AN AMBITIOUS MAN

CHAPTER I

Preston Cheney turned as he ran down the steps of a handsome house on"The Boulevard, " waving a second adieu to a young woman framedbetween the lace curtains of the window. Then he hurried down thestreet and out of view. The young woman watched him with a gleam ofsatisfaction in her pale blue eyes. A fine-looking young fellow, whose Roman nose and strong jaw belied the softly curved mouth withits sensitive darts at the corners; it was strange that somethingwarmer than satisfaction did not shine upon the face of the womanwhom he had just asked to be his wife. 

But Mabel Lawrence was one of those women who are never swayed by anypassion stronger than worldly ambition, never burned by any firesother than those of jealousy or anger. Her meagre nature was trulydepicted in her meagre face. Nature is ofttimes a great lair and acruel jester, giving to the cold and vapid woman the face and form ofa sensuous siren, and concealing a heart of volcanic fires, or thesoul of a Phryne, under the exterior of a spinster. But the old damehad been wholly frank in forming Miss Lawrence. The thin, flat chestand narrow shoulders, the angular elbows and prominent shoulder-blades, the sallow skin and sharp features, the deeply set, pale blueeyes, and the lustreless, ashen hair, were all truthful exponents ofthe unfurnished rooms in her vacant heart and soul places. 

Miss Lawrence turned from the window, and trailed her long silkentrain across the rich carpet, seating herself before the openfireplace. It was an appropriate time and situation for a maiden'stender dreams; only a few hours had passed since the handsomest andmost brilliant young man in that thriving eastern town had asked herto be his wife, and placed the kiss of betrothal upon her virginlips. Yet it was with a sense of triumph and relief, rather thanwith tenderness and rapture, that the young woman meditated upon thesituation--triumph over other women who had shown a decided interestin Mr Cheney, since his arrival in the place more than eighteenmonths ago, and relief that the dreaded role of spinster was not tobe her part in life's drama. 

Miss Lawrence was twenty-six--one year older than her fiance; and shehad never received a proposal of marriage or listened to a word oflove in her life before. Let me transpose that phrase--she had neverbefore received a proposal of marriage, and had never in her lifelistened to a word of love; for Preston had not spoken of love. Sheknew that he did not love her. She knew that he had sought her handwholly from ambitious motives. She was the daughter of the Hon. Sylvester Lawrence, lawyer, judge, state senator, and proposedcandidate for lieutenant-governor in the coming campaign. She wasthe only heir to his large fortune. 

Preston Cheney was a penniless young man from the West. A self-madeyouth, with an unusual brain and an overwhelming ambition, he hadrisen from chore boy on a western farm to printer's apprentice in asmall town, thence to reporter, city editor, foreign correspondent, and after two or three years of travel gained in this manner he hadcome to Beryngford and bought out a struggling morning paper, whichwas making a mad effort to keep alive, changed its politicaltendencies, infused it with western activity and filled it withcosmopolitan news, and now, after eighteen months, the young manfound himself coming abreast of his two long established rivals inthe editorial field. This success was but an incentive to hisoverwhelming ambition for place, power and riches. He had seen justenough of life and of the world to estimate these things at doubletheir value; and he was, beside, looking at life through themagnifying glass of youth. The Creator intended us to gaze onworldly possessions and selfish ambitions through the small end ofthe lorgnette, but youth invariably inverts the glass. 

To the young editor, the brief years behind him seemed like a longhard pull up a steep and rocky cliff. From the point to which he hadattained, the summit of his desires looked very far away, muchfarther than the level from which he had arisen. To rise to thatsummit single-handed and alone would require unremitting effortthrough the very best years of his manhood. His brain, his strength, his ability, his ambitions, what were they all in the strife afterplace and power, compared to the money of some commonplace adversary?Preston Cheney, the native-born American directly descended from aRevolutionary soldier, would be handicapped in the race with someMichael Murphy whose father had made a fortune in the saloonbusiness, or who had himself acquired a competency as a policeofficer. 

America was not the same country which gave men like BenjaminFranklin, Abraham Lincoln and Horace Greeley a chance to rise fromthe lower ranks to the highest places before they reached middlelife. It was no longer a land where merit strove with merit, and theprize fell to the most earnest and the most gifted. The tremendousinflux of foreign population since the war of the Rebellion and theright of franchise given unreservedly to the illiterate and thevicious rendered the ambitious American youth now a toy in the handsof aliens, and position a thing to be bought at the price set by un-American masses. 

Thoughts like these had more and more with each year filled the mindof Preston Cheney, until, like the falling of stones and earth into ariver bed, they changed the naturally direct current of his impulsesinto another channel. Why not further his life purpose by anambitious marriage? The first time the thought entered his mind hehad cast it out as something unclean and unworthy of his manhood. Marriage was a holy estate, he said to himself, a sacrament to beentered into with reverence, and sanctified by love. He must lovethe woman who was to be the companion of his life, the mother of hischildren. 

Then he looked about among his early friends who had married, asnearly all the young men of the middle classes in America do marry, for love, or what they believed to be love. There was Tom Somers--asplendid lad, full of life, hope and ambition when he married CarrieTowne, the prettiest girl in Vandalia. Well, what was he now, afterseven years? A broken-spirited man, with a sickly, complaining wifeand a brood of ill-clad children. Harry Walters, the most infatuatedlover he had ever seen, was divorced after five years of discordantmarriage. 

Charlie St Clair was flagrantly unfaithful to the girl he had pursuedthree years with his ardent wooings before she yielded to his suit. Certainly none of these love marriages were examples for him tofollow. And in the midst of these reveries and reflections, PrestonCheney came to Beryngford, and met Sylvester Lawrence and hisdaughter Mabel. He met also Berene Dumont. Had he not met thelatter woman he would not have succumbed--so soon at least--to thetemptation held out by the former to advance his ambitious aims. 

He would have hesitated, considered, and reconsidered, and withoutdoubt his better nature and his good taste would have prevailed. Butwhen fate threw Berene Dumont in his way, and circumstances broughtabout his close associations with her for many months, there seemedbut one way of escape from the Scylla of his desires, and that was tothe Charybdis of a marriage with Miss Lawrence. 

Miss Lawrence was not aware of the part Berene Dumont had played inher engagement, but she knew perfectly the part her father'sinfluence and wealth had played; but she was quite content withaffairs as they were, and it mattered little to her what had broughtthem about. To be married, rather than to be loved, had been herambition since she left school; being incapable of loving, she wasincapable of appreciating the passion in any of its phases. It hadalways seemed to her that a great deal of nonsense was written andtalked about love. She thought demonstrative people very vulgar, andbelieved kissing a means of conveying germs of disease. 

But to be a married woman, with an establishment of her own, and ahusband to exhibit to her friends, was necessary to the maintenanceof her pride. 

When Miss Lawrence's mother, a nervous invalid, was informed of herdaughter's engagement, she burst into tears, as over a lamb offeredon the altar of sacrifice; and Judge Lawrence pressed a kiss on thelobe of Mabel's left ear which she offered him, and told her she hadwon a prize in the market. But as he sat alone over his cigar thatnight, he sighed heavily, and said to himself, "Poor fellow, I wishMabel were not so much like her mother. "

CHAPTER II

"Baroness Brown" was a distinctive figure in Beryngford. She came tothe place from foreign parts some three years before the arrival ofPreston Cheney, and brought servants, carriages and horses, andestablished herself in a very handsome house which she rented for aterm of years. Her arrival in this quiet village town was of coursethe sensation of the hour, or rather of the year. She was known asBaroness Le Fevre--an American widow of a French baron. Large, voluptuous, blonde, and handsome according to the popular idea ofbeauty, distinctly amiable, affable and very charitable, she becameat once the fashion. 

Invitations to her house were eagerly sought after, and herentertainments were described in column articles by the press. 

This state of things continued only six months, however. Then itbegan to be whispered about that the Baroness was in arrears for herrent. Several of her servants had gone away in a high state oftemper at the titled mistress who had failed to pay them a cent ofwages since they came to the country with her; and one day theneighbours saw her fine carriage horses led away by the sheriff. 

A week later society was electrified by the announcement of themarriage of Baroness Le Fevre to Mr Brown, a wealthy widower whoowned the best shoe store in Beryngford. 

Mr Brown owned ten children also, but the youngest was a boy ofsixteen, absent in college. The other nine were married and settledin comfortable homes. 

Mr Brown died at the expiration of a year. This one year had taughthim more of womankind than he had learned in all his sixty and nineyears before; and, feeling that it is never too late to profit bylearning, Mr Brown discreetly made his will, leaving all his propertysave the widow's "thirds" equally divided among his ten children. 

The Baroness made a futile effort to break the will, on the groundthat he was not of sound mind when it was drawn up; but the effortcost her several hundred of her few thousand dollars and theincreased enmity of the ten Brown children, and availed her nothing. An important part of the widow's third was the Brown mansion, alarge, commodious house built many years before, when the village wasbut a country town. Everybody supposed the Baroness, as she wasstill called, half in derision and half from the American love ofmouthing a title, would offer this house for sale, and depart forfresh fields and pastures new. But the Baroness never did what shewas expected to do. 

Instead of offering her house for sale, she offered "Rooms to Let, "and turned the family mansion into a fashionable lodging-house. 

Its central location, and its adjacence to several restaurants andboarding houses, rendered it a convenient place for business peopleto lodge, and the handsome widow found no trouble in filling herrooms with desirable and well-paying patrons. In a spirit of fun, people began to speak of the old Brown mansion as "The Palace, " andin a short time the lodging-house was known by that name, just as itsmistress was known as "Baroness Brown. "

The Palace yielded the Baroness something like two hundred dollars amonth, and cost her only the wages and keeping of three servants; orrather the wages of two and the keeping of three; for to BereneDumont, her maid and personal attendant, she paid no wages. 

The Baroness did not rise till noon, and she always breakfasted inbed. Sometimes she remained in her room till mid-afternoon. Bereneserved her breakfast and lunch, and looked after the servants to seethat the lodgers' rooms were all in order. These were the servicesfor which she was given a home. But in truth the young woman didmuch more than this; she acted also as seamstress and milliner forher mistress, and attended to the marketing and ran errands for her. If ever a girl paid full price for her keeping, it was Berene, andyet the Baroness spoke frequently of "giving the poor thing a home. "

It had all come about in this way. Pierre Dumont kept a second-handbook store in Beryngford. He was French, and the nationalcharacteristic of frugality had assumed the shape of avarice in hisnature. He was, too, a petty tyrant and a cruel husband and fatherwhen under the influence of absinthe, a state in which he was usuallyto be found. 

Berene was an only child, and her mother, whom she worshipped, said, when dying, "Take care of your poor father, Berene. Do everythingyou can to make him happy. Never desert him. "

Berene was fourteen at that time. She had never been at school, butshe had been taught to read and write both French and English, forher mother was an American girl who had been disinherited by hergrandparents, with whom she lived, for eloping with her Frenchteacher--Pierre Dumont. Rheumatism and absinthe turned the Frenchprofessor into a shopkeeper before Berene was born. The grandparentshad died without forgiving their granddaughter, and, much as theunhappy woman regretted her foolish marriage, she remained a patientand devoted wife to the end of her life, and imposed the samepatience and devotion when dying on her daughter. 

At sixteen, Berene was asked to sacrifice herself on the altar ofmarriage to a man three times her age; one Jacques Letellier, whooffered generously to take the young girl as payment for a debt owedby his convivial comrade, M. Dumont. Berene wept and beggedpiteously to be spared this horrible sacrifice of her young life, whereupon Pierre Dumont seized his razor and threatened suicide asthe other alternative from the dishonour of debt, and Berene interror yielded her word and herself the next day to the debasingmockery of marriage with a depraved old gambler and roue. 

Six months later Jacques Letellier died in a fit of apoplexy andBerene was freed from her chains; but freed only to keep on in a lifeof martyrdom as servant and slave to the caprices of her father, until his death. When he was finally well buried under six feet ofearth, Berene found herself twenty years of age, alone in the worldwith just one thousand dollars in money, the price brought by herfather's effects. 

Without education or accomplishments, she was the possessor of youth, health, charm, and a voice of wonderful beauty and power; a voicewhich it was her dream to cultivate, and use as a means of support. But how could she ever cultivate it? The thousand dollars in herpossession was, she knew, but a drop in the ocean of expense amusical education would entail. And she must keep that money untilshe found some way by which to support herself. 

Baroness Brown had attended the sale of old Dumont's effects. Shehad often noticed the young girl in the shop, and in the street, andhad been struck with the peculiar elegance and refinement of herappearance. Her simple lawn or print gowns were made and worn in amanner befitting a princess. Her nails were carefully kept, despiteall the household drudgery which devolved upon her. 

The Baroness was a shrewd woman and a clever reasoner. She needed athrifty, prudent person in her house to look after things, and toattend to her personal needs. Since she had opened the Palace as alodging-house, this need had stared her in the face. Servants didvery well in their places, but the person she required was of anotherand superior order, and only to be obtained by accident or byadvertising and the paying of a large salary. Now the Baroness hadbeen in the habit of thinking that her beauty and amiability werequite equivalent to any favours she received from humanity at large. Ever since she was a plump girl in short dresses, she had learnedthat smiles and compliments from her lips would purchase her friendsof both sexes, who would do disagreeable duties for her. She hadnever made it a custom to pay out money for any service she couldobtain otherwise. So now as she looked on this young woman who, though a widow, seemed still a mere child, it occurred to her thatFate had with its usual kindness thrown in her path the very personshe needed. 

She offered Berene "a home" at the Palace in return for a few smallservices. The lonely girl, whose strangely solitary life with herold father had excluded her from all social relations outside, grasped at this offer from the handsome lady whom she had longadmired from a distance, and went to make her home at the Palace. 

CHAPTER III

Berene had been several months in her new home when Preston Cheneycame to lodge at the Palace. 

He met her on the stairway the first morning after his arrival, as hewas descending to the street door. 

Bringing up a tray covered with a snowy napkin, she stepped to oneside and paused, to make room for him to pass. 

Preston was not one of those young men who find pastime inflirtations with nursery maids or kitchen girls. The very thought ofit offended his good taste. Once, in listening to the boastful talesof a modern Don Juan, who was relating his gallant adventures with ahandsome waiter girl at a hotel, Preston had remarked, "I would assoon think of using my dinner napkin for a necktie, as findingromance with a servant girl. "

Yet he appreciated a snowy, well-laundried napkin in its place, andhe was most considerate and thoughtful in his treatment of servants. 

He supposed Berene to be an upper servant of the house, and yet, ashe glanced at her, a strange and unaccountable feeling of interestseized upon him. The creamy pallor of her skin, colourless save forthe full red lips, the dark eyes full of unutterable longing, thearistocratic poise of the head, the softly rounded figure, elegant inits simple gown and apron, all impressed him as he had never beforebeen impressed by any woman. 

It was several days before he chanced to see her again, and then onlyfor a moment as she passed through the hall; but he heard a trill ofsong from her lips, which added to his interest and curiosity. "Thatgirl is no common servant, " he said to himself, and he resolved tolearn more about her. 

It had been the custom of the Baroness to keep herself quite hiddenfrom her lodgers. They seldom saw her, after the first businessinterview. Therefore it was a matter of surprise to the young editorwhen he came home from his office one night, just after twelveo'clock, and found the mistress of the mansion standing in the hallby the register, in charming evening attire. 

She smiled upon him radiantly. "I have just come in from a benefitconcert, " she said, "and I am as hungry as a bear. Now I cannotendure eating alone at night. I knew it was near your hour toreturn, so I waited for you. Will you go down to the dining-roomwith me and have a Welsh rarebit? I am going to make one in mychafing dish. "

The young man hid his surprise under a gallant smile, and offeringthe Baroness his arm descended to the basement dining-room with her. He had heard much about the complicated life of this woman, and hefelt a certain amount of natural curiosity in regard to her. He hadmet her but once, and that was on the day when he had called toengage his room, a little more than two weeks past. 

He had thought her an excellent type of the successful Americanadventuress on that occasion, and her quiet and dull life in thisordinary town puzzled him. He could not imagine a woman of thatorder existing a whole year without an adventure; as a rule he knewthat those blonde women with large hips and busts, and small waistsand feet, are as unable to live without excitement as a fish withoutwater. 

Yet, since the death of Mr Brown, more than a year past, the Baronesshad lived the life of a recluse. It puzzled him, as a student ofhuman nature. 

But, in fact, the Baroness was a skilled general in planning hercampaigns. She seldom plunged into action unprepared. 

She knew from experience that she could not live in a large city andnot use an enormous amount of money. 

She was tired of taking great risks, and she knew that without theaid of money and a fine wardrobe she was not able to attract men asshe had done ten years before. 

As long as she remained in Beryngford she would be adding to herincome every month, and saving the few thousands she possessed. Shewould be saving her beauty, too, by keeping early hours and living atemperate life; and if she carefully avoided any new scandal, herpast adventures would be dim in the minds of people when, after ayear or two more of retirement and retrenchment, she sallied forth tonew fields, under a new name, if need be, and with a comfortablyfilled purse. 

It was in this manner that the Baroness had reasoned; but from thehour she first saw Preston Cheney, her resolutions wavered. Heimpressed her most agreeably; and after learning about him from thedaily papers, and hearing him spoken of as a valuable acquisition toBeryngford's intellectual society, the Baroness decided to come outof her retirement and enter the lists in advance of other women whowould seek to attract this newcomer. 

To the fading beauty in her late thirties, a man in the earlytwenties possesses a peculiar fascination; and to the Baroness, clothed in weeds for a husband who died on the eve of his seventiethbirthday, the possibility of winning a young man like Preston Cheneyoverbalanced all other considerations in her mind. She had neverbeen a vulgar coquette to whom all men were prey. She had alwaysbeen more or less discriminating. A man must be either veryattractive or very rich to win her regard. Mr Brown had been veryrich, and Preston Cheney was very attractive. 

"He is more than attractive, he is positively FASCINATING, " she saidto herself in the solitude of her room after the tete-a-tete over theWelsh rarebit that evening. "I don't know when I have felt such apleasure in a man's presence. Not since--" But the Baroness did notallow herself to go back so far. "If there is any fruit I DETEST, itis DATES, " she often said laughingly. "Some people delight in a goodmemory--I delight in a good forgettory of the past, with its telltalemilestones of birthdays and anniversaries of marriages, deaths anddivorces. "

"Mr Cheney said I looked very young to have been twice married. Twice!" and she laughed aloud before her mirror, revealing the pinkarch of her mouth, and two perfect sets of yellow-white teeth, withonly one blemishing spot of gold visible. "I wonder if he meant it, though?" she mused. "And the fact that I DO wonder is the sure proofthat I am really interested in this man. As a rule, I never believea word men say, though I delight in their flattery all the same. Itmakes me feel comfortable even when I know they are lying. But Ishould really feel hurt if I thought Mr Cheney had not meant what hesaid. I don't believe he knows much about women, or about himselflower than his brain. He has never studied his heart. He is allambition. If an ambitious and unsophisticated youth of twenty-fiveor twenty-eight does get infatuated with a woman of my age--he is aperfect toy in her hands. Ah, well, we shall see what we shall see. "And the Baroness finished her massage in cold cream, and put herblonde head on the pillow and went sound asleep. 

After that first tete-a-tete supper the fair widow managed to seePreston at least once or twice a week. She sent for him to ask hisadvice on business matters, she asked him to aid her in changing theposition of the furniture in a room when the servants were all busy, and she invited him to her private parlour for lunch every Sundayafternoon. It was during one of these chats over cake and wine thatthe young man spoke of Berene. The Baroness had dropped some remarksabout her servants, and Preston said, in a casual tone of voice whichhid the real interest he felt in the subject, "By the way, one ofyour servants has quite an unusual voice. I have heard her singingabout the halls a few times, and it seems to me she has real talent. "

"Oh, that is Miss Dumont--Berene Dumont--she is not an absoluteservant, " the Baroness replied; "she is a most unfortunate youngwoman to whom my heart went out in pity, and I have given her a home. She is really a widow, though she refuses to use her dead husband'sname. "

"A widow?" repeated Preston with surprise and a queer sensation ofannoyance at his heart; "why, from the glimpse I had of her I thoughther a young girl. "

"So she is, not over twenty-one at most, and woefully ignorant forthat age, " the Baroness said, and then she proceeded to outlineBerene's history, laying a good deal of stress upon her owncharitable act in giving the girl a home. 

"She is so ignorant of life, despite the fact that she has beenmarried, and she is so uneducated and helpless, I could not bear tosee her cast into the path of designing people, " the Baroness said. "She has a strong craving for an education, and I give her good booksto read, and good advice to ponder over, and I hope in time to comeshe will marry some honest fellow and settle down to a quiet, happyhome life. The man who brings us butter and eggs from the country isquite fascinated with her, but she does not deign him a glance. " Andthen the Baroness talked of other things. 

But the history he had heard remained in Preston Cheney's mind and hecould not drive the thought of this girl away. No wonder her eyeswere sad! Better blood ran in her veins than coursed under the pinkflesh of the Baroness, he would wager; she was the unfortunate victimof a combination of circumstances, which had defrauded her of theadvantages of youth. 

