechnical display culminating in the "setpiece" of an offer of marriage. 

Mrs. Lethbury imparted the news to her husband one evening after theirdaughter had gone to bed. The announcement was made and received withan air of detachment, as though both feared to be betrayed intounseemly exultation; but Lethbury, as his wife ended, could not repressthe inquiry, "Have they decided on a day?"

Mrs. Lethbury's superior command of her features enabled her to lookshocked. "What can you be thinking of? He only offered himself at five!"

"Of course--of course--" stammered Lethbury--"but nowadays people marryafter such short engagements--"

"Engagement!" said his wife solemnly. "There is no engagement. "

Lethbury dropped his cigar. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Jane is thinking it over. "

_"Thinking it over?"_ "She has asked for a month before deciding. "

Lethbury sank back with a gasp. Was it genius or was it madness? Hefelt incompetent to decide; and Mrs. Lethbury's next words showed thatshe shared his difficulty. 

"Of course I don't want to hurry Jane--"

"Of course not, " he acquiesced. 

"But I pointed out to her that a young man of Mr. Budd's impulsivetemperament might--might be easily discouraged--"

"Yes; and what did she say?"

"She said that if she was worth winning she was worth waiting for. "

VI

The period of Mr. Budd's probation could scarcely have cost him as muchmental anguish as it caused his would-be parents-in-law. 

Mrs. Lethbury, by various ruses, tried to shorten the ordeal, but Janeremained inexorable; and each morning Lethbury came down to breakfastwith the certainty of finding a letter of withdrawal from herdiscouraged suitor. 

When at length the decisive day came, and Mrs. Lethbury, at its close, stole into the library with an air of chastened joy, they stood for amoment without speaking; then Mrs. Lethbury paid a fitting tribute tothe proprieties by faltering out: "It will be dreadful to have to giveher up--"

Lethbury could not repress a warning gesture; but even as it escapedhim, he realized that his wife's grief was genuine. 

"Of course, of course, " he said, vainly sounding his own emotionalshallows for an answering regret. And yet it was his wife who hadsuffered most from Jane!

He had fancied that these sufferings would be effaced by the milderatmosphere of their last weeks together; but felicity did not softenJane. Not for a moment did she relax her dominion: she simply widenedit to include a new subject. Mr. Budd found himself under orders withthe others; and a new fear assailed Lethbury as he saw Jane assumeprenuptial control of her betrothed. Lethbury had never felt any strongpersonal interest in Mr. Budd; but, as Jane's prospective husband, theyoung man excited his sympathy. To his surprise, he found that Mrs. Lethbury shared the feeling. 

"I'm afraid he may find Jane a little exacting, " she said, after anevening dedicated to a stormy discussion of the wedding arrangements. "She really ought to make some concessions. If he _wants_ to be marriedin a black frock-coat instead of a dark gray one--" She paused andlooked doubtfully at Lethbury. 

"What can I do about it?" he said. 

"You might explain to him--tell him that Jane isn't always--"

Lethbury made an impatient gesture. "What are you afraid of? Hisfinding her out or his not finding her out?"

Mrs. Lethbury flushed. "You put it so dreadfully!"

Her husband mused for a moment; then he said with an air of cheerfulhypocrisy: "After all, Budd is old enough to take care of himself. "

But the next day Mrs. Lethbury surprised him. Late in the afternoon sheentered the library, so breathless and inarticulate that he scented acatastrophe. 

"I've done it!" she cried. 

"Done what?"

"Told him. " She nodded toward the door. "He's just gone. Jane is out, and I had a chance to talk to him alone. "

Lethbury pushed a chair forward and she sank into it. 

"What did you tell him? That she is _not_ always--"

Mrs. Lethbury lifted a tragic eye. "No; I told him that she always_is_--"

"Always _is_--?"

"Yes. "

There was a pause. Lethbury made a call on his hoarded philosophy. Hesaw Jane suddenly reinstated in her evening seat by the library fire;but an answering chord in him thrilled at his wife's heroism. 

"Well--what did he say?"

Mrs. Lethbury's agitation deepened. It was clear that the blow hadfallen. 

"He... He said... That we... Had never understood Jane... Or appreciatedher... " The final syllables were lost in her handkerchief, and she lefthim marvelling at the mechanism of a woman. 

After that, Lethbury faced the future with an undaunted eye. They haddone their duty--at least his wife had done hers--and they were reapingthe usual harvest of ingratitude with a zest seldom accorded to suchreaping. There was a marked change in Mr. Budd's manner, and hisincreasing coldness sent a genial glow through Lethbury's system. Itwas easy to bear with Jane in the light of Mr. Budd's disapproval. 

There was a good deal to be borne in the last days, and the brunt of itfell on Mrs. Lethbury. Jane marked her transition to the married stateby an appropriate but incongruous display of nerves. She becamesentimental, hysterical and reluctant. She quarrelled with herbetrothed and threatened to return the ring. Mrs. Lethbury had tointervene, and Lethbury felt the hovering sword of destiny. But theblow was suspended. Mr. Budd's chivalry was proof against all hisbride's caprices, and his devotion throve on her cruelty. Lethburyfeared that he was too faithful, too enduring, and longed to urge himto vary his tactics. Jane presently reappeared with the ring on herfinger, and consented to try on the wedding-dress; but heruncertainties, her reactions, were prolonged till the final day. 

When it dawned, Lethbury was still in an ecstasy of apprehension. Feeling reasonably sure of the principal actors, he had centred hisfears on incidental possibilities. The clergyman might have a stroke, or the church might burn down, or there might be something wrong withthe license. He did all that was humanly possible to avert suchcontingencies, but there remained that incalculable factor known as thehand of God. Lethbury seemed to feel it groping for him. 

In the church it almost had him by the nape. Mr. Budd was late; and forfive immeasurable minutes Lethbury and Jane faced a churchful ofconjecture. Then the bridegroom appeared, flushed but chivalrous, andexplaining to his father-in-law under cover of the ritual that he hadtorn his glove and had to go back for another. 

"You'll be losing the ring next, " muttered Lethbury; but Mr. Buddproduced this article punctually, and a moment or two later was bearingits wearer captive down the aisle. 

At the wedding-breakfast Lethbury caught his wife's eye fixed on him inmild disapproval, and understood that his hilarity was exceeding thebounds of fitness. He pulled himself together, and tried to subdue histone; but his jubilation bubbled over like a champagne-glassperpetually refilled. The deeper his draughts, the higher it rose. 

It was at the brim when, in the wake of the dispersing guests, Janecame down in her travelling-dress and fell on her mother's neck. 

"I can't leave you!" she wailed, and Lethbury felt as suddenly soberedas a man under a douche. But if the bride was reluctant her captor wasrelentless. Never had Mr. Budd been more dominant, more aquiline. Lethbury's last fears were dissipated as the young man snatched Janefrom her mother's bosom and bore her off to the brougham. 

The brougham rolled away, the last milliner's girl forsook her post bythe awning, the red carpet was folded up, and the house door closed. Lethbury stood alone in the hall with his wife. As he turned towardher, he noticed the look of tired heroism in her eyes, the deepenedlines of her face. They reflected his own symptoms too accurately notto appeal to him. The nervous tension had been horrible. He went up toher, and an answering impulse made her lay a hand on his arm. He heldit there a moment. 

"Let us go off and have a jolly little dinner at a restaurant, " heproposed. 

There had been a time when such a suggestion would have surprised herto the verge of disapproval; but now she agreed to it at once. 

"Oh, that would be so nice, " she murmured with a great sigh of reliefand assuagement. 

Jane had fulfilled her mission after all: she had drawn them togetherat last. 

THE RECKONING

I

"THE marriage law of the new dispensation will be: _Thou shalt not beunfaithful--to thyself_. "

A discreet murmur of approval filled the studio, and through the hazeof cigarette smoke Mrs. Clement Westall, as her husband descended fromhis improvised platform, saw him merged in a congratulatory group ofladies. Westall's informal talks on "The New Ethics" had drawn abouthim an eager following of the mentally unemployed--those who, as he hadonce phrased it, liked to have their brain-food cut up for them. Thetalks had begun by accident. Westall's ideas were known to be"advanced, " but hitherto their advance had not been in the direction ofpublicity. He had been, in his wife's opinion, almost pusillanimouslycareful not to let his personal views endanger his professionalstanding. Of late, however, he had shown a puzzling tendency todogmatize, to throw down the gauntlet, to flaunt his private code inthe face of society; and the relation of the sexes being a topic alwayssure of an audience, a few admiring friends had persuaded him to givehis after-dinner opinions a larger circulation by summing them up in aseries of talks at the Van Sideren studio. 

The Herbert Van Siderens were a couple who subsisted, socially, on thefact that they had a studio. Van Sideren's pictures were chieflyvaluable as accessories to the _mise en scene_ which differentiated hiswife's "afternoons" from the blighting functions held in long New Yorkdrawing-rooms, and permitted her to offer their friendswhiskey-and-soda instead of tea. Mrs. Van Sideren, for her part, wasskilled in making the most of the kind of atmosphere which a lay-figureand an easel create; and if at times she found the illusion hard tomaintain, and lost courage to the extent of almost wishing that Herbertcould paint, she promptly overcame such moments of weakness by callingin some fresh talent, some extraneous re-enforcement of the "artistic"impression. It was in quest of such aid that she had seized on Westall, coaxing him, somewhat to his wife's surprise, into a flatteredparticipation in her fraud. It was vaguely felt, in the Van Siderencircle, that all the audacities were artistic, and that a teacher whopronounced marriage immoral was somehow as distinguished as a painterwho depicted purple grass and a green sky. The Van Sideren set weretired of the conventional color-scheme in art and conduct. 

Julia Westall had long had her own views on the immorality of marriage;she might indeed have claimed her husband as a disciple. In the earlydays of their union she had secretly resented his disinclination toproclaim himself a follower of the new creed; had been inclined to taxhim with moral cowardice, with a failure to live up to the convictionsfor which their marriage was supposed to stand. That was in the firstburst of propagandism, when, womanlike, she wanted to turn herdisobedience into a law. Now she felt differently. She could hardlyaccount for the change, yet being a woman who never allowed herimpulses to remain unaccounted for, she tried to do so by saying thatshe did not care to have the articles of her faith misinterpreted bythe vulgar. In this connection, she was beginning to think that almostevery one was vulgar; certainly there were few to whom she would havecared to intrust the defence of so esoteric a doctrine. And it wasprecisely at this point that Westall, discarding his unspokenprinciples, had chosen to descend from the heights of privacy, andstand hawking his convictions at the street-corner!

It was Una Van Sideren who, on this occasion, unconsciously focussedupon herself Mrs. Westall's wandering resentment. In the first place, the girl had no business to be there. It was "horrid"--Mrs. Westallfound herself slipping back into the old feminine vocabulary--simply"horrid" to think of a young girl's being allowed to listen to suchtalk. The fact that Una smoked cigarettes and sipped an occasionalcocktail did not in the least tarnish a certain radiant innocency whichmade her appear the victim, rather than the accomplice, of her parents'vulgarities. Julia Westall felt in a hot helpless way that somethingought to be done--that some one ought to speak to the girl's mother. And just then Una glided up. 

"Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was!" Una fixed her with largelimpid eyes. "You believe it all, I suppose?" she asked with seraphicgravity. 

"All--what, my dear child?"

The girl shone on her. "About the higher life--the freer expansion ofthe individual--the law of fidelity to one's self, " she glibly recited. 

Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a deep and burning blush. 

"My dear Una, " she said, "you don't in the least understand what it'sall about!"

Miss Van Sideren stared, with a slowly answering blush. "Don't _you_, then?" she murmured. 

Mrs. Westall laughed. "Not always--or altogether! But I should likesome tea, please. "

Una led her to the corner where innocent beverages were dispensed. AsJulia received her cup she scrutinized the girl more carefully. It wasnot such a girlish face, after all--definite lines were forming underthe rosy haze of youth. She reflected that Una must be six-and-twenty, and wondered why she had not married. A nice stock of ideas she wouldhave as her dower! If _they_ were to be a part of the modern girl'strousseau--

Mrs. Westall caught herself up with a start. It was as though some oneelse had been speaking--a stranger who had borrowed her own voice: shefelt herself the dupe of some fantastic mental ventriloquism. Concluding suddenly that the room was stifling and Una's tea too sweet, she set down her cup, and looked about for Westall: to meet his eyeshad long been her refuge from every uncertainty. She met them now, butonly, as she felt, in transit; they included her parenthetically in alarger flight. She followed the flight, and it carried her to a cornerto which Una had withdrawn--one of the palmy nooks to which Mrs. VanSideren attributed the success of her Saturdays. Westall, a momentlater, had overtaken his look, and found a place at the girl's side. She bent forward, speaking eagerly; he leaned back, listening, with thedepreciatory smile which acted as a filter to flattery, enabling him toswallow the strongest doses without apparent grossness of appetite. Julia winced at her own definition of the smile. 

On the way home, in the deserted winter dusk, Westall surprised hiswife by a sudden boyish pressure of her arm. "Did I open their eyes abit? Did I tell them what you wanted me to?" he asked gaily. 

Almost unconsciously, she let her arm slip from his. "What _I_wanted--?"

"Why, haven't you--all this time?" She caught the honest wonder of histone. "I somehow fancied you'd rather blamed me for not talking moreopenly--before--You've made me feel, at times, that I was sacrificingprinciples to expediency. "

She paused a moment over her reply; then she asked quietly: "What madeyou decide not to--any longer?"

She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise. "Why--the wish toplease you!" he answered, almost too simply. 

"I wish you would not go on, then, " she said abruptly. 

He stopped in his quick walk, and she felt his stare through thedarkness. 

"Not go on--?"

"Call a hansom, please. I'm tired, " broke from her with a sudden rushof physical weariness. 

Instantly his solicitude enveloped her. The room had been infernallyhot--and then that confounded cigarette smoke--he had noticed once ortwice that she looked pale--she mustn't come to another Saturday. Shefelt herself yielding, as she always did, to the warm influence of hisconcern for her, the feminine in her leaning on the man in him with aconscious intensity of abandonment. He put her in the hansom, and herhand stole into his in the darkness. A tear or two rose, and she letthem fall. It was so delicious to cry over imaginary troubles!

That evening, after dinner, he surprised her by reverting to thesubject of his talk. He combined a man's dislike of uncomfortablequestions with an almost feminine skill in eluding them; and she knewthat if he returned to the subject he must have some special reason fordoing so. 

"You seem not to have cared for what I said this afternoon. Did I putthe case badly?"

"No--you put it very well. "

"Then what did you mean by saying that you would rather not have me goon with it?"

She glanced at him nervously, her ignorance of his intention deepeningher sense of helplessness. 

"I don't think I care to hear such things discussed in public. "

"I don't understand you, " he exclaimed. Again the feeling that hissurprise was genuine gave an air of obliquity to her own attitude. Shewas not sure that she understood herself. 

"Won't you explain?" he said with a tinge of impatience. 

Her eyes wandered about the familiar drawing-room which had been thescene of so many of their evening confidences. The shaded lamps, thequiet-colored walls hung with mezzotints, the pale spring flowersscattered here and there in Venice glasses and bowls of old Sevres, recalled, she hardly knew why, the apartment in which the evenings ofher first marriage had been passed--a wilderness of rosewood andupholstery, with a picture of a Roman peasant above the mantel-piece, and a Greek slave in "statuary marble" between the folding-doors of theback drawing-room. It was a room with which she had never been able toestablish any closer relation than that between a traveller and arailway station; and now, as she looked about at the surroundings whichstood for her deepest affinities--the room for which she had left thatother room--she was startled by the same sense of strangeness andunfamiliarity. The prints, the flowers, the subdued tones of the oldporcelains, seemed to typify a superficial refinement that had norelation to the deeper significances of life. 

Suddenly she heard her husband repeating his question. 

"I don't know that I can explain, " she faltered. 

He drew his arm-chair forward so that he faced her across the hearth. The light of a reading-lamp fell on his finely drawn face, which had akind of surface-sensitiveness akin to the surface-refinement of itssetting. 

"Is it that you no longer believe in our ideas?" he asked. 

"In our ideas--?"

"The ideas I am trying to teach. The ideas you and I are supposed tostand for. " He paused a moment. "The ideas on which our marriage wasfounded. "

The blood rushed to her face. He had his reasons, then--she was surenow that he had his reasons! In the ten years of their marriage, howoften had either of them stopped to consider the ideas on which it wasfounded? How often does a man dig about the basement of his house toexamine its foundation? The foundation is there, of course--the houserests on it--but one lives abovestairs and not in the cellar. It wasshe, indeed, who in the beginning had insisted on reviewing thesituation now and then, on recapitulating the reasons which justifiedher course, on proclaiming, from time to time, her adherence to thereligion of personal independence; but she had long ceased to feel theneed of any such ideal standards, and had accepted her marriage asfrankly and naturally as though it had been based on the primitiveneeds of the heart, and needed no special sanction to explain orjustify it. 

"Of course I still believe in our ideas!" she exclaimed. 

"Then I repeat that I don't understand. It was a part of your theorythat the greatest possible publicity should be given to our view ofmarriage. Have you changed your mind in that respect?"

She hesitated. "It depends on circumstances--on the public one isaddressing. The set of people that the Van Siderens get about themdon't care for the truth or falseness of a doctrine. They are attractedsimply by its novelty. "

"And yet it was in just such a set of people that you and I met, andlearned the truth from each other. "

"That was different. "

"I thought you considered it one of the deepest social wrongs that suchthings never _are_ discussed before young girls; but that is beside thepoint, for I don't remember seeing any young girl in my audienceto-day--"

"Except Una Van Sideren!"

He turned slightly and pushed back the lamp at his elbow. 

"Oh, Miss Van Sideren--naturally--"

"Why naturally?"

"The daughter of the house--would you have had her sent out with hergoverness?"

"If I had a daughter I should not allow such things to go on in myhouse!"

Westall, stroking his mustache, leaned back with a faint smile. "Ifancy Miss Van Sideren is quite capable of taking care of herself. "

"No girl knows how to take care of herself--till it's too late. "

"And yet you would deliberately deny her the surest means ofself-defence?"

"What do you call the surest means of self-defence?"

"Some preliminary knowledge of human nature in its relation to themarriage tie. "

She made an impatient gesture. "How should you like to marry that kindof a girl?"

"Immensely--if she were my kind of girl in other respects. "

She took up the argument at another point. 

"You are quite mistaken if you think such talk does not affect younggirls. Una was in a state of the most absurd exaltation--" She brokeoff, wondering why she had spoken. 

Westall reopened a magazine which he had laid aside at the beginning oftheir discussion. "What you tell me is immensely flattering to myoratorical talent--but I fear you overrate its effect. I can assure youthat Miss Van Sideren doesn't have to have her thinking done for her. She's quite capable of doing it herself. "

"You seem very familiar with her mental processes!" flashed unguardedlyfrom his wife. 