He spoke with her in the hall one morning not long after that; andthen it grew to be a daily occurrence that he talked with her a fewmoments, and before many weeks had passed the young man approachedthe Baroness with a request. 

"I have become interested in your protegee Miss Dumont, " he said. "You have done so much for her that you have stirred my better natureand made me anxious to emulate your example. In talking with her inthe hall one day I learned her great desire for a better education, and her anxiety to earn money. Now it has occurred to me that Imight aid her in both ways. We need two or three more girls in ouroffice. We need one more in the type-setting department. As TheClarion is a morning paper, and you never need Miss Dumont's servicesafter five o'clock, she could work a few hours in the office, earn asmall salary, and gain something in the way of an education also, ifshe were ambitious enough to do so. Nearly all my early educationwas gained as a printer. She tells me she is faulty in the matter ofspelling, and this would be excellent training for her. You have, dear madam, inspired the girl with a desire for more knowledge, and Ihope you will let me carry on the good work you have begun. "

Preston had approached the matter in a way that could not fail tobring success--by flattering the vanity and pride of the Baroness. So elated was she with the agreeable references to herself, that shenever suspected the young man's deep personal interest in the girl. She believed in the beginning that he was showing Berene this kindattention solely to please the mistress. 

Berene entered the office as type-setter, and made such astonishingprogress that she was promoted to the position of proof-reader eresix months had passed. And hour by hour, day by day, week by week, the strange influence which she had exerted on her employer, from thefirst moment of their meeting, grew and strengthened, until herealised with a sudden terror that his whole being was becomingabsorbed by an intense passion for the girl. 

Meantime the Baroness was growing embarrassing in her attentions. The young man was not conceited, nor prone to regard himself as anobject of worship to the fair sex. He had during the first fewmonths believed the Baroness to be amusing herself with his society. He had not flattered himself that a woman of her age, who had seen somuch of the world, and whose ambitions were so unmistakable, couldregard him otherwise than as a diversion. 

But of late the truth had forced itself upon him that the womanwished to entangle him in a serious affair. He could not afford tojeopardise his reputation at the very outset of his career by anysuch entanglement, or by the appearance of one. He cast about forsome excuse to leave the Palace, yet this would separate him in ameasure from his association with Berene, beside incurring the enmityof the Baroness, and possibly causing Berene to suffer from her angeras well. 

He seemed to be caught like a fly in a net. And again the thought ofhis future and his ambitions confronted him, and he felt abashed inhis own eyes, as he realised how far away these ambitions had seemedof late, since he had allowed his emotions to overrule his brain. 

What was this ignorant daughter of a French professor, that sheshould stand between him and glory, riches and power? Desperatediseases needed desperate remedies. He had been an occasional callerat the Lawrence homestead ever since he came to Beryngford. Withoutbeing conceited on the subject, he realised that Mabel Lawrence wouldnot reject him as a suitor. 

The masculine party is very dull, or the feminine very deceptive, when a man makes a mistake in his impressions on this subject. 

That afternoon the young editor left his office at five o'clock andasked Miss Lawrence to be his wife. 

CHAPTER IV

Preston Cheney walked briskly down the street after he left hisfiancee, his steps directed toward the Palace. It was seven o'clock, and he knew the Baroness would be at home. 

He had determined upon heroic treatment for his own mental disease(as he regarded his peculiar sentiments toward Berene Dumont), and hehad decided upon a similar course of treatment for the Baroness. 

He would confide his engagement to her at once, and thus put an endto his embarrassing position in the Palace, as well as to establishhis betrothal as a fact--and to force himself to so regard it. Itwas strange reasoning for a young man in the very first hour of hisnew role of bridegroom elect, but this particular groom elect haddeliberately placed himself in a peculiar position, and his reasoningwas not, of course, that of an ardent and happy lover. 

Already he was galled by his new fetters; already he was feeling asense of repulsion toward the woman he had asked to be his wife: andbecause of these feelings he was more eager to nail himself hand andfoot to the cross he had builded. 

He was obliged to wait some time before the Baroness came into thereception-room; and when she came he observed that she had made anelaborate toilet in his honour. Her sumptuous shoulders billowedover the low-cut blue corsage like apple-dumplings over a china dish. Her waist was drawn in to an hourglass taper, while her ample hipsspread out beneath like the heavy mason work which supports a slendercolumn. Tiny feet encased in pretty slippers peeping from beneathher silken skirts looked oddly out of proportion with the rest of hergenerous personality, and reminded Preston of the grotesque cuts inthe humorous weeklies, where well-known politicians were representedwith large heads and small extremities. Artistic by nature, and withan eye to form, he had never admired the Baroness's type of beauty, which was the theme of admiration for nearly every other man inBeryngford. Her face, with its infantine colouring, its large, innocent azure eyes, and its short retrousse features, he conceded tobe captivatingly pretty, however, and it seemed unusually so thisevening. Perhaps because he had so recently looked upon the sharp, sallow face of his fiancee. 

Preston frequently came to his room about this hour, after havingdined and before going to the office for his final duties; but heseldom saw the Baroness on these occasions, unless through her owndesign. 

"You were surprised to receive my message, no doubt, saying I wishedto see you, " he began. "But I have something I feel I ought to tellyou, as it may make some changes in my habits, and will of courseeventually take me away from these pleasant associations. " He pausedfor a second, and the Baroness, who had seated herself on the divanat his side, leaned forward and looked inquiringly in his face. 

"You are going away?" she asked, with a tremor in her voice. "Is itnot very sudden?"

"No, I am not going away, " he replied, "not from Beryngford--but Ishall doubtless leave your house ere many months. I am engaged to bemarried to Miss Mabel Lawrence. You are the first person to whom Ihave imparted the news, but you have been so kind, and I feel thatyou ought to know it in time to secure a desirable tenant for myroom. "

Again there was a pause. The rosy face of the Baroness had grownquite pale, and an unpleasant expression had settled about thecorners of her small mouth. She waved a feather fan to and frolanguidly. Then she gave a slight laugh and said:

"Well, I must confess that I am surprised. Miss Lawrence is the lastwoman in the world whom I would have imagined you to select as awife. Yet I congratulate you on your good sense. You are veryambitious, and you can rise to great distinction if you have theright influence to aid you. Judge Lawrence, with his wealth andposition, is of all men the one who can advance your interests, andwhat more natural than that he should advance the interests of hisson-in-law? You are a very wise youth and I again congratulate you. No romantic folly will ever ruin your life. "

There was irony and ridicule in her voice and face, and the young manfelt his cheek tingle with anger and humiliation. The Baroness hadread him like an open book--as everyone else doubtless would do. Itwas bitterly galling to his pride, but there was nothing to do, saveto keep a bold front, and carry out his role with as much dignity aspossible. 

He rose, spoke a few formal words of thanks to the Baroness for herkindness to him, and bowed himself from her presence, carrying withhim down the street the memory of her mocking eyes. 

As he entered his private office, he was amazed to see Berene Dumontsitting in his chair fast asleep, her head framed by her folded arms, which rested on his desk. Against the dark maroon of her sleeve, herclassic face was outlined like a marble statuette. Her long lashesswept her cheek, and in the attitude in which she sat, her graceful, perfectly-proportioned figure displayed each beautiful curve to thebest advantage. 

To a noble nature, the sight of even an enemy asleep, awakessoftening emotions, while the sight of a loved being in theunconsciousness of slumber stirs the fountain of affection to itsvery depths. 

As the young editor looked upon the girl before him, a passion ofyearning love took possession of him. A wild desire to seize her inhis arms and cover her pale face with kisses, made his heart throb tosuffocation and brought cold beads to his brow; and just as thesefeelings gained an almost uncontrollable dominion over his reason, will and judgment, the girl awoke and started to her feet inconfusion. 

"Oh, Mr Cheney, pray forgive me!" she cried, looking more beautifulthan ever with the flush which overspread her face. "I came in toask about a word in your editorial which I could not decipher. Iwaited for you, as I felt sure you would be in shortly--and I was soTIRED I sat down for just a second to rest--and that is all I knewabout it. You must forgive me, sir!--I did not mean to intrude. "

Her confusion, her appealing eyes, her magnetic voice were all fuelto the fire raging in the young man's heart. Now that she was forever lost to him through his own deliberate action, she seemedtenfold more dear and to be desired. Brain, soul, and body allseemed to crave her; he took a step forward, and drew in a quickbreath as if to speak; and then a sudden sense of his own danger, andan overwhelming disgust for his weakness swept over him, and theintense passion the girl had aroused in his heart changed tounreasonable anger. 

"Miss Dumont, " he said coldly, "I think we will have to dispense withyour services after to-night. Your duties are evidently too hard foryou. You can leave the office at any time you wish. Good-night. "

The girl shrank as if he had struck her, looked up at him with wide, wondering eyes, waited for a moment as if expecting to be recalled, then, as Mr Cheney wheeled his chair about and turned his back uponher, she suddenly sped away without a word. 

She left the office a few moments later; but it was not until aftereleven o'clock that she dragged herself up two flights of stairstoward her room on the attic floor at the Palace. She had beenwalking the streets like a mad creature all that intervening time, trying to still the agonising pain in her heart. Preston Cheney hadlong been her ideal of all that was noble, grand and good, sheworshipped him as devout pagans worshipped their sacred idols; and, without knowing it, she gave him the absorbing passion which anintense woman gives to her lover. 

It was only now that he had treated her with such rough brutality, and discharged her from his employ for so slight a cause, that theknowledge burst upon her tortured heart of all he was to her. 

She paused at the foot of the third and last flight of stairs with astrange dizziness in her head and a sinking sensation at her heart. 

A little less than half-an-hour afterwards Preston Cheney unlockedthe street door and came in for the night. He had done double hisusual amount of work and had finished his duties earlier than usual. To avoid thinking after he sent Berene away, he had turned to hisdesk and plunged into his labour with feverish intensity. He wrote aparticularly savage editorial on the matter of over-immigration, andhis leaders on political questions of the day were all tinctured witha bitterness and sarcasm quite new to his pen. At midnight that pendropped from his nerveless hand, and he made his way toward thePalace in a most unenviable state of mind and body. 

Yet he believed he had done the right thing both in engaging himselfto Miss Lawrence and in discharging Berene. Her constant presenceabout the office was of all things the most undesirable in his newposition. 

"But I might have done it in a decent manner if I had not lost allcontrol of myself, " he said as he walked home. "It was brutal theway I spoke to her; poor child, she looked as if I had beat her witha bludgeon. Well, it is just as well perhaps that I gave her goodreason to despise me. "

Since Berene had gone into the young man's office as an employe hergood taste and another reason had caused her to avoid him as much aspossible in the house. He seldom saw more than a passing glimpse ofher in the halls, and frequently whole days elapsed that he met heronly in the office. The young man never suspected that this fact wasdue in great part to the suggestion of jealousy in the manner of theBaroness toward the young girl ever after he had shown so muchinterest in her welfare. Sensitive to the mental atmosphere abouther, as a wind harp to the lightest breeze, Berene felt thisunexpressed sentiment in the breast of her "benefactress" and stroveto avoid anything which could aggravate it. 

With a lagging step and a listless air, Preston made his way up thefirst of two flights of stairs which intervened between the streetdoor and his room. The first floor was in darkness; but in the upperhall a dim light was always left burning until his return. As hereached the landing, he was startled to see a woman's form lying atthe foot of the attic stairs, but a few feet from the door of hisroom. Stooping down, he uttered a sudden exclamation of painedsurprise, for it was upon the pallid, unconscious face of BereneDumont that his eyes fell. He lifted the lithe figure in his sinewyarms, and with light, rapid steps bore her up the stairs and inthrough the open door of her room. 

"If she is dead, I am her murderer, " he thought. But at that momentshe opened her eyes and looked full into his, with a gaze which madehis impetuous, uncontrolled heart forget that any one or anythingexisted on earth but this girl and his love for her. 

CHAPTER V

One of the greatest factors in the preservation of the Baroness'sbeauty had been her ability to sleep under all conditions. The womanwho can and does sleep eight or nine hours out of each twenty-four iswell armed against the onslaught of time and trouble. 

To say that such women do not possess heart enough or feeling enoughto suffer is ofttimes most untrue. 

Insomnia is a disease of the nerves or of the stomach, rather thanthe result of extreme emotion. Sometimes the people who sleep themost profoundly at night in times of sorrow, suffer the moreintensely during their waking hours. Disguised as a friend, deceitful Slumber comes to them only to strengthen their powers ofsuffering, and to lend a new edge to pain. 

The Baroness was not without feeling. Her temperament was far fromphlegmatic. She had experienced great cyclones of grief and loss inher varied career, though many years had elapsed since she had knownwhat the French call a "white night. "

But the night following her interview with Preston Cheney she neverclosed her eyes in sleep. It was in vain that she tried all knownrecipes for producing slumber. She said the alphabet backward tentimes; she counted one thousand; she conjured up visions of sheepjumping the time-honoured fence in battalions, yet the sleep godnever once drew near. 

"I am certainly a brilliant illustration of the saying that there isno fool like an old fool, " she said to herself as the night wore on, and the strange sensation of pain and loss which Preston Cheney'sunexpected announcement had caused her gnawed at her breast like arat in a wainscot. 

That she had been unusually interested in the young editor she knewfrom the first; that she had been mortally wounded by Cupid's shaftshe only now discovered. She had passed through a divorce, two"affairs" and a legitimate widowhood, without feeling any of the keenemotions which now drove sleep from her eyes. A long time ago, longer than she cared to remember, she had experienced such emotions, but she had supposed such folly only possible in the high tide ofearly youth. It was absurd, nay more, it was ridiculous to lie awakeat her time of life thinking about a penniless country youth whosemother she might almost have been. In this bitterly frank fashionthe Baroness reasoned with herself as she lay quite still in herluxurious bed, and tried to sleep. 

Yet despite her frankness, her philosophy and her reasoning, therasping hurt at her heart remained--a hurt so cruel it seemed to herthe end of all peace or pleasure in life. 

It is harder to bear the suffocating heat of a late September daywhich the year sometimes brings, than all the burning June suns. 

The Baroness heard the click of Preston's key in the street door, andshe listened to his slow step as he ascended the stairs. She heardhim pause, too, and waited for the sound of the opening of his roomdoor, which was situated exactly above her own. But she listened invain, her ears, brain and heart on the alert with surprise, curiosity, and at last suspicion. The Baroness was as full ofcuriosity as a cat. 

It was not until just before dawn that she heard his step in thehall, and his door open and close. 

An hour later a sharp ring came at the street door bell. A messagefor Mr Preston, the servant said, in answer to her mistress'squestion as she descended from the room above. 

"Was Mr Preston awake when you rapped on his door?" asked theBaroness. 

"Yes, madame, awake and dressed. "

Mr Preston ran hurriedly through the halls and out to the street amoment later; and the Baroness, clothed in a dressing-gown and silkenslippers, tiptoed lightly to his room. The bed had not been occupiedthe whole night. On the table lay a note which the young man hadbegun when interrupted by the message which he had thrown down besideit. 

The Baroness glanced at the note, on which the ink was still moist, and read, "My dear Miss Lawrence, I want you to release me from theties formed only yesterday--I am basely unworthy--" here the noteended. She now turned her attention to the message which hadprevented the completion of the letter. It was signed by JudgeLawrence and ran as follows:-

"My Dear Boy, --My wife was taken mortally ill this morning justbefore daybreak. She cannot live many hours, our physician says. Mabel is in a state of complete nervous prostration caused by theshock of this calamity. I wish you would come to us at once. I fearfor my dear child's reason unless you prove able to calm and quiether through this ordeal. Hasten then, my dear son; every momentbefore you arrive will seem an age of sorrow and anxiety to me. "S. LAWRENCE. "

A strange smile curved the corners of the Baroness's lips as shefinished reading this note and tiptoed down the stairs to her ownroom again. 

Meantime the hour for her hot water arrived, and Berene did notappear. The Baroness drank a quart of hot water every morning as atonic for her system, and another quart after breakfast to reduce herflesh. Her excellent digestive powers and the clear condition of herblood she attributed largely to this habit. 

After a few moments she rang the bell vigorously. Maggie, thechambermaid, came in answer to the call. 

"Please ask Miss Dumont" (Berene was always known to the otherservants as Miss Dumont) "to hurry with the hot water, " the Baronesssaid. 

"Miss Dumont has not yet come downstairs, madame. "

"Not come down? Then will you please call her, Maggie?"

The Baroness was always polite to her servants. She had observedthat a graciousness of speech toward her servants often made up for adeficiency in wages. Maggie ascended to Miss Dumont's room, andreturned with the information that Miss Dumont had a severe headache, and begged the indulgence of madame this morning. 

Again that strange smile curved the corners of the Baroness's lips. 

Maggie was requested to bring up hot water and coffee, and great washer surprise to find the Baroness moving about the room when sheappeared with the tray. 

Half-an-hour later Berene Dumont, standing by an open window with herhands clasped behind her head, heard a light tap on her door. Inanswer to a mechanical "Come, " the Baroness appeared. 

The rustle of her silken morning gown caused Berene to turn suddenlyand face her; and as she met the eyes of her visitor the youngwoman's pallor gave place to a wave of deep crimson, which dyed herface and neck like the shadow of a red flag falling on a camelliablossom. 

"Maggie tells me you are ill this morning, " the Baroness remarkedafter a moment's silence. "I am surprised to find you up anddressed. I came to see if I could do anything for you. "

"You are very kind, " Berene answered, while in her heart she thoughthow cruel was the expression in the face of the woman before her, andhow faded she appeared in the morning light. "But I think I shall bequite well in a little while, I only need to keep quiet for a fewhours. "

"I fear you passed a sleepless night, " the Baroness remarked with asolicitous tone, but with the same cruel smile upon her lips. "I seeyou never opened your bed. Something must have been in the air tokeep us all awake. I did not sleep an hour, and Mr Cheney neverentered his room till near morning. Yet I can understand hiswakefulness--he announced his engagement to Miss Mabel Lawrence to melast evening, and a young man is not expected to woo sleep easilyafter taking such an important step as that. Judge Lawrence sent forhim a few hours ago to come and support Miss Mabel during the trialthat the day is to bring them in the death of Mrs Lawrence. Thephysician has predicted the poor invalid's near end. Sorrow followsclose on joy in this life. "

There was a moment's silence; then Miss Dumont said: "I think I willtry to get a little sleep now, madame. I thank you for your kindinterest in me. "

The Baroness descended to her room humming an air from an old opera, and settled to the task of removing as much as possible all evidencesof fatigue and sleeplessness from her countenance. 

It has been said very prettily of the spruce-tree, that it keeps thesecret of its greenness well; so well that we hardly know when itsheds its leaves. There are women who resemble the spruce in theirperennial youth, and the vigilance with which they guard the secretof it. The Baroness was one of these. Only her mirror shared thissecret. 

She was an adept at the art of preservation, and greatly as shedisliked physical exertion, she toiled laboriously over her ownperson an hour at least every day, and never employed a maid toassist her. One's rival might buy one's maid, she reasoned, and itwas well to have no confidant in these matters. 

She slipped off her dressing-gown and corset and set herself to thetask of pinching and mauling her throat, arms and shoulders, toremove superfluous flesh, and strengthen muscles and fibres to resistthe flabby tendencies which time produces. Then she used the dumb-bells vigorously for fifteen minutes, and that was followed by fiveminutes of relaxation. Next she lay on the floor flat upon her face, her arms across her back, and lifted her head and chest twenty-fivetimes. This exercise was to replace flesh with muscle across theabdomen. Then she rose to her feet, set her small heels together, turned her toes out squarely, and, keeping her body upright bent herknees out in a line with her hips, sinking and rising rapidly fifteentimes. This produced pliancy of the body, and induced a healthycondition of the loins and adjacent organs. 

To further fight against the deadly enemy of obesity, she lifted herarms above her head slowly until she touched her finger tips, at thesame time rising upon her tiptoes, while she inhaled a long breath, and as slowly dropped to her heels, and lowered her arms while sheexhaled her breath. While these exercises had been taking place, atin cup of water had been coming to the boiling point over an alcohollamp. This was now poured into a china bowl containing a smallquantity of sweet milk, which was always brought on her breakfasttray. 

The Baroness seated herself before her mirror, in a glare of cruellight which revealed every blemish in her complexion, every lineabout the mouth and eyes. 

"You are really hideously passee, mon amie, " she observed as shepeered at herself searchingly; "but we will remedy all that. "

Dipping a soft linen handkerchief in the bowl of steaming milk andwater, she applied it to her face, holding it closely over the browand eyes and about the mouth, until every pore was saturated andevery weary drawn tissue fed and strengthened by the tonic. Afterthis she dashed ice-cold water over her face. Still there werelittle folds at the corners of the eyelids, and an ugly line acrossthe brow, and these were manipulated with painstaking care, andtreated with mysterious oils and fragrant astringents and finallywashed in cool toilet water and lightly brushed with powder, until atthe end of an hour's labour, the face of the Baroness had resumed itsroseleaf bloom and transparent smoothness for which she was sofamous. And when by the closest inspection at the mirror, in thebroadest light, she saw no flaw in skin, hair, or teeth, the Baronessproceeded to dress for a drive. Even the most jealous rival wouldhave been obliged to concede that she looked like a woman of twenty-eight, that most fascinating of all ages, as she took her seat in thecarriage. 

In the early days of her life in Beryngford, when as the Baroness LeFevre she had led society in the little town, Mrs Lawrence had beenone of her most devoted friends; Judge Lawrence one of her mostearnest, if silent admirers. As "Baroness Brown" and as the landladyof "The Palace" she had still maintained her position as friend ofthe family, and the Lawrences, secure in their wealth and power, hadallowed her to do so, where some of the lower social lights haddropped her from their visiting lists. 

The Baroness seemed to exercise a sort of hypnotic power over thefretful, nervous invalid who shared Judge Lawrence's name, and thisinfluence was not wholly lost upon the Judge himself, who neverlooked upon the Baroness's abundant charms, glowing with health, without giving vent to a profound sigh like some hungry childstanding before a confectioner's window. 

The news of Mrs Lawrence's dangerous illness was voiced about thetown by noon, and therefore the Baroness felt safe in calling at thedoor to make inquiries, and to offer any assistance which she mightbe able to render. Knowing her intimate relations with the mistressof the house, the servant admitted her to the parlour and announcedher presence to Judge Lawrence, who left the bedside of the invalidto tell the caller in person that Mrs Lawrence had fallen into apeaceful slumber, and that slight hopes were entertained of herpossible recovery. Scarcely had the words passed his lips, however, when the nurse in attendance hurriedly called him. "Mrs Lawrence isdead!" she cried. "She breathed only twice after you left the room. "

The Baroness, shocked and startled, rose to go, feeling that herpresence longer would be an intrusion. 

"Do not go, " cried the Judge in tones of distress. "Mabel is nearlydistracted, and this news will excite her still further. We thoughtthis morning that she was on the verge of serious mental disorder. Isent for her fiance, Mr Cheney, and he has calmed her somewhat. Youalways exerted a soothing and restful influence over my wife, and youmay have the same power with Mabel. Stay with us, I beg of you, through the afternoon at least. "

The Baroness sent her carriage home and remained in the Lawrencemansion until the following morning. The condition of Miss Lawrencewas indeed serious. She passed from one attack of hysteria toanother, and it required the constant attention of her fiance and hermother's friend to keep her from acts of violence. 

It was after midnight when she at last fell asleep, and PrestonCheney in a state of complete exhaustion was shown to a room, whilethe Baroness remained at the bedside of Miss Lawrence. 

When the Baroness and Mr Cheney returned to the Palace they werestruck with consternation to learn that Miss Dumont had packed hertrunk and departed from Beryngford on the three o'clock train theprevious day. 

A brief note thanking the Baroness for her kindness, and stating thatshe had imposed upon that kindness quite too long, was her onlyfarewell. There was no allusion to her plans or her destination, andall inquiry and secret search failed to find one trace of her. Sheseemed to vanish like a phantom from the face of the earth. 

No one had seen her leave the Palace, save the laundress, Mrs Connor;and little this humble personage dreamed that Fate was reserving forher an important role in the drama of a life as yet unborn. 

CHAPTER VI

Whatever hope of escape from his self-imposed bondage Preston Cheneyhad entertained when he began the note to his fiancee which theBaroness had read, completely vanished during the weeks whichfollowed the death of Mrs Lawrence. 

Mabel's nervous condition was alarming, and her father seemed to relywholly upon his future son-in-law for courage and moral supportduring the trying ordeal. Like most large men of strong physique, Judge Lawrence was as helpless as an infant in the presence of anailing woman; and his experience as the husband of a wife whosenerves were the only notable thing about her, had given him anabsolute terror of feminine invalids. 

Mabel had never been very fond of her mother; she had not been aloving or a dutiful daughter. A petulant child and an irritable, fault-finding young woman, who had often been devoid of sympathy forher parents, she now exhibited such an excess of grief over the deathof her mother that her reason seemed to be threatened. 

It was, in fact, quite as much anger as grief which caused hernervous paroxysms. Mabel Lawrence had never since her infancy knownwhat it was to be thwarted in a wish. Both parents had been slavesto her slightest caprice and she had ruled the household with a lookor a word. Death had suddenly deprived her of a mother who wasnecessary to her comfort and to whose presence she was accustomed, and her heart was full of angry resentment at the fate which haddared to take away a member of her household. It had never enteredher thoughts that death could devastate HER home. 

Other people lost fathers and mothers, of course; but that MabelLawrence could be deprived of a parent seemed incredible. Anger is astrong ingredient in the excessive grief of every selfish nature. 

Preston Cheney became more and more disheartened with the prospect ofhis future, as he studied the character and temperament of hisfiancee during her first weeks of loss. 

But the net which he had woven was closing closer and closer abouthim, and every day he became more hopelessly entangled in its meshes. 

At the end of one month, the family physician decided that travel andchange of air and scene was an imperative necessity for MissLawrence. Judge Lawrence was engaged in some important legal matterswhich rendered an extended journey impossible for him. To trustMabel in the hands of hired nurses alone, was not advisable. It washer father who suggested an early marriage and a European trip forbride and groom, as the wisest expedient under the circumstances. 

Like the prisoner in the iron room, who saw the walls slowly butsurely closing in to crush out his life, Preston Cheney saw hiswedding day approaching, and knew that his doom was sealed. 

There were many desperate hours, when, had he possessed the slightestclue to the hiding-place of Berene Dumont, he would have flown toher, even knowing that he left disgrace and death behind him. Herealised that he now owed a duty to the girl he loved, higher andmore imperative by far than any he owed to his fiancee. But he hadnot the means to employ a detective to find Berene; and he was notsure that, if found, she might not spurn him. He had heard and readof cases where a woman's love had turned to bitter loathing andhatred for the man who had not protected her in a moment of weakness. He could think of no other cause which would lead Berene to disappearin such a mysterious manner at such a time, and so the days passedand he married Mabel Lawrence two months after the death of hermother, and the young couple set forth immediately on extendedforeign travels. Fifteen months later they returned to Beryngfordwith their infant daughter Alice. Mrs Cheney was much improved inhealth, though still a great sufferer from nervous disorders, amisfortune which the child seemed to inherit. She would lie andscream for hours at a time, clenching her small fists and growingpurple in the face, and all efforts of parents, nurses or physiciansto soothe her, served only to further increase her frenzy. Shescreamed and beat the air with her thin arms and legs until natureexhausted itself, then she fell into a heavy slumber and awoke ingood spirits. 

These attacks came on frequently in the night, and as they renderedMrs Cheney very "nervous, " and caused a panic among the nurses, itdevolved upon the unhappy father to endeavour to soothe the violentchild. And while he walked the floor with her or leaned over hercrib, using all his strong mental powers to control these unfortunateparoxysms, no vision came to him of another child lying cuddled inher mother's arms in a distant town, a child of wonderful beauty andangelic nature, born of love, and inheriting love's divine qualities. 

A few months before the young couple returned to their native soil, they received a letter which caused Preston the greatestastonishment, and Mabel some hours of hysterical weeping. Thisletter was written by Judge Lawrence, and announced his marriage toBaroness Brown. Judge Lawrence had been a widower more than a yearwhen the Baroness took the book of his heart, in which he supposedthe hand of romance had long ago written "finis, " and turning it tohis astonished eyes revealed a whole volume of love's love. 

It is in the second reading of their hearts that the majority of menfind the most interesting literature. 

Before the Baroness had been three months his wife, the long years ofmartyrdom he had endured as the husband of Mabel's mother seemed likea nightmare dream to Judge Lawrence; and all of life, hope andhappiness was embodied in the woman who ruled his destiny with ahypnotic sway no one could dispute, yet a woman whose heart stillthrobbed with a stubborn and lawless passion for the man who calledher husband father. 

CHAPTER VII

More than two decades had passed since Preston Cheney followed thedictates of his ambition and married Mabel Lawrence. 

Many of his early hopes and desires had been realised during theseyears. He had attained to high political positions; and honour andwealth were his to enjoy. Yet Senator Cheney, as he was now known, was far from a happy man. Disappointment was written in everylineament of his face, restlessness and discontent spoke in his everymovement, and at times the spirit of despair seemed to look from thedepths of his eyes. 

To a man of any nobility of nature, there can be small satisfactionin honours which he knows are bought with money and bribes; and tothe proud young American there was the additional sting of knowingthat even the money by which his honours were purchased was not hisown. 

It was the second Mrs Lawrence (still designated as the "Baroness" byher stepdaughter and by old acquaintances) to whom Preston owed theconstant reminder of his dependence upon the purse of his father-in-law. In those subtle, occult ways known only to a jealous anddesigning nature, the Baroness found it possible to make Preston'slife a torture, without revealing her weapons of warfare to herhusband; indeed, without allowing him to even smell the powder, whileshe still kept up a constant small fire upon the helpless enemy. 

Owing to the fact that Mabel had come as completely under thehypnotic influence of the Baroness as the first Mrs Lawrence had beenduring her lifetime, Preston was subjected to a great deal more ofher persecutions than would otherwise have been possible. Mabel wasnever happier than when enjoying the companionship of her new mother;a condition of things which pleased the Judge as much as it made hisson-in-law miserable. 

With a malicious adroitness possible only to such a woman as thesecond Mrs Lawrence, she endeared herself to Mrs Cheney, by athousand flattering and caressing ways, and by a constant exhibitionof sympathy, which to a weak and selfish nature is as pleasing as itis distasteful to the proud and strong. And by this inexhaustibleflow of sympathetic feeling, she caused the wife to drift farther andfarther away from her husband's influence, and to accuse him of allmanner of shortcomings and faults which had not suggested themselvesto her own mind. 

Mabel had not given or demanded a devoted love when she marriedPreston Cheney. She was quite satisfied to bear his name, and do thehonours of his house, and to be let alone as much as possible. Itwas the name, not the estate, of wifehood she desired; and motherhoodshe had accepted with reluctance and distaste. 

Never was a more undesired or unwelcome child born than her daughterAlice, and the helpless infant shared with its father the resentfulanger which dominated her unwilling mother the wretched months beforeits advent into earth life. 

To be let alone and allowed to follow her own whims and desires, andnever to be crossed in any wish, was all Mrs Cheney asked of herhusband. 

This role was one he had very willingly permitted her to pursue, since with every passing week and month he found less and less to winor bind him to his wife. Wretched as this condition of life was, itmight at least have settled into a monotonous calm, undisturbed bystrife, but for the molesting "sympathy" of the Baroness. 

"Poor thing, here you are alone again, " she would say on entering thehouse where Mabel lounged or lolled, quite content with her situationuntil the tone and words of her stepmother aroused a resentfulconsciousness of being neglected. Again the Baroness would say:

"I do think you are such a brave little darling to carry so smiling aface about with all you have to endure. " Or, "Very few wives wouldbear what you bear and hide every vestige of unhappiness from theworld. You are a wonderful and admirable character in my eyes. " Or, "It seems so strange that your husband does not adore you--but menare blind to the best qualities in women like you. I never hear MrCheney praising other women without a sad and almost resentfulfeeling in my heart, realising how superior you are to all of hisfavourites. " It was the insidious effect of poisoned flattery likethis, which made the Baroness a ruling power in the Cheney household, and at the same time turned an already cold and unloving wife into ajealous and nagging tyrant who rendered the young statesman's homethe most dreaded place on earth to him, and caused him to live awayfrom it as much as possible. 

His only child, Alice, a frail, hysterical girl, devoid of beauty orgrace, gave him but little comfort or satisfaction. Indeed she wasbut an added disappointment and pain in his life. Indulged in everyselfish thought by her mother and the Baroness, peevish and petulant, always ailing, complaining and discontented, and still a victim tothe nervous disorders inherited from her mother, it was small wonderthat Senator Cheney took no more delight in the role of father thanhe had found in the role of husband. 

Alice was given every advantage which money could purchase. But herdelicate health had rendered systematic study of any kind impossible, and her twentieth birthday found her with no education, with no useof her reasoning or will powers, but with a complete and beautifulwardrobe in which to masquerade and air her poor little attempts atmusic, art, or conversation. 

Judge Lawrence died when Alice was fifteen years of age, leaving bothhis widow and his daughter handsomely provided for. 

The Baroness not only possessed the Beryngford homestead, but a housein Washington as well; and both of these were occupied by tenants, for Mabel insisted upon having her stepmother dwell under her ownroof. Senator Cheney had purchased a house in New York to gratifyhis wife and daughter, and it was here the family resided, when notin Washington or at the seaside resorts. Both women wished toforget, and to make others forget, that they had ever lived inBeryngford. They never visited the place and never referred to it. They desired to be considered "New Yorkers" and always spoke ofthemselves as such. 

The Baroness was now hopelessly passee. Yet it was the revealing ofthe inner woman, rather than the withering of the exterior, whichbetrayed her years. The woman who understands the art of bodilypreservation can, with constant toil and care, retain an appearanceof youth and charm into middle life; but she who would pass thatdreaded meridian, and still remain a goodly sight for the eyes ofmen, must possess, in addition to all the secrets of the toilet, those divine elixirs, unselfishness and love for humanity. Faith indivine powers, too, and resignation to earthly ills, must do theirpart to lend the fading eye lustre and to give a softening glow tothe paling cheek. Before middle life, it is the outer woman who isseen; after middle life, skilled as she may be by art and howeverendowed my nature, yet the inner woman becomes visible to the leastdiscerning eye, and the thoughts and feelings which have dominatedher during all the past, are shown upon her face and form likeprinted words upon the open leaves of a book. That is why so manyyoung beauties become ugly old ladies, and why plain faces sometimesare beautiful in age. 

The Baroness had been unremitting in the care of her person, and shehad by this toil saved her figure from becoming gross, retaining theupright carriage and the tapering waist of youth, though she was uponthe verge of her sixtieth birthday. Her complexion, too, owing toher careful diet, her hours of repose, and her knowledge of skinfoods and lotions, remained smooth, fair and unfurrowed. But thelong-guarded expression in her blue eyes of childlike innocence hadgiven place to the hard look of a selfish and unhappy nature, and thelines about the small mouth accented the expression of the eyes. 

It was, despite its preservation of Nature's gifts, and despite itsforced smiles, the face of a selfish, cruel pessimist, disappointedin her past and with no uplifting faith to brighten the future. 

The Baroness had been the wife of Judge Lawrence a number of years, before she relinquished her hopes of one day making Preston Cheneyrespond to the passion which burned unquenched in her breast. It hadbeen with the idea of augmenting the interests of the man whom shebelieved to be her future lover, that she aided and urged on herhusband in his efforts to procure place and honour for his son-in-law. 

It was this idea which caused her to widen the breach between wifeand husband by every subtle means in her power; and it was when thisidea began to lose colour and substance and drop away among thewreckage of past hopes, that the Baroness ceased to compliment andbegan to taunt Preston Cheney with his dependence upon his father-in-law, and to otherwise goad and torment the unhappy man. And PrestonCheney grew into the habit of staying anywhere longer than at home. 

During the last ten years the Baroness had seemed to abandon allthoughts of gallant adventure. When the woman who has found life andpleasures only in coquetry and conquest is forced to relinquish thesedelights, she becomes either very devout or very malicious. 

The Baroness was devoid of religious feelings, and she became, therefore, the most bitter and caustic of cynical critics at heart, though she guarded her expression of these sentiments from policy. 

Yet to Mabel she expressed herself freely, knowing that her listenerenjoyed no conversation so much as that of gossip and criticism. Abeautiful or attractive woman was the target for her most cruelshafts of sarcasm, and indeed no woman was safe from her secretmalice save Mabel and Alice, over whom she found it a greaterpleasure to exercise her hypnotic control. For Alice, indeed, theBaroness entertained a peculiar affection. The fact that she was thechild of the man to whom she had given the strongest passion of herlife, and the girl's lack of personal beauty, and her unfortunatephysical condition, awoke a medley of love, pity and protection inthe heart of this strange woman. 

CHAPTER VIII

The Baroness had always been a churchgoing woman, yet she had neverunited with any church, or subscribed to any creed. 

Religious observance was only an implement of social warfare withher. Wherever her lot was cast, she made it her business to discoverwhich church the fashionable people of the town frequented, and tobecome a familiar and liberal-handed personage in that edifice. 

Judge Lawrence and his family were High Church Episcopalians, and thesecond Mrs Lawrence slipped gracefully into the pew vacated by thefirst, and became a much more important feature in the congregation, owing to her good health and extreme desire for popularity. Mabeland Alice were devout believers in the orthodox dogmas which havetaken the place of the simple teachings of Christ in so many of ourchurches to-day. They believed that people who did not go to churchwould stand a very poor chance of heaven; and that a strictobservance of a Sunday religion would ensure them a passport intoGod's favour. When they returned from divine service and mangled thecharacter and attire of their neighbours over the Sunday dinner-table, no idea entered their heads or hearts that they had sinnedagainst the Holy Ghost. The pastor of their church knew them to beselfish, worldly-minded women; yet he administered the holy sacramentto them without compunction of conscience, and never by question orremark implied a doubt of their true sincerity in things religious. They believed in the creed of his church, and they paid liberally forthe support of that church. What more could he ask?

This had been true of the pastor in Beryngford, and it proved equallytrue of their spiritual adviser in Washington and in New York. 

Just across the aisle from the Lawrences sat a rich financier, in hissumptuously cushioned pew. During six days of each week he wasengaged in crushing life and hope out of the hearts of the poor, under his juggernaut wheels of monopoly. His name was known far andnear, as that of a powerful and cruel speculator, who did nothesitate to pauperise his nearest friends if they placed themselvesin his reach. That he was a thief and a robber, no one ever denied;yet so colossal were his thefts, so bold and successful hisrobberies, the public gazed upon him with a sort of stupefied awe, and allowed him to proceed, while miserable tramps, who stoleovercoats or robbed money drawers, were incarcerated for a term ofyears, and then sternly refused assistance afterward by good people, who place no confidence in jail birds. 

But each Sunday this successful robber occupied his high-pricedchurch pew, devoutly listening to the divine word. 

He never failed to partake of the holy communion, nor was his rightto do so ever questioned. 

The rector of the church knew his record perfectly; knew that hisgains were ill-gotten blood money, ground from the suffering poor bythe power of monopoly, and from confiding fools by smart lures andscheming tricks. But this young clergyman, having recently beencalled to preside over the fashionable church, had no idea of beingso impolite as to refuse to administer the bread and wine to one ofits most liberal supporters!

There were constant demands upon the treasury of the church; itrequired a vast outlay of money to maintain the splendour andelegance of the temple which held its head so high above many others;and there were large charities to be sustained, not to mention itsrector's princely salary. The millionaire pewholder was a liberalgiver. It rarely occurs to the fashionable dispensers of spiritualknowledge to ask whether the devil's money should be used to gild theLord's temple; nor to question if it be a wise religion which allowsa man to rob his neighbours on weekdays, to give to the cause ofcharity on Sundays. 

And yet if every clergyman and priest in the land were to make andmaintain these standards for their followers, there might be anastonishing decrease in the needs of the poor and unfortunate. 

Were every church member obliged to open his month's ledgers to acompetent jury of inspectors, before he was allowed to take the holysacrament and avow himself a humble follower of Christ, what arevolution might ensue! How church spires would crumble for lack ofsupport, and poorhouses lessen in number for lack of inmates!

But the leniency of clergymen toward the shortcomings of theirwealthy parishioners is often a touching lesson in charity to thethoughtful observer who stands outside the fold. 

For how could they obtain money to convert the heathen, unless thissweet cloak of charity were cast over the sins of the liberal rich?Christ is crucified by the fashionable clergymen to-day more cruellythan he was by the Jews of old. 

Senator Cheney was not a church member, and he seldom attendedservice. This was a matter of great solicitude to his wife anddaughter. The Baroness felt it to be a mistake on the part ofSenator Cheney, and even Judge Lawrence, who adored his son-in-law, regretted the young man's indifference to things spiritual. But withall Preston Cheney's worldly ambitions and weaknesses, there was avein of sincerity in his nature which forbade his feigning a faith hedid not feel; and the daily lives of the three feminine members ofhis family were so in disaccord with his views of religion that hefelt no incentive to follow in their footsteps. Judge Lawrence heknew to be an honest, loyal-hearted, God and humanity loving man. "Atrue Christian by nature and education, " he said of his father-in-law, "but I am not born with his tendency to religious observance, and I see less and less in the churches to lead me into the fold. Itseems to me that these religious institutions are getting to be vastmonopolistic corporations like the railroads and oil trusts, and thelike. I see very little of the spirit of Christ in orthodox peopleto-day. "

Meanwhile Senator Cheney's purse was always open to any demand thechurch made; he believed in churches as benevolent if not soul-savinginstitutions, and cheerfully aided their charitable work. 

The rector of St Blank's, the fashionable edifice where the ladies ofthe Cheney household obtained spiritual manna in New York, died whenAlice was sixteen years old. He was a good old man, and a sincereEpiscopalian, and whatever originality of thought or expression hemay have lacked, his strict observance of the High Church code ofethics maintained the tone of his church and rendered him an objectof reverence to his congregation. His successor was Reverend ArthurEmerson Stuart, a young man barely thirty years of age, heir to acomfortable fortune, gifted with strong intellectual powers anddowered with physical attractions. 