He looked up quietly from the pages he was cutting. 

"I should like to be, " he answered. "She interests me. "

II

If there be a distinction in being misunderstood, it was one denied toJulia Westall when she left her first husband. Every one was ready toexcuse and even to defend her. The world she adorned agreed that JohnArment was "impossible, " and hostesses gave a sigh of relief at thethought that it would no longer be necessary to ask him to dine. 

There had been no scandal connected with the divorce: neither side hadaccused the other of the offence euphemistically described as"statutory. " The Arments had indeed been obliged to transfer theirallegiance to a State which recognized desertion as a cause fordivorce, and construed the term so liberally that the seeds ofdesertion were shown to exist in every union. Even Mrs. Arment's secondmarriage did not make traditional morality stir in its sleep. It wasknown that she had not met her second husband till after she had partedfrom the first, and she had, moreover, replaced a rich man by a poorone. Though Clement Westall was acknowledged to be a rising lawyer, itwas generally felt that his fortunes would not rise as rapidly as hisreputation. The Westalls would probably always have to live quietly andgo out to dinner in cabs. Could there be better evidence of Mrs. Arment's complete disinterestedness?

If the reasoning by which her friends justified her course was somewhatcruder and less complex than her own elucidation of the matter, bothexplanations led to the same conclusion: John Arment was impossible. The only difference was that, to his wife, his impossibility wassomething deeper than a social disqualification. She had once said, inironical defence of her marriage, that it had at least preserved herfrom the necessity of sitting next to him at dinner; but she had notthen realized at what cost the immunity was purchased. John Arment wasimpossible; but the sting of his impossibility lay in the fact that hemade it impossible for those about him to be other than himself. By anunconscious process of elimination he had excluded from the worldeverything of which he did not feel a personal need: had become, as itwere, a climate in which only his own requirements survived. This mightseem to imply a deliberate selfishness; but there was nothingdeliberate about Arment. He was as instinctive as an animal or a child. It was this childish element in his nature which sometimes for a momentunsettled his wife's estimate of him. Was it possible that he wassimply undeveloped, that he had delayed, somewhat longer than is usual, the laborious process of growing up? He had the kind of sporadicshrewdness which causes it to be said of a dull man that he is "nofool"; and it was this quality that his wife found most trying. Even tothe naturalist it is annoying to have his deductions disturbed by someunforeseen aberrancy of form or function; and how much more so to thewife whose estimate of herself is inevitably bound up with her judgmentof her husband!

Arment's shrewdness did not, indeed, imply any latent intellectualpower; it suggested, rather, potentialities of feeling, of suffering, perhaps, in a blind rudimentary way, on which Julia's sensibilitiesnaturally declined to linger. She so fully understood her own reasonsfor leaving him that she disliked to think they were not ascomprehensible to her husband. She was haunted, in her analyticmoments, by the look of perplexity, too inarticulate for words, withwhich he had acquiesced to her explanations. 

These moments were rare with her, however. Her marriage had been tooconcrete a misery to be surveyed philosophically. If she had beenunhappy for complex reasons, the unhappiness was as real as though ithad been uncomplicated. Soul is more bruisable than flesh, and Juliawas wounded in every fibre of her spirit. Her husband's personalityseemed to be closing gradually in on her, obscuring the sky and cuttingoff the air, till she felt herself shut up among the decaying bodies ofher starved hopes. A sense of having been decoyed by some world-oldconspiracy into this bondage of body and soul filled her with despair. If marriage was the slow life-long acquittal of a debt contracted inignorance, then marriage was a crime against human nature. She, forone, would have no share in maintaining the pretence of which she hadbeen a victim: the pretence that a man and a woman, forced into thenarrowest of personal relations, must remain there till the end, thoughthey may have outgrown the span of each other's natures as the maturetree outgrows the iron brace about the sapling. 

It was in the first heat of her moral indignation that she had metClement Westall. She had seen at once that he was "interested, " and hadfought off the discovery, dreading any influence that should draw herback into the bondage of conventional relations. To ward off the perilshe had, with an almost crude precipitancy, revealed her opinions tohim. To her surprise, she found that he shared them. She was attractedby the frankness of a suitor who, while pressing his suit, admittedthat he did not believe in marriage. Her worst audacities did not seemto surprise him: he had thought out all that she had felt, and they hadreached the same conclusion. People grew at varying rates, and the yokethat was an easy fit for the one might soon become galling to theother. That was what divorce was for: the readjustment of personalrelations. As soon as their necessarily transitive nature wasrecognized they would gain in dignity as well as in harmony. Therewould be no farther need of the ignoble concessions and connivances, the perpetual sacrifice of personal delicacy and moral pride, by meansof which imperfect marriages were now held together. Each partner tothe contract would be on his mettle, forced to live up to the higheststandard of self-development, on pain of losing the other's respect andaffection. The low nature could no longer drag the higher down, butmust struggle to rise, or remain alone on its inferior level. The onlynecessary condition to a harmonious marriage was a frank recognition ofthis truth, and a solemn agreement between the contracting parties tokeep faith with themselves, and not to live together for a moment aftercomplete accord had ceased to exist between them. The new adultery wasunfaithfulness to self. 

It was, as Westall had just reminded her, on this understanding thatthey had married. The ceremony was an unimportant concession to socialprejudice: now that the door of divorce stood open, no marriage need bean imprisonment, and the contract therefore no longer involved anydiminution of self-respect. The nature of their attachment placed themso far beyond the reach of such contingencies that it was easy todiscuss them with an open mind; and Julia's sense of security made herdwell with a tender insistence on Westall's promise to claim hisrelease when he should cease to love her. The exchange of these vowsseemed to make them, in a sense, champions of the new law, pioneers inthe forbidden realm of individual freedom: they felt that they hadsomehow achieved beatitude without martyrdom. 

This, as Julia now reviewed the past, she perceived to have been hertheoretical attitude toward marriage. It was unconsciously, insidiously, that her ten years of happiness with Westall had developedanother conception of the tie; a reversion, rather, to the old instinctof passionate dependency and possessorship that now made her bloodrevolt at the mere hint of change. Change? Renewal? Was that what theyhad called it, in their foolish jargon? Destruction, exterminationrather--this rending of a myriad fibres interwoven with another'sbeing! Another? But he was not other! He and she were one, one in themystic sense which alone gave marriage its significance. The new lawwas not for them, but for the disunited creatures forced into a mockeryof union. The gospel she had felt called on to proclaim had no bearingon her own case.... She sent for the doctor and told him she was sureshe needed a nerve tonic. 

She took the nerve tonic diligently, but it failed to act as a sedativeto her fears. She did not know what she feared; but that made heranxiety the more pervasive. Her husband had not reverted to the subjectof his Saturday talks. He was unusually kind and considerate, with asoftening of his quick manner, a touch of shyness in his consideration, that sickened her with new fears. She told herself that it was becauseshe looked badly--because he knew about the doctor and the nervetonic--that he showed this deference to her wishes, this eagerness toscreen her from moral draughts; but the explanation simply cleared theway for fresh inferences. 

The week passed slowly, vacantly, like a prolonged Sunday. On Saturdaythe morning post brought a note from Mrs. Van Sideren. Would dear Juliaask Mr. Westall to come half an hour earlier than usual, as there wasto be some music after his "talk"? Westall was just leaving for hisoffice when his wife read the note. She opened the drawing-room doorand called him back to deliver the message. 

He glanced at the note and tossed it aside. "What a bore! I shall haveto cut my game of racquets. Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Willyou write and say it's all right?"

Julia hesitated a moment, her hand stiffening on the chair-back againstwhich she leaned. 

"You mean to go on with these talks?" she asked. 

"I--why not?" he returned; and this time it struck her that hissurprise was not quite unfeigned. The discovery helped her to findwords. 

"You said you had started them with the idea of pleasing me--"

"Well?"

"I told you last week that they didn't please me. "

"Last week? Oh--" He seemed to make an effort of memory. "I thought youwere nervous then; you sent for the doctor the next day. "

"It was not the doctor I needed; it was your assurance--"

"My assurance?"

Suddenly she felt the floor fail under her. She sank into the chairwith a choking throat, her words, her reasons slipping away from herlike straws down a whirling flood. 

"Clement, " she cried, "isn't it enough for you to know that I hate it?"

He turned to close the door behind them; then he walked toward her andsat down. "What is it that you hate?" he asked gently. 

She had made a desperate effort to rally her routed argument. 

"I can't bear to have you speak as if--as if--our marriage--were likethe other kind--the wrong kind. When I heard you there, the otherafternoon, before all those inquisitive gossiping people, proclaimingthat husbands and wives had a right to leave each other whenever theywere tired--or had seen some one else--"

Westall sat motionless, his eyes fixed on a pattern of the carpet. 

"You _have_ ceased to take this view, then?" he said as she broke off. "You no longer believe that husbands and wives _are_ justified inseparating--under such conditions?"

"Under such conditions?" she stammered. "Yes--I still believe that--buthow can we judge for others? What can we know of the circumstances--?"

He interrupted her. "I thought it was a fundamental article of ourcreed that the special circumstances produced by marriage were not tointerfere with the full assertion of individual liberty. " He paused amoment. "I thought that was your reason for leaving Arment. "

She flushed to the forehead. It was not like him to give a personalturn to the argument. 

"It was my reason, " she said simply. 

"Well, then--why do you refuse to recognize its validity now?"

"I don't--I don't--I only say that one can't judge for others. "

He made an impatient movement. "This is mere hair-splitting. What youmean is that, the doctrine having served your purpose when you neededit, you now repudiate it. "

"Well, " she exclaimed, flushing again, "what if I do? What does itmatter to us?"

Westall rose from his chair. He was excessively pale, and stood beforehis wife with something of the formality of a stranger. 

"It matters to me, " he said in a low voice, "because I do _not_repudiate it. "

"Well--?"

"And because I had intended to invoke it as"--

He paused and drew his breath deeply. She sat silent, almost deafenedby her heart-beats. --"as a complete justification of the course I amabout to take. "

Julia remained motionless. "What course is that?" she asked. 

He cleared his throat. "I mean to claim the fulfilment of your promise. "

For an instant the room wavered and darkened; then she recovered atorturing acuteness of vision. Every detail of her surroundings pressedupon her: the tick of the clock, the slant of sunlight on the wall, thehardness of the chair-arms that she grasped, were a separate wound toeach sense. 

"My promise--" she faltered. 

"Your part of our mutual agreement to set each other free if one or theother should wish to be released. "

She was silent again. He waited a moment, shifting his positionnervously; then he said, with a touch of irritability: "You acknowledgethe agreement?"

The question went through her like a shock. She lifted her head to itproudly. "I acknowledge the agreement, " she said. 

"And--you don't mean to repudiate it?"

A log on the hearth fell forward, and mechanically he advanced andpushed it back. 

"No, " she answered slowly, "I don't mean to repudiate it. "

There was a pause. He remained near the hearth, his elbow resting onthe mantel-shelf. Close to his hand stood a little cup of jade that hehad given her on one of their wedding anniversaries. She wonderedvaguely if he noticed it. 

"You intend to leave me, then?" she said at length. 

His gesture seemed to deprecate the crudeness of the allusion. 

"To marry some one else?"

Again his eye and hand protested. She rose and stood before him. 

"Why should you be afraid to tell me? Is it Una Van Sideren?"

He was silent. 

"I wish you good luck, " she said. 

III

She looked up, finding herself alone. She did not remember when or howhe had left the room, or how long afterward she had sat there. The firestill smouldered on the hearth, but the slant of sunlight had left thewall. 

Her first conscious thought was that she had not broken her word, thatshe had fulfilled the very letter of their bargain. There had been nocrying out, no vain appeal to the past, no attempt at temporizing orevasion. She had marched straight up to the guns. 

Now that it was over, she sickened to find herself alive. She lookedabout her, trying to recover her hold on reality. Her identity seemedto be slipping from her, as it disappears in a physical swoon. "This ismy room--this is my house, " she heard herself saying. Her room? Herhouse? She could almost hear the walls laugh back at her. 

She stood up, a dull ache in every bone. The silence of the roomfrightened her. She remembered, now, having heard the front door closea long time ago: the sound suddenly re-echoed through her brain. Herhusband must have left the house, then--her _husband?_ She no longerknew in what terms to think: the simplest phrases had a poisoned edge. She sank back into her chair, overcome by a strange weakness. The clockstruck ten--it was only ten o'clock! Suddenly she remembered that shehad not ordered dinner... Or were they dining out that evening?_Dinner--dining out_--the old meaningless phraseology pursued her! Shemust try to think of herself as she would think of some one else, asome one dissociated from all the familiar routine of the past, whosewants and habits must gradually be learned, as one might spy out theways of a strange animal... 

The clock struck another hour--eleven. She stood up again and walked tothe door: she thought she would go up stairs to her room. _Her_ room?Again the word derided her. She opened the door, crossed the narrowhall, and walked up the stairs. As she passed, she noticed Westall'ssticks and umbrellas: a pair of his gloves lay on the hall table. Thesame stair-carpet mounted between the same walls; the same old Frenchprint, in its narrow black frame, faced her on the landing. This visualcontinuity was intolerable. Within, a gaping chasm; without, the sameuntroubled and familiar surface. She must get away from it before shecould attempt to think. But, once in her room, she sat down on thelounge, a stupor creeping over her... 

Gradually her vision cleared. A great deal had happened in theinterval--a wild marching and countermarching of emotions, arguments, ideas--a fury of insurgent impulses that fell back spent uponthemselves. She had tried, at first, to rally, to organize thesechaotic forces. There must be help somewhere, if only she could masterthe inner tumult. Life could not be broken off short like this, for awhim, a fancy; the law itself would side with her, would defend her. The law? What claim had she upon it? She was the prisoner of her ownchoice: she had been her own legislator, and she was the predestinedvictim of the code she had devised. But this was grotesque, intolerable--a mad mistake, for which she could not be heldaccountable! The law she had despised was still there, might still beinvoked... Invoked, but to what end? Could she ask it to chain Westallto her side? _She_ had been allowed to go free when she claimed herfreedom--should she show less magnanimity than she had exacted?Magnanimity? The word lashed her with its irony--one does not strike anattitude when one is fighting for life! She would threaten, grovel, cajole... She would yield anything to keep her hold on happiness. Ah, but the difficulty lay deeper! The law could not help her--her ownapostasy could not help her. She was the victim of the theories sherenounced. It was as though some giant machine of her own making hadcaught her up in its wheels and was grinding her to atoms... 

It was afternoon when she found herself out-of-doors. She walked withan aimless haste, fearing to meet familiar faces. The day was radiant, metallic: one of those searching American days so calculated to revealthe shortcomings of our street-cleaning and the excesses of ourarchitecture. The streets looked bare and hideous; everything staredand glittered. She called a passing hansom, and gave Mrs. Van Sideren'saddress. She did not know what had led up to the act; but she foundherself suddenly resolved to speak, to cry out a warning. It was toolate to save herself--but the girl might still be told. The hansomrattled up Fifth Avenue; she sat with her eyes fixed, avoidingrecognition. At the Van Siderens' door she sprang out and rang thebell. Action had cleared her brain, and she felt calm andself-possessed. She knew now exactly what she meant to say. 

The ladies were both out... The parlor-maid stood waiting for a card. Julia, with a vague murmur, turned away from the door and lingered amoment on the sidewalk. Then she remembered that she had not paid thecab-driver. She drew a dollar from her purse and handed it to him. Hetouched his hat and drove off, leaving her alone in the long emptystreet. She wandered away westward, toward strange thoroughfares, whereshe was not likely to meet acquaintances. The feeling of aimlessnesshad returned. Once she found herself in the afternoon torrent ofBroadway, swept past tawdry shops and flaming theatrical posters, witha succession of meaningless faces gliding by in the oppositedirection... 

A feeling of faintness reminded her that she had not eaten sincemorning. She turned into a side street of shabby houses, with rows ofash-barrels behind bent area railings. In a basement window she saw thesign _Ladies' Restaurant:_ a pie and a dish of doughnuts lay againstthe dusty pane like petrified food in an ethnological museum. Sheentered, and a young woman with a weak mouth and a brazen eye cleared atable for her near the window. The table was covered with a red andwhite cotton cloth and adorned with a bunch of celery in a thicktumbler and a salt-cellar full of grayish lumpy salt. Julia orderedtea, and sat a long time waiting for it. She was glad to be away fromthe noise and confusion of the streets. The low-ceilinged room wasempty, and two or three waitresses with thin pert faces lounged in thebackground staring at her and whispering together. At last the tea wasbrought in a discolored metal teapot. Julia poured a cup and drank ithastily. It was black and bitter, but it flowed through her veins likean elixir. She was almost dizzy with exhilaration. Oh, how tired, howunutterably tired she had been!

She drank a second cup, blacker and bitterer, and now her mind was oncemore working clearly. She felt as vigorous, as decisive, as when shehad stood on the Van Siderens' door-step--but the wish to return therehad subsided. She saw now the futility of such an attempt--thehumiliation to which it might have exposed her... The pity of it wasthat she did not know what to do next. The short winter day was fading, and she realized that she could not remain much longer in therestaurant without attracting notice. She paid for her tea and went outinto the street. The lamps were alight, and here and there a basementshop cast an oblong of gas-light across the fissured pavement. In thedusk there was something sinister about the aspect of the street, andshe hastened back toward Fifth Avenue. She was not used to being outalone at that hour. 

At the corner of Fifth Avenue she paused and stood watching the streamof carriages. At last a policeman caught sight of her and signed to herthat he would take her across. She had not meant to cross the street, but she obeyed automatically, and presently found herself on thefarther corner. There she paused again for a moment; but she fanciedthe policeman was watching her, and this sent her hastening down thenearest side street... After that she walked a long time, vaguely... Night had fallen, and now and then, through the windows of a passingcarriage, she caught the expanse of an evening waistcoat or the shimmerof an opera cloak... 

Suddenly she found herself in a familiar street. She stood still amoment, breathing quickly. She had turned the corner without noticingwhither it led; but now, a few yards ahead of her, she saw the house inwhich she had once lived--her first husband's house. The blinds weredrawn, and only a faint translucence marked the windows and the transomabove the door. As she stood there she heard a step behind her, and aman walked by in the direction of the house. He walked slowly, with aheavy middle-aged gait, his head sunk a little between the shoulders, the red crease of his neck visible above the fur collar of hisovercoat. He crossed the street, went up the steps of the house, drewforth a latch-key, and let himself in... 