It was not a case of natural selection which caused Arthur Stuart toadopt the church as a profession. It was the result of his middlename. Mrs Stuart had been an Emerson--in some remote way her familyclaimed relationship with Ralph Waldo. Her father and grandfatherand several uncles had been clergymen. She married a broker, wholeft her a rich widow with one child, a son. From the hour this sonwas born his mother designed him for the clergy, and brought him upwith the idea firmly while gently fixed in his mind. 

Whatever seed a mother plants in a young child's mind, carefullywatches over, prunes and waters, and exposes to sun and shade, isquite certain to grow, if the soil is not wholly stony ground. 

Arthur Stuart adored his mother, and stifling some commercialinstincts inherited from the parental side, he turned his attentionto the ministry and entered upon his chosen work when only twenty-five years of age. Eloquent, dramatic in speech, handsome, andmagnetic in person, independent in fortune, and of excellent lineageon the mother's side, it was not surprising that he was called totake charge of the spiritual welfare of fashionable St Blank's Churchon the death of the old pastor; or that, having taken the charge, hebecame immensely popular, especially with the ladies of hiscongregation. And from the first Sabbath day when they looked upfrom their expensive pew into the handsome face of their new rector, there was but one man in the world for Mabel Cheney and her daughterAlice, and that was the Reverend Arthur Emerson Stuart. 

It has been said by a great and wise teacher, that we may worship thegod in the human being, but never the human being as God. Thisdistinction is rarely drawn by women, I fear, when their spiritualteacher is a young and handsome man. The ladies of the Rev. ArthurStuart's congregation went home to dream, not of the Creator andMaker of all things, nor of the divine Man, but of the handsome face, stalwart form and magnetic voice of the young rector. They feastedtheir eyes upon his agreeable person, rather than their souls uponhis words of salvation. Disappointed wives, lonely spinsters andromantic girls believed they were coming nearer to spiritual truthsin their increased desire to attend service, while in fact they weremerely drawn nearer to a very attractive male personality. 

There was not the holy flame in the young clergyman's own heart toignite other souls; but his strong magnetism was perceptible to all, and they did not realise the difference. And meantime the churchgrew and prospered amazingly. 

It was observed by the congregation of St Blank's Church, shortlyafter the advent of the new rector, that a new organist also occupiedthe organ loft; and inquiry elicited the fact that the old man whohad officiated in that capacity during many years, had been retiredon a pension, while a young lady who needed the position and thesalary had been chosen to fill the vacancy. 

That the change was for the better could not be questioned. Neverbefore had such music pealed forth under the tall spires of StBlank's. The new organist seemed inspired; and many people in thefashionable congregation, hearing that this wonderful musician was ayoung woman, lingered near the church door after service to catch aglimpse of her as she descended from the loft. 

A goodly sight she was, indeed, for human eyes to gaze upon. Young, of medium height and perfectly symmetry of shape, her blonde hair andsatin skin and eyes of velvet darkness were but her lesser charms. That which riveted the gaze of every beholder, and drew all eyes toher whereever she passed, was her air of radiant health andhappiness, which emanated from her like the perfume from a flower. 

A sad countenance may render a heroine of romance attractive in abook, but in real life there is no charm at once so rare and sofascinating as happiness. Did you ever think how few faces of thegrown up, however young, are really happy in expression? Discontent, restlessness, longing, unsatisfied ambition or ill health mar ninetyand nine of every hundred faces we meet in the daily walks of life. When we look upon a countenance which sparkles with health andabsolute joy in life, we turn and look again and yet again, charmedand fascinated, though we do not know why. 

It was such a face that Joy Irving, the new organist of St Blank'sChurch, flashed upon the people who had lingered near the door to seeher pass out. Among those who lingered was the Baroness; and all dayshe carried about with her the memory of that sparkling countenance;and strive as she would, she could not drive away a vague, strangeuneasiness which the sight of that face had caused her. 

Yet a vision of youth and beauty always made the Baroness unhappy, now that both blessings were irrevocably lost to her. 

This particular young face, however, stirred her with those half-painful, half-pleasurable emotions which certain perfumes awake inus--vague reminders of joys lost or unattained, of dreams broken orunrealised. Added to this, it reminded her of someone she had known, yet she could not place the resemblance. 

"Oh, to be young and beautiful like that!" she sighed as she buriedher face in her pillow that night. "And since I cannot be, if onlyAlice had that girl's face. "

And because Alice did not have it, the Baroness went to sleep with afeeling of bitter resentment against its possessor, the beautifulyoung organist of St Blank's. 

CHAPTER IX

Up in the loft of St Blank's Church the young organist had beenpractising the whole morning. People paused on the street to listento the glorious sounds, and were thrilled by them, as one is onlythrilled when the strong personality of the player enters into theexecution. 

Down into the committee-room, where several deacons and the youngrector were seated discussing some question pertaining to the well-being of the church, the music penetrated too, causing the businesswhich had brought them together, to be suspended temporarily. 

"It is a sin to talk while music like that can be heard, " remarkedone man. "You have found a genius in this new organist, Rector. "

The young man nodded silently, his eyes half closed with anexpression of somewhat sensuous enjoyment of the throbbing chordswhich vibrated in perfect unison with the beating of his strongpulses. 

"Where does she come from?" asked the deacon, as a pause in the musicoccurred. 

"Her father was an earnest and prominent member of the little churchdown-town of which I had charge during several years, " replied theyoung man. "Miss Irving was scarcely more than a child when shevolunteered her services as organist. The position brought her noremuneration, and at that time she did not need it. Young as shewas, the girl was one of the most active workers among the poor, andI often met her in my visits to the sick and unfortunate. She hadbeen a musical prodigy from the cradle, and Mr Irving had given herevery advantage to study and perfect her art. 

"I was naturally much interested in her. Mr Irving's long illnessleft his wife and daughter without means of support, at his death, and when I was called to take charge of St Blank's, I at oncerealised the benefit to the family as well as to my church could Isecure the young lady the position here as organist. I am glad thatmy congregation seem so well satisfied with my choice. "

Again the organ pealed forth, this time in that passionate musicoriginally written for the Garden Scene in Faust, and which thechurch has boldly taken and arranged as a quartette to the words, "Come unto me. "

It may be that to some who listen, it is the divine spirit whichmakes its appeal through those stirring strains; but to the rector ofSt Blank's, at least on that morning, it was human heart, callingunto human heart. Mr Stuart and the deacons sat silently drinking inthe music. At length the rector rose. "I think perhaps we hadbetter drop the matter under discussion for to-day, " he said. "Wecan meet here Monday evening at five o'clock if agreeable to you all, and finish the details. There are other and more important affairswaiting for me now. "

The deacons departed, and the young rector sank back in his chair, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sounds which flooded notonly the room, but his brain, heart and soul. 

"Queer, " he said to himself as the door closed behind the humanpillars of his church. "Queer, but I felt as if the presence ofthose men was an intrusion upon something belonging personally to me. I wonder why I am so peculiarly affected by this girl's music? Itarouses my brain to action, it awakens ambition and gives me courageand hope, and yet--" He paused before allowing his feeling to shapeitself into thoughts. Then closing his eyes and clasping his handsbehind his head while the music surged about him, he lay back in hiseasy-chair as a bather might lie back and float upon the water, andhis unfinished sentence took shape thus: "And yet stronger than allother feelings which her music arouses in me, is the desire topossess the musician for my very own for ever; ah, well! the RomanCatholics are wise in not allowing their priests and their nuns tolisten to all even so-called sacred music. "

It was perhaps ten minutes later that Joy Irving became consciousthat she was not alone in the organ loft. She had neither heard norseen his entrance, but she felt the presence of her rector, andturned to find him silently watching her. She played her phrase tothe end, before she greeted him with other than a smile. Then sheapologised, saying: "Even one's rector must wait for a musicalphrase to reach its period. Angels may interrupt the rendition of agreat work, but not man. That were sacrilege. You see, I was reallypraying, when you entered, though my heart spoke through my fingersinstead of my lips. "

"You need not apologise, " the young man answered. "One who receivesyour smile would be ungrateful indeed if he asked for more. Thatalone would render the darkest spot radiant with light and welcome tome. "

The girl's pink cheek flushed crimson, like a rose bathed in thesunset colours of the sky. 

"I did not think you were a man to coin pretty speeches, " she said. 

"Your estimate of me was a wise one. You read human naturecorrectly. But come and walk in the park with me. You will overtaxyourself if you practise any longer. The sunlight and the air arevying with each other to-day to see which can be the mostintoxicating. Come and enjoy their sparring match with me; I want totalk to you about one of my unfortunate parishioners. It is apeculiarly pathetic case. I think you can help and advise me in thematter. "

It was a superb morning in early October. New York was like abeautiful woman arrayed in her fresh autumn costume, disportingherself before admiring eyes. 

Absorbed in each other's society, their pulses beating high withyouth, love and health; the young couple walked through the crowdedavenues of the great city, as happily and as naturally as Adam andEve might have walked in the Garden of Eden the morning afterCreation. 

Both were city born and city bred, yet both were as unfashionable anduntrammelled by custom as two children of the plains. 

In the very heart of the greatest metropolis in America, there arepeople who live and retain all the primitive simplicity of villagelife and thought. Mr Irving had been one of these. Coming to NewYork from an interior village when a young man, he had, throughsimple and quiet tastes and religious convictions, kept himselfwholly free from the social life of the city in which he lived. After his marriage his entire happiness lay in his home, and Joy wasreared by parents who made her world. Mrs Irving sympathised fullywith her husband in his distaste for society, and her delicate healthrendered her almost a recluse from the world. 

A few pleasant acquaintances, no intimates, music, books, and a largeshare of her time given to charitable work, composed the life of JoyIrving. 

She had never been in a fashionable assemblage; she had neverattended a theatre, as Mr Irving did not approve of them. 

Extremely fond of outdoor life, she walked, unattended, wherever hermood led her. As she had no acquaintances among society people, sheknew nothing and cared less for the rules which govern thepromenading habits of young women in New York. Her sweet face andgraceful figure were well known among the poorer quarters of thecity, and it was through her work in such places that Arthur Stuart'sattention had first been called to her. 

As for him, he was filled with that high, but not always wise, disdain for society and its customs, which we so often find in town-bred young men of intellectual pursuits. He was clean-minded, independent, sure of his own purposes, and wholly indifferent to theopinions of inferiors regarding his habits. 

He loved the park, and he asked Joy to walk with him there, as freelyas he would have asked her to sit with him in a conservatory. It wasa great delight to the young girl to go. 

"It seems such a pity that the women of New York get so littlebenefit from this beautiful park, " she said as they strolled alongthrough the winding paths together. "The wealthy people enjoy it ina way from their carriages, and the poor people no doubt derive newlife from their Sunday promenades here. But there are thousands likemyself who are almost wholly debarred from its pleasures. I havealways wanted to walk here, but once I came and a rude man in acarriage spoke to me. Mother told me never to come alone again. Itseems strange to me that men who are so proud of their strength, andwho should be the natural protectors of woman, can belittlethemselves by annoying or frightening her when alone. I am sure thatsame man would never think of speaking to me now that I am with you. How cowardly he seems when you think of it! Yet I am told there aremany like him, though that was my only experience of the kind. "

"Yes, there are many like him, " the rector answered. "But you mustremember how short a time man has been evolving from a lower animalcondition to his present state, and how much higher he is to-day thanhe was a hundred years ago even, when occasional drunkenness wasconsidered an attribute of a gentleman. Now it is a vice of which heis ashamed. "

"Then you believe in evolution?" Joy asked with a note of surprise inher voice. 

"Yes, I surely do; nor does the belief conflict with my religiousfaith. I believe in many things I could not preach from my pulpit. My congregation is not ready for broad truths. I am like an eclecticphysician--I suit my treatment to my patient--I administer the oldschool or the new school medicaments as the case demands. "

"It seems to me there can be but one school in spiritual matters, "Joy said gravely--"the right one. And I think one should preach andteach what he believes to be true and right, no matter what hiscongregation demands. Oh, forgive me. I am very rude to speak likethat to you!" And she blushed and paled with fright at her boldness. 

They were seated on a rustic bench now, under the shadow of a greattree. 

The rector smiled, his eyes fixed with pleased satisfaction on thegirl's beautiful face, with its changing colour and expression. Hefelt he could well afford to be criticised or rebuked by her, if theresult was so gratifying to his sight. The young rector of StBlank's lived very much more in his senses than in his ideals. 

"Perhaps you are right, " he said. "I sometimes wish I had greatercourage of my convictions. I think I could have, were you tostimulate me with such words often. But my mother is so afraid thatI will wander from the old dogmas, that I am constantly checkingmyself. However, in regard to the case I mentioned to you--it is adelicate subject, but you are not like ordinary young women, and youand I have stood beside so many sick-beds and death-beds togetherthat we can speak as man to man, or woman to woman, with no falsemodesty to bar our speech. 

"A very sad case has come to my knowledge of late. Miss Adams, awoman who for some years has been a devout member of St Blank'sChurch, has several times mentioned her niece to me, a young girl whowas away at boarding school. A few months ago the young girlgraduated and came to live with this aunt. I remember her as abright, buoyant and very intelligent girl. I have not seen her nowduring two months; and last week I asked Miss Adams what had becomeof her niece. Then the poor woman broke into sobs and told me thesad state of affairs. It seems that the girl Marah is her daughter. The poor mother had believed she could guard the truth from herchild, and had educated her as her niece, and was now prepared toenjoy her companionship, when some mischief-making gossip dug up theold scandal and imparted the facts to Marah. 

"The girl came to Miss Adams and demanded the truth, and the motherconfessed. Then the daughter settled into a profound melancholy, from which nothing seemed to rouse her. She will not go out, remainsin the house, and broods constantly over her disgrace. 

"It occurred to me that if Marah Adams could be brought out ofherself and interested in some work, or study, it would be thesalvation of her reason. Her mother told me she is an accomplishedmusician, but that she refuses to touch her piano now. I thought youmight take her as an understudy on the organ, and by your influenceand association lead her out of herself. You could make heracquaintance through approaching the mother who is a milliner, onbusiness, and your tact would do the rest. In all my large andwealthy congregation I know of no other woman to whom I could appealfor aid in this delicate matter, so I am sure you will pardon me. Infact, I fear were the matter to be known in the congregation at all, it would lead to renewed pain and added hurts for both Miss Adams andher daughter. You know women can be so cruel to each other in subtleways, and I have seen almost death-blows dealt in church aisles byone church member to another. "

"Oh, that is a terrible reflection on Christians, " cried Joy, who, aborn Christ-woman, believed that all professed church members mustfeel the same divine spirit of sympathy and charity which burned inher own sweet soul. 

"No, it is a simple truth--an unfortunate fact, " the young manreplied. "I preach sermons at such members of my church, but theyseldom take them home. They think I mean somebody else. These arethe people who follow the letter and not the spirit of the church. But one such member as you, recompenses me for a score of the others. I felt I must come to you with the Marah Adams affair. "

Joy was still thinking of the reflection the rector had cast upon hiscongregation. It hurt her, and she protested. 

"Oh, surely, " she said, "you cannot mean that I am the only one ofthe professed Christians in your church who would show mercy andsympathy to poor Miss Adams. Surely few, very few, would forgetChrist's words to Mary Magdalene, 'Go and sin no more, ' or fail toforgive as He forgave. She has led such a good life all theseyears. "

The rector smiled sadly. 

"You judge others by your own true heart, " he said. "But I know theworld as it is. Yes, the members of my church would forgive MissAdams for her sin--and cut her dead. They would daily crucify herand her innocent child by their cold scorn or utter ignoring of them. They would not allow their daughters to associate with this blamelessgirl, because of her mother's misstep. 

"It is the same in and out of the churches. Twenty people willrepeat Christ's words to a repentant sinner, but nineteen of thattwenty interpolate a few words of their own, through tone, gesture ormanner, until 'Go and sin no more' sounds to the poor unfortunatemore like 'Go just as far away from me and mine as you can get--andsin no more!' Only one in that score puts Christ's merciful andtender meaning into the phrase and tries by sympathetic associationto make it possible for the sinner to sin no more. I felt you werethat one, and so I appealed to you in this matter about Marah Adams. "

Joy's eyes were full of tears. "You must know more of human naturethan I do, " she said, "but I hate terribly to think you are right inthis estimate of the people of your congregation. I will go and seewhat I can do for this girl to-morrow. Poor child, poor mother, topass through a second Gethsemane for her sin. I think any girl orboy whose home life is shadowed, is to be pitied. I have always hadsuch a happy home, and such dear parents, the world would seeminsupportable, I am sure, were I to face it without that background. Dear papa's death was a great blow, and mother's ill health has beena sorrow, but we have always been so happy and harmonious, and that, I think, is worth more than a fortune to a child. Poor, poor Marah--unable to respect her mother, what a terrible thing it all is!"

"Yes, it is a sad affair. I cannot help thinking it would have beena pardonable lie if Miss Adams had denied the truth when the girlconfronted her with the story. It is the one situation in life wherea lie is excusable, I think. It would have saved this poor girl noend of sorrow, and it could not have added much to the mother'sburden. I think lying must have originated with an erring woman. "

Joy looked at her rector with startled eyes. "A lie is neverexcusable, " she said, "and I do not believe it ever saves sorrow. But I see you do not mean what you say, you only feel very sorry forthe girl; and you surely do not forget that the lie originated withSatan, who told a falsehood to Eve. "

CHAPTER X

Ever since early girlhood Joy Irving had formed a habit of jottingdown in black and white her own ideas regarding any book, painting, concert, conversation or sermon, which interested her, andepitomising the train of thought to which they led. 

The evening after her walk and talk with the rector of St Blank's, she took out her note-book, which bore a date four years old underits title "My Impressions, " and read over the last page of entries. They had evidently been written at the close of some Sabbath day andran as follows:-

Many a kneeling woman is more occupied with how her skirts hang thanhow her prayers ascend. I am inclined to think we all ought to weara uniform to church if we would really worship there. God must growweary looking down on so many new bonnets. 

I wore a smart hat to church to-day, and I found myself criticisingevery other woman's bonnet during service, so that I failed in someof my responses. 

If we could all be compelled by some mysterious power to THINK ALOUDon Sunday, what a veritable holy day we would make of it! Though weare taught from childhood that God hears our thoughts, the best of uswould be afraid to have our nearest friends know them. 

I sometimes think it is a presumption on the part of any man to risein the pulpit and undertake to tell me about a Creator with whom Ifeel every whit as well acquainted as he. I suppose such thoughtsare wicked, however, and should be suppressed. 

It is a curious fact, that the most aggressively sensitive personsare at heart the most conceited. 

I wish people smiled more in church aisles. In fact, I think we alllaugh at one another too much and smile at one another too seldom. 

After the devil had made all the trouble for woman he could with thefig leaf, he introduced the French heel. 

It is well to see the ridiculous side of things, but not of people. 

Most of us would rather be popular than right. 

To these impressions Joy added the following:-

It is not the interior of one's house, but the interior of one's mindwhich makes home. 

It seems to me that to be, is to love. I can conceive of no state ofexistence which is not permeated with this feeling toward something, somebody or the illimitable "nothing" which is mother to everything. 

I wish we had more religion in the world and fewer churches. 

People who believe in no God, invariably exalt themselves into Hisposition, and worship with the very idolatry they decry in others. 

Music is the echo of the rhythm of God's respirations. 

Poetry is the effort of the divine part of man to formulate a worthylanguage in which to converse with angels. 

Painting and sculpture seem to me the most presumptuous of the arts. They are an effort of man to outdo God in creation. He never made aperfect form or face--the artist alone makes them. 

I am sure I do not play the organ as well at St Blank's as I playedit in the little church where I gave my services and was unknown. People are praising me too much here, and this mars all spontaneity. 

The very first hour of positive success is often the last hour ofgreat achievement. So soon as we are conscious of the admiring andexpectant gaze of men, we cease to commune with God. It is when weare unknown to or neglected by mortals, that we reach up to theInfinite and are inspired. 

I have seen Marah Adams to-day, and I felt strangely drawn to her. Her face would express all goodness if it were not so unhappy. Unhappiness is a species of evil, since it is a discourtesy to God tobe unhappy. 

I am going to do all I can for the girl to bring her into a betterframe of mind. No blame can be attached to her, and yet now that Iam face to face with the situation, and realise how the world regardssuch a person, I myself find it a little hard to think of bravingpublic opinion and identifying myself with her. But I am going toovercome such feelings, as they are cowardly and unworthy of me, andpurely the result of education. I am amazed, too, to discover thisweakness in myself. 

How sympathetic dear mamma is! I told her about Marah, and she weptbitterly, and has carried her eyes full of tears ever since. I mustbe careful and tell her nothing sad while she is in such a weak statephysically. 

I told mamma what the rector said about lying. She coincided withhim that Mrs Adams would have been justified in denying the truth ifshe had realised how her daughter was to be affected by thisknowledge. A woman's past belongs only to herself and her God, shesays, unless she wishes to make a confidant. But I cannot agree withher or the rector. I would want the truth from my parents, howevermuch it hurt. Many sins which men regard as serious only obstructthe bridge between our souls and truth. A lie burns the bridge. 

I hope I am not uncharitable, yet I cannot conceive of committing anact through love of any man, which would lower me in his esteem, oncecommitted. Yet of course I have had little experience in life, withmen, or with temptation. But it seems to me I could not continue tolove a man who did not seek to lead me higher. The moment he stoodbefore me and asked me to descend, I should realise he was to bepitied--not adored. 