There was no one else in sight. Julia leaned for a long time againstthe area-rail at the corner, her eyes fixed on the front of the house. The feeling of physical weariness had returned, but the strong teastill throbbed in her veins and lit her brain with an unnaturalclearness. Presently she heard another step draw near, and movingquickly away, she too crossed the street and mounted the steps of thehouse. The impulse which had carried her there prolonged itself in aquick pressure of the electric bell--then she felt suddenly weak andtremulous, and grasped the balustrade for support. The door opened anda young footman with a fresh inexperienced face stood on the threshold. Julia knew in an instant that he would admit her. 

"I saw Mr. Arment going in just now, " she said. "Will you ask him tosee me for a moment?"

The footman hesitated. "I think Mr. Arment has gone up to dress fordinner, madam. "

Julia advanced into the hall. "I am sure he will see me--I will notdetain him long, " she said. She spoke quietly, authoritatively, in thetone which a good servant does not mistake. The footman had his hand onthe drawing-room door. 

"I will tell him, madam. What name, please?"

Julia trembled: she had not thought of that. "Merely say a lady, " shereturned carelessly. 

The footman wavered and she fancied herself lost; but at that instantthe door opened from within and John Arment stepped into the hall. Hedrew back sharply as he saw her, his florid face turning sallow withthe shock; then the blood poured back to it, swelling the veins on histemples and reddening the lobes of his thick ears. 

It was long since Julia had seen him, and she was startled at thechange in his appearance. He had thickened, coarsened, settled downinto the enclosing flesh. But she noted this insensibly: her oneconscious thought was that, now she was face to face with him, she mustnot let him escape till he had heard her. Every pulse in her bodythrobbed with the urgency of her message. 

She went up to him as he drew back. "I must speak to you, " she said. 

Arment hesitated, red and stammering. Julia glanced at the footman, andher look acted as a warning. The instinctive shrinking from a "scene"predominated over every other impulse, and Arment said slowly: "Willyou come this way?"

He followed her into the drawing-room and closed the door. Julia, asshe advanced, was vaguely aware that the room at least was unchanged:time had not mitigated its horrors. The contadina still lurched fromthe chimney-breast, and the Greek slave obstructed the threshold of theinner room. The place was alive with memories: they started out fromevery fold of the yellow satin curtains and glided between the anglesof the rosewood furniture. But while some subordinate agency wascarrying these impressions to her brain, her whole conscious effort wascentred in the act of dominating Arment's will. The fear that he wouldrefuse to hear her mounted like fever to her brain. She felt herpurpose melt before it, words and arguments running into each other inthe heat of her longing. For a moment her voice failed her, and sheimagined herself thrust out before she could speak; but as she wasstruggling for a word, Arment pushed a chair forward, and said quietly:"You are not well. "

The sound of his voice steadied her. It was neither kind nor unkind--avoice that suspended judgment, rather, awaiting unforeseendevelopments. She supported herself against the back of the chair anddrew a deep breath. "Shall I send for something?" he continued, with acold embarrassed politeness. 

Julia raised an entreating hand. "No--no--thank you. I am quite well. "

He paused midway toward the bell and turned on her. "Then may I ask--?"

"Yes, " she interrupted him. "I came here because I wanted to see you. There is something I must tell you. "

Arment continued to scrutinize her. "I am surprised at that, " he said. "I should have supposed that any communication you may wish to makecould have been made through our lawyers. "

"Our lawyers!" She burst into a little laugh. "I don't think they couldhelp me--this time. "

Arment's face took on a barricaded look. "If there is any question ofhelp--of course--"

It struck her, whimsically, that she had seen that look when someshabby devil called with a subscription-book. Perhaps he thought shewanted him to put his name down for so much in sympathy--or even inmoney... The thought made her laugh again. She saw his look changeslowly to perplexity. All his facial changes were slow, and sheremembered, suddenly, how it had once diverted her to shift thatlumbering scenery with a word. For the first time it struck her thatshe had been cruel. "There _is_ a question of help, " she said in asofter key: "you can help me; but only by listening... I want to tellyou something... "

Arment's resistance was not yielding. "Would it not be easierto--write?" he suggested. 

She shook her head. "There is no time to write... And it won't takelong. " She raised her head and their eyes met. "My husband has leftme, " she said. 

"Westall--?" he stammered, reddening again. 

"Yes. This morning. Just as I left you. Because he was tired of me. "

The words, uttered scarcely above a whisper, seemed to dilate to thelimit of the room. Arment looked toward the door; then his embarrassedglance returned to Julia. 

"I am very sorry, " he said awkwardly. 

"Thank you, " she murmured. 

"But I don't see--"

"No--but you will--in a moment. Won't you listen to me? Please!"Instinctively she had shifted her position putting herself between himand the door. "It happened this morning, " she went on in shortbreathless phrases. "I never suspected anything--I thought wewere--perfectly happy... Suddenly he told me he was tired of me... There is a girl he likes better... He has gone to her... " As she spoke, the lurking anguish rose upon her, possessing her once more to theexclusion of every other emotion. Her eyes ached, her throat swelledwith it, and two painful tears burnt a way down her face. 

Arment's constraint was increasing visibly. "This--this is veryunfortunate, " he began. "But I should say the law--"

"The law?" she echoed ironically. "When he asks for his freedom?"

"You are not obliged to give it. "

"You were not obliged to give me mine--but you did. "

He made a protesting gesture. 

"You saw that the law couldn't help you--didn't you?" she went on. "That is what I see now. The law represents material rights--it can'tgo beyond. If we don't recognize an inner law... The obligation thatlove creates... Being loved as well as loving... There is nothing toprevent our spreading ruin unhindered... Is there?" She raised her headplaintively, with the look of a bewildered child. "That is what I seenow... What I wanted to tell you. He leaves me because he's tired... But_I_ was not tired; and I don't understand why he is. That's thedreadful part of it--the not understanding: I hadn't realized what itmeant. But I've been thinking of it all day, and things have come backto me--things I hadn't noticed... When you and I... " She moved closer tohim, and fixed her eyes on his with the gaze that tries to reach beyondwords. "I see now that _you_ didn't understand--did you?"

Their eyes met in a sudden shock of comprehension: a veil seemed to belifted between them. Arment's lip trembled. 

"No, " he said, "I didn't understand. "

She gave a little cry, almost of triumph. "I knew it! I knew it! Youwondered--you tried to tell me--but no words came... You saw your lifefalling in ruins... The world slipping from you... And you couldn't speakor move!"

She sank down on the chair against which she had been leaning. "Now Iknow--now I know, " she repeated. 

"I am very sorry for you, " she heard Arment stammer. 

She looked up quickly. "That's not what I came for. I don't want you tobe sorry. I came to ask you to forgive me... For not understanding that_you_ didn't understand... That's all I wanted to say. " She rose with avague sense that the end had come, and put out a groping hand towardthe door. 

Arment stood motionless. She turned to him with a faint smile. 

"You forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive--"

"Then will you shake hands for good-by?" She felt his hand in hers: itwas nerveless, reluctant. 

"Good-by, " she repeated. "I understand now. "

She opened the door and passed out into the hall. As she did so, Armenttook an impulsive step forward; but just then the footman, who wasevidently alive to his obligations, advanced from the background to lether out. She heard Arment fall back. The footman threw open the door, and she found herself outside in the darkness. 

THE LETTER

I

For many years he had lived withdrawn from the world in which he hadonce played so active and even turbulent a part. The study of Tuscanart was his only pursuit, and it was to help him in the classificationof his notes and documents that I was first called to his villa. Colonel Alingdon had then the look of a very old man, though his agecan hardly have exceeded seventy. He was small and bent, with a finelywrinkled face which still wore the tan of youthful exposure. But forthis dusky redness it would have been hard to reconstruct from theshrunken recluse, with his low fastidious voice and carefully tendedhands, an image of that young knight of adventure whose sword had beenat the service of every uprising which stirred the uneasy soil of Italyin the first half of the nineteenth century. 

Though I was more of a proficient in Colonel Alingdon's later than hisearlier pursuits, the thought of his soldiering days was always comingbetween me and the pacific work of his old age. As we sat collatingpapers and comparing photographs, I had the feeling that this dry andquiet old man had seen even stranger things than people said: that heknew more of the inner history of Europe than half the diplomatists ofhis day. 

I was not alone in this conviction; and the friend who had engaged mefor Colonel Alingdon had appended to his instructions the injunction to"get him to talk. " But this was what no one could do. Colonel Alingdonwas ready to discuss by the hour the date of a Giottesque triptych, orthe attribution of a disputed master; but on the history of his earlylife he was habitually silent. 

It was perhaps because I recognized this silence and respected it thatit afterward came to be broken for me. Or it was perhaps merelybecause, as the failure of Colonel Alingdon's sight cut him off fromhis work, he felt the natural inclination of age to revert from theempty present to the crowded past. For one cause or another he _did_talk to me in the last year of his life; and I felt myself mingled, toan extent inconceivable to the mere reader of history, with thepassionate scenes of the Italian struggle for liberty. Colonel Alingdonhad been mixed with it in all its phases: he had known the lastCarbonari and the Young Italy of Mazzini; he had been in Perugia whenthe mercenaries of a liberal Pope slaughtered women and children in thestreets; he had been in Sicily with the Thousand, and in Milan duringthe _Cinque Giornate_. 

"They say the Italians didn't know how to fight, " he said one day, musingly--"that the French had to come down and do their work for them. People forget how long it was since they had had any fighting to do. But they hadn't forgotten how to suffer and hold their tongues; how todie and take their secrets with them. The Italian war of independencewas really carried on underground: it was one of those awful silentstruggles which are so much more terrible than the roar of a battle. It's a deuced sight easier to charge with your regiment than to lierotting in an Austrian prison and know that if you give up the name ofa friend or two you can go back scot-free to your wife and children. And thousands and thousands of Italians had the choice given them--andhardly one went back. "

He sat silent, his meditative fingertips laid together, his eyes fixedon the past which was the now only thing clearly visible to them. 

"And the women?" I said. "Were they as brave as the men?"

I had not spoken quite at random. I had always heard that there hadbeen as much of love as of war in Colonel Alingdon's early career, andI hoped that my question might give a personal turn to hisreminiscences. 

"The women?" he repeated. "They were braver--for they had more to bearand less to do. Italy could never have been saved without them. "

His eye had kindled and I detected in it the reflection of some vividmemory. It was then that I asked him what was the bravest thing he hadever known of a woman's doing. 

The question was such a vague one that I hardly knew why I had put it, but to my surprise he answered almost at once, as though I had touchedon a subject of frequent meditation. 

"The bravest thing I ever saw done by a woman, " he said, "was broughtabout by an act of my own--and one of which I am not particularlyproud. For that reason I have never spoken of it before--there was atime when I didn't even care to think of it--but all that is past now. She died years ago, and so did the Jack Alingdon she knew, and intelling you the story I am no more than the mouthpiece of an oldtradition which some ancestor might have handed down to me. "

He leaned back, his clear blind gaze fixed smilingly on me, and I hadthe feeling that, in groping through the labyrinth of his youngadventures, I had come unawares upon their central point. 

II

When I was in Milan in 'forty-seven an unlucky thing happened to me. 

I had been sent there to look over the ground by some of my Italianfriends in England. As an English officer I had no difficulty ingetting into Milanese society, for England had for years been therefuge of the Italian fugitives, and I was known to be working in theirinterests. It was just the kind of job I liked, and I never enjoyedlife more than I did in those days. There was a great deal goingon--good music, balls and theatres. Milan kept up her gayety to thelast. The English were shocked by the _insouciance_ of a race who coulddance under the very nose of the usurper; but those who understood thesituation knew that Milan was playing Brutus, and playing it uncommonlywell. 

I was in the thick of it all--it was just the atmosphere to suit ayoung fellow of nine-and-twenty, with a healthy passion for waltzingand fighting. But, as I said, an unlucky thing happened to me. I wasfool enough to fall in love with Donna Candida Falco. You have heard ofher, of course: you know the share she had in the great work. In adifferent way she was what the terrible Princess Belgioioso had been toan earlier generation. But Donna Candida was not terrible. She wasquiet, discreet and charming. When I knew her she was a widow ofthirty, her husband, Andrea Falco, having died ten years previously, soon after their marriage. The marriage had been notoriously unhappy, and his death was a release to Donna Candida. Her family were ofModena, but they had come to live in Milan soon after the execution ofCiro Menotti and his companions. You remember the details of thatbusiness? The Duke of Modena, one of the most adroit villains inEurope, had been bitten with the hope of uniting the Italian statesunder his rule. It was a vision of Italian liberation--of a sort. A fewmadmen were dazzled by it, and Ciro Menotti was one of them. You knowthe end. The Duke of Modena, who had counted on Louis Philippe'sbacking, found that that astute sovereign had betrayed him to Austria. Instantly, he saw that his first business was to get rid of theconspirators he had created. There was nothing easier than for aHapsburg Este to turn on a friend. Ciro Menotti had staked his life forthe Duke--and the Duke took it. You may remember that, on the nightwhen seven hundred men and a cannon attacked Menotti's house, the Dukewas seen looking on at the slaughter from an arcade across the square. 

Well, among the lesser fry taken that night was a lad of eighteen, Emilio Verna, who was the only brother of Donna Candida. The Vernafamily was one of the most respected in Modena. It consisted, at thattime, of the mother, Countess Verna, of young Emilio and his sister. Count Verna had been in Spielberg in the twenties. He had neverrecovered from his sufferings there, and died in exile, without seeinghis wife and children again. Countess Verna had been an ardent patriotin her youth, but the failure of the first attempts against Austria haddiscouraged her. She thought that in losing her husband she hadsacrificed enough for her country, and her one idea was to keep Emilioon good terms with the government. But the Verna blood was nottractable, and his father's death was not likely to make Emilio a goodsubject of the Estes. Not that he had as yet taken any active share inthe work of the conspirators: he simply hadn't had time. At his trialthere was nothing to show that he had been in Menotti's confidence; buthe had been seen once or twice coming out of what the ducal policecalled "suspicious" houses, and in his desk were found some verses toItaly. That was enough to hang a man in Modena, and Emilio Verna washanged. 

The Countess never recovered from the blow. The circumstances of herson's death were too abominable, to unendurable. If he had risked hislife in the conspiracy, she might have been reconciled to his losingit. But he was a mere child, who had sat at home, chafing butpowerless, while his seniors plotted and fought. He had been sacrificedto the Duke's insane fear, to his savage greed for victims, and theCountess Verna was not to be consoled. 

As soon as possible, the mother and daughter left Modena for Milan. There they lived in seclusion till Candida's marriage. During hergirlhood she had had to accept her mother's view of life: to shutherself up in the tomb in which the poor woman brooded over hermartyrs. But that was not the girl's way of honoring the dead. At themoment when the first shot was fired on Menotti's house she had beenreading Petrarch's Ode to the Lords of Italy, and the lines _l'anticovalor Ne Vitalici cor non e ancor morto_ had lodged like a bullet inher brain. From the day of her marriage she began to take a share inthe silent work which was going on throughout Italy. Milan was at thattime the centre of the movement, and Candida Falco threw herself intoit with all the passion which her unhappy marriage left unsatisfied. Atfirst she had to act with great reserve, for her husband was a prudentman, who did not care to have his habits disturbed by politicalcomplications; but after his death there was nothing to restrain her, except the exquisite tact which enabled her to work night and day inthe Italian cause without giving the Austrian authorities a pretext forinterference. 

When I first knew Donna Candida, her mother was still living: a tragicwoman, prematurely bowed, like an image of death in the background ofthe daughter's brilliant life. The Countess, since her son's death, hadbecome a patriot again, though in a narrower sense than Candida. Themother's first thought was that her dead must be avenged, thedaughter's that Italy must be saved; but from different motives theyworked for the same end. Candida felt for the Countess that protectingtenderness with which Italian children so often regard their parents, afeeling heightened by the reverence which the mother's sufferingsinspired. Countess Verna, as the wife and mother of martyrs, had donewhat Candida longed to do: she had given her utmost to Italy. Theremust have been moments when the self-absorption of her grief chilledher daughter's ardent spirit; but Candida revered in her mother theimage of their afflicted country. 

"It was too terrible, " she said, speaking of what the Countess hadsuffered after Emilio's death. "All the circumstances were toounmerciful. It seemed as if God had turned His face from my mother; asif she had been singled out to suffer more than any of the others. Allthe other families received some message or token of farewell from theprisoners. One of them bribed the gaoler to carry a letter--anothersent a lock of hair by the chaplain. But Emilio made no sign, sent noword. My mother felt as though he had turned his back on us. She usedto sit for hours, saying again and again, 'Why was he the only one toforget his mother?' I tried to comfort her, but it was useless: she hadsuffered too much. Now I never reason with her; I listen, and let herease her poor heart. Do you know, she still asks me sometimes if Ithink he may have left a letter--if there is no way of finding out ifhe left one? She forgets that I have tried again and again: that I havesent bribes and messages to the gaoler, the chaplain, to every one whocame near him. The answer is always the same--no one has ever heard ofa letter. I suppose the poor boy was stunned, and did not think ofwriting. Who knows what was passing through his poor bewildered brain?But it would have been a great help to my mother to have a word fromhim. If I had known how to imitate his writing I should have forged aletter. "

I knew enough of the Italians to understand how her boy's silence musthave aggravated the Countess's grief. Precious as a message from adying son would be to any mother, such signs of tenderness have to theItalians a peculiar significance. The Latin race is rhetorical: itpossesses the gift of death-bed eloquence, the knack of saying theeffective thing on momentous occasions. The letters which the Italianpatriots sent home from their prisons or from the scaffold are not thehalting farewells that anguish would have wrung from a less expressiverace: they are veritable "compositions, " saved from affectation only bythe fact that fluency and sonority are a part of the Latin inheritance. Such letters, passed from hand to hand among the bereaved families, were not only a comfort to the survivors but an incentive to freshsacrifices. They were the "seed of the martyrs" with which Italy wasbeing sown; and I knew what it meant to the Countess Verna to have nosuch treasure in her bosom, to sit silent while other mothers quotedtheir sons' last words. 

I said just now that it was an unlucky day for me when I fell in lovewith Donna Candida; and no doubt you have guessed the reason. She wasin love with some one else. It was the old situation of Heine's song. That other loved another--loved Italy, and with an undivided passion. His name was Fernando Briga, and at that time he was one of theforemost liberals in Italy. He came of a middle-class Modenese family. His father was a doctor, a prudent man, engrossed in his profession andunwilling to compromise it by meddling in politics. His irreproachableattitude won the confidence of the government, and the Duke conferredon him the sinister office of physician to the prisons of Modena. Itwas this Briga who attended Emilio Falco, and several of the otherprisoners who were executed at the same time. 