I told mother this, and she said I was too young and inexperienced toform decided opinions on such subjects, and she warned me that I mustnot become uncharitable. She wept bitterly as she thought of mybecoming narrow or bigoted in my ideas, dear, tender-hearted mamma. 

Death should be called the Great Revealer instead of the GreatDestroyer. 

Some people think the way into heaven is through embroidered altarcloths. 

The soul that has any conception of its own possibilities does notfear solitude. 

A girl told me to-day that a rude man annoyed her by staring at herin a public conveyance. It never occurred to her that it takes foureyes to make a stare annoying. 

Astronomers know more about the character of the stars than theaverage American mother knows about the temperament of her daughters. 

To some women the most terrible thought connected with death is thedates in the obituary notice. 

As a rule, when a woman opens the door of an artistic career with onehand, she shuts the door on domestic happiness with the other. 

CHAPTER XI

The rector of St Blank's Church dined at the Cheney table or drove inthe Cheney establishment every week, beside which there were alwaysone or two confidential chats with the feminine Cheneys in theparsonage on matters pertaining to the welfare of the church, andoccasionally to the welfare of humanity. 

That Alice Cheney had conceived a sudden and consuming passion forthe handsome and brilliant rector of St Blank's, both her mother andthe Baroness knew, and both were doing all in their power to furtherthe girl's hopes. 

While Alice resembled her mother in appearance and disposition, propensities and impulses occasionally exhibited themselves whichspoke of paternal inheritance. She had her father's stronglyemotional nature, with her mother's stubbornness; and PrestonCheney's romantic tendencies were repeated in his daughter, withouthis reasoning powers. Added to her father's lack of self-control inany strife with his passions, Alice possessed her mother's hystericalnerves. In fact, the unfortunate child inherited the weaknesses andfaults of both parents, without any of their redeeming virtues. 

The passion which had sprung to life in her breast for the youngrector, was as strong and unreasoning as the infatuation which herfather had once experienced for Berene Dumont; but instead ofstruggling against the feeling as her father had at least attemptedto do, she dwelt upon it with all the mulish persistency which hermother exhibited in small matters, and luxuriated in romantic dreamsof the future. 

Mabel was wholly unable to comprehend the depth or violence of herdaughter's feelings, but she realised the fact that Alice had set hermind on winning Arthur Stuart for a husband, and she quite approvedof the idea, and saw no reason why it should not succeed. Sheherself had won Preston Cheney away from all rivals for his favour, and Alice ought to be able to do the same with Arthur, after all themoney which had been expended upon her wardrobe. Senator Cheney'sdaughter and Judge Lawrence's granddaughter, surely was a prize forany man to win as a wife. 

The Baroness, however, reviewed the situation with more concern ofmind. She realised that Alice was destitute of beauty and charm, andthat Arthur Emerson Stuart (it would have been considered a case ofhigh treason to speak of the rector of St Blank's without using histhree names) was independent in the matter of fortune, and so doweredwith nature's best gifts that he could have almost any woman for theasking whom he should desire. But the Baroness believed much inpropinquity; and she brought the rector and Alice together as oftenas possible, and coached the girl in coquettish arts when alone withher, and credited her with witticisms and bon-mots which she hadnever uttered, when talking of her to the young rector. 

"If only I could give Alice the benefit of my past career, " theBaroness would say to herself at times. "I know so well how tomanage men; but what use is my knowledge to me now that I am old?Alice is young, and even without beauty she could do so much, if sheonly understood the art of masculine seduction. But then it is agift, not an acquired art, and Alice was not born with the gift. "

While Mabel and Alice had been centring their thoughts and attentionson the rector, the Baroness had not forgotten the rector's mother. She knew the very strong affection which existed between the two, andshe had discovered that the leading desire of the young man's heartwas to make his mother happy. With her wide knowledge of humannature, she had not been long in discerning the fact that it was notbecause of his own religious convictions that the rector had chosenhis calling, but to carry out the lifelong wishes of his belovedmother. 

Therefore she reasoned wisely that Arthur would be greatly influencedby his mother in his choice of a wife; and the Baroness brought allher vast battery of fascination to bear on Mrs Stuart, and succeededin making that lady her devoted friend. 

The widow of Judge Lawrence was still an imposing and impressivefigure wherever she went. Though no longer a woman who appealed tothe desires of men, she exhaled that peculiar mental aroma whichhangs ever about a woman who has dealt deeply and widely in affairsof the heart. It is to the spiritual senses what musk is to thephysical; and while it may often repulse, it sometimes attracts, andnever fails to be noticed. About the Baroness's mouth were hardlines, and the expression of her eyes was not kind or tender; yet shewas everywhere conceded to be a universally handsome and attractivewoman. Quiet and tasteful in her dressing, she did not accentuatethe ravages of time by any mistaken frivolities of toilet, as so manyfaded coquettes have done, but wisely suited her vestments to herappearance, as the withering branch clothes itself in russet leaves, when the fresh sap ceases to course through its veins. New York Cityis a vast sepulchre of "past careers, " and the adventurous life ofthe Baroness was quietly buried there with that of many anotherwoman. In the mad whirl of life there is small danger that any ofthese skeletons will rise to view, unless the woman permits herselfto strive for eminence either socially or in the world of art. 

While the Cheneys were known to be wealthy, and the Senator hadachieved political position, there was nothing in their situation tochallenge the jealousy of their associates. They moved in one of themany circles of cultured and agreeable people, which, despite themandate of a M'Allister, formed a varied and delightful society inthe metropolis; they entertained in an unostentatious manner, andthere was nothing in their personality to incite envy or jealousy. Therefore the career of the Baroness had not been unearthed. Thatthe widow of Judge Lawrence, the stepmother of Mrs Cheney, was knownas "The Baroness" caused some questions, to be sure, but the simpleanswer that she had been the widow of a French baron in early lifeserved to allay curiosity, while it rendered the lady herself anobject of greater interest to the majority of people. 

Mrs Stuart, the rector's mother, was one of those who were mostimpressed by this incident in the life of Mrs Lawrence. "Familypride" was her greatest weakness, and she dearly loved a title. Shethought Mrs Lawrence a typical "Baroness, " and though she knew thetitle had only been obtained through marriage, it still rendered itspossessor peculiarly interesting in her eyes. 

In her prime, the Baroness had been equally successful in cajolingwomen and men. Though her day for ruling men was now over, she stillpossessed the power to fascinate women when she chose to exertherself. She did exert herself with Mrs Stuart, and succeededadmirably in her design. 

And one day Mrs Stuart confided her secret anxiety to the ear of theBaroness; and that secret caused the cheek of the listener to growpale and the look of an animal at bay to come into her eyes. 

"There is just one thing that gives me a constant pain at my heart, "Mrs Stuart had said. "You have never been a mother, yet I think yoursympathetic nature causes you to understand much which you have notexperienced, and knowing as you do the great pride I feel in my son'scareer, and the ambition I have for him to rise to the very highestpinnacle of success and usefulness, I am sure you will comprehend myanxiety when I see him exhibiting an undue interest in a girl who isin every way his inferior, and wholly unsuited to fill the positionhis wife should occupy. "

The Baroness listened with a cold, sinking sensation at her heart

"I am sure your son would never make a choice which was not agreeableto you, " she ventured. 

"He might not marry anyone I objected to, " Mrs Stuart replied, "but Idread to think his heart may be already gone from his keeping. Youngmen are so susceptible to a pretty face and figure, and I confessthat Joy Irving has both. She is a good girl, too, and a finemusician; but she has no family, and her alliance with my son wouldbe a great drawback to his career. Her father was a grocer, Ibelieve, or something of that sort; quite a common man, who married athird-class actress, Joy's mother. Mr Irving was in very comfortablecircumstances at one time, but a stroke of paralysis rendered himhelpless some four years ago. He died last year and left his widowand child in straitened circumstances. Mrs Irving is an invalid now, and Joy supports her with her music. Mr Irving and Joy were membersof Arthur Emerson's former church (Mrs Stuart always spoke of her sonin that manner), and that is how my son became interested in thedaughter--an interest I supposed to be purely that of a rector in hisparishioner, until of late, when I began to fear it took root indeeper soil. But I am sure, dear Baroness, you can understand myanxiety. "

And then the Baroness, with drawn lips and anguished eyes, took bothof Mrs Stuart's hands in hers, and cried out:

"Your pain, dear madam, is second to mine. I have no child, to besure, but as few mothers love I love Alice Cheney, my dear husband'sgranddaughter. My very life is bound up in her, and she--God helpus, she loves your son with her whole soul. If he marries another itwill kill her or drive her insane. "

The two women fell weeping into each other's arms. 

CHAPTER XII

Preston Cheney conceived such a strong, earnest liking for the youngclergyman whom he met under his own roof during one of his visitshome, that he fell into the habit of attending church for the firsttime in his life. 

Mabel and Alice were deeply gratified with this intimacy between thetwo men, which brought the rector to the house far oftener than theycould have tastefully done without the co-operation of the husbandand father. Besides, it looked well to have the head of thehousehold represented in the church. To the Baroness, also, therewas added satisfaction in attending divine service, now that PrestonCheney sat in the pew. All hope of winning the love she had solonged to possess, died many years before; and she had been cruel andunkind in numerous ways to the object of her hopeless passion, yetlike the smell of dead rose leaves long shut in a drawer, there clungabout this man the faint, suggestive fragrance of a perished dream. 

She knew that he did not love his wife, and that he was disappointedin his daughter; and she did not at least have to suffer the pain ofseeing him lavish the affection she had missed, on others. 

Mr Cheney had been called away from home on business the day beforethe new organist took her place in St Blank's Church. Nearly a monthhad passed when he again occupied his pew. 

Before the organist had finished her introduction, he turned toAlice, saying:

"There has been a change here in the choir, since I went away, andfor the better. That is a very unusual musician. Do you know who itis?"

"Some lady, I believe; I do not remember her name, " Alice answeredindifferently. Like her mother, Alice never enjoyed hearing anyonepraised. It mattered little who it was, or how entirely out of herown line the achievements or accomplishments on which the praise wasbestowed, she still felt that petty resentment of small creatures whobelieve that praise to others detracts from their own value. 

A fortune had been expended on Alice's musical education, yet shecould do no more than rattle through some mediocre composition, withneither taste nor skill. 

The money which has been wasted in trying to teach music to unmusicalpeople would pay our national debt twice over, and leave a competencyfor every orphan in the land. 

When the organist had finished her second selection, Mr Cheneyaddressed the same question to his wife which he had addressed toAlice. 

"Who is the new organist?" he queried. Mabel only shook her head andplaced her finger on her lip as a signal for silence during service. 

The third time it was the Baroness, sitting just beyond Mabel, towhom Mr Cheney spoke. "That's a very remarkable musician, veryremarkable, " he said. "Do you know anything about her?"

"Yes, wait until we get home, and I will tell you all about her, " theBaroness replied. 

When the service was over, Mr Cheney did not pass out at once, as washis custom. Instead he walked toward the pulpit, after requestinghis family to wait a moment. 

The rector saw him and came down into the aisle to speak to him. 

"I want to congratulate you on the new organist, " Mr Cheney said, "and I want to meet her. Alice tells me it is a lady. She must havedevoted a lifetime to hard study to become such a marvellous mistressof that difficult instrument. "

Arthur Stuart smiled. "Wait a moment, " he said, "and I will send forher. I would like you to meet her, and like her to meet your wifeand family. She has few, if any, acquaintances in my congregation. "

Mr Cheney went down the aisle, and joined the three ladies who werewaiting for him in the pew. All were smiling, for all three believedthat he had been asking the rector to accompany them home to dinner. His first word dispelled the illusion. 

"Wait here a moment, " he said. "Mr Stuart is going to bring theorganist to meet us. I want to know the woman who can move me sodeeply by her music. "

Over the faces of his three listeners there fell a cloud. Mabellooked annoyed, Alice sulky, and a flush of the old jealous furydarkened the brow of the Baroness. But all were smiling deceitfullywhen Joy Irving approached. 

Her radiant young beauty, and the expressions of admiration withwhich Preston Cheney greeted her as a woman and an artist, filledlife with gall and wormwood for the three feminine listeners. 

"What! this beautiful young miss, scarcely out of short frocks, isnot the musician who gave us that wonderful harmony of sounds. Mychild, how did you learn to play like that in the brief life you havepassed on earth? Surely you must have been taught by the angelsbefore you came. "

A deep blush of pleasure at the words which, though so extravagant, Joy felt to be sincere, increased her beauty as she looked up intoPreston Cheney's admiring eyes. 

And as he held her hands in both of his and gazed down upon her itseemed to the Baroness she could strike them dead at her feet andrejoice in the act. 

Beside this radiant vision of loveliness and genius, Alice lookedplainer and more meagre than ever before. She was like a waysideweed beside an American Beauty rose. 

"I hope you and Alice will become good friends, " Mr Cheney saidwarmly. "We should like to see you at the house any time you canmake it convenient to come, would we not Mabel?"

Mrs Cheney gave a formal assent to her husband's words as they turnedaway, leaving Joy with the rector. And a scene in one of life'sstrangest dramas had been enacted, unknown to them all. 

"I would like you to be very friendly with that girl, Alice, " MrCheney repeated as they seated themselves in the carriage. "She hasa rare face, a rare face, and she is highly gifted. She reminds meof someone I have known, yet I can't think who it is. What do youknow about her, Baroness?"

The Baroness gave an expressive shrug. "Since you admire her somuch, " she said, "I rather hesitate telling you. But the girl is ofcommon origin--a grocer's daughter, and her mother quite an inferiorperson. I hardly think it a suitable companionship for Alice. "

"I am sure I don't care to know her, " chimed in Alice. "I thoughther quite bold and forward in her manner. "

"Decidedly so! She seemed to hang on to your father's hand as if shewould never let go, " added Mabel, in her most acid tone. "I mustsay, I should have been horrified to see you act in such a familiarmanner toward any stranger. " A quick colour shot into PrestonCheney's cheek and a spark into his eye. 

"The girl was perfectly modest in her deportment to me, " he said. "She is a lady through and through, however humble her birth may be. But I ought to have known better than to ask my wife and daughter tolike anyone whom I chanced to admire. I learned long ago how futilesuch an idea was. "

"Oh, well, I don't see why you need get so angry over a perfectstranger whom you never laid eyes on until to-day, " pouted Alice. "Iam sure she's nothing to any of us that we need quarrel over her. "

"A man never gets so old that he is not likely to make a fool ofhimself over a pretty face, " supplemented Mabel, "and there is nofool like an old fool. "

The uncomfortable drive home came to an end at this juncture, andPreston Cheney retired to his own room, with the disagreeable wordsof his wife and daughter ringing in his ears, and the beautiful faceof the young organist floating before his eyes. 

"I wish she were my daughter, " he said to himself; "what a comfortand delight a girl like that would be to me!"

And while these thoughts filled the man's heart the Baroness pacedher room with all the jealous passions of her still ungoverned natureroused into new life and violence at the remembrance of Joy Irving'sfresh young beauty and Preston Cheney's admiring looks and words. 

"I could throttle her, " she cried, "I could throttle her. Oh, why isshe sent across my life at every turn? Why should the only two menin the world who interest me to-day, be so infatuated over that girl?But if I cannot remove so humble an obstacle as she from my pathway, I shall feel that my day of power is indeed over, and that I do notbelieve to be true. "

CHAPTER XIII

Two weeks later the organ loft of St Blank's Church was occupied by astranger. For a few hours the Baroness felt a wild hope in her heartthat Miss Irving had been sent away. 

But inquiry elicited the information that the young musician hadmerely employed a substitute because her mother was lying seriouslyill at home. 

It was then that the Baroness put into execution a desire she had tomake the personal acquaintance of Joy Irving. 

The desire had sprung into life with the knowledge of the rector'sinterest in the girl. No one knew better than the Baroness how tosow the seeds of doubt, distrust and discord between two people whomshe wished to alienate. Many a sweetheart, many a wife, had sheseparated from lover and husband, scarcely leaving a sign by whichthe trouble could be traced to her, so adroit and subtle were hermethods. 

She felt that she could insert an invisible wedge between these twohearts, which would eventually separate them, if only she might makethe acquaintance of Miss Irving. And now chance had opened the wayfor her. 

She made her resolve known to the rector. 

"I am deeply interested in the young organist whom I had the pleasureof meeting some weeks ago, " she said, and she noted with a sinkingheart the light which flashed into the man's face at the mere mentionof the girl. "I understand her mother is seriously ill, and I thinkI will go around and call. Perhaps I can be of use. I understandMrs Irving is not a churchwoman, and she may be in real need, as thefamily is in straitened circumstances. May I mention your name whenI call, in order that Miss Irving may not think I intrude?"

"Why, certainly, " the rector replied with warmth. "Indeed, I willgive you a card of introduction. That will open the way for you, andat the same time I know you will use your delicate tact to avoidwounding Miss Irving's pride in any way. She is very sensitive abouttheir straitened circumstances; you may have heard that they werequite well-to-do until the stroke of paralysis rendered her fatherhelpless. All their means were exhausted in efforts to restore hishealth, and in the employment of nurses and physicians. I think theyhave found life a difficult problem since his death, as Mrs Irvinghas been under medical care constantly, and the whole burden falls onMiss Joy's young shoulders, and she is but twenty-one. "

"Just the age of Alice, " mused the Baroness. "How differentlypeople's lives are ordered in this world! But then we must have thehewers of wood and the drawers of water, and we must have thedelicate human flowers. Our Alice is one of the latter, a frailblossom to look upon, but she is one of the kind which will bloom outin great splendour under the sunshine of love and happiness. Veryfew people realise what wonderful reserve force that delicate childpossesses. And such a tender heart! She was determined to come withme when she heard of Miss Irving's trouble, but I thought it unwiseto take her until I had seen the place. She is so sensitive to hersurroundings, and it might be too painful for her. I am for everholding her back from overtaxing herself for others. No one dreamsof the amount of good that girl does in a secret, quiet way; and atthe same time she assumes an indifferent air and talks as if she werequite heartless, just to hinder people from suspecting her charitablework. She is such a strange, complicated character. "

Armed with her card of introduction, the Baroness set forth on her"errand of mercy. " She had not mentioned Miss Irving's name to Mabelor Alice. The secret of the rector's interest in the girl was lockedin her own breast. She knew that Mabel was wholly incapable ofcoping with such a situation, and she dreaded the effect of the newson Alice, who was absorbed in her love dream. The girl had neverbeen denied a wish in her life, and no thought came to her that shecould be thwarted in this, her most cherished hope of all. 

The Baroness was determined to use every gun in her battery ofdefence before she allowed Mabel or Alice to know that defence wasneeded. 

The rector's card admitted her to the parlour of a small flat. Theportieres of an adjoining room were thrown open presently, and avision of radiant beauty entered the room. 

The Baroness could not explain it, but as the girl emerged from thecurtains, a strange, confused memory of something and somebody shehad known in the past came over her. But when the girl spoke, a moreinexplicable sensation took possession of the listener, for her voicewas the feminine of Preston Cheney's masculine tones, and then as shelooked at the girl again the haunting memories of the first glancewere explained, for she was very like Preston Cheney as the Baronessremembered him when he came to the Palace to engage rooms more than ascore of years ago. "What a strange thing these resemblances are!"she thought. "This girl is more like Senator Cheney, far more likehim, than Alice is. Ah, if Alice only had her face and form!"

Miss Irving gave a slight start, and took a step back as her eyesfell upon the Baroness. The rector's card had read, "Introducing MrsSylvester Lawrence. " She had known this lad by sight ever since herfirst Sunday as organist at St Blank's, and for some unaccountablereason she had conceived a most intense dislike for her. Joy wasdrawn toward humanity in general, as naturally as the sunlight fallson the earth's foliage. Her heart radiated love and sympathy towardthe whole world. But when she did feel a sentiment of distrust orrepulsion she had learned to respect it. 

Our guardian angels sometimes send these feelings as danger signalsto our souls. 

It therefore required a strong effort of her will to go forward andextend a hand in greeting to the lady whom her rector and friend hadintroduced. 

"I must beg pardon for this intrusion, " the Baroness said with hersweetest smile; "but our rector urged me to come and so I feltemboldened to carry out the wish I have long entertained to make youracquaintance. Your wonderful music inspires all who hear you to knowyou personally; the service lacked half its charm on Sunday becauseyou were absent. When I learnt that your absence was occasioned byyour mother's illness, I asked the rector if he thought a call fromme would be an intrusion, and he assured me to the contrary. I usedto be considered an excellent nurse; I am very strong, and full ofvitality, and if you would permit me to sit by your mother someSunday when you are needed at church, I should be most happy to doso. I should like to make the acquaintance of your mother, andcompliment her on the happiness of possessing such a gifted anddutiful daughter. "

Like all who sat for any time under the spell of the second MrsLawrence, Joy felt the charm of her voice, words and manner, and itbegan to seem as if she had been very unreasonable in entertainingunfounded prejudices. 