Under shelter of his father's loyalty young Fernando conspired insafety. He was studying medicine, and every one supposed him to beabsorbed in his work; but as a matter of fact he was fast ripening intoone of Mazzini's ablest lieutenants. His career belongs to history, soI need not enlarge on it here. In 1847 he was in Milan, and had becomeone of the leading figures in the liberal group which was working for acoalition with Piedmont. Like all the ablest men of his day, he hadcast off Mazziniism and pinned his faith to the house of Savoy. TheAustrian government had an eye on him, but he had inherited hisfather's prudence, though he used it for nobler ends, and hisdiscretion enabled him to do far more for the cause than a dozenenthusiasts could have accomplished. No one understood this better thanDonna Candida. She had a share of his caution, and he trusted her withsecrets which he would not have confided to many men. Her drawing-roomwas the centre of the Piedmontese party, yet so clever was she inaverting suspicion that more than one hunted conspirator hid in herhouse, and was helped across the Alps by her agents. 

Briga relied on her as he did on no one else; but he did not love her, and she knew it. Still, she was young, she was handsome, and he lovedno one else: how could she give up hoping? From her intimate friendsshe made no secret of her feelings: Italian women are not reticent insuch matters, and Donna Candida was proud of loving a hero. You willsee at once that I had no chance; but if she could not give up hope, neither could I. Perhaps in her desire to secure my services for thecause she may have shown herself overkind; or perhaps I was still youngenough to set down to my own charms a success due to quite differentcauses. At any rate, I persuaded myself that if I could manage to dosomething conspicuous for Italy I might yet make her care for me. Withsuch an incentive you will not wonder that I worked hard; but thoughDonna Candida was full of gratitude she continued to adore my rival. 

One day we had a hot scene. I began, I believe, by reproaching her withhaving led me on; and when she defended herself, I retaliated bytaunting her with Briga's indifference. She grew pale at that, and saidit was enough to love a hero, even without hope of return; and as shesaid it she herself looked so heroic, so radiant, so unattainably thewoman I wanted, that a sneer may have escaped me:--was she so sure thenthat Briga was a hero? I remember her proud silence and our wretchedparting. I went away feeling that at last I had really lost her; andthe thought made me savage and vindictive. 

Soon after, as it happened, came the _Five Days_, and Milan was free. Icaught a distant glimpse of Donna Candida in the hospital to which Iwas carried after the fight; but my wound was a slight one and intwenty-four hours I was about again on crutches. I hoped she might sendfor me, but she did not, and I was too sulky to make the first advance. A day or two later I heard there had been a commotion in Modena, andnot being in fighting trim I got leave to go over there with one or twomen whom the Modenese liberals had called in to help them. When wearrived the precious Duke had been swept out and a provisionalgovernment set up. One of my companions, who was a Modenese, was made amember, and knowing that I wanted something to do, he commissioned meto look up some papers in the ducal archives. It was fascinating work, for in the pursuit of my documents I uncovered the hidden springs ofhis late Highness's paternal administration. The principal papersrelative to the civil and criminal administration of Modena have sincebeen published, and the world knows how that estimable sovereign caredfor the material and spiritual welfare of his subjects. 

Well--in the course of my search, I came across a file of old papersmarked: "Taken from political prisoners. A. D. 1831. " It was the year ofMenotti's conspiracy, and everything connected with that date wasthrilling. I loosened the band and ran over the letters. Suddenly Icame across one which was docketed: "Given by Doctor Briga's son to thewarder of His Highness's prisons. " _Doctor Briga's son?_ That could beno other than Fernando: I knew he was an only child. But how came sucha paper into his hands, and how had it passed from them into those ofthe Duke's warder? My own hands shook as I opened the letter--I feltthe man suddenly in my power. 

Then I began to read. "My adored mother, even in this lowest circle ofhell all hearts are not closed to pity, and I have been given the hopethat these last words of farewell may reach you.... " My eyes ran onover pages of plaintive rhetoric. "Embrace for me my adoredCandida... Let her never forget the cause for which her father andbrother perished... Let her keep alive in her breast the thought ofSpielberg and Reggio. Do not grieve that I die so young... Though notwith those heroes in deed I was with them in spirit, and am worthy tobe enrolled in the sacred phalanx... " and so on. Before I reached thesignature I knew the letter was from Emilio Verna. 

I put it in my pocket, finished my work and started immediately forMilan. I didn't quite know what I meant to do--my head was in a whirl. I saw at once what must have happened. Fernando Briga, then a lad offifteen or sixteen, had attended his father in prison during EmilioVerna's last hours, and the latter, perhaps aware of the lad's liberalsympathies, had found an opportunity of giving him the letter. But whyhad Briga given it up to the warder? That was the puzzling question. The docket said: "_Given by_ Doctor Briga's son"--but it might mean"taken from. " Fernando might have been seen to receive the letter andmight have been searched on leaving the prison. But that would notaccount for his silence afterward. How was it that, if he knew of theletter, he had never told Emilio's family of it? There was only oneexplanation. If the letter had been taken from him by force he wouldhave had no reason for concealing its existence; and his silence wasclear proof that he had given it up voluntarily, no doubt in the hopeof standing well with the authorities. But then he was a traitor and acoward; the patriot of 'forty-eight had begun life as an informer! Butdoes innate character ever change so radically that the lad who hascommitted a base act at fifteen may grow up into an honorable man? Agood man may be corrupted by life, but can the years turn a born sneakinto a hero?

You may fancy how I answered my own questions.... If Briga had beenfalse and cowardly then, was he not sure to be false and cowardlystill? In those days there were traitors under every coat, and morethan one brave fellow had been sold to the police by his bestfriend.... You will say that Briga's record was unblemished, that he hadexposed himself to danger too frequently, had stood by his friends toosteadfastly, to permit of a rational doubt of his good faith. So reasonmight have told me in a calmer moment, but she was not allowed to makeherself heard just then. I was young, I was angry, I chose to think Ihad been unfairly treated, and perhaps at my rival's instigation. Itwas not unlikely that Briga knew of my love for Donna Candida, and hadencouraged her to use it in the good cause. Was she not always at hisbidding? My blood boiled at the thought, and reaching Milan in a rage Iwent straight to Donna Candida. 

I had measured the exact force of the blow I was going to deal. Thetriumph of the liberals in Modena had revived public interest in theunsuccessful struggle of their predecessors, the men who, sixteen yearsearlier, had paid for the same attempt with their lives. The victors of'forty-eight wished to honor the vanquished of 'thirty-two. All thefamilies exiled by the ducal government were hastening back to recoverpossession of their confiscated property and of the graves of theirdead. Already it had been decided to raise a monument to Menotti andhis companions. There were to be speeches, garlands, a public holiday:the thrill of the commemoration would run through Europe. You see whatit would have meant to the poor Countess to appear on the scene withher boy's letter in her hand; and you see also what the memorandum onthe back of the letter would have meant to Donna Candida. Poor Emilio'sfarewell would be published in all the journals of Europe: the findingof the letter would be on every one's lips. And how conceal those fatalwords on the back? At the moment, it seemed to me that fortune couldnot have given me a handsomer chance of destroying my rival than inletting me find the letter which he stood convicted of havingsuppressed. 

My sentiment was perhaps not a strictly honorable one; yet what could Ido but give the letter to Donna Candida? To keep it back was out of thequestion; and with the best will in the world I could not have erasedBriga's name from the back. The mistake I made was in thinking it luckythat the paper had fallen into my hands. 

Donna Candida was alone when I entered. We had parted in anger, but sheheld out her hand with a smile of pardon, and asked what news I broughtfrom Modena. The smile exasperated me: I felt as though she were tryingto get me into her power again. 

"I bring you a letter from your brother, " I said, and handed it to her. I had purposely turned the superscription downward, so that she shouldnot see it. 

She uttered an incredulous cry and tore the letter open. A light struckup from it into her face as she read--a radiance that smote me to thesoul. For a moment I longed to snatch the paper from her and efface thename on the back. It hurt me to think how short-lived her happinessmust be. 

Then she did a fatal thing. She came up to me, caught my two hands andkissed them. "Oh, thank you--bless you a thousand times! He diedthinking of us--he died loving Italy!"

I put her from me gently: it was not the kiss I wanted, and the touchof her lips hardened me. 

She shone on me through her happy tears. "What happiness--whatconsolation you have brought my poor mother! This will take thebitterness from her grief. And that it should come to her now! Do youknow, she had a presentiment of it? When we heard of the Duke's flighther first word was: 'Now we may find Emilio's letter. ' At heart she wasalways sure that he had written--I suppose some blessed instinct toldher so. " She dropped her face on her hands, and I saw her tears fall onthe wretched letter. 

In a moment she looked up again, with eyes that blessed and trusted me. "Tell me where you found it, " she said. 

I told her. 

"Oh, the savages! They took it from him--"

My opportunity had come. "No, " I said, "it appears they did _not_ takeit from him. "

"Then how--"

I waited a moment. "The letter, " I said, looking full at her, "wasgiven up to the warder of the prison by the son of Doctor Briga. "

She stared, repeating the words slowly. "The son of Doctor Briga? Butthat is--Fernando, " she said. 

"I have always understood, " I replied, "that your friend was an onlyson. "

I had expected an outcry of horror; if she had uttered it I could haveforgiven her anything. But I heard, instead, an incredulousexclamation: my statement was really too preposterous! I saw that hermind had flashed back to our last talk, and that she charged me withsomething too nearly true to be endurable. 

"My brother's letter? Given to the prison warder by Fernando Briga? Mydear Captain Alingdon--on what authority do you expect me to believesuch a tale?"

Her incredulity had in it an evident implication of bad faith, and Iwas stung to a quick reply. 

"If you will turn over the letter you will see. "

She continued to gaze at me a moment: then she obeyed. I don't think Iever admired her more than I did then. As she read the name a tremorcrossed her face; and that was all. Her mind must have reached outinstantly to the farthest consequences of the discovery, but the longhabit of self-command enabled her to steady her muscles at once. If Ihad not been on the alert I should have seen no hint of emotion. 

For a while she looked fixedly at the back of the letter; then sheraised her eyes to mine. 

"Can you tell me who wrote this?" she asked. 

Her composure irritated me. She had rallied all her forces to Briga'sdefence, and I felt as though my triumph were slipping from me. 

"Probably one of the clerks of the archives, " I answered. "It iswritten in the same hand as all the other memoranda relating to thepolitical prisoners of that year. "

"But it is a lie!" she exclaimed. "He was never admitted to theprisons. "

"Are you sure?"

"How should he have been?"

"He might have gone as his father's assistant. "

"But if he had seen my poor brother he would have told me long ago. "

"Not if he had really given up this letter, " I retorted. 

I supposed her quick intelligence had seized this from the first; but Isaw now that it came to her as a shock. She stood motionless, clenchingthe letter in her hands, and I could guess the rapid travel of herthoughts. 

Suddenly she came up to me. "Colonel Alingdon, " she said, "you havebeen a good friend of mine, though I think you have not liked melately. But whether you like me or not, I know you will not deceive me. On your honor, do you think this memorandum may have been written laterthan the letter?"

I hesitated. If she had cried out once against Briga I should havewished myself out of the business; but she was too sure of him. 

"On my honor, " I said, "I think it hardly possible. The ink has fadedto the same degree. "

She made a rapid comparison and folded the letter with a gesture ofassent. 

"It may have been written by an enemy, " I went on, wishing to clearmyself of any appearance of malice. 

She shook her head. "He was barely fifteen--and his father was on theside of the government. Besides, this would have served him with thegovernment, and the liberals would never have known of it. "

This was unanswerable--and still not a word of revolt against the manwhose condemnation she was pronouncing!

"Then--" I said with a vague gesture. 

She caught me up. "Then--?"

"You have answered my objections, " I returned. 

"Your objections?"

"To thinking that Signor Briga could have begun his career as a patriotby betraying a friend. "

I had brought her to the test at last, but my eyes shrank from her faceas I spoke. There was a dead silence, which I broke by adding lamely:"But no doubt Signor Briga could explain. "

She lifted her head, and I saw that my triumph was to be short. Shestood erect, a few paces from me, resting her hand on a table, but notfor support. 

"Of course he can explain, " she said; "do you suppose I ever doubtedit? But--" she paused a moment, fronting me nobly--"he need not, for Iunderstand it all now. "

"Ah, " I murmured with a last flicker of irony. 

"I understand, " she repeated. It was she, now, who sought my eyes andheld them. "It is quite simple--he could not have done otherwise. "

This was a little too oracular to be received with equanimity. Isuppose I smiled. 

"He could not have done otherwise, " she repeated with tranquilemphasis. "He merely did what is every Italian's duty--he put Italybefore himself and his friends. " She waited a moment, and then went onwith growing passion: "Surely you must see what I mean? He wasevidently in the prison with his father at the time of my poorbrother's death. Emilio perhaps guessed that he was a friend--orperhaps appealed to him because he was young and looked kind. But don'tyou see how dangerous it would have been for Briga to bring this letterto us, or even to hide it in his father's house? It is true that he wasnot yet suspected of liberalism, but he was already connected withYoung Italy, and it is just because he managed to keep himself so freeof suspicion that he was able to do such good work for the cause. " Shepaused, and then went on with a firmer voice. "You don't know thedanger we all lived in. The government spies were everywhere. The lawswere set aside as the Duke pleased--was not Emilio hanged for having anode to Italy in his desk? After Menotti's conspiracy the Duke grew madwith fear--he was haunted by the dread of assassination. The police, toprove their zeal, had to trump up false charges and arrest innocentpersons--you remember the case of poor Ricci? Incriminating papers weresmuggled into people's houses--they were condemned to death on the paidevidence of brigands and galley-slaves. The families of therevolutionists were under the closest observation and were shunned byall who wished to stand well with the government. If Briga had beenseen going into our house he would at once have been suspected. If hehad hidden Emilio's letter at home, its discovery might have ruined hisfamily as well as himself. It was his duty to consider all thesethings. In those days no man could serve two masters, and he had tochoose between endangering the cause and failing to serve a friend. Hechose the latter--and he was right. "

I stood listening, fascinated by the rapidity and skill with which shehad built up the hypothesis of Briga's defence. But before she ended astrange thing happened--her argument had convinced me. It seemed to mequite likely that Briga had in fact been actuated by the motives shesuggested. 

I suppose she read the admission in my face, for hers lit upvictoriously. 

"You see?" she exclaimed. "Ah, it takes one brave man to understandanother. "

Perhaps I winced a little at being thus coupled with her hero; at anyrate, some last impulse of resistance made me say: "I should be quiteconvinced, if Briga had only spoken of the letter afterward. If bravepeople understand each other, I cannot see why he should have beenafraid of telling you the truth. "

She colored deeply, and perhaps not quite resentfully. 

"You are right, " she said; "he need not have been afraid. But he doesnot know me as I know him. I was useful to Italy, and he may havefeared to risk my friendship. "

"You are the most generous woman I ever knew!" I exclaimed. 

She looked at me intently. "You also are generous, " she said. 

I stiffened instantly, suspecting a purpose behind her praise. "I havegiven you small proof of it!" I said. 

She seemed surprised. "In bringing me this letter? What else could youdo?" She sighed deeply. "You can give me proof enough now. "

She had dropped into a chair, and I saw that we had reached the mostdifficult point in our interview. 

"Captain Alingdon, " she said, "does any one else know of this letter?"

"No. I was alone in the archives when I found it. "

"And you spoke of it to no one?"

"To no one. "

"Then no one must know. "

I bowed. "It is for you to decide. "

She paused. "Not even my mother, " she continued, with a painful blush. 

I looked at her in amazement. "Not even--?"

She shook her head sadly. "You think me a cruel daughter? Well--_he_was a cruel friend. What he did was done for Italy: shall I allowmyself to be surpassed?"

I felt a pang of commiseration for the mother. "But you will at leasttell the Countess--"

Her eyes filled with tears. "My poor mother--don't make it moredifficult for me!"

"But I don't understand--"

"Don't you see that she might find it impossible to forgive him? Shehas suffered so much! And I can't risk that--for in her anger she mightspeak. And even if she forgave him, she might be tempted to show theletter. Don't you see that, even now, a word of this might ruin him? Iwill trust his fate to no one. If Italy needed him then she needs himfar more to-day. "

She stood before me magnificently, in the splendor of her greatrefusal; then she turned to the writing-table at which she had beenseated when I came in. Her sealing-taper was still alight, and she heldher brother's letter to the flame. 

I watched her in silence while it burned; but one more question rose tomy lips. 

"You will tell _him_, then, what you have done for him?" I cried. 

And at that the heroine turned woman, melted and pressed unhappy handsin mine. 

"Don't you see that I can never tell him what I do for him? That is mygift to Italy, " she said. 

THE DILETTANTE

IT was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himselfadvancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turnedas usual into Mrs. Vervain's street. 

The "as usual" was his own qualification of the act; a convenient wayof bridging the interval--in days and other sequences--that lay betweenthis visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that heinstinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditionsattending it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than anengraved dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was totalk over his call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to thescene of that episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trustedto handle the talking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her corner, he had felt the dilettante's irresistible craving totake a last look at a work of art that was passing out of hispossession. 

On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with the unexpectedthan Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of taking things forgranted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thought that sheowed her excellence to his training. Early in his career Thursdale hadmade the mistake, at the outset of his acquaintance with a lady, oftelling her that he loved her and exacting the same avowal in return. The latter part of that episode had been like the long walk back from apicnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finished using:it was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to be encumberedwith the debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned that theprivilege of loving her is one of the least favors that a charmingwoman can accord; and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment hehad developed a science of evasion in which the woman of the momentbecame a mere implement of the game. He owed a great deal of delicateenjoyment to the cultivation of this art. The perils from which it hadbeen his refuge became naively harmless: was it possible that he whonow took his easy way along the levels had once preferred to gasp onthe raw heights of emotion? Youth is a high-colored season; but he hadthe satisfaction of feeling that he had entered earlier than most intothat chiar'oscuro of sensation where every half-tone has its value. 

As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparable toMrs. Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray theirfeelings, but he had never before had such fine material to work in. She had been surprisingly crude when he first knew her; capable ofmaking the most awkward inferences, of plunging through thin ice, ofrecklessly undressing her emotions; but she had acquired, under thediscipline of his reticences and evasions, a skill almost equal to hisown, and perhaps more remarkable in that it involved keeping time withany tune he played and reading at sight some uncommonly difficultpassages. 

It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; but theresult justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had beenperfect: her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that hehad announced his engagement by letter. It was an evasion thatconfessed a difficulty; a deviation implying an obstacle, where, bycommon consent, it was agreed to see none; it betrayed, in short, alack of confidence in the completeness of his method. It had been hispride never to put himself in a position which had to be quitted, as itwere, by the back door; but here, as he perceived, the main portalswould have opened for him of their own accord. All this, and much more, he read in the finished naturalness with which Mrs. Vervain had metMiss Gaynor. He had never seen a better piece of work: there was noover-eagerness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and this gave her artthe grace of a natural quality) there were none of those damnableimplications whereby a woman, in welcoming her friend's betrothed, maykeep him on pins and needles while she laps the lady in complacency. Somasterly a performance, indeed, hardly needed the offset of MissGaynor's door-step words--"To be so kind to me, how she must have likedyou!"--though he caught himself wishing it lay within the bounds offitness to transmit them, as a final tribute, to the one woman he knewwho was unfailingly certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps theone drawback to his new situation that it might develop good thingswhich it would be impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain. 

The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend'spowers, the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed hisdistrust of her efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down herstreet instead of going on to the club. He would show her that he knewhow to value her; he would ask her to achieve with him a featinfinitely rarer and more delicate than the one he had appeared toavoid. Incidentally, he would also dispose of the interval of timebefore dinner: ever since he had seen Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on her return journey to Buffalo, he had been wondering how he shouldput in the rest of the afternoon. It was absurd, how he missed thegirl.... Yes, that was it; the desire to talk about her was, after all, at the bottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. Vervain! It was absurd, ifyou like--but it was delightfully rejuvenating. He could recall thetime when he had been afraid of being obvious: now he felt that thisreturn to the primitive emotions might be as restorative as a holidayin the Canadian woods. And it was precisely by the girl's candor, herdirectness, her lack of complications, that he was taken. The sensethat she might say something rash at any moment was positivelyexhilarating: if she had thrown her arms about him at the station hewould not have given a thought to his crumpled dignity. It surprisedThursdale to find what freshness of heart he brought to the adventure;and though his sense of irony prevented his ascribing his intactness toany conscious purpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that hissentimental economies had left him such a large surplus to draw upon. 

Mrs. Vervain was at home--as usual. When one visits the cemetery oneexpects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale asanother proof of his friend's good taste that she had been in no unduehaste to change her habits. The whole house appeared to count on hiscoming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as thoughthere had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at onceenveloped him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted to her very furniture. 

It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances, Mrs. Vervain should herself sound the first false note. 

"You?" she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. 

It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. Thedifficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale's balance. 

"Why not?" he said, restoring the book. "Isn't it my hour?" And as shemade no answer, he added gently, "Unless it's some one else's?"

She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. "Mine, merely, "she said. 

"I hope that doesn't mean that you're unwilling to share it?"

"With you? By no means. You're welcome to my last crust. "

He looked at her reproachfully. "Do you call this the last?"

She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. "It's a wayof giving it more flavor!"

He returned the smile. "A visit to you doesn't need such condiments. "

She took this with just the right measure of retrospective amusement. 

"Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste, " sheconfessed. 

Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him into theimprudence of saying, "Why should you want it to be different from whatwas always so perfectly right?"

She hesitated. "Doesn't the fact that it's the last constitute adifference?"

"The last--my last visit to you?"

"Oh, metaphorically, I mean--there's a break in the continuity. "

Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts already!

"I don't recognize it, " he said. "Unless you make me--" he added, witha note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid attention. 

She turned to him with grave eyes. "You recognize no differencewhatever?"

"None--except an added link in the chain. "

"An added link?"

"In having one more thing to like you for--your letting Miss Gaynor seewhy I had already so many. " He flattered himself that this turn hadtaken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase. 

Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. "Was it that you camefor?" she asked, almost gaily. 

"If it is necessary to have a reason--that was one. "

"To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?"

"To tell you how she talks about you. "

"That will be very interesting--especially if you have seen her sinceher second visit to me. "

"Her second visit?" Thursdale pushed his chair back with a start andmoved to another. "She came to see you again?"

"This morning, yes--by appointment. "

He continued to look at her blankly. "You sent for her?"

"I didn't have to--she wrote and asked me last night. But no doubt youhave seen her since. "

Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from histhoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. "I saw her offjust now at the station. "

"And she didn't tell you that she had been here again?"

"There was hardly time, I suppose--there were people about--" hefloundered. 

"Ah, she'll write, then. "

He regained his composure. "Of course she'll write: very often, I hope. You know I'm absurdly in love, " he cried audaciously. 

She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned against thechimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitude touched apulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. "Oh, my poor Thursdale!"she murmured. 

"I suppose it's rather ridiculous, " he owned; and as she remainedsilent, he added, with a sudden break--"Or have you another reason forpitying me?"

Her answer was another question. "Have you been back to your roomssince you left her?"

"Since I left her at the station? I came straight here. "

"Ah, yes--you _could:_ there was no reason--" Her words passed into asilent musing. 

Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something to tellme?"

"Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at yourrooms. "

"A letter? What do you mean? A letter from _her?_ What has happened?"

His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance. "Nothinghas happened--perhaps that is just the worst of it. You always _hated_, you know, " she added incoherently, "to have things happen: you neverwould let them. "

"And now--?"

"Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed. Toknow if anything had happened. "

"Had happened?" He gazed at her slowly. "Between you and me?" he saidwith a rush of light. 

The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed betweenthem that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze. 

"You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used to be. Are you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?"

His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him. 

Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: "I supposed it might have struck youthat there were times when we presented that appearance. "

He made an impatient gesture. "A man's past is his own!"

"Perhaps--it certainly never belongs to the woman who has shared it. But one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor isnaturally inexperienced. "

"Of course--but--supposing her act a natural one--" he flounderedlamentably among his innuendoes--"I still don't see--how there wasanything--"

"Anything to take hold of? There wasn't--"

"Well, then--?" escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as she did notcomplete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: "She canhardly object to the existence of a mere friendship between us!"

"But she does, " said Mrs. Vervain. 

Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, no traceof jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still hear thecandid ring of the girl's praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were such anabyss of insincerity as to dissemble distrust under such frankness, shemust at least be more subtle than to bring her doubts to her rival forsolution. The situation seemed one through which one could no longermove in a penumbra, and he let in a burst of light with the directquery: "Won't you explain what you mean?"

Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong hisdistress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had taught her, it was difficult to find words robust enough to meet his challenge. Itwas the first time he had ever asked her to explain anything; and shehad lived so long in dread of offering elucidations which were notwanted, that she seemed unable to produce one on the spot. 

At last she said slowly: "She came to find out if you were really free. "

Thursdale colored again. "Free?" he stammered, with a sense of physicaldisgust at contact with such crassness. 

"Yes--if I had quite done with you. " She smiled in recovered security. "It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion for definitions. "

"Yes--well?" he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety. 

"Well--and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, shewanted me to define _my_ status--to know exactly where I had stood allalong. "

Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on the clue. "And even when you had told her that--"

"Even when I had told her that I had _had_ no status--that I had neverstood anywhere, in any sense she meant, " said Mrs. Vervain, slowly--"even then she wasn't satisfied, it seems. "

He uttered an uneasy exclamation. "She didn't believe you, you mean?"

"I mean that she _did_ believe me: too thoroughly. "

"Well, then--in God's name, what did she want?"

"Something more--those were the words she used. "

"Something more? Between--between you and me? Is it a conundrum?" Helaughed awkwardly. 

"Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longer forbiddento contemplate the relation of the sexes. "

"So it seems!" he commented. "But since, in this case, there wasn'tany--" he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze. 

"That's just it. The unpardonable offence has been--in our notoffending. "

He flung himself down despairingly. "I give it up!--What did you tellher?" he burst out with sudden crudeness. 

"The exact truth. If I had only known, " she broke off with a beseechingtenderness, "won't you believe that I would still have lied for you?"

"Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of us?"

"To save you--to hide you from her to the last! As I've hidden you frommyself all these years!" She stood up with a sudden tragic import inher movement. "You believe me capable of that, don't you? If I had onlyguessed--but I have never known a girl like her; she had the truth outof me with a spring. "

"The truth that you and I had never--"

"Had never--never in all these years! Oh, she knew why--she measured usboth in a flash. She didn't suspect me of having haggled with you--herwords pelted me like hail. 'He just took what he wanted--sifted andsorted you to suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and left a heap ofcinders. And you let him--you let yourself be cut in bits'--she mixedher metaphors a little--'be cut in bits, and used or discarded, whileall the while every drop of blood in you belonged to him! But he'sShylock--and you have bled to death of the pound of flesh he has cutout of you. ' But she despises me the most, you know--far the most--"Mrs. Vervain ended. 

The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: theyseemed out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kindof intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude withoutperceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grandopera-singer had strained the acoustics of a private music-room. 

Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was between them, but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the veils ofreticence and ambiguity had fallen. 

His first words were characteristic. "She _does_ despise me, then?" heexclaimed. 

"She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near theheart. "

He was excessively pale. "Please tell me exactly what she said of me. "

"She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather that whileshe understands love or indifference, her eyes have never been openedto the many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, she expressedan unwillingness to be taken with reservations--she thinks you wouldhave loved her better if you had loved some one else first. The pointof view is original--she insists on a man with a past!"

"Oh, a past--if she's serious--I could rake up a past!" he said with alaugh. 

"So I suggested: but she has her eyes on his particular portion of it. She insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what you haddone to me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered into tellingher. "

Thursdale drew a difficult breath. "I never supposed--your revenge iscomplete, " he said slowly. 

He heard a little gasp in her throat. "My revenge? When I sent for youto warn you--to save you from being surprised as _I_ was surprised?"

"You're very good--but it's rather late to talk of saving me. " He heldout his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking. 

"How you must care!--for I never saw you so dull, " was her answer. "Don't you see that it's not too late for me to help you?" And as hecontinued to stare, she brought out sublimely: "Take the rest--inimagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her Ilied to her--she's too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in asense, I sha'n't have been wasted. "

His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave the lookback brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were too simple toneed oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few words had sweptthem from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations to thiscontact of naked souls. 

It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; butsomething in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. Hewent up to his friend and took her hand. 

"You would do it--you would do it!"

She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook. 

"Good-by, " he said, kissing it. 

"Good-by? You are going--?"

"To get my letter. "

"Your letter? The letter won't matter, if you will only do what I ask. "

He returned her gaze. "I might, I suppose, without being out ofcharacter. Only, don't you see that if your plan helped me it couldonly harm her?"

"Harm _her?_"

"To sacrifice you wouldn't make me different. I shall go on being whatI have always been--sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you wantmy punishment to fall on _her?_"

She looked at him long and deeply. "Ah, if I had to choose betweenyou--!"

"You would let her take her chance? But I can't, you see. I must takemy punishment alone. "

She drew her hand away, sighing. "Oh, there will be no punishment foreither of you. "

"For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me. "

She shook her head with a slight laugh. "There will be no letter. "

Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his look. "No letter? You don't mean--"

"I mean that she's been with you since I saw her--she's seen you andheard your voice. If there _is_ a letter, she has recalled it--from thefirst station, by telegraph. "

He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. "But in themean while I shall have read it, " he said. 

The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadfulemptiness of the room. 

THE QUICKSAND

I

AS Mrs. Quentin's victoria, driving homeward, turned from the Park intoFifth Avenue, she divined her son's tall figure walking ahead of her inthe twilight. His long stride covered the ground more rapidly thanusual, and she had a premonition that, if he were going home at thathour, it was because he wanted to see her. 

Mrs. Quentin, though not a fanciful woman, was sometimes aware of asixth sense enabling her to detect the faintest vibrations of her son'simpulses. She was too shrewd to fancy herself the one mother inpossession of this faculty, but she permitted herself to think that fewcould exercise it more discreetly. If she could not help overhearingAlan's thoughts, she had the courage to keep her discoveries toherself, the tact to take for granted nothing that lay below thesurface of their spoken intercourse: she knew that most people wouldrather have their letters read than their thoughts. For thissuperfeminine discretion Alan repaid her by--being Alan. There couldhave been no completer reward. He was the key to the meaning of life, the justification of what must have seemed as incomprehensible as itwas odious, had it not all-sufficingly ended in himself. He was aperfect son, and Mrs. Quentin had always hungered for perfection. 

Her house, in a minor way, bore witness to the craving. One felt it tobe the result of a series of eliminations: there was nothing fortuitousin its blending of line and color. The almost morbid finish of everymaterial detail of her life suggested the possibility that a diversityof energies had, by some pressure of circumstance, been forced into thechannel of a narrow dilettanteism. Mrs. Quentin's fastidiousness had, indeed, the flaw of being too one-sided. Her friends were not alwaysworthy of the chairs they sat in, and she overlooked in her associatesdefects she would not have tolerated in her bric-a-brac. Her house was, in fact, never so distinguished as when it was empty; and it was at itsbest in the warm fire-lit silence that now received her. 

Her son, who had overtaken her on the door-step, followed her into thedrawing-room, and threw himself into an armchair near the fire, whileshe laid off her furs and busied herself about the tea table. For awhile neither spoke; but glancing at him across the kettle, his mothernoticed that he sat staring at the embers with a look she had neverseen on his face, though its arrogant young outline was as familiar toher as her own thoughts. The look extended itself to his negligentattitude, to the droop of his long fine hands, the dejected tilt of hishead against the cushions. It was like the moral equivalent of physicalfatigue: he looked, as he himself would have phrased it, dead-beat, played out. Such an air was so foreign to his usual brightindomitableness that Mrs. Quentin had the sense of an unfamiliarpresence, in which she must observe herself, must raise hurriedbarriers against an alien approach. It was one of the drawbacks oftheir excessive intimacy that any break in it seemed a chasm. 

She was accustomed to let his thoughts circle about her before theysettled into speech, and she now sat in motionless expectancy, asthough a sound might frighten them away. 

At length, without turning his eyes from the fire, he said: "I'm soglad you're a nice old-fashioned intuitive woman. It's painful to seethem think. "

Her apprehension had already preceded him. "Hope Fenno--?" she faltered. 

He nodded. "She's been thinking--hard. It was very painful--to me, atleast; and I don't believe she enjoyed it: she said she didn't. " Hestretched his feet to the fire. "The result of her cogitations is thatshe won't have me. She arrived at this by pure ratiocination--it's nota question of feeling, you understand. I'm the only man she's everloved--but she won't have me. What novels did you read when you wereyoung, dear? I'm convinced it all turns on that. If she'd been broughtup on Trollope and Whyte-Melville, instead of Tolstoi and Mrs. Ward, weshould have now been vulgarly sitting on a sofa, trying on theengagement-ring. "

Mrs. Quentin at first was kept silent by the mother's instinctive angerthat the girl she has not wanted for her son should have dared torefuse him. Then she said, "Tell me, dear. "

"My good woman, she has scruples. "

"Scruples?"

"Against the paper. She objects to me in my official capacity as ownerof the _Radiator_. "

His mother did not echo his laugh. 

"She had found a solution, of course--she overflows with expedients. Iwas to chuck the paper, and we were to live happily ever afterward oncanned food and virtue. She even had an alternative ready--women are sofull of resources! I was to turn the _Radiator_ into an independentorgan, and run it at a loss to show the public what a model newspaperought to be. On the whole, I think she fancied this plan more than theother--it commended itself to her as being more uncomfortable andaggressive. It's not the fashion nowadays to be good by stealth. "

Mrs. Quentin said to herself, "I didn't know how much he cared!" Aloudshe murmured, "You must give her time. "

"Time?"

"To move out the old prejudices and make room for new ones. "

"My dear mother, those she has are brand-new; that's the trouble withthem. She's tremendously up-to-date. She takes in all the moralfashion-papers, and wears the newest thing in ethics. "

Her resentment lost its way in the intricacies of his metaphor. "Is sheso very religious?"

"You dear archaic woman! She's hopelessly irreligious; that's thedifficulty. You can make a religious woman believe almost anything:there's the habit of credulity to work on. But when a girl's faith inthe Deluge has been shaken, it's very hard to inspire her withconfidence. She makes you feel that, before believing in you, it's herduty as a conscientious agnostic to find out whether you're notobsolete, or whether the text isn't corrupt, or somebody hasn't provedconclusively that you never existed, anyhow. "

Mrs. Quentin was again silent. The two moved in that atmosphere ofimplications and assumptions where the lightest word may shake down thedust of countless stored impressions; and speech was sometimes moredifficult between them than had their union been less close. 

Presently she ventured, "It's impossible?"

"Impossible?"

She seemed to use her words cautiously, like weapons that might slipand inflict a cut. "What she suggests. "

Her son, raising himself, turned to look at her for the first time. Their glance met in a shock of comprehension. He was with her againstthe girl, then! Her satisfaction overflowed in a murmur of tenderness. 

"Of course not, dear. One can't change--change one's life.... "

"One's self, " he emended. "That's what I tell her. What's the use of mygiving up the paper if I keep my point of view?"

The psychological distinction attracted her. "Which is it she mindsmost?"

"Oh, the paper--for the present. She undertakes to modify the point ofview afterward. All she asks is that I shall renounce my heresy: thegift of grace will come later. "

Mrs. Quentin sat gazing into her untouched cup. Her son's first wordshad produced in her the hallucinated sense of struggling in the thickof a crowd that he could not see. It was horrible to feel herselfhemmed in by influences imperceptible to him; yet if anything couldhave increased her misery it would have been the discovery that herghosts had become visible. 

As though to divert his attention, she precipitately asked, "And you--?"

His answer carried the shock of an evocation. "I merely asked her whatshe thought of _you_. "

"Of me?"

"She admires you immensely, you know. "

For a moment Mrs. Quentin's cheek showed the lingering light ofgirlhood: praise transmitted by her son acquired something of thetransmitter's merit. "Well--?" she smiled. 

"Well--you didn't make my father give up the _Radiator_, did you?"

His mother, stiffening, made a circuitous return: "She never comeshere. How can she know me?"

"She's so poor! She goes out so little. " He rose and leaned against themantel-piece, dislodging with impatient fingers a slender bronzewrestler poised on a porphyry base, between two warm-toned Spanishivories. "And then her mother--" he added, as if involuntarily. 

"Her mother has never visited me, " Mrs. Quentin finished for him. 

He shrugged his shoulders. "Mrs. Fenno has the scope of a wax doll. Herrule of conduct is taken from her grandmother's sampler. "

"But the daughter is so modern--and yet--"

"The result is the same? Not exactly. _She_ admires you--oh, immensely!" He replaced the bronze and turned to his mother with asmile. "Aren't you on some hospital committee together? What especiallystrikes her is your way of doing good. She says philanthropy is not aline of conduct, but a state of mind--and it appears that you are oneof the elect. "

As, in the vague diffusion of physical pain, relief seems to come withthe acuter pang of a single nerve, Mrs. Quentin felt herself suddenlyeased by a rush of anger against the girl. "If she loved you--" shebegan. 