That the rector had introduced her was alone proof of her worthiness;and the gracious offer of the distinguished-looking lady to watch bythe bedside of a stranger was certainly evidence of her good heart. The frost disappeared from her smile, and she warmed toward theBaroness. The call lengthened into a visit, and as the Baronessfinally rose to go, Joy said:

"I will take you in and introduce you to mamma now. I think it willdo her good to meet you, " and the Baroness followed the graceful girlthrough a narrow hall, and into a room which had evidently beenintended for a dining-room, but which, owing to its size and itswindows opening to the south, had been utilised as a sick chamber. 

The invalid lay with her face turned away from the door. But by themovement of the delicate hand on the counterpane, Joy knew that hermother was awake. 

"Mamma, I have brought a lady, a friend of Dr Stuart's, to see you, "Joy said gently. The invalid turned her head upon the pillow, andthe Baroness looked upon the face of--Berene Dumont. 

"Berene!"

"Madam!"

The two spoke simultaneously, and the invalid had started upright inbed. 

"Mamma, what is the matter? Oh, please lie down, or you will bringon another haemorrhage, " cried the startled girl; but her motherlifted her hand. 

"Joy, " she said in a firm, clear voice, "this lady is an oldacquaintance of mine. Please go out, dear, and shut the door. Iwish to see her alone. "

Joy passed out with drooping head and a sinking heart. As the doorclosed behind her the Baroness spoke. 

"So that is Preston Cheney's daughter, " she said. "I always had mysuspicions of the cause which led you to leave my house so suddenly. Does the girl know who her father is? And does Senator Cheney knowof her existence, may I ask?"

A crimson flush suffused the invalid's face. Then a flame of fireshot into the dark eyes, and a small red spot only glowed on eitherpale cheek. 

"I do not know by what right you ask these questions, BaronessBrown, " she answered slowly; and her listener cringed under the oldappellation which recalled the miserable days when she had kept alodging-house--days she had almost forgotten during the last decadeof life. 

"But I can assure you, madam, " continued the speaker, "that mydaughter knows no father save the good man, my husband, who is dead. I have never by word or line made my existence known to anyone I everknew since I left Beryngford. I do not know why you should come hereto insult me, madam; I have never harmed you or yours, and you haveno proof of the accusation you just made, save your own evilsuspicions. "

The Baroness gave an unpleasant laugh. 

"It is an easy matter for me to find proof of my suspicions if Ichoose to take the trouble, " she said. "There are detectives enoughto hunt up your trail, and I have money enough to pay them for theirtrouble. But Joy is the living evidence of the assertion. She isthe image of Preston Cheney, as he was twenty-three years ago. I amready, however, to let the matter drop on one condition; and thatcondition is, that you extract a promise from your daughter that shewill not encourage the attentions of Arthur Emerson Stuart, therector of St Blank's; that she will never under any circumstances behis wife. "

The red spots faded to a sickly yellow in the invalid's cheeks. "Whyshould you ask this of me?" she cried. "Why should you wish todestroy the happiness of my child's life? She loves Arthur Stuart, and I know that he loves her! It is the one thought which resigns meto death; the thought that I may leave her the beloved wife of thisgood man. "

The Baroness leaned lower over the pillow of the invalid as sheanswered: "I will tell you why I ask this sacrifice of you. "

"Perhaps you do not know that I married Judge Lawrence after thedeath of his first wife. Perhaps you do not know that PrestonCheney's legitimate daughter is as precious to me as his illegitimatechild is to you. Alice is only six months younger than Joy; she isfrail, delicate, sensitive. A severe disappointment would kill her. She, too, loves Arthur Stuart. If your daughter will let him alone, he will marry Alice. Surely the illegitimate child should give wayto the legitimate. 

"If you are selfish in this matter, I shall be obliged to tell yourdaughter the true story of her life, and let her be the judge of whatis right and what is wrong. I fancy she might have a finerperception of duty than you have--she is so much like her father. "

The tortured invalid fell back panting on her pillow. She put outher hands with a distracted, imploring gesture. 

"Leave me to think, " she gasped. "I never knew that Preston Cheneyhad a daughter; I did not know he lived here. My life has been soquiet, so secluded these many years. Leave me to think. I will giveyou my answer in a few days; I will write you after I reflect andpray. "

The Baroness passed out, and Joy, hastening into the room, found hermother in a wild paroxysm of tears. Late that night Mrs Irvingcalled for writing materials; and for many hours she sat propped upin bed writing rapidly. 

When she had completed her task she called Joy to her side. 

"Darling, " she said, placing a sealed manuscript in her hands, "Iwant you to keep this seal unbroken so long as you are happy. I knowin spite of your deep sorrow at my death, which must come ere long, you will find much happiness in life. You came smiling intoexistence, and no common sorrow can deprive you of the joy which isyour birthright. But there are numerous people in the world who maystrive to wound you after I am gone. If slanderous tales or cruelreports reach your ears, and render you unhappy, break this seal, andread the story I have written here. There are some things which willdeeply pain you, I know. Do not force yourself to read them until anecessity arises. I leave you this manuscript as I might leave you aweapon for self-defence. Use it only when you are in need of thatdefence. "

The next morning Mrs Irving was weakened by another and most serioushaemorrhage of the lungs. Her physician was grave, and urged thedaughter to be prepared for the worst. 

"I fear your mother's life is a matter of days only, " he said. 

CHAPTER XIV

The Baroness went directly from the home which she had entered onlyto blight, and sent her card marked "urgent" to Mrs Stuart. 

"I have come to tell you an unpleasant story, " she said--"a painfuland revolting story, the early chapters of which were written yearsago, but the sequel has only just been made known to me. It concernsyou and yours vitally; it also concerns me and mine. I am sure, whenyou have heard the story to the end, you will say that truth isstranger than fiction, indeed: and you will more than ever realisethe necessity of preventing your son from marrying Joy Irving--achild who was born before her mother ever met Mr Irving; and whosemother, I daresay, was no more the actual wife of Mr Irving in thename of law and decency than she had been the wife of his manypredecessors. "

Startled and horrified at this beginning of the story, Mrs Stuart wasin a state of excited indignation at the end. The Baroness hadmagnified facts and distorted truths until she represented BereneDumont as a monster of depravity; a vicious being who had been for ashort time the recipient of the Baroness's mistaken charity, and whohad repaid kindness by base ingratitude, and immorality. The manimplicated in the scandal which she claimed was the cause of Berene'sflight was not named in this recital. 

Indeed the Baroness claimed that he was more sinned against thansinning, and that it was a case of mesmeric influence, or evil eye, on the part of the depraved woman. 

Mrs Lawrence took pains to avoid any reference to Beryngford also;speaking of these occurrences having taken place while she spent asummer in a distant interior town, where, "after the death of theBaron, she had rented a villa, feeling that she wanted to retire fromthe world. "

"My heart is always running away with my head, " she remarked, "and Ithought this poor creature, who was shunned and neglected by all, worth saving. I tried to befriend her, and hoped to waken the betternature which every woman possesses, I think, but she was too far gonein iniquity. 

"You cannot imagine, my dear Mrs Stuart, what a shock it was to me onentering that sickroom to-day, my heart full of kindly sympathy, toencounter in the invalid the ungrateful recipient of my past favours;and to realise that her daughter was no other than the shamefuloffspring of her immoral past. In spite of the girl's beauty, thereis an expression about her face which I never liked; and I fullyunderstand now why I did not like it. Of course, Mrs Stuart, thisstory is told to you in strict confidence. I would not for the worldhave dear Mrs Cheney know of it, nor would I pollute sweet Alice withsuch a tale. Indeed, Alice would not understand it if she were told, for she is as ignorant and innocent as a child in arms of suchmatters. We have kept her absolutely unspotted from the world. ButI knew it was my duty to tell you the whole shameful story. If worstcomes to worst, you will be obliged to tell your son perhaps, and ifhe doubts the story send him to me for its verification. "

Worst came to the worst before twenty-four hours had passed. Therector received word that Mrs Irving was rapidly failing, and went toact the part of spiritual counsellor to the invalid, and sympatheticfriend to the suffering girl. 

When he returned his mother watched his face with eager, anxiouseyes. He looked haggard and ill, as if he had passed through asevere ordeal. He could talk of nothing but the beautiful and bravegirl, who was about to lose her one worshipped companion, and who eremany hours passed would stand utterly alone in the world. 

"I never saw you so affected before by the troubles and sorrows ofyour parishioners, " Mrs Stuart said. "I wonder, Arthur, why you takethe sorrows of this family so keenly to heart. "

The young rector looked his mother full in the face with calm, sadeyes. Then he said slowly:

"I suppose, mother, it is because I love Joy Irving with all myheart. You must have suspected this for some time. I know that youhave, and that the thought has pained you. You have had other andmore ambitious aims for me. Earnest Christian and good woman thatyou are, you have a worldly and conventional vein in your nature, which makes you reverence position, wealth and family to a markeddegree. You would, I know, like to see me unite myself with someroyal family, were that possible; failing in that, you would choosethe daughter of some great and aristocratic house to be my bride. Ah, well, dear mother, you will, I know, concede that marriagewithout love is unholy. I am not able to force myself to love somegreat lady, even supposing I could win her if I did love her. "

"But you might keep yourself from forming a foolish and unworthyattachment, " Mrs Stuart interrupted. "With your will-power, yourbrain, your reasoning faculties, I see no necessity for your allowinga pretty face to run away with your heart. Nothing could be moreunsuitable, more shocking, more dreadful, than to have you make thatgirl your wife, Arthur. "

Mrs Stuart's voice rose as she spoke, from a quiet reasoning tone toa high, excited wail. She had not meant to say so much. She hadintended merely to appeal to her son's affection for her, withoutmaking any unpleasant disclosures regarding Joy's mother; she thoughtmerely to win a promise from him that he would not compromise himselfat present with the girl, through an excess of sympathy. But alreadyshe had said enough to arouse the young man into a defender of thegirl he loved. 

"I think your language quite too strong, mother, " he said, with areproving tone in his voice. "Miss Irving is good, gifted, amiable, beautiful, beside being young and full of health. I am sure therecould be nothing shocking or dreadful in any man's uniting hisdestiny with such a being, in case he was fortunate enough to winher. The fact that she is poor, and not of illustrious lineage, isbut a very worldly consideration. Mr Irving was a most intelligentand excellent man, even if he was a grocer. The American idea ofaristocracy is grotesquely absurd at the best. A man may spend histime and strength in buying and selling things wherewith to clothethe body, and, if he succeeds, his children are admitted to theintimacy of princes; but no success can open that door to thechildren of a man who trades in food, wherewith to sustain the body. We can none of us afford to put on airs here in America, withbutchers and Dutch peasant traders only three or four generationsback of our 'best families. ' As for me, mother, remember my lovedfather was a broker. That would damn him in the eyes of some people, you know, cultured gentleman as he was. "

Mrs Stuart sat very still, breathing hard and trying to gain controlof herself for some moments after her son ceased speaking. He, too, had said more than he intended, and he was sorry that he had hurt hismother's feelings as he saw her evident agitation. But as he rose togo forward and beg her pardon, she spoke. 

"The person of whom we were speaking has nothing whatever to do withMr Irving, " she said. "Joy Irving was born before her mother wasmarried. Mrs Irving has a most infamous past, and I would rather seeyou dead than the husband of her child. You certainly would not wantyour children to inherit the propensities of such a grandmother? Andremember the curse descends to the third and fourth generations. Ifyou doubt my words, go to the Baroness. She knows the whole story, but has revealed it to no one but me. "

Mrs Stuart left the room, closing the door behind her as she went. She did not want to be obliged to go over the details of the storywhich she had heard; she had made her statement, one which she knewmust startle and horrify her son, with his high ideals of womanlypurity, and she left him to review the situation in silence. It wasseveral hours before the rector left his room. 

When he did, he went, not to the Baroness, but directly to MrsIrving. They were alone for more than an hour. When he emerged fromthe room, his face was as white as death, and he did not look at Joyas she accompanied him to the door. 

Two days later Mrs Irving died. 

CHAPTER XV

The congregation of St Blank's Church was rendered sad and solicitousby learning that its rector was on the eve of nervous prostration, and that his physician had ordered a change of air. He went away incompany with his mother for a vacation of three months. The dayafter his departure Joy Irving received a letter from him which readas follows:-

"My Dear Miss Irving, --You may not in your deep grief have given me athought. If such a thought has been granted one so unworthy, it musthave taken the form of surprise that your rector and friend has madeno call of condolence since death entered your household. I want towrite one little word to you, asking you to be lenient in yourjudgment of me. I am ill in body and mind. I feel that I am on theeve of some distressing malady. I am not able to reason clearly, orto judge what is right and what is wrong. I am as one tossed betweenthe laws of God and the laws made by men, and bruised in heart and insoul. I dare not see you or speak to you while I am in this state ofmind. I fear for what I may say or do. I have not slept since Ilast saw you. I must go away and gain strength and equilibrium. When I return I shall hope to be master of myself. Until then, adieu. "ARTHUR EMERSON STUART. "

These wild and incoherent phrases stirred the young girl's heart withintense pain and anxiety. She had known for almost a year that sheloved the young rector; she had believed that he cared for her, andwithout allowing herself to form any definite thoughts of the future, she had lived in a blissful consciousness of loving and being loved, which is to the fulfilment of a love dream, like inhaling the perfumeof a rose, compared to the gathered flower and its attending thorns. 

The young clergyman's absence at the time of her greatest need hadcaused her both wonder and pain. His letter but increased bothsentiments without explaining the cause. 

It increased, too, her love for him, for whenever over-anxiety isaroused for one dear to us, our love is augmented. 

She felt that the young man was in some great trouble, unknown toher, and she longed to be able to comfort him. Into the maiden'stender and ardent affection stole the wifely wish to console and themotherly impulse to protect her dear one from pain, which are strongelements in every real woman's love. 

Mrs Irving had died without writing one word to the Baroness; andthat personage was in a state of constant excitement until she heardof the rector's plans for rest and travel. Mrs Stuart informed herof the conversation which had taken place between herself and herson; and of his evident distress of mind, which had reacted on hisbody and made it necessary for him to give up mental work for aseason. 

"I feel that I owe you a debt of gratitude, dear Baroness, " MrsStuart had said. "Sad as this condition of things is, imagine howmuch worse it would be, had my son, through an excess of sympathy forthat girl at this time, compromised himself with her before welearned the terrible truth regarding her birth. I feel sure my sonwill regain his health after a few months' absence, and that he willnot jeopardise my happiness and his future by any further thoughts ofthis unfortunate girl, who in the meantime may not be here when wereturn. "

The Baroness made a mental resolve that the girl should not be there. 

While the rector's illness and proposed absence was sufficientevidence that he had resolved upon sacrificing his love for Joy onthe altar of duty to his mother and his calling, yet the Baronessfelt that danger lurked in the air while Miss Irving occupied herpresent position. No sooner had Mrs Stuart and her son left thecity, than the Baroness sent an anonymous letter to the youngorganist. It read:

"I do not know whether your mother imparted the secret of her pastlife to you before she died, but as that secret is known to severalpeople, it seems cruelly unjust that you are kept in ignorance of it. You are not Mr Irving's child. You were born before your mothermarried. While it is not your fault, only your misfortune, it wouldbe wise for you to go where the facts are not so well known as in thecongregation of St Blank's. There are people in that congregationwho consider you guilty of a wilful deception in wearing the name youdo, and of an affront to good taste in accepting the position youoccupy. Many people talk of leaving the church on your account. Your gifts as a musician would win you a position elsewhere, and as Ilearn that your mother's life was insured for a considerable sum, Iam sure you are able to seek new fields where you can bide yourdisgrace. 

"A WELL-WISHER. "

Quivering with pain and terror, the young girl cast the letter intothe fire, thinking that it was the work of one of those half-crazedbeings whose mania takes the form of anonymous letters to unoffendingpeople. Only recently such a person had been brought into the courtsfor this offence. It occurred to her also that it might be the workof someone who wished to obtain her position as organist of StBlank's. Musicians, she knew, were said to be the most jealous ofall people, and while she had never suffered from them before, itmight be that her time had now come to experience the misfortunes ofher profession. 

Tender-hearted and kindly in feeling to all humanity, she felt asickening sense of sorrow and fear at the thought that there existedsuch a secret enemy for her anywhere in the world. 

She went out upon the street, and for the first time in her life sheexperienced a sense of suspicion and distrust toward the people shemet; for the first time in her life, she realised that the world wasnot all kind and ready to give her back the honest friendship and thesweet good-will which filled her heart for all her kind. Strive asshe would, she could not cast off the depression caused by this vileletter. It was her first experience of this cowardly and despicablephase of human malice, and she felt wounded in soul as by a poisonedarrow shot in the dark. And then, suddenly, there came to her thememory of her mother's words--"If unhappiness ever comes to you, readthis letter. "

Surely this was the time she needed to read that letter. That itcontained some secret of her mother's life she felt sure, and she wasequally sure that it contained nothing that would cause her to blushfor that beloved mother. 

"Whatever the manuscript may have to reveal to me, " she said, "it istime that I should know. " She took the package from the hidingplace, and broke the seal. Slowly she read it to the end, as ifanxious to make no error in understanding every phase of the longstory it related. Beginning with the marriage of her mother to theFrench professor, Berene gave a detailed account of her own sad andtroubled life, and the shadow which the father's appetite for drugscast over her whole youth. "They say, " she wrote, "that there is nopersonal devil in existence. I think this is true; he has taken theform of drugs and spirituous liquors, and so his work of devastationgoes on. " Then followed the story of the sacrilegious marriage tosave her father from suicide, of her early widowhood; and the profferof the Baroness to give her a home. Of her life of servitude there, her yearning for an education, and her meeting with "Apollo, " as shedesignated Preston Cheney. "For truly he was like the glory of therising day to me, the first to give me hope, courage and unselfishaid. I loved him, I worshipped him. He loved me, but he strove tocrush and kill this love because he had worked out an ambitiouscareer for himself. To extricate himself from many difficulties andembarrassments, and to further his ambitious dreams, he betrothedhimself to the daughter of a rich and powerful man. He made noprofession of love, and she asked none. She was incapable of givingor inspiring that holy passion. She only asked to be married. 

"I only asked to be loved. Knowing nothing of the terrible conflictin his breast, knowing nothing of his new-made ties, I was wounded tothe soul by his speaking unkindly to me--words he forced himself tospeak to hide his real feelings. And then it was that a strange fatecaused him to find me fainting, suffering, and praying for death. The love in both hearts could no longer be restrained. Augmented byits long control, sharpened by the agony we had both suffered, overwhelmed by the surprise of the meeting, we lost reason andprudence. Everything was forgotten save our love. When it was toolate I foresaw the anguish and sorrow I must bring into this man'slife. I fear it was this thought rather than repentance for sinwhich troubled me. Well may you ask why I did not think of all thisbefore instead of after the error was committed. Why did not Everealise the consequences of the fall until she had eaten of theapple? Only afterward did I learn of the unholy ties which my loverhad formed that very day--ties which he swore to me should be brokenere another day passed, to render him free to make me his wife in theeyes of men, as I already was in the sight of God. 

"Yet a strange and sudden resolve came to me as I listened to him. Far beyond the thought of my own ruin, rose the consciousness of theruin I should bring upon his life by allowing him to carry out hisdesign. To be his wife, his helpmate, chosen from the whole world asone he deemed most worthy and most able to cheer and aid him inlife's battle--that seemed heaven to me; but to know that by onerash, impetuous act of folly, I had placed him in a position where hefelt that honour compelled him to marry me--why, this thought wasmore bitter than death. I knew that he loved me; yet I knew, too, that by a union with me under the circumstances he would antagonisethose who were now his best and most influential friends, and thathis entire career would be ruined. I resolved to go away; todisappear from his life and leave no trace. If his love was assincere as mine, he would find me; and time would show him some wiserway for breaking his new-made fetters than the rash and sudden methodhe now contemplated. He had forgotten to protect me with his love, but I could not forget to protect him. In every true woman's lovethere is the maternal element which renders sacrifice natural. 

"Fate hastened and furthered my plans for departure. Made aware thatthe Baroness was suspicious of my fault, and learning that my loverwas suddenly called to the bedside of his fiancee, I made my escapefrom the town and left no trace behind. I went to that vast haystackof lost needles--New York, and effaced Berene Dumont in Mrs Lamont. The money left from my father's belongings I resolved to use incultivating my voice. I advertised for embroidery and fine sewingalso, and as I was an expert with the needle, I was able to supportmyself and lay aside a little sum each week. I trimmed hats at asmall price, and added to my income in various manners, owing to myFrench taste and my deft fingers. 

"I was desolate, sad, lonely, but not despairing. What woman candespair when she knows herself loved? To me that consciousness was afar greater source of happiness than would have been the knowledgethat I was an empress, or the wife of a millionaire, envied by thewhole world. I believed my lover would find me in time, that weshould be reunited. I believed this until I saw the announcement ofhis marriage in the press, and read that he and his bride had sailedfor an extended foreign tour; but with this stunning news, there cameto me the strange, sweet, startling consciousness that you, mydarling child, were coming to console me. 

"I know that under the circumstances I ought to have been borne downto the earth with a guilty shame; I ought to have considered you as apunishment for my sin--and walked in the valley of humiliation anddespair. 