His gesture checked her. "I'm not asking you to get her to do that. "

The two were again silent, facing each other in the disarray of acommon catastrophe--as though their thoughts, at the summons of danger, had rushed naked into action. Mrs. Quentin, at this revealing moment, saw for the first time how many elements of her son's character hadseemed comprehensible simply because they were familiar: as, in readinga foreign language, we take the meaning of certain words for grantedtill the context corrects us. Often as in a given case, her maternalmusings had figured his conduct, she now found herself at a loss toforecast it; and with this failure of intuition came a sense of thesubserviency which had hitherto made her counsels but the anticipationof his wish. Her despair escaped in the moan, "What _is_ it you ask me?"

"To talk to her. "

"Talk to her?"

"Show her--tell her--make her understand that the paper has always beena thing outside your life--that hasn't touched you--that needn't touch_her_. Only, let her hear you--watch you--be with you--she'll see... Shecan't help seeing... "

His mother faltered. "But if she's given you her reasons--?"

"Let her give them to you! If she can--when she sees you.... " Hisimpatient hand again displaced the wrestler. "I care abominably, " heconfessed. 

II

On the Fenno threshold a sudden sense of the futility of the attempthad almost driven Mrs. Quentin back to her carriage; but the door wasalready opening, and a parlor-maid who believed that Miss Fenno was inled the way to the depressing drawing-room. It was the kind of room inwhich no member of the family is likely to be found except after dinneror after death. The chairs and tables looked like poor relations whohad repaid their keep by a long career of grudging usefulness: theyseemed banded together against intruders in a sullen conspiracy ofdiscomfort. Mrs. Quentin, keenly susceptible to such influences, readfailure in every angle of the upholstery. She was incapable of thevulgar error of thinking that Hope Fenno might be induced to marry Alanfor his money; but between this assumption and the inference that thegirl's imagination might be touched by the finer possibilities ofwealth, good taste admitted a distinction. The Fenno furniture, however, presented to such reasoning the obtuseness of its black-walnutchamferings; and something in its attitude suggested that its ownerswould be as uncompromising. The room showed none of the modern attemptsat palliation, no apologetic draping of facts; and Mrs. Quentin, provisionally perched on a green-reps Gothic sofa with which it wasclearly impossible to establish any closer relations, concluded that, had Mrs. Fenno needed another seat of the same size, she would have setout placidly to match the one on which her visitor now languished. 

To Mrs. Quentin's fancy, Hope Fenno's opinions, presently imparted in aclear young voice from the opposite angle of the Gothic sofa, partookof the character of their surroundings. The girl's mind was like alarge light empty place, scantily furnished with a few massiveprejudices, not designed to add to any one's comfort but too ponderousto be easily moved. Mrs. Quentin's own intelligence, in which itsowner, in an artistically shaded half-light, had so long moved amid adelicate complexity of sensations, seemed in comparison suddenly closeand crowded; and in taking refuge there from the glare of the younggirl's candor, the older woman found herself stumbling in an unwontedobscurity. Her uneasiness resolved itself into a sense of irritationagainst her listener. Mrs. Quentin knew that the momentary value of anyargument lies in the capacity of the mind to which it is addressed, andas her shafts of persuasion spent themselves against Miss Fenno'sobduracy, she said to herself that, since conduct is governed byemotions rather than ideas, the really strong people are those whomistake their sensations for opinions. Viewed in this light, Miss Fennowas certainly very strong: there was an unmistakable ring of finalityin the tone with which she declared, "It's impossible. "

Mrs. Quentin's answer veiled the least shade of feminine resentment. "Itold Alan that, where he had failed, there was no chance of my makingan impression. "

Hope Fenno laid on her visitor's an almost reverential hand. "Dear Mrs. Quentin, it's the impression you make that confirms the impossibility. "

Mrs. Quentin waited a moment: she was perfectly aware that, where herfeelings were concerned, her sense of humor was not to be relied on. "Do I make such an odious impression?" she asked at length, with asmile that seemed to give the girl her choice of two meanings. 

"You make such a beautiful one! It's too beautiful--it obscures myjudgment. "

Mrs. Quentin looked at her thoughtfully. "Would it be permissible, Iwonder, for an older woman to suggest that, at your age, it isn'talways a misfortune to have what one calls one's judgment temporarilyobscured?"

Miss Fenno flushed. "I try not to judge others--"

"You judge Alan. "

"Ah, _he_ is not others, " she murmured, with an accent that touched theolder woman. 

"You judge his mother. "

"I don't; I don't!"

Mrs. Quentin pressed her point. "You judge yourself, then, as you wouldbe in my position--and your verdict condemns me. "

"How can you think it? It's because I appreciate the difference in ourpoint of view that I find it so difficult to defend myself--"

"Against what?"

"The temptation to imagine that I might be as _you_ are--feeling as Ido. "

Mrs. Quentin rose with a sigh. "My child, in my day love was lesssubtle. " She added, after a moment, "Alan is a perfect son. "

"Ah, that again--that makes it worse!"

"Worse?"

"Just as your goodness does, your sweetness, your immense indulgence inletting me discuss things with you in a way that must seem almost animpertinence. "

Mrs. Quentin's smile was not without irony. "You must remember that Ido it for Alan. "

"That's what I love you for!" the girl instantly returned; and againher tone touched her listener. 

"And yet you're sacrificing him--and to an idea!"

"Isn't it to ideas that all the sacrifices that were worth while havebeen made?"

"One may sacrifice one's self. "

Miss Fenno's color rose. "That's what I'm doing, " she said gently. 

Mrs. Quentin took her hand. "I believe you are, " she answered. "And itisn't true that I speak only for Alan. Perhaps I did when I began; butnow I want to plead for you too--against yourself. " She paused, andthen went on with a deeper note: "I have let you, as you say, speakyour mind to me in terms that some women might have resented, because Iwanted to show you how little, as the years go on, theories, ideas, abstract conceptions of life, weigh against the actual, against theparticular way in which life presents itself to us--to womenespecially. To decide beforehand exactly how one ought to behave ingiven circumstances is like deciding that one will follow a certaindirection in crossing an unexplored country. Afterward we find that wemust turn out for the obstacles--cross the rivers where they'reshallowest--take the tracks that others have beaten--make all sorts ofunexpected concessions. Life is made up of compromises: that is whatyouth refuses to understand. I've lived long enough to doubt whetherany real good ever came of sacrificing beautiful facts to even morebeautiful theories. Do I seem casuistical? I don't know--there may belosses either way... But the love of the man one loves... Of the childone loves... That makes up for everything.... "

She had spoken with a thrill which seemed to communicate itself to thehand her listener had left in hers. Her eyes filled suddenly, butthrough their dimness she saw the girl's lips shape a last desperatedenial:

"Don't you see it's because I feel all this that I mustn't--that Ican't?"

III

Mrs. Quentin, in the late spring afternoon, had turned in at the doorsof the Metropolitan Museum. She had been walking in the Park, in asolitude oppressed by the ever-present sense of her son's trouble, andhad suddenly remembered that some one had added a Beltraffio to thecollection. It was an old habit of Mrs. Quentin's to seek in theenjoyment of the beautiful the distraction that most of heracquaintances appeared to find in each other's company. She had fewfriends, and their society was welcome to her only in her moresuperficial moods; but she could drug anxiety with a picture as somewomen can soothe it with a bonnet. 

During the six months that had elapsed since her visit to Miss Fennoshe had been conscious of a pain of which she had supposed herself nolonger capable: as a man will continue to feel the ache of an amputatedarm. She had fancied that all her centres of feeling had beentransferred to Alan; but she now found herself subject to a kind ofdual suffering, in which her individual pang was the keener in that itdivided her from her son's. Alan had surprised her: she had notforeseen that he would take a sentimental rebuff so hard. Hisdisappointment took the uncommunicative form of a sterner applicationto work. He threw himself into the concerns of the _Radiator_ with anaggressiveness that almost betrayed itself in the paper. Mrs. Quentinnever read the _Radiator_, but from the glimpses of it reflected in theother journals she gathered that it was at least not being subjected tothe moral reconstruction which had been one of Miss Fenno'salternatives. 

Mrs. Quentin never spoke to her son of what had happened. She wassuperior to the cheap satisfaction of avenging his injury bydepreciating its cause. She knew that in sentimental sorrows suchconsolations are as salt in the wound. The avoidance of a subject sovividly present to both could not but affect the closeness of theirrelation. An invisible presence hampered their liberty of speech andthought. The girl was always between them; and to hide the sense of herintrusion they began to be less frequently together. It was then thatMrs. Quentin measured the extent of her isolation. Had she ever daredto forecast such a situation, she would have proceeded on theconventional theory that her son's suffering must draw her nearer tohim; and this was precisely the relief that was denied her. Alan'suncommunicativeness extended below the level of speech, and his mother, reduced to the helplessness of dead-reckoning, had not even the solaceof adapting her sympathy to his needs. She did not know what he felt:his course was incalculable to her. She sometimes wondered if she hadbecome as incomprehensible to him; and it was to find a moment's refugefrom the dogging misery of such conjectures that she had now turned inat the Museum. 

The long line of mellow canvases seemed to receive her into the richcalm of an autumn twilight. She might have been walking in an enchantedwood where the footfall of care never sounded. So deep was the sense ofseclusion that, as she turned from her prolonged communion with the newBeltraffio, it was a surprise to find she was not alone. 

A young lady who had risen from the central ottoman stood in suspendedflight as Mrs. Quentin faced her. The older woman was the first toregain her self-possession. 

"Miss Fenno!" she said. 

The girl advanced with a blush. As it faded, Mrs. Quentin noticed achange in her. There had always been something bright and bannerlike inher aspect, but now her look drooped, and she hung at half-mast, as itwere. Mrs. Quentin, in the embarrassment of surprising a secret thatits possessor was doubtless unconscious of betraying, revertedhurriedly to the Beltraffio. 

"I came to see this, " she said. "It's very beautiful. "

Miss Fenno's eye travelled incuriously over the mystic blue reaches ofthe landscape. "I suppose so, " she assented; adding, after anothertentative pause, "You come here often, don't you?"

"Very often, " Mrs. Quentin answered. "I find pictures a great help. "

"A help?"

"A rest, I mean... If one is tired or out of sorts. "

"Ah, " Miss Fenno murmured, looking down. 

"This Beltraffio is new, you know, " Mrs. Quentin continued. "What awonderful background, isn't it? Is he a painter who interests you?"

The girl glanced again at the dusky canvas, as though in a finalendeavor to extract from it a clue to the consolations of art. "I don'tknow, " she said at length; "I'm afraid I don't understand pictures. "She moved nearer to Mrs. Quentin and held out her hand. 

"You're going?"

"Yes. "

Mrs. Quentin looked at her. "Let me drive you home, " she said, impulsively. She was feeling, with a shock of surprise, that it gaveher, after all, no pleasure to see how much the girl had suffered. 

Miss Fenno stiffened perceptibly. "Thank you; I shall like the walk. "

Mrs. Quentin dropped her hand with a corresponding movement ofwithdrawal, and a momentary wave of antagonism seemed to sweep the twowomen apart. Then, as Mrs. Quentin, bowing slightly, again addressedherself to the picture, she felt a sudden touch on her arm. 

"Mrs. Quentin, " the girl faltered, "I really came here because I sawyour carriage. " Her eyes sank, and then fluttered back to her hearer'sface. "I've been horribly unhappy!" she exclaimed. 

Mrs. Quentin was silent. If Hope Fenno had expected an immediateresponse to her appeal, she was disappointed. The older woman's facewas like a veil dropped before her thoughts. 

"I've thought so often, " the girl went on precipitately, "of what yousaid that day you came to see me last autumn. I think I understand nowwhat you meant--what you tried to make me see.... Oh, Mrs. Quentin, "she broke out, "I didn't mean to tell you this--I never dreamed of ittill this moment--but you _do_ remember what you said, don't you? Youmust remember it! And now that I've met you in this way, I can't helptelling you that I believe--I begin to believe--that you were right, after all. "

Mrs. Quentin had listened without moving; but now she raised her eyeswith a slight smile. "Do you wish me to say this to Alan?" she asked. 

The girl flushed, but her glance braved the smile. "Would he still careto hear it?" she said fearlessly. 

Mrs. Quentin took momentary refuge in a renewed inspection of theBeltraffio; then, turning, she said, with a kind of reluctance: "Hewould still care. "

"Ah!" broke from the girl. 

During this exchange of words the two speakers had driftedunconsciously toward one of the benches. Mrs. Quentin glanced abouther: a custodian who had been hovering in the doorway sauntered intothe adjoining gallery, and they remained alone among the silveryVandykes and flushed bituminous Halses. Mrs. Quentin sank down on thebench and reached a hand to the girl. 

"Sit by me, " she said. 

Miss Fenno dropped beside her. In both women the stress of emotion wastoo strong for speech. The girl was still trembling, and Mrs. Quentinwas the first to regain her composure. 

"You say you've suffered, " she began at last. "Do you suppose _I_haven't?"

"I knew you had. That made it so much worse for me--that I should havebeen the cause of your suffering for Alan!"

Mrs. Quentin drew a deep breath. "Not for Alan only, " she said. MissFenno turned on her a wondering glance. "Not for Alan only. _That_ painevery woman expects--and knows how to bear. We all know our childrenmust have such disappointments, and to suffer with them is not thedeepest pain. It's the suffering apart--in ways they don't understand. "She breathed deeply. "I want you to know what I mean. You wereright--that day--and I was wrong. "

"Oh, " the girl faltered. 

Mrs. Quentin went on in a voice of passionate lucidity. "I knew itthen--I knew it even while I was trying to argue with you--I've alwaysknown it! I didn't want my son to marry you till I heard your reasonsfor refusing him; and then--then I longed to see you his wife!"

"Oh, Mrs. Quentin!"

"I longed for it; but I knew it mustn't be. "

"Mustn't be?"

Mrs. Quentin shook her head sadly, and the girl, gaining courage fromthis mute negation, cried with an uncontrollable escape of feeling:

"It's because you thought me hard, obstinate narrow-minded? Oh, Iunderstand that so well! My self-righteousness must have seemed sopetty! A girl who could sacrifice a man's future to her own moralvanity--for it _was_ a form of vanity; you showed me that plainlyenough--how you must have despised me! But I am not that girlnow--indeed I'm not. I'm not impulsive--I think things out. I'vethought this out. I know Alan loves me--I know _how_ he loves me--and Ibelieve I can help him--oh, not in the ways I had fancied before--butjust merely by loving him. " She paused, but Mrs. Quentin made no sign. "I see it all so differently now. I see what an influence love itselfmay be--how my believing in him, loving him, accepting him just as heis, might help him more than any theories, any arguments. I might haveseen this long ago in looking at _you_--as he often told me--in seeinghow you'd kept yourself apart from--from--Mr. Quentin's work andhis--been always the beautiful side of life to them--kept their faithalive in spite of themselves--not by interfering, preaching, reforming, but by--just loving them and being there--" She looked at Mrs. Quentinwith a simple nobleness. "It isn't as if I cared for the money, youknow; if I cared for that, I should be afraid--"

"You will care for it in time, " Mrs. Quentin said suddenly. 

Miss Fenno drew back, releasing her hand. "In time?"

"Yes; when there's nothing else left. " She stared a moment at thepictures. "My poor child, " she broke out, "I've heard all you say sooften before!"

"You've heard it?"

"Yes--from myself. I felt as you do, I argued as you do, I acted as Imean to prevent your doing, when I married Alan's father. "

The long empty gallery seemed to reverberate with the girl's startledexclamation--"Oh, Mrs. Quentin--"

"Hush; let me speak. Do you suppose I'd do this if you were the kind ofpink-and-white idiot he ought to have married? It's because I seeyou're alive, as I was, tingling with beliefs, ambitions, energies, asI was--that I can't see you walled up alive, as I was, withoutstretching out a hand to save you!" She sat gazing rigidly forward, hereyes on the pictures, speaking in the low precipitate tone of one whotries to press the meaning of a lifetime into a few breathlesssentences. 

"When I met Alan's father, " she went on, "I knew nothing of his--hiswork. We met abroad, where I had been living with my mother. That wastwenty-six years ago, when the _Radiator_ was less--less notorious thanit is now. I knew my husband owned a newspaper--a great newspaper--andnothing more. I had never seen a copy of the _Radiator_; I had nonotion what it stood for, in politics--or in other ways. We weremarried in Europe, and a few months afterward we came to live here. People were already beginning to talk about the _Radiator_. My husband, on leaving college, had bought it with some money an old uncle had lefthim, and the public at first was merely curious to see what anambitious, stirring young man without any experience of journalism wasgoing to make out of his experiment. They found first of all that hewas going to make a great deal of money out of it. I found that outtoo. I was so happy in other ways that it didn't make much differenceat first; though it was pleasant to be able to help my mother, to begenerous and charitable, to live in a nice house, and wear the handsomegowns he liked to see me in. But still it didn't really count--itcounted so little that when, one day, I learned what the _Radiator_was, I would have gone out into the streets barefooted rather than liveanother hour on the money it brought in.... " Her voice sank, and shepaused to steady it. The girl at her side did not speak or move. "Ishall never forget that day, " she began again. "The paper had strippedbare some family scandal--some miserable bleeding secret that a dozenunhappy people had been struggling to keep out of print--that _would_have been kept out if my husband had not--Oh, you must guess the rest!I can't go on!"

She felt a hand on hers. "You mustn't go on, Mrs. Quentin, " the girlwhispered. 

"Yes, I must--I must! You must be made to understand. " She drew a deepbreath. "My husband was not like Alan. When he found out how I feltabout it he was surprised at first--but gradually he began to see--orat least I fancied he saw--the hatefulness of it. At any rate he sawhow I suffered, and he offered to give up the whole thing--to sell thepaper. It couldn't be done all of a sudden, of course--he made me seethat--for he had put all his money in it, and he had no specialaptitude for any other kind of work. He was a born journalist--likeAlan. It was a great sacrifice for him to give up the paper, but hepromised to do it--in time--when a good opportunity offered. Meanwhile, of course, he wanted to build it up, to increase the circulation--andto do that he had to keep on in the same way--he made that clear to me. I saw that we were in a vicious circle. The paper, to sell well, had tobe made more and more detestable and disgraceful. At first Irebelled--but somehow--I can't tell you how it was--after that firstconcession the ground seemed to give under me: with every struggle Isank deeper. And then--then Alan was born. He was such a delicate babythat there was very little hope of saving him. But money did it--themoney from the paper. I took him abroad to see the best physicians--Itook him to a warm climate every winter. In hot weather the doctorsrecommended sea air, and we had a yacht and cruised every summer. Iowed his life to the _Radiator_. And when he began to grow stronger thehabit was formed--the habit of luxury. He could not get on without thethings he had always been used to. He pined in bad air; he droopedunder monotony and discomfort; he throve on variety, amusement, travel, every kind of novelty and excitement. And all I wanted for him hisinexhaustible foster-mother was there to give!

"My husband said nothing, but he must have seen how things were going. There was no more talk of giving up the _Radiator_. He never reproachedme with my inconsistency, but I thought he must despise me, and thethought made me reckless. I determined to ignore the paperaltogether--to take what it gave as though I didn't know where it camefrom. And to excuse this I invented the theory that one may, so tospeak, purify money by putting it to good uses. I gave away a greatdeal in charity--I indulged myself very little at first. All the moneythat was not spent on Alan I tried to do good with. But gradually, asmy boy grew up, the problem became more complicated. How was I toprotect Alan from the contamination I had let him live in? I couldn'tpreach by example--couldn't hold up his father as a warning, ordenounce the money we were living on. All I could do was to disguisethe inner ugliness of life by making it beautiful outside--to build awall of beauty between him and the facts of life, turn his tastes andinterests another way, hide the _Radiator_ from him as a smiling womanat a ball may hide a cancer in her breast! Just as Alan was enteringcollege his father died. Then I saw my way clear. I had loved myhusband--and yet I drew my first free breath in years. For the_Radiator_ had been left to Alan outright--there was nothing on earthto prevent his selling it when he came of age. And there was no excusefor his not selling it. I had brought him up to depend on money, butthe paper had given us enough money to gratify all his tastes. At lastwe could turn on the monster that had nourished us. I felt a savage joyin the thought--I could hardly bear to wait till Alan came of age. ButI had never spoken to him of the paper, and I didn't dare speak of itnow. Some false shame kept me back, some vague belief in his ignorance. I would wait till he was twenty-one, and then we should be free. 

"I waited--the day came, and I spoke. You can guess his answer, Isuppose. He had no idea of selling the _Radiator_. It wasn't the moneyhe cared for--it was the career that tempted him. He was a bornjournalist, and his ambition, ever since he could remember, had been tocarry on his father's work, to develop, to surpass it. There wasnothing in the world as interesting as modern journalism. He couldn'timagine any other kind of life that wouldn't bore him to death. Anewspaper like the _Radiator_ might be made one of the biggest powerson earth, and he loved power, and meant to have all he could get. Ilistened to him in a kind of trance. I couldn't find a word to say. Hisfather had had scruples--he had none. I seemed to realize at once thatargument would be useless. I don't know that I even tried to plead withhim--he was so bright and hard and inaccessible! Then I saw that hewas, after all, what I had made him--the creature of my concessions, myconnivances, my evasions. That was the price I had paid for him--I hadkept him at that cost!

"Well--I _had_ kept him, at any rate. That was the feeling thatsurvived. He was my boy, my son, my very own--till some other womantook him. Meanwhile the old life must go on as it could. I gave up thestruggle. If at that point he was inaccessible, at others he was closeto me. He has always been a perfect son. Our tastes grew together--weenjoyed the same books, the same pictures, the same people. All I hadto do was to look at him in profile to see the side of him that wasreally mine. At first I kept thinking of the dreadful other side--butgradually the impression faded, and I kept my mind turned from it, asone does from a deformity in a face one loves. I thought I had made mylast compromise with life--had hit on a _modus vivendi_ that would lastmy time. 

"And then he met you. I had always been prepared for his marrying, butnot a girl like you. I thought he would choose a sweet thing who wouldnever pry into his closets--he hated women with ideas! But as soon as Isaw you I knew the struggle would have to begin again. He is so muchstronger than his father--he is full of the most monstrous convictions. And he has the courage of them, too--you saw last year that his lovefor you never made him waver. He believes in his work; he adores it--itis a kind of hideous idol to which he would make human sacrifices! Heloves you still--I've been honest with you--but his love wouldn'tchange him. It is you who would have to change--to die gradually, as Ihave died, till there is only one live point left in me. Ah, if onedied completely--that's simple enough! But something persists--rememberthat--a single point, an aching nerve of truth. Now and then you maydrug it--but a touch wakes it again, as your face has waked it in me. There's always enough of one's old self left to suffer with.... "

She stood up and faced the girl abruptly. "What shall I tell Alan?" shesaid. 

Miss Fenno sat motionless, her eyes on the ground. Twilight was fallingon the gallery--a twilight which seemed to emanate not so much from theglass dome overhead as from the crepuscular depths into which the facesof the pictures were receding. The custodian's step sounded warninglydown the corridor. When the girl looked up she was alone. 

A VENETIAN NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT

I

THIS is the story that, in the dining-room of the old Beacon Streethouse (now the Aldebaran Club), Judge Anthony Bracknell, of the famousEast India firm of Bracknell & Saulsbee, when the ladies had withdrawnto the oval parlour (and Maria's harp was throwing its gauzy web ofsound across the Common), used to relate to his grandsons, about theyear that Buonaparte marched upon Moscow. 

I

"Him Venice!" said the Lascar with the big earrings; and TonyBracknell, leaning on the high gunwale of his father's East Indiaman, the Hepzibah B. , saw far off, across the morning sea, a faint vision oftowers and domes dissolved in golden air. 

It was a rare February day of the year 1760, and a young Tony, newly ofage, and bound on the grand tour aboard the crack merchantman of oldBracknell's fleet, felt his heart leap up as the distant city trembledinto shape. _Venice!_ The name, since childhood, had been a magician'swand to him. In the hall of the old Bracknell house at Salem there hunga series of yellowing prints which Uncle Richard Saulsbee had broughthome from one of his long voyages: views of heathen mosques andpalaces, of the Grand Turk's Seraglio, of St. Peter's Church in Rome;and, in a corner--the corner nearest the rack where the old flintlockshung--a busy merry populous scene, entitled: _St. Mark's Square inVenice_. This picture, from the first, had singularly taken littleTony's fancy. His unformulated criticism on the others was that theylacked action. True, in the view of St. Peter's an experienced-lookinggentleman in a full-bottomed wig was pointing out the fairly obviousmonument to a bashful companion, who had presumably not ventured toraise his eyes to it; while, at the doors of the Seraglio, a group ofturbaned infidels observed with less hesitancy the approach of a veiledlady on a camel. But in Venice so many things were happening atonce--more, Tony was sure, than had ever happened in Boston in atwelve-month or in Salem in a long lifetime. For here, by their garb, were people of every nation on earth, Chinamen, Turks, Spaniards, andmany more, mixed with a parti-coloured throng of gentry, lacqueys, chapmen, hucksters, and tall personages in parsons' gowns who stalkedthrough the crowd with an air of mastery, a string of parasites attheir heels. And all these people seemed to be diverting themselveshugely, chaffering with the hucksters, watching the antics of traineddogs and monkeys, distributing doles to maimed beggars or having theirpockets picked by slippery-looking fellows in black--the whole withsuch an air of ease and good-humour that one felt the cut-purses to beas much a part of the show as the tumbling acrobats and animals. 

As Tony advanced in years and experience this childish mumming lost itsmagic; but not so the early imaginings it had excited. For the oldpicture had been but the spring-board of fancy, the first step of acloud-ladder leading to a land of dreams. With these dreams the name ofVenice remained associated; and all that observation or reportsubsequently brought him concerning the place seemed, on a soberwarranty of fact, to confirm its claim to stand midway between realityand illusion. There was, for instance, a slender Venice glass, gold-powdered as with lily-pollen or the dust of sunbeams, that, standing in the corner cabinet betwixt two Lowestoft caddies, seemed, among its lifeless neighbours, to palpitate like an impaled butterfly. There was, farther, a gold chain of his mother's, spun of that samesun-pollen, so thread-like, impalpable, that it slipped through thefingers like light, yet so strong that it carried a heavy pendant whichseemed held in air as if by magic. _Magic!_ That was the word which thethought of Venice evoked. It was the kind of place, Tony felt, in whichthings elsewhere impossible might naturally happen, in which two andtwo might make five, a paradox elope with a syllogism, and a conclusiongive the lie to its own premiss. Was there ever a young heart that didnot, once and again, long to get away into such a world as that? Tony, at least, had felt the longing from the first hour when the axioms inhis horn-book had brought home to him his heavy responsibilities as aChristian and a sinner. And now here was his wish taking shape beforehim, as the distant haze of gold shaped itself into towers and domesacross the morning sea!

The Reverend Ozias Mounce, Tony's governor and bear-leader, was justputting a hand to the third clause of the fourth part of a sermon onFree-Will and Predestination as the Hepzibah B. 's anchor rattledoverboard. Tony, in his haste to be ashore, would have made one plungewith the anchor; but the Reverend Ozias, on being roused from hislucubrations, earnestly protested against leaving his argument insuspense. What was the trifle of an arrival at some Papistical foreigncity, where the very churches wore turbans like so many Moslemidolators, to the important fact of Mr. Mounce's summing up hisconclusions before the Muse of Theology took flight? He should behappy, he said, if the tide served, to visit Venice with Mr. Bracknellthe next morning. 

The next morning, ha!--Tony murmured a submissive "Yes, sir, " winked atthe subjugated captain, buckled on his sword, pressed his hat down witha flourish, and before the Reverend Ozias had arrived at his nextdeduction, was skimming merrily shoreward in the Hepzibah's gig. 

A moment more and he was in the thick of it! Here was the very world ofthe old print, only suffused with sunlight and colour, and bubblingwith merry noises. What a scene it was! A square enclosed in fantasticpainted buildings, and peopled with a throng as fantastic: a bawling, laughing, jostling, sweating mob, parti-coloured, parti-speeched, crackling and sputtering under the hot sun like a dish of fritters overa kitchen fire. Tony, agape, shouldered his way through the press, aware at once that, spite of the tumult, the shrillness, thegesticulation, there was no undercurrent of clownishness, no tendencyto horse-play, as in such crowds on market-day at home, but a kind offacetious suavity which seemed to include everybody in thecircumference of one huge joke. In such an air the sense of strangenesssoon wore off, and Tony was beginning to feel himself vastly at home, when a lift of the tide bore him against a droll-looking bell-ringingfellow who carried above his head a tall metal tree hung withsherbet-glasses. 

The encounter set the glasses spinning and three or four spun off andclattered to the stones. The sherbet-seller called on all the saints, and Tony, clapping a lordly hand to his pocket, tossed him a ducat bymistake for a sequin. The fellow's eyes shot out of their orbits, andjust then a personable-looking young man who had observed thetransaction stepped up to Tony and said pleasantly, in English:

"I perceive, sir, that you are not familiar with our currency. "

"Does he want more?" says Tony, very lordly; whereat the other laughedand replied: "You have given him enough to retire from his business andopen a gaming-house over the arcade. "

Tony joined in the laugh, and this incident bridging the preliminaries, the two young men were presently hobnobbing over a glass of Canary infront of one of the coffee-houses about the square. Tony countedhimself lucky to have run across an English-speaking companion who wasgood-natured enough to give him a clue to the labyrinth; and when hehad paid for the Canary (in the coin his friend selected) they set outagain to view the town. The Italian gentleman, who called himself CountRialto, appeared to have a very numerous acquaintance, and was able topoint out to Tony all the chief dignitaries of the state, the men ofton and ladies of fashion, as well as a number of other characters of akind not openly mentioned in taking a census of Salem. 

Tony, who was not averse from reading when nothing better offered, hadperused the "Merchant of Venice" and Mr. Otway's fine tragedy; butthough these pieces had given him a notion that the social usages ofVenice differed from those at home, he was unprepared for thesurprising appearance and manners of the great people his friend namedto him. The gravest Senators of the Republic went in prodigious stripedtrousers, short cloaks and feathered hats. One nobleman wore a ruff anddoctor's gown, another a black velvet tunic slashed with rose-colour;while the President of the dreaded Council of Ten was a terriblestrutting fellow with a rapier-like nose, a buff leather jerkin and atrailing scarlet cloak that the crowd was careful not to step on. 

It was all vastly diverting, and Tony would gladly have gone onforever; but he had given his word to the captain to be at thelanding-place at sunset, and here was dusk already creeping over theskies! Tony was a man of honour; and having pressed on the Count ahandsome damascened dagger selected from one of the goldsmiths' shopsin a narrow street lined with such wares, he insisted on turning hisface toward the Hepzibah's gig. The Count yielded reluctantly; but asthey came out again on the square they were caught in a great throngpouring toward the doors of the cathedral. 

"They go to Benediction, " said the Count. "A beautiful sight, with manylights and flowers. It is a pity you cannot take a peep at it. "

Tony thought so too, and in another minute a legless beggar had pulledback the leathern flap of the cathedral door, and they stood in a hazeof gold and perfume that seemed to rise and fall on the mightyundulations of the organ. Here the press was as thick as without; andas Tony flattened himself against a pillar, he heard a pretty voice athis elbow:--"Oh, sir, oh, sir, your sword!"

He turned at sound of the broken English, and saw a girl who matchedthe voice trying to disengage her dress from the tip of his scabbard. She wore one of the voluminous black hoods which the Venetian ladiesaffected, and under its projecting eaves her face spied out at him assweet as a nesting bird. 

In the dusk their hands met over the scabbard, and as she freed herselfa shred of her lace flounce clung to Tony's enchanted fingers. Lookingafter her, he saw she was on the arm of a pompous-looking graybeard ina long black gown and scarlet stockings, who, on perceiving theexchange of glances between the young people, drew the lady away with athreatening look. 

The Count met Tony's eye with a smile. "One of our Venetian beauties, "said he; "the lovely Polixena Cador. She is thought to have the finesteyes in Venice. "

"She spoke English, " stammered Tony. 

"Oh--ah--precisely: she learned the language at the Court of SaintJames's, where her father, the Senator, was formerly accredited asAmbassador. She played as an infant with the royal princes of England. "

"And that was her father?"

"Assuredly: young ladies of Donna Polixena's rank do not go abroad savewith their parents or a duenna. "

Just then a soft hand slid into Tony's. His heart gave a foolish bound, and he turned about half-expecting to meet again the merry eyes underthe hood; but saw instead a slender brown boy, in some kind of fancifulpage's dress, who thrust a folded paper between his fingers andvanished in the throng. Tony, in a tingle, glanced surreptitiously atthe Count, who appeared absorbed in his prayers. The crowd, at theringing of a bell, had in fact been overswept by a sudden wave ofdevotion; and Tony seized the moment to step beneath a lighted shrinewith his letter. 

"I am in dreadful trouble and implore your help. Polixena"--he read;but hardly had he seized the sense of the words when a hand fell on hisshoulder, and a stern-looking man in a cocked hat, and bearing a kindof rod or mace, pronounced a few words in Venetian. 

Tony, with a start, thrust the letter in his breast, and tried to jerkhimself free; but the harder he jerked the tighter grew the other'sgrip, and the Count, presently perceiving what had happened, pushed hisway through the crowd, and whispered hastily to his companion: "ForGod's sake, make no struggle. This is serious. Keep quiet and do as Itell you. "

Tony was no chicken-heart. He had something of a name for pugnacityamong the lads of his own age at home, and was not the man to stand inVenice what he would have resented in Salem; but the devil of it wasthat this black fellow seemed to be pointing to the letter in hisbreast; and this suspicion was confirmed by the Count's agitatedwhisper. 

"This is one of the agents of the Ten. --For God's sake, no outcry. " Heexchanged a word or two with the mace-bearer and again turned to Tony. "You have been seen concealing a letter about your person--"

"And what of that?" says Tony furiously. 

"Gently, gently, my master. A letter handed to you by the page of DonnaPolixena Cador. --A black business! Oh, a very black business! ThisCador is one of the most powerful nobles in Venice--I beseech you, nota word, sir! Let me think--deliberate--"

His hand on Tony's shoulder, he carried on a rapid dialogue with thepotentate in the cocked hat. 

"I am sorry, sir--but our young ladies of rank are as jealously guardedas the Grand Turk's wives, and you must be answerable for this scandal. The best I can do is to have you taken privately to the Palazzo Cador, instead of being brought before the Council. I have pleaded your youthand inexperience"--Tony winced at this--"and I think the business maystill be arranged. "

Meanwhile the agent of the Ten had yielded his place to asharp-featured shabby-looking fellow in black, dressed somewhat like alawyer's clerk, who laid a grimy hand on Tony's arm, and with manyapologetic gestures steered him through the crowd to the doors of thechurch. The Count held him by the other arm, and in this fashion theyemerged on the square, which now lay in darkness save for the manylights twinkling under the arcade and in the windows of thegaming-rooms above it. 

Tony by this time had regained voice enough to declare that he would gowhere they pleased, but that he must first say a word to the mate ofthe Hepzibah, who had now been awaiting him some two hours or more atthe landing-place. 

The Count repeated this to Tony's custodian, but the latter shook hishead and rattled off a sharp denial. 

"Impossible, sir, " said the Count. "I entreat you not to insist. Anyresistance will tell against you in the end. "

Tony fell silent. With a rapid eye he was measuring his chances ofescape. In wind and limb he was more than a mate for his captors, andboyhood's ruses were not so far behind him but he felt himself equal tooutwitting a dozen grown men; but he had the sense to see that at a crythe crowd would close in on him. Space was what he wanted: a clear tenyards, and he would have laughed at Doge and Council. But the throngwas thick as glue, and he walked on submissively, keeping his eye alertfor an opening. Suddenly the mob swerved aside after some new show. Tony's fist shot out at the black fellow's chest, and before the lattercould right himself the young New Englander was showing a clean pair ofheels to his escort. On he sped, cleaving the crowd like a flood-tidein Gloucester bay, diving under the first arch that caught his eye, dashing down a lane to an unlit water-way, and plunging across a narrowhump-back bridge which landed him in a black pocket between walls. Butnow his pursuers were at his back, reinforced by the yelping mob. Thewalls were too high to scale, and for all his courage Tony's breathcame short as he paced the masonry cage in which ill-luck had landedhim. Suddenly a gate opened in one of the walls, and a slip of aservant wench looked out and beckoned him. There was no time to weighchances. Tony dashed through the gate, his rescuer slammed and boltedit, and the two stood in a narrow paved well between high houses. 

II

THE servant picked up a lantern and signed to Tony to follow her. Theyclimbed a squalid stairway of stone, felt their way along a corridor, and entered a tall vaulted room feebly lit by an oil-lamp hung from thepainted ceiling. Tony discerned traces of former splendour in hissurroundings, but he had no time to examine them, for a figure startedup at his approach and in the dim light he recognized the girl who wasthe cause of all his troubles. 

She sprang toward him with outstretched hands, but as he advanced herface changed and she shrank back abashed. 

"This is a misunderstanding--a dreadful misunderstanding, " she criedout in her pretty broken English. "Oh, how does it happen that you arehere?"

"Through no choice of my own, madam, I assure you!" retorted Tony, notover-pleased by his reception. 

"But why--how--how did you make this unfortunate mistake?"