"But I did not. I lived in a state of mental exaltation; everythought was a prayer, every emotion was linked with religiousfervour. I was no longer alone or friendless, for I had you. I sangas I had never sung, and one theatrical manager, who happened to callupon my teacher during my lesson hour, offered me a position at agood salary at once if I would accept. 

"I could not accept, of course, knowing what the coming months wereto bring to me, but I took his card and promised to write him when Iwas ready to take a position. You came into life in the depressingatmosphere of a city hospital, my dear child, yet even there I wasnot depressed, and your face wore a smile of joy the first time Igazed upon it. So I named you Joy--and well have you worn the name. My first sorrow was in being obliged to leave you; for I had to leaveyou with those human angels, the sweet sisters of charity, while Iwent forth to make a home for you. My voice, as is sometimes thecase, was richer, stronger and of greater compass after I had passedthrough maternity. I accepted a position with a travellingtheatrical company, where I was to sing a solo in one act. Mysuccess was not phenomenal, but it WAS success nevertheless. Ifollowed this life for three years, seeing you only at intervals. Then the consciousness came to me that without long and profoundstudy I could never achieve more than a third-rate success in myprofession. 

"I had dreamed of becoming a great singer; but I learned that a voicealone does not make a great singer. I needed years of study, andthis would necessitate the expenditure of large sums of money. I hadgrown heart-sick and disgusted with the annoyances and vulgarity Iwas subjected to in my position. When you were four years old a goodman offered me a good home as his wife. It was the first honest loveI had encountered, while scores of men had made a pretence of lovingme during these years. 

"I was hungering for a home where I could claim you and have the joyof your daily companionship instead of brief glimpses of you at theintervals of months. My voice, never properly trained, was beginningto break. I resolved to put Mr Irving to a test; I would tell himthe true story of your birth, and if he still wished me to be hiswife, I would marry him. 

"I carried out my resolve, and we were married the day after he hadheard my story. I lived a peaceful and even happy life with MrIrving. He was devoted to you, and never by look, word or act, seemed to remember my past. I, too, at times almost forgot it, sostrange a thing is the human heart under the influence of time. Imagine, then, the shock of remembrance and the tidal wave ofmemories which swept over me when in the lady you brought to callupon me I recognised--the Baroness. 

"It is because she threatened to tell you that you were not born inwedlock that I leave this manuscript for you. It is but a few weekssince you told me the story of Marah Adams, and assured me that youthought her mother did right in confessing the truth to her daughter. Little did you dream with what painful interest I listened to yourviews on that subject. Little did I dream that I should so soon becalled upon to act upon them. 

"But the time is now come, and I want no strange hand to deal you ablow in the dark; if any part of the story comes to you, I want youto know the whole truth. You will wonder why I have not told you thename of your father. It is strange, but from the hour I knew of hismarriage, and of your dawning life, I have felt a jealous fear lesthe should ever take you from me; even after I am gone, I would nothave him know of your existence and be unable to claim you openly. Any acquaintance between you could only result in sorrow. 

"I have never blamed him for my past weakness, however I have blamedhim for his unholy marriage. Our fault was mutual. I was noignorant child; while young in years, I had sufficient knowledge ofhuman nature to protect myself had I used my will-power and myreason. Like many another woman, I used neither; unlike themajority, I did not repent my sin or its consequences. I have everbelieved you to be a more divinely born being than any children whomay have resulted from my lover's unholy marriage. I die strong inthe belief. God bless you, my dear child, and farewell. "

Joy sat silent and pale like one in a trance for a long time aftershe had finished reading. Then she said aloud, "So I am another likeMarah Adams; it was this knowledge which caused the rector to writeme that strange letter. It was this knowledge which sent him awaywithout coming to say one word of adieu. The woman who sent me themessage, sent it to him also. Well, I can be as brave as my motherwas. I, too, can disappear. "

She arose and began silently and rapidly to make preparations for ajourney. She felt a nervous haste to get away from something--fromall things. Everything stable in the world seemed to have slippedfrom her hold in the last few days. Home, mother, love, and now hopeand pride were gone too. She worked for more than two hours withoutgiving vent to even a sigh. Then suddenly she buried her face in herhands and sobbed aloud: "Oh, mother, mother, you were not ashamed, but I am ashamed for you! Why was I ever born? God forgive me forthe sinful thought, but I wish you had lied to me in place of tellingme the truth. "

CHAPTER XVI

Just as Mrs Irving had written her story for her daughter to read, she told it, in the main, to the rector a few days before her death. 

Only once before had the tale passed her lips; then her listener wasHorace Irving; and his only comment was to take her in his arms andplace the kiss of betrothal on her lips. Never again was the painfulsubject referred to between them. So imbued had Berene Dumont becomewith her belief in the legitimacy of her child, and in her ownpurity, that she felt but little surprise at the calm manner in whichMr Irving received her story, and now when the rector of St Blank'sChurch was her listener, she expected the same broad judgment to begiven her. But it was the calmness of a great and all-forgiving lovewhich actuated Mr Irving, and overcame all other feelings. 

Wholly unconventional in nature, caring nothing and knowing little ofthe extreme ideas of orthodox society on these subjects, the girlBerene and the woman Mrs Irving had lived a life so wholly secludedfrom the world at large, so absolutely devoid of intimatefriendships, so absorbed in her own ideals, that she was incapable ofunderstanding the conventional opinion regarding a woman with ahistory like hers. 

In all those years she had never once felt a sensation of shame. MrIrving had requested her to rear Joy in the belief that she was hischild. As the matter could in no way concern anyone else, MrsIrving's lips had remained sealed on the subject; but not with anyidea of concealing a disgrace. She could not associate disgrace withher love for Preston Cheney. She believed herself to be hisspiritual widow, as it were. His mortal clay and legal name onlybelonged to his wife. 

Mr Irving had met Berene on a railroad train, and had conceived oneof those sudden and intense passions with which a woman with a pastoften inspires an innocent and unworldly young man. He was sincerelyand truly religious by nature, and as spotless as a maiden in mindand body. 

When he had dreamed of a wife, it was always of some shy, innocentgirl whom he should woo almost from her mother's arms; some gentle, pious maid, carefully reared, who would help him to establish theChristian household of his imagination. He had thought that lovewould first come to him as admiring respect, then tender friendship, then love for some such maiden; instead it had swooped down upon himin the form of an intense passion for an absolute stranger--a womantravelling with a theatrical company. He was like a sleeper whoawakens suddenly and finds a scorching midday sun beating upon hiseyes. A wrecked freight train upon the track detained for severalhours the car in which they travelled. The passengers waivedceremony and conversed to pass the time, and Mr Irving learntBerene's name, occupation and destination. He followed her for aweek, and at the end of that time asked her hand in marriage. 

Even after he had heard the story of her life, he was not deterredfrom his resolve to make her his wife. All the Christian charity ofhis nature, all its chivalry was aroused, and he believed he wasplucking a brand from the burning. He never repented his act. Helived wholly for his wife and child, and for the good he could dowith them as his faithful allies. He drew more and more away fromall the allurements of the world, and strove to rear Joy in what hebelieved to be a purely Christian life, and to make his wife forget, if possible, that she had ever known a sorrow. All of sinceregratitude, tenderness, and gentle affection possible for her to feel, Berene bestowed upon her husband during his life, and gave to hismemory after he was gone. 

Joy had been excessively fond of Mr Irving, and it was the dread ofcausing her a deep sorrow in the knowledge that she was not hischild, and the fear that Preston Cheney would in any way interferewith her possession of Joy, which had distressed the mother duringthe visit of the Baroness, rather than unwillingness to have her sinrevealed to her daughter. Added to this, the intrusion of theBaroness into this long hidden and sacred experience seemed asacrilege from which she shrank with horror. But she now told thetale to Arthur Stuart frankly and fearlessly. 

He had asked her to confide to him whatever secret existed regardingJoy's birth. 

"There is a rumour afloat, " he said, "that Joy is not Mr Irving'schild. I love your daughter, Mrs Irving, and I feel it is my rightto know all the circumstances of her life. I believe the story whichwas told my mother to be the invention of some enemy who is jealousof Joy's beauty and talents, and I would like to be in a position tosilence these slanders. "

So Mrs Irving told the story to the end; and having told it, she feltrelieved and happy in the thought that it was imparted to the onlytwo people whom it could concern in the future. 

No disturbing fear came to her that the rector would hesitate to makeJoy his wife. To Berene Dumont, love was the law. If love existedbetween two souls she could not understand why any convention ofsociety should stand in the way of its fulfilment. 

Arthur Stuart in his role of spiritual confessor and consoler hadnever before encountered such a phase of human nature. He hadlistened to many a tale of sin and folly from women's lips, butalways had the sinner bemoaned her sin, and bitterly repented herweakness. Here instead was what the world would consider a fallenwoman, who on her deathbed regarded her weakness as her strength, hershame as her glory, and who seemed to expect him to take the sameview of the matter. When he attempted to urge her to repent, thewords stuck in his throat. He left the deathbed of the unfortunatesinner without having expressed one of the conflicting emotions whichfilled his heart. But he left it with such a weight on his soul, such distress on his mind that death seemed to him the only way ofescape from a life of torment. 

His love for Joy Irving was not killed by the story he had heard. But it had received a terrible shock, and the thought of making herhis wife with the probability that the Baroness would spread thescandal broadcast, and that his marriage would break his mother'sheart, tortured him. Added to this were his theories on heredity, and the fear that there might, nay, must be, some dangerous tendencyhidden in the daughter of a mother who had so erred, and who in dyingshowed no comprehension of the enormity of her sin. Had Mrs Irvingbewailed her fall, and represented herself as the victim of a wilyvillain, the rector would not have felt so great a fear of thedaughter's inheritance. A frail, repentant woman he could pity andforgive, but it seemed to him that Mrs Irving was utterly lacking inmoral nature. She was spiritually blind. The thought tortured him. To leave Joy at this time without calling to see her seemed base andcowardly; yet he dared not trust himself in her presence. So he senther the strangely worded letter, and went away hoping to be shown thepath of duty before he returned. 

At the end of three months he came home stronger in body and mind. He had resolved to compromise with fate; to continue his calls uponJoy Irving; to be her friend and rector only, until by the passage oftime, and the changes which occur so rapidly in every society, thescandal in regard to her birth had been forgotten. And until bypatience and tenderness, he won his mother's consent to the union. He felt that all this must come about as he desired, if he did notaggravate his mother's feeling or defy public opinion by tooprecipitate methods. 

He could not wholly give up all thoughts of Joy Irving. She hadgrown to be a part of his hopes and dreams of the future, as she wasa part of the reality of his present. But she was very young; hecould afford to wait, and while he waited to study the girl'scharacter, and if he saw any budding shoot which bespoke the maternaltree, to prune and train it to his own liking. For the sake of hisunborn children he felt it his duty to carefully study any woman hethought to make his wife. 

But when he reached home, the surprising intelligence awaited himthat Miss Irving had left the metropolis. A brief note to the churchauthorities, resigning her position, and saying that she was about toleave the city, was all that anyone knew of her. 

The rector instituted a quiet search, but only succeeded in learningthat she had conducted her preparations for departure with thegreatest secrecy, and that to no one had she imparted her plans. 

Whenever a young woman shrouds her actions in the garments ofsecrecy, she invites suspicion. The people who love to suspect theirfellow-beings of wrong-doing were not absent on this occasion. 

The rector was hurt and wounded by all this, and while he resentedthe intimation from another that Miss Irving's conduct had beenpeculiar and mysterious, he felt it to be so in his own heart. 

"Is it her mother's tendency to adventure developing in her?" heasked himself. 

Yet he wrote her a letter, directing it to her at the old number, thinking she would at least leave her address with the post-officefor the forwarding of mail. The letter was returned to him from thatcemetery of many a dear hope, the dead-letter office. A personal ina leading paper failed to elicit a reply. And then one day sixmonths after the disappearance of Joy Irving, the young rector wascalled to the Cheney household to offer spiritual consolation to MissAlice, who believed herself to be dying. She had been in a declineever since the rector went away for his health. 

Since his return she had seen him but seldom, rarely save in thepulpit, and for the last six weeks she had been too ill to attenddivine service. 

It was Preston Cheney himself, at home upon one of his periodicalvisits, who sent for the rector, and gravely met him at the door whenhe arrived, and escorted him into his study. 

"I am very anxious about my daughter, " he said. "She has been anervous child always, and over-sensitive. I returned yesterday afteran absence of some three months in California, to find Alice in bed, wasted to a shadow, and constantly weeping. I cannot win herconfidence--she has never confided to me. Perhaps it is my fault;perhaps I have not been at home enough to make her realise that therelationship of father and daughter is a sacred one. This morningwhen I was urging her to tell me what grieved her, she remarked thatthere was but one person to whom she could communicate this sorrow--her rector. So, my dear Dr Stuart, I have sent for you. I willconduct you to my child, and I leave her in your hands. Whatevercomfort and consolation you can offer, I know will be given. I hopeshe will not bind you to secrecy; I hope you may be able to tell mewhat troubles her, and advise me how to help her. "

It was more than an hour before the rector returned to the librarywhere Preston Cheney awaited him. When the senator heard hisapproaching step, he looked up, and was startled to see the pallor onthe young man's face. "You have something sad, something terrible totell me!" he cried. "What is it?"

The rector walked across the room several times, breathing deeply, and with anguish written on his countenance. Then he took SenatorCheney's hand and wrung it. "I have an embarrassing announcement tomake to you, " he said. "It is something so surprising, sounexpected, that I am completely unnerved. "

"You alarm me, more and more, " the senator answered. "What can bethe secret which my frail child has imparted to you that should sodistress you? Speak; it is my right to know. "

The rector took another turn about the room, and then came and stoodfacing Senator Cheney. 

"Your daughter has conceived a strange passion for me, " he said in alow voice. "It is this which has caused her illness, and which shesays will cause her death, if I cannot return it. "

"And you?" asked his listener after a moment's silence. 

"I? Why, I have never thought of your daughter in any such manner, "the young man replied. "I have never dreamed of loving her, orwinning her love. "

"Then do not marry her, " Preston Cheney said quietly. "Marriagewithout love is unholy. Even to save life it is unpardonable. "

The rector was silent, and walked the room with nervous steps. "Imust go home and think it all out, " he said after a time. "PerhapsMiss Cheney will find her grief less, now that she has imparted it tome. I am alarmed at her condition, and I shall hope for an earlyreport from you regarding her. "

The report was made twelve hours later. Miss Cheney was delirious, and calling constantly for the rector. Her physician feared theworst. 

The rector came, and his presence at once soothed the girl'sdelirium. 

"History repeats itself, " said Preston Cheney meditatively tohimself. "Alice is drawing this man into the net by her alarmingphysical condition, as Mabel riveted the chains about me when hermother died. 

"But Alice really loves the rector, I think, and she is capable of amuch stronger passion than her mother ever felt; and the rector lovesno other woman at least, and so this marriage, if it takes place, will not be so wholly wicked and unholy as mine was. "

The marriage did take place three months later. Alice Cheney was notthe wife whom Mrs Stuart would have chosen for her son, yet she urgedhim to this step, glad to place a barrier for all time between himand Joy Irving, whose possible return at any day she constantlyfeared, and whose power over her son's heart she knew wasundiminished. 

Alice Cheney's family was of the best on both sides; there werewealth, station, and honour; and a step-grandmamma who could bereferred to on occasions as "The Baroness. " And there was noskeleton to be hidden or excused. 

And Arthur Stuart, believing that Alice Cheney's life and reasondepended upon his making her his wife, resolved to end the bitterstruggle with his own heart and with fate, and do what seemed to behis duty, toward the girl and toward his mother. When the weddingtook place, the saddest face at the ceremony, save that of the groom, was the face of the bride's father. But the bride was radiant, andMabel and the Baroness walked in clouds. 

CHAPTER XVII

Alice did not rally in health or spirits after her marriage, as herfamily, friends and physician had anticipated. She remained nervous, ailing and despondent. 

"Should maternity come to her, she would doubtless be very muchimproved in health afterward, " the doctor said, and Mabel, remembering how true a similar prediction proved in her case, despiteher rebellion against it, was not sorry when she knew that Alice wasto become a mother, scarcely a year after her marriage. 

But Alice grew more and more despondent as the months passed by; andafter the birth of her son, the young mother developed dementia ofthe most hopeless kind. The best specialists in two worlds wereemployed to bring her out of the state of settled melancholy intowhich she had fallen, but all to no avail. At the end of two years, her case was pronounced hopeless. Fortunately the child died at theage of six weeks, so the seed of insanity which in the first MrsLawrence was simply a case of "nerves, " growing into the planthysteria in Mabel, and yielding the deadly fruit of insanity inAlice, was allowed by a kind providence to become extinct in thefourth generation. 

This disaster to his only child caused a complete breaking down ofspirit and health in Preston Cheney. 

Like some great, strongly coupled car, which loses its grip and goesplunging down an incline to destruction, Preston Cheney's will-powerlost its hold on life, and he went down to the valley of death withfrightful speed. 

During the months which preceded his death, Senator Cheney's onlypleasure seemed to be in the companionship of his son-in-law. Thestrong attachment between the two men ripened with every day'sassociation. One day the rector was sitting by the invalid's couch, reading aloud, when Preston Cheney laid his hand on the young man'sarm and said: "Close your book and let me tell you a true storywhich is stranger than fiction. It is the story of an ambitious manand all the disasters which his realised ambition brought into thelives of others. It is a story whose details are known to but twobeings on earth, if indeed the other being still exists on earth. Ihave long wanted to tell you this story--indeed, I wanted to tell itto you before you made Alice your wife, yet the fear that I would bewrecking the life and reason of my child kept me silent. No doubt ifI had told you, and you had been influenced by my experience againsta loveless marriage, I should to-day be blaming myself for hercondition, which I see plainly now is but the culmination of threegenerations of hysterical women. But I want to tell you the storyand urge you to use it as a warning in your position of counsellorand friend of ambitious young men. 

"No matter what else a man may do for position, don't let him marry awoman he does not love, especially if he crucifies a vital passionfor another, in order to do this. " Then Preston Cheney told thestory of his life to his son-in-law; and as the tale proceeded, astrange interest which increased until it became violent excitement, took possession of the rector's brain and heart. The story was sofamiliar--so very familiar; and at length, when the name of BERENEDUMONT escaped the speaker's lips, Arthur Stuart clutched his handsand clenched his teeth to keep silent until the end of the storycame. 

"From the hour Berene disappeared, to this very day, no word ormessage ever came from her, " the invalid said. "I have never knownwhether she was dead or alive, married, or, terrible thought, perhapsdriven into a reckless life by her one false step with me. This lastfear has been a constant torture to me all these years. 

"The world is cruel in its judgment of woman. And yet I know that itis woman herself who has shaped the opinions of the world regardingthese matters. If men had had their way since the world began, therewould be no virtuous women. Woman has realised this fact, and shehas in consequence walled herself about with rules and conventionswhich have in a measure protected her from man. When any womanbreaks through these conventions and errs, she suffers the scorn ofothers who have kept these self-protecting and society-protectinglaws; and, conscious of their scorn, she believes all hope is lostfor ever. 

"The fear that Berene took this view of her one mistake, and plungedinto a desperate life, has embittered my whole existence. Neverbefore did a man suffer such a mental hell as I have endured for thisone act of sin and weakness. Yet the world, looking at my life ofsuccess, would say if it knew the story, 'Behold how the man goesfree. ' Free! Great God! there is no bondage so terrible as that ofthe mind. I have loved Berene Dumont with a changeless passion fortwenty-three years, and there has not been a day in all that timethat I have not during some hours endured the agonies of the damned, thinking of all the disasters and misery that might have come intoher life through me. Heaven knows I would have married her if shehad remained. Strange and intricate as the net was which the devilwove about me when I had furnished the cords, I could and would havebroken through it after that strange night--at once the heaven andthe hell of my memory--if Berene had remained. As it was--I marriedMabel, and you know what a farce, ending in a tragedy, our marriedlife has been. God grant that no worse woes befell Berene; God grantthat I may meet her in the spirit world and tell her how I loved herand longed for her companionship. "

The young rector's eyes were streaming with tears, as he reached overand clasped the sick man's hands in his. "You will meet her, " hesaid with a choked voice. "I heard this same story, but withoutnames, from Berene Dumont's dying lips more than two years ago. Andjust as Berene disappeared from you--so her daughter disappeared fromme; and, God help me, dear father--doubly now my father, I crushedout my great passion for the glorious natural child of your love, tomarry the loveless, wretched and UNNATURAL child of your marriage. "

The sick man started up on his couch, his eyes flaming, his cheeksglowing with sudden lustre. 

"My child--the natural child of Berene's love and mine, you say; oh, my God, speak and tell me what you mean; speak before I die of joy soterrible it is like anguish. "

So then it became the rector's turn to take the part of narrator. When the story was ended, Preston Cheney lay weeping like a woman onhis couch; the first tears he had shed since his mother died and lefthim an orphan of ten. 

"Berene living and dying almost within reach of my arms--almostwithin sound of my voice!" he cried. "Oh, why did I not find herbefore the grave closed between us?--and why did no voice speak fromthat grave to tell me when I held my daughter's hand in mine?--mybeautiful child, no wonder my heart went out to her with such a gushof tenderness; no wonder I was fired with unaccountable anger andindignation when Mabel and Alice spoke unkindly of her. Do youremember how her music stirred me? It was her mother's heartspeaking to mine through the genius of our child. 