"Why, madam, if you'll excuse my candour, I think the mistake wasyours--"

"Mine?"--"in sending me a letter--"

"_You_--a letter?"--"by a simpleton of a lad, who must needs hand itto me under your father's very nose--"

The girl broke in on him with a cry. "What! It was _you_ who receivedmy letter?" She swept round on the little maid-servant and submergedher under a flood of Venetian. The latter volleyed back in the samejargon, and as she did so, Tony's astonished eye detected in her thedoubleted page who had handed him the letter in Saint Mark's. 

"What!" he cried, "the lad was this girl in disguise?"

Polixena broke off with an irrepressible smile; but her face cloudedinstantly and she returned to the charge. 

"This wicked, careless girl--she has ruined me, she will be my undoing!Oh, sir, how can I make you understand? The letter was not intended foryou--it was meant for the English Ambassador, an old friend of mymother's, from whom I hoped to obtain assistance--oh, how can I everexcuse myself to you?"

"No excuses are needed, madam, " said Tony, bowing; "though I amsurprised, I own, that any one should mistake me for an ambassador. "

Here a wave of mirth again overran Polixena's face. "Oh, sir, you mustpardon my poor girl's mistake. She heard you speaking English, and--and--I had told her to hand the letter to the handsomest foreignerin the church. " Tony bowed again, more profoundly. "The EnglishAmbassador, " Polixena added simply, "is a very handsome man. "

"I wish, madam, I were a better proxy!"

She echoed his laugh, and then clapped her hands together with a lookof anguish. "Fool that I am! How can I jest at such a moment? I am indreadful trouble, and now perhaps I have brought trouble on youalso--Oh, my father! I hear my father coming!" She turned pale andleaned tremblingly upon the little servant. 

Footsteps and loud voices were in fact heard outside, and a momentlater the red-stockinged Senator stalked into the room attended byhalf-a-dozen of the magnificoes whom Tony had seen abroad in thesquare. At sight of him, all clapped hands to their swords and burstinto furious outcries; and though their jargon was unintelligible tothe young man, their tones and gestures made their meaning unpleasantlyplain. The Senator, with a start of anger, first flung himself on theintruder; then, snatched back by his companions, turned wrathfully onhis daughter, who, at his feet, with outstretched arms and streamingface, pleaded her cause with all the eloquence of young distress. Meanwhile the other nobles gesticulated vehemently among themselves, and one, a truculent-looking personage in ruff and Spanish cape, stalked apart, keeping a jealous eye on Tony. The latter was at hiswit's end how to comport himself, for the lovely Polixena's tears hadquite drowned her few words of English, and beyond guessing that themagnificoes meant him a mischief he had no notion what they would be at. 

At this point, luckily, his friend Count Rialto suddenly broke in onthe scene, and was at once assailed by all the tongues in the room. Hepulled a long face at sight of Tony, but signed to the young man to besilent, and addressed himself earnestly to the Senator. The latter, atfirst, would not draw breath to hear him; but presently, sobering, hewalked apart with the Count, and the two conversed together out ofearshot. 

"My dear sir, " said the Count, at length turning to Tony with aperturbed countenance, "it is as I feared, and you are fallen into agreat misfortune. "

"A great misfortune! A great trap, I call it!" shouted Tony, whoseblood, by this time, was boiling; but as he uttered the word thebeautiful Polixena cast such a stricken look on him that he blushed upto the forehead. 

"Be careful, " said the Count, in a low tone. "Though hisIllustriousness does not speak your language, he understands a fewwords of it, and--"

"So much the better!" broke in Tony; "I hope he will understand me if Iask him in plain English what is his grievance against me. "

The Senator, at this, would have burst forth again; but the Count, stepping between, answered quickly: "His grievance against you is thatyou have been detected in secret correspondence with his daughter, themost noble Polixena Cador, the betrothed bride of this gentleman, themost illustrious Marquess Zanipolo--" and he waved a deferential handat the frowning hidalgo of the cape and ruff. 

"Sir, " said Tony, "if that is the extent of my offence, it lies withthe young lady to set me free, since by her own avowal--" but here hestopped short, for, to his surprise, Polixena shot a terrified glanceat him. 

"Sir, " interposed the Count, "we are not accustomed in Venice to takeshelter behind a lady's reputation. "

"No more are we in Salem, " retorted Tony in a white heat. "I was merelyabout to remark that, by the young lady's avowal, she has never seen mebefore. "

Polixena's eyes signalled her gratitude, and he felt he would have diedto defend her. 

The Count translated his statement, and presently pursued: "HisIllustriousness observes that, in that case, his daughter's misconducthas been all the more reprehensible. "

"Her misconduct? Of what does he accuse her?"

"Of sending you, just now, in the church of Saint Mark's, a letterwhich you were seen to read openly and thrust in your bosom. Theincident was witnessed by his Illustriousness the Marquess Zanipolo, who, in consequence, has already repudiated his unhappy bride. "

Tony stared contemptuously at the black Marquess. "If hisIllustriousness is so lacking in gallantry as to repudiate a lady on sotrivial a pretext, it is he and not I who should be the object of herfather's resentment. "

"That, my dear young gentleman, is hardly for you to decide. Your onlyexcuse being your ignorance of our customs, it is scarcely for you toadvise us how to behave in matters of punctilio. "

It seemed to Tony as though the Count were going over to his enemies, and the thought sharpened his retort. 

"I had supposed, " said he, "that men of sense had much the samebehaviour in all countries, and that, here as elsewhere, a gentlemanwould be taken at his word. I solemnly affirm that the letter I wasseen to read reflects in no way on the honour of this young lady, andhas in fact nothing to do with what you suppose. "

As he had himself no notion what the letter was about, this was as faras he dared commit himself. 

There was another brief consultation in the opposing camp, and theCount then said:--"We all know, sir, that a gentleman is obliged tomeet certain enquiries by a denial; but you have at your command themeans of immediately clearing the lady. Will you show the letter to herfather?"

There was a perceptible pause, during which Tony, while appearing tolook straight before him, managed to deflect an interrogatory glancetoward Polixena. Her reply was a faint negative motion, accompanied byunmistakable signs of apprehension. 

"Poor girl!" he thought, "she is in a worse case than I imagined, andwhatever happens I must keep her secret. "

He turned to the Senator with a deep bow. "I am not, " said he, "in thehabit of showing my private correspondence to strangers. "

The Count interpreted these words, and Donna Polixena's father, dashinghis hand on his hilt, broke into furious invective, while the Marquesscontinued to nurse his outraged feelings aloof. 

The Count shook his head funereally. "Alas, sir, it is as I feared. This is not the first time that youth and propinquity have led to fatalimprudence. But I need hardly, I suppose, point out the obligationincumbent upon you as a man of honour. "

Tony stared at him haughtily, with a look which was meant for theMarquess. "And what obligation is that?"

"To repair the wrong you have done--in other words, to marry the lady. "

Polixena at this burst into tears, and Tony said to himself: "Why inheaven does she not bid me show the letter?" Then he remembered that ithad no superscription, and that the words it contained, supposing themto have been addressed to himself, were hardly of a nature to disarmsuspicion. The sense of the girl's grave plight effaced all thought ofhis own risk, but the Count's last words struck him as so preposterousthat he could not repress a smile. 

"I cannot flatter myself, " said he, "that the lady would welcome thissolution. "

The Count's manner became increasingly ceremonious. "Such modesty, " hesaid, "becomes your youth and inexperience; but even if it werejustified it would scarcely alter the case, as it is always assumed inthis country that a young lady wishes to marry the man whom her fatherhas selected. "

"But I understood just now, " Tony interposed, "that the gentlemanyonder was in that enviable position. "

"So he was, till circumstances obliged him to waive the privilege inyour favour. "

"He does me too much honour; but if a deep sense of my unworthinessobliges me to decline--"

"You are still, " interrupted the Count, "labouring under amisapprehension. Your choice in the matter is no more to be consultedthan the lady's. Not to put too fine a point on it, it is necessarythat you should marry her within the hour. "

Tony, at this, for all his spirit, felt the blood run thin in hisveins. He looked in silence at the threatening visages between himselfand the door, stole a side-glance at the high barred windows of theapartment, and then turned to Polixena, who had fallen sobbing at herfather's feet. 

"And if I refuse?" said he. 

The Count made a significant gesture. "I am not so foolish as tothreaten a man of your mettle. But perhaps you are unaware what theconsequences would be to the lady. "

Polixena, at this, struggling to her feet, addressed a few impassionedwords to the Count and her father; but the latter put her aside with anobdurate gesture. 

The Count turned to Tony. "The lady herself pleads for you--at whatcost you do not guess--but as you see it is vain. In an hour hisIllustriousness's chaplain will be here. Meanwhile his Illustriousnessconsents to leave you in the custody of your betrothed. "

He stepped back, and the other gentlemen, bowing with deep ceremony toTony, stalked out one by one from the room. Tony heard the key turn inthe lock, and found himself alone with Polixena. 

III

THE girl had sunk into a chair, her face hidden, a picture of shame andagony. So moving was the sight that Tony once again forgot his ownextremity in the view of her distress. He went and kneeled beside her, drawing her hands from her face. 

"Oh, don't make me look at you!" she sobbed; but it was on his bosomthat she hid from his gaze. He held her there a breathing-space, as hemight have clasped a weeping child; then she drew back and put himgently from her. 

"What humiliation!" she lamented. 

"Do you think I blame you for what has happened?"

"Alas, was it not my foolish letter that brought you to this plight?And how nobly you defended me! How generous it was of you not to showthe letter! If my father knew I had written to the Ambassador to saveme from this dreadful marriage his anger against me would be evengreater. "

"Ah--it was that you wrote for?" cried Tony with unaccountable relief. 

"Of course--what else did you think?"

"But is it too late for the Ambassador to save you?"

"From _you?_" A smile flashed through her tears. "Alas, yes. " She drewback and hid her face again, as though overcome by a fresh wave ofshame. 

Tony glanced about him. "If I could wrench a bar out of that window--"he muttered. 

"Impossible! The court is guarded. You are a prisoner, alas. --Oh, Imust speak!" She sprang up and paced the room. "But indeed you canscarce think worse of me than you do already--"

"I think ill of you?"

"Alas, you must! To be unwilling to marry the man my father has chosenfor me--"

"Such a beetle-browed lout! It would be a burning shame if you marriedhim. "

"Ah, you come from a free country. Here a girl is allowed no choice. "

"It is infamous, I say--infamous!"

"No, no--I ought to have resigned myself, like so many others. "

"Resigned yourself to that brute! Impossible!"

"He has a dreadful name for violence--his gondolier has told my littlemaid such tales of him! But why do I talk of myself, when it is of youI should be thinking?"

"Of me, poor child?" cried Tony, losing his head. 

"Yes, and how to save you--for I _can_ save you! But every momentcounts--and yet what I have to say is so dreadful. "

"Nothing from your lips could seem dreadful. "

"Ah, if he had had your way of speaking!"

"Well, now at least you are free of him, " said Tony, a little wildly;but at this she stood up and bent a grave look on him. 

"No, I am not free, " she said; "but you are, if you will do as I tellyou. "

Tony, at this, felt a sudden dizziness; as though, from a mad flightthrough clouds and darkness, he had dropped to safety again, and thefall had stunned him. 

"What am I to do?" he said. 

"Look away from me, or I can never tell you. "

He thought at first that this was a jest, but her eyes commanded him, and reluctantly he walked away and leaned in the embrasure of thewindow. She stood in the middle of the room, and as soon as his backwas turned she began to speak in a quick monotonous voice, as thoughshe were reciting a lesson. 

"You must know that the Marquess Zanipolo, though a great noble, is nota rich man. True, he has large estates, but he is a desperatespendthrift and gambler, and would sell his soul for a round sum ofready money. --If you turn round I shall not go on!--He wrangledhorribly with my father over my dowry--he wanted me to have more thaneither of my sisters, though one married a Procurator and the other agrandee of Spain. But my father is a gambler too--oh, such fortunes asare squandered over the arcade yonder! And so--and so--don't turn, Iimplore you--oh, do you begin to see my meaning?"

She broke off sobbing, and it took all his strength to keep his eyesfrom her. 

"Go on, " he said. 

"Will you not understand? Oh, I would say anything to save you! Youdon't know us Venetians--we're all to be bought for a price. It is notonly the brides who are marketable--sometimes the husbands sellthemselves too. And they think you rich--my father does, and theothers--I don't know why, unless you have shown your money toofreely--and the English are all rich, are they not? And--oh, oh--do youunderstand? Oh, I can't bear your eyes!"

She dropped into a chair, her head on her arms, and Tony in a flash wasat her side. 

"My poor child, my poor Polixena!" he cried, and wept and clasped her. 

"You _are_ rich, are you not? You would promise them a ransom?" shepersisted. 

"To enable you to marry the Marquess?"

"To enable you to escape from this place. Oh, I hope I may never seeyour face again. " She fell to weeping once more, and he drew away andpaced the floor in a fever. 

Presently she sprang up with a fresh air of resolution, and pointed toa clock against the wall. "The hour is nearly over. It is quite truethat my father is gone to fetch his chaplain. Oh, I implore you, bewarned by me! There is no other way of escape. "

"And if I do as you say--?"

"You are safe! You are free! I stake my life on it. "

"And you--you are married to that villain?"

"But I shall have saved you. Tell me your name, that I may say it tomyself when I am alone. "

"My name is Anthony. But you must not marry that fellow. "

"You forgive me, Anthony? You don't think too badly of me?"

"I say you must not marry that fellow. "

She laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Time presses, " she adjured him, "and I warn you there is no other way. "

For a moment he had a vision of his mother, sitting very upright, on aSunday evening, reading Dr. Tillotson's sermons in the best parlour atSalem; then he swung round on the girl and caught both her hands inhis. "Yes, there is, " he cried, "if you are willing. Polixena, let thepriest come!"

She shrank back from him, white and radiant. "Oh, hush, be silent!" shesaid. 

"I am no noble Marquess, and have no great estates, " he cried. "Myfather is a plain India merchant in the colony of Massachusetts--but ifyou--"

"Oh, hush, I say! I don't know what your long words mean. But I blessyou, bless you, bless you on my knees!" And she knelt before him, andfell to kissing his hands. 

He drew her up to his breast and held her there. 

"You are willing, Polixena?" he said. 

"No, no!" She broke from him with outstretched hands. "I am notwilling. You mistake me. I must marry the Marquess, I tell you!"

"On my money?" he taunted her; and her burning blush rebuked him. 

"Yes, on your money, " she said sadly. 

"Why? Because, much as you hate him, you hate me still more?"

She was silent. 

"If you hate me, why do you sacrifice yourself for me?" he persisted. 

"You torture me! And I tell you the hour is past. "

"Let it pass. I'll not accept your sacrifice. I will not lift a fingerto help another man to marry you. "

"Oh, madman, madman!" she murmured. 

Tony, with crossed arms, faced her squarely, and she leaned against thewall a few feet off from him. Her breast throbbed under its lace andfalbalas, and her eyes swam with terror and entreaty. 

"Polixena, I love you!" he cried. 

A blush swept over her throat and bosom, bathing her in light to theverge of her troubled brows. 

"I love you! I love you!" he repeated. 

And now she was on his breast again, and all their youth was in theirlips. But her embrace was as fleeting as a bird's poise and before heknew it he clasped empty air, and half the room was between them. 

She was holding up a little coral charm and laughing. "I took it fromyour fob, " she said. "It is of no value, is it? And I shall not get anyof the money, you know. "

She continued to laugh strangely, and the rouge burned like fire in herashen face. 

"What are you talking of?" he said. 

"They never give me anything but the clothes I wear. And I shall neversee you again, Anthony!" She gave him a dreadful look. "Oh, my poorboy, my poor love--'_I love you, I love you, Polixena!_'"

He thought she had turned light-headed, and advanced to her withsoothing words; but she held him quietly at arm's length, and as hegazed he read the truth in her face. 

He fell back from her, and a sob broke from him as he bowed his head onhis hands. 

"Only, for God's sake, have the money ready, or there may be foul playhere, " she said. 

As she spoke there was a great tramping of steps outside and a burst ofvoices on the threshold. 

"It is all a lie, " she gasped out, "about my marriage, and theMarquess, and the Ambassador, and the Senator--but not, oh, not aboutyour danger in this place--or about my love, " she breathed to him. Andas the key rattled in the door she laid her lips on his brow. 

The key rattled, and the door swung open--but the black-cassockedgentleman who stepped in, though a priest indeed, was no votary ofidolatrous rites, but that sound orthodox divine, the Reverend OziasMounce, looking very much perturbed at his surroundings, and very muchon the alert for the Scarlet Woman. He was supported, to his evidentrelief, by the captain of the Hepzibah B. , and the procession wasclosed by an escort of stern-looking fellows in cocked hats andsmall-swords, who led between them Tony's late friends the magnificoes, now as sorry a looking company as the law ever landed in her net. 

The captain strode briskly into the room, uttering a grunt ofsatisfaction as he clapped eyes on Tony. 

"So, Mr. Bracknell, " said he, "you have been seeing the Carnival withthis pack of mummers, have you? And this is where your pleasuring haslanded you? H'm--a pretty establishment, and a pretty lady at the headof it. " He glanced about the apartment and doffed his hat with mockceremony to Polixena, who faced him like a princess. 

"Why, my girl, " said he, amicably, "I think I saw you this morning inthe square, on the arm of the Pantaloon yonder; and as for that CaptainSpavent--" and he pointed a derisive finger at the Marquess--"I'vewatched him drive his bully's trade under the arcade ever since I firstdropped anchor in these waters. Well, well, " he continued, hisindignation subsiding, "all's fair in Carnival, I suppose, but thisgentleman here is under sailing orders, and I fear we must break upyour little party. "

At this Tony saw Count Rialto step forward, looking very small andexplanatory, and uncovering obsequiously to the captain. 

"I can assure you, sir, " said the Count in his best English, "that thisincident is the result of an unfortunate misunderstanding, and if youwill oblige us by dismissing these myrmidons, any of my friends herewill be happy to offer satisfaction to Mr. Bracknell and hiscompanions. "

Mr. Mounce shrank visibly at this, and the captain burst into a loudguffaw. 

"Satisfaction?" says he. "Why, my cock, that's very handsome of you, considering the rope's at your throats. But we'll not take advantage ofyour generosity, for I fear Mr. Bracknell has already trespassed on ittoo long. You pack of galley-slaves, you!" he spluttered suddenly, "decoying young innocents with that devil's bait of yours--" His eyefell on Polixena, and his voice softened unaccountably. "Ah, well, wemust all see the Carnival once, I suppose, " he said. "All's well thatends well, as the fellow says in the play; and now, if you please, Mr. Bracknell, if you'll take the reverend gentleman's arm there, we'll bidadieu to our hospitable entertainers, and right about face for theHepzibah. "