"Arthur, you must find her--you must find her for me! If it takes mywhole fortune I must see my daughter, and clasp her in my arms beforeI die. "

But this happiness was not to be granted to the dying man. Overcomeby the excitement of this new emotion, he grew weaker and weaker asthe next few days passed, and at the end of the fifth day his spirittook its flight, let us hope to join its true mate. 

It had been one of his dying requests to have his body taken toBeryngford and placed beside that of Judge Lawrence. 

The funeral services took place in the new and imposing churchedifice which had been constructed recently in Beryngford. The quietinterior village had taken a leap forward during the last few years, and was now a thriving city, owing to the discovery of valuable stonequarries in its borders. 

The Baroness and Mabel had never been in Beryngford since the deathof Judge Lawrence many years before; and it was with sad and bitterhearts that both women recalled the past and realised anew thedisasters which had wrecked their dearest hopes and ambitions. 

The Baroness, broken in spirit and crushed by the insanity of herbeloved Alice, now saw the form of the man whom she had hopelesslyloved for so many years, laid away to crumble back to dust; and yet, the sorrows which should have softened her soul, and made her hearttender toward all suffering humanity, rendered her pitiless as thegrave toward one lonely and desolate being before the shadows ofnight had fallen upon the grave of Preston Cheney. 

When the funeral march pealed out from the grand new organ during theceremonies in the church, both the Baroness and the rector, absorbedas they were in mournful sorrow, started with surprise. Both gazedat the organ loft; and there, before the great instrument, sat thegraceful figure of Joy Irving. The rector's face grew pale as thecorpse in the casket; the withered cheek of the Baroness turned asickly yellow, and a spark of anger dried the moisture in her eyes. 

Before the night had settled over the thriving city of Beryngford, the Baroness dropped a point of virus from the lancet of her tongueto poison the social atmosphere where Joy Irving had by the merestaccident of fate made her new home, and where in the office oforganist she had, without dreaming of her dramatic situation, playedthe requiem at the funeral of her own father. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Joy Irving had come to Beryngford at the time when the discoveries ofthe quarries caused that village to spring into sudden prominence asa growing city. Newspaper accounts of the building of the newchurch, and the purchase of a large pipe organ, chanced to fall underher eye just as she was planning to leave the scene of herunhappiness. 

"I can at least only fail if I try for the position of organistthere, " she said, "and if I succeed in this interior town, I can hidemyself from all the world without incurring heavy expense. "

So all unconsciously Joy fled from the metropolis to the very placefrom which her mother had vanished twenty-two years before. 

She had been the organist in the grand new Episcopalian Church nowfor three years; and she had made many cordial acquaintances whowould have become near friends, if she had encouraged them. ButJoy's sweet and trustful nature had received a great shock in theknowledge of the shadow which hung about her birth. Where formerlyshe had expected love and appreciation from everyone she met, she nowshrank from forming new ties, lest new hurts should await her. 

She was like a flower in whose perfect heart a worm had coiled. Herentire feeling about life had undergone a change. For many weeksafter her self-imposed exile, she had been unable to think of hermother without a mingled sense of shame and resentment; the adoringlove she had borne this being seemed to die with her respect. Aftera time the bitterness of this sentiment wore away, and a pityingtenderness and sorrow took its place; but from her heart the twinangels, Love and Forgiveness, were absent. She read her mother'smanuscript over, and tried to argue herself into the philosophy whichhad sustained the author of her being through all these years. 

But her mind was shaped far more after the conventional pattern ofher paternal ancestors, who had been New England Puritans, and shecould not view the subject as Berene had viewed it. 

In spite of the ideality which her mother had woven about him, Joyentertained the most bitter contempt for the unknown man who was herfather, and the whole tide of her affections turned lavishly upon thememory of Mr Irving, whom she felt now more than ever so worthy ofher regard. 

Reason as she would on the supremacy of love over law, yet the bold, unpleasant fact remained that she was the child of an unweddedmother. She shrank in sensitive pain from having this story followher, and the very consciousness that her mother's experience had beenan exceptional one, caused her the greater dread of having it knownand talked of as a common vulgar liaison. 

There are two things regarding which the world at large never asksany questions--namely, How a rich man made his money, and how anerring woman came to fall. It is enough for the world to know thathe is rich--that fact alone opens all doors to him, as the fact thatthe woman has erred closes them to her. 

There was a common vulgar creature in Beryngford, whose many amoursand bold defiance of law and order rendered her name a synonym forindecency. This woman had begun her career in early girlhood as amercenary intriguer; and yet Joy Irving knew that the majority ofpeople would make small distinctions between the conduct of thiscreature and that of her mother, were the facts of Berene's life andher own birth to be made public. 

The fear that the story would follow her wherever she went became anabsolute dread with her, and caused her to live alone and withoutcompanions, in the midst of people who would gladly have become herwarm friends, had she permitted. 

Her book of "Impressions" reflected the changes which had taken placein the complexion of her mind during these years. Among its entrieswere the following:-

People talk about following a divine law of love, when they wish toexcuse their brute impulses and break social and civil codes. 

No love is sanctioned by God, which shatters human hearts. 

Fathers are only distantly related to their children; love for themale parent is a matter of education. 

The devil macadamises all his pavements. 

A natural child has no place in an unnatural world. 

When we cannot respect our parents, it is difficult to keep our idealof God. 

Love is a mushroom, and lust is its poisonous counterpart. 

It is a pity that people who despise civilisation should be souncivil as to stay in it. There is always darkest Africa. 

The extent of a man's gallantry depends on the goal. He follows thegood woman to the borders of Paradise and leaves her with a politebow; but he follows the bad woman to the depths of hell. 

It is easy to trust in God until he permits us to suffer. Thedentist seems a skilled benefactor to mankind when we look at hissign from the street. When we sit in his chair he seems a brute, armed with devil's implements. 

An anonymous letter is the bastard of a diseased mind. 

An envious woman is a spark from Purgatory. 

The consciousness that we have anything to hide from the worldstretches a veil between our souls and heaven. We cannot reach up tomeet the gaze of God, when we are afraid to meet the eyes of men. 

It may be all very well for two people to make their own laws, butthey have no right to force a third to live by them. 

Virtue is very secretive about her payments, but the whole worldhears of it when vice settles up. 

We have a sublime contempt for public opinion theoretically so longas it favours us. When it turns against us we suffer intensely fromthe loss of what we claimed to despise. 

When the fruit must apologise for the tree, we do not care to savethe seed. 

It is only when God and man have formed a syndicate and agreed upontheir laws, that marriage is a safe investment. 

The love that does not protect its object would better change itsname. 

When we say OF people what we would not say TO them, we are eitherliars or cowards. 

The enmity of some people is the greatest compliment they can pay us. 

It was in thoughts like these that Joy relieved her heart of some ofthe bitterness and sorrow which weighed upon it. And day after dayshe bore about with her the dread of having the story of her mother'ssin known in her new home. 

As our fears, like our wishes, when strong and unremitting, prove tobe magnets, the result of Joy's despondent fears came in the scandalwhich the Baroness had planted and left to flourish and grow inBeryngford after her departure. An hour before the services began, on the day of Preston Cheney's burial, Joy learned at whose rites shewas to officiate as organist. A pang of mingled emotions shotthrough her heart at the sound of his name. She had seen this manbut a few times, and spoken with him but once; yet he had left astrong impression upon her memory. She had felt drawn to him by hissympathetic face and atmosphere, the sorrow of his kind eyes, and thekeen appreciation he had shown in her art; and just in the measurethat she had been attracted by him, she had been repelled by thethree women to whom she was presented at the same time. She saw themall again mentally, as she had seen them on that and many other days. Mrs Cheney and Alice, with their fretful, plain, dissatisfied faces, and their over-burdened costumes, and the Baroness, with her cruelheart gazing through her worn mask of defaced beauty. 

She had been conscious of a feeling of overwhelming pity for thekind, attractive man who made the fourth of that quartette. She knewthat he had obtained honours and riches from life, but she pitied himfor his home environment. She had felt so thankful for her own happyhome life at the time; and she remembered, too, the sweet hope thatlay like a closed-up bud in the bottom of her heart that day, as thequartette moved away and left her standing alone with Arthur Stuart. 

It was only a few weeks later that the end came to all her dreams, through that terrible anonymous letter. 

It was the Baroness who had sent it, she knew--the Baroness whoseearly hatred for her mother had descended to the child. "And now Imust sit in the same house with her again, " she said, "and perhapsmeet her face to face; and she may tell the story here of my mother'sshame, even as I have felt and feared it must yet be told. Howstrange that a 'love child' should inspire so much hatred!"

Joy had carefully refrained from reading New York papers ever sinceshe left the city; and she had no correspondents. It was her wishand desire to utterly sink and forget the past life there. Thereforeshe knew nothing of Arthur Stuart's marriage to the daughter ofPreston Cheney. She thought of the rector as dead to her. Shebelieved he had given her up because of the stain upon her birth, and, bitter as the pain had been, she never blamed him. She hadfought with her love for him and believed that it was buried in thegrave of all other happy memories. 

But as the earth is wrenched open by volcanic eruptions and longburied corpses are revealed again to the light of day, so theunexpected sight of Arthur Stuart, as he took his place beside Mabeland the Baroness during the funeral services, revealed all the pent-up passion of her heart to her own frightened soul. 

To strong natures, the greater the inward excitement the more quietthe exterior; and Jay passed through the services, and performed herduties, without betraying to those about her the violent emotionsunder which she laboured. 

The rector of Beryngford Church requested her to remain for a fewmoments, and consult with him on a matter concerning the next week'smusical services. It was from him Joy learned the relation whichArthur Stuart bore to the dead man, and that Beryngford was theformer home of the Baroness. 

Her mother's manuscript had carefully avoided all mention of names ofpeople or places. Yet Joy realised now that she must be living inthe very scene of her mother's early life; she longed to makeinquiries, but was prevented by the fear that she might hear hermother's name mentioned disrespectfully. 

The days that followed were full of sharp agony for her. It was notuntil long afterward that she was able to write her "impressions" ofthat experience. In the extreme hour of joy or agony we formulate noimpressions; we only feel. We neither analyse nor describe ourfriends or enemies when face to face with them, but after we leavetheir presence. When the day came that she could write, some of herreflections were thus epitomised:

Love which rises from the grave to comfort us, possesses more of thedemons' than the angels' power. It terrifies us with itssupernatural qualities and deprives us temporarily of our reason. 

Suppressed steam and suppressed emotion are dangerous things to dealwith. 

The infant who wants its mother's breast, and the woman who wants herlover's arms, are poor subjects to reason with. Though you tell theformer that fever has poisoned the mother's milk, or the latter thatdestruction lies in the lover's embrace, one heeds you no more thanthe other. 

The accumulated knowledge of ages is sometimes revealed by a kiss. Where wisdom is bliss, it is folly to be ignorant. 

Some of us have to crucify our hearts before we find our souls. 

A woman cannot fully know charity until she has met passion; but toointimate an acquaintance with the latter destroys her appreciation ofall the virtues. 

To feel temptation and resist it, renders us liberal in our judgmentof all our kind. To yield to it, fills us with suspicion of all. 

There is an ecstatic note in pain which is never reached inhappiness. 

The death of a great passion is a terrible thing, unless the dawn ofa greater truth shines on the grave. 

Love ought to have no past tense. 

Love partakes of the feline nature. It has nine lives. 

It seems to be difficult for some of us to distinguish betweenlooseness of views, and charitable judgments. To be sorry forpeople's sins and follies and to refuse harsh criticism is right; toaccept them as a matter of course is wrong. 

Love and sorrow are twins, and knowledge is their nurse. 

The pathway of the soul is not a steady ascent, but hilly and broken. We must sometimes go lower, in order to get higher. 

That which is to-day, and will be to-morrow, must have beenyesterday. I know that I live, I believe that I shall live again, and have lived before. 

Earth life is the middle rung of a long ladder which we climb in thedark. Though we cannot see the steps below, or above, they exist allthe same. 

The materialist denying spirit is like the burr of the chestnutdenying the meat within. 

The inevitable is always right. 

Prayer is a skeleton key that opens unexpected doors. We may notfind the things we came to seek, but we find other treasures. 

The pessimist belongs to God's misfit counter. 

Art, when divorced from Religion, always becomes a wanton. 

To forget benefits we have received is a crime. To remember benefitswe have bestowed is a greater one. 

To some men a woman is a valuable book, carefully studied andchoicely guarded behind glass doors. To others, she is a dailypaper, idly scanned and tossed aside. 

CHAPTER XIX

While Joy battled with her sorrow during the days following PrestonCheney's burial, she woke to the consciousness that her history wasknown in Beryngford. The indescribable change in the manner of heracquaintances, the curiosity in the eyes of some, the insolence orfamiliarity of others, all told her that her fears were realised; andthen there came a letter from the church authorities requesting herto resign her position as organist. 

This letter came to the young girl on one of those dreary autumnnights when all the desolation of the dying summer, and none of theexhilaration of the approaching winter, is in the air. She had beenlabouring all day under a cloud of depression which hovered over herheart and brain and threatened to wholly envelop her; and the letterfrom the church committee cut her heart like a poniard stroke. Sometimes we are able to bear a series of great disasters withcourage and equanimity, while we utterly collapse under some slightmisfortune. Joy had been a heroine in her great sorrows, but now inthe undeserved loss of her position as church organist, she feltherself unable longer to cope with Fate. 

"There's no place for me anywhere, " she said to herself. Had sheknown the truth, that the Baroness had represented her to thecommittee as a fallen woman of the metropolis, who had left the cityfor the city's good, the letter would not have seemed to her socruelly unjust and unjustifiable. 

Bitter as had been her suffering at the loss of Arthur Stuart fromher life, she had found it possible to understand his hesitation tomake her his wife. With his fine sense of family pride, and hisreverence for the estate of matrimony, his belief in heredity, itseemed quite natural to her that he should be shocked at theknowledge of the conditions under which she was born; and the thoughtthat her disappearance from his life was helping him to solve apainful problem, had at times, before this unexpected sight of him, rendered her almost happy in her lonely exile. She had grownstrangely fond of Beryngford--of the old streets and homes which sheknew must have been familiar to her mother's eyes, of the new churchwhose glorious voiced organ gave her so many hours of comfort andrelief of soul, of the tiny apartment where she and her heartcommuned together. She was catlike in her love of places, and nowshe must tear herself away from all these surroundings and seek somenew spot wherein to hide herself and her sorrows. 

It was like tearing up a half-rooted flower, already drooping fromone transplanting. She said to herself that she could never surviveanother change. She read the letter over which lay in her hand, andtears began to slowly well from her eyes. Joy seldom wept; but nowit seemed to her she was some other person, who stood apart and wepttears of sympathy for this poor girl, Joy Irving, whose life was sohemmed about with troubles, none of which were of her own making; andthen, like a dam which suddenly gives way and allows a river tooverflow, a great storm of sobs shook her frame, and she wept as shehad never wept before; and with her tears there came rushing back toher heart all the old love and sorrow for the dead mother which hadso long been hidden under her burden of shame; and all the oldpassion and longing for the man whose insane wife she knew to be amore hopeless obstacle between them than this mother's history hadproven. 

"Mother, Arthur, pity me, pity me!" she cried. "I am all alone, andthe strife is so terrible. I have never meant to harm any livingthing! Mother Arthur, GOD, how can you all desert me so?"

At last, exhausted, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

She awoke the following morning with an aching head, and a heartwherein all emotions seemed dead save a dull despair. She wasconscious of only one wish, one desire--a longing to sit again in theorgan loft, and pour forth her soul in one last farewell to thatinstrument which had grown to seem her friend, confidant and lover. 

She battled with her impulse as unreasonable and unwise, till the daywas well advanced. But it grew stronger with each hour; and at lastshe set forth under a leaden sky and through a dreary November rainto the church. 

Her head throbbed with pain, and her hands were hot and feverish, asshe seated herself before the organ and began to play. But with thefirst sounds responding to her touch, she ceased to think of bodilydiscomfort. 

The music was the voice of her own soul, uttering to God all itsdesolation, its anguish and its despair. Then suddenly, with noseeming volition of her own, it changed to a passion of human love, human desire; the sorrow of separation, the strife with the emotions, the agony of renunciation were all there; and the November rain, beating in wild gusts against the window-panes behind the musician, lent a fitting accompaniment to the strains. 

She had been playing for perhaps an hour, when a sudden exhaustionseized upon her, and her hands fell nerveless and inert upon her lap;she dropped her chin upon her breast and closed her eyes. She wasdrunken with her own music. 

When she opened them again a few moments later, they fell upon theface of Arthur Stuart, who stood a few feet distant regarding herwith haggard eyes. Unexpected and strange as his presence was, Joyfelt neither surprise nor wonder. She had been thinking of him sointensely, he had been so interwoven with the music she had beenplaying, that his bodily presence appeared to her as a naturalresult. He was the first to speak; and when he spoke she noticedthat his voice sounded hoarse and broken, and that his face was drawnand pale. 

"I came to Beryngford this morning expressly to see you, Joy, " hesaid. "I have many things to say to you. I went to your residenceand was told by the maid that I would find you here. I followed, asyou see. We have had many meetings in church edifices, in organlofts. It seems natural to find you in such a place, but I fear itwill be unnatural and unfitting to say to you here, what I came tosay. Shall we return to your home?"

His eyes shone strangely from dusky caverns, and there were deeplines about his mouth. 

"He, too, has suffered, " thought Joy; "I have not borne it allalone. " Then she said aloud:

"We are quite undisturbed here; I know of nothing I could listen toin my room which I could not hear you say in this place. Go on. "

He looked at her silently for a moment, his cheeks pale, his breastheaving. Before he came to Beryngford, he had fought his battlebetween religion and human passion, and passion had won. He had castunder his feet every principle and tradition in which he had beenreared, and resolved to live alone henceforth for the love andcompanionship of one human being, could he obtain her consent to gowith him. 

Yet for the moment, he hesitated to speak the words he had resolvedto utter, under the roof of a house of God, so strong were theinfluences of his early training and his habits of thought. But ashis eyes feasted upon the face before him, his hesitation vanished, and he leaned toward her and spoke. "Joy, " he said, "three years agoI went away and left you in sorrow, alone, because I was afraid tobrave public opinion, afraid to displease my mother and ask you to bemy wife. The story your mother told me of your birth, a story sheleft in manuscript for you to read, made a social coward of me. Iwas afraid to take a girl born out of wedlock to be my lifecompanion, the mother of my children. Well, I married a girl born inwedlock; and where is my companion?" He paused and laughedrecklessly. Then he went on hurriedly: "She is in an asylum for theinsane. I am chained to a corpse for life. I had not enough moralcourage three-years ago to make you my wife. But I have moralcourage enough now to come here and ask you to go with me toAustralia, and begin a new life together. My mother died a year ago. I donned the surplice at her bidding. I will abandon it at thebidding of Love. I sinned against heaven in marrying a woman I didnot love. I am willing to sin against the laws of man by living withthe woman I do love; will you go with me, Joy?" There was silencesave for the beating of the rain against the stained window, and thewailing of the wind. 

Joy was in a peculiarly overwrought condition of mind and body. Herhours of extravagant weeping the previous night, followed by a day offasting, left her nervous system in a state to be easily excited bythe music she had been playing. She was virtually intoxicated withsorrow and harmony. She was incapable of reasoning, and consciousonly of two things--that she must leave Beryngford, and that the manwhom she had loved with her whole heart for five years, was askingher to go with him; to be no more homeless, unloved, and alone, buthis companion while life should last. 

"Answer me, Joy, " he was pleading. "Answer me. "

She moved toward the stairway that led down to the street door; andas she flitted by him, she said, looking him full in the eyes with aslow, grave smile, "Yes, Arthur, I will go with you. "

He sprang toward her with a wild cry of joy, but she was alreadyflying down the stairs and out upon the street. 

When he joined her, they walked in silence through the rain to herdoor, neither speaking a word, until he would have followed herwithin. Then she laid her hand upon his shoulder and said gently butfirmly: "Not now, Arthur; we must not see each other again until wego away. Write me where to meet you, and I will join you withintwenty-four hours. Do not urge me--you must obey me this once--afterward I will obey you. Good-night. "

As she closed the door upon him, he said, "Oh, Joy, I have so much totell you. I promised your father when he was dying that I would findyou; I swore to myself that when I found you I would never leave you, save at your own command. I go now, only because you bid me go. When we meet again, there must be no more parting; and you shall heara story stranger than the wildest fiction--the story of your father'slife. Despite your mother's secretiveness regarding this portion ofher history, the knowledge has come to me in the most unexpectedmanner, from the lips of the man himself. "

Joy listened dreamily to the words he was saying. Her father--shewas to know who her father was? Well, it did not matter much to hernow--father, mother, what were they, what was anything save the factthat he had come back to her and that he loved her?

She smiled silently into his eyes. Glance became entangled withglance, and would not be separated. 

He pushed open the almost closed door and she felt herself envelopedwith arms and lips. 

A second later she stood alone, leaning dizzily against the door;heart, brain and blood in a mad riot of emotion. 

Then she fell into a chair and covered her burning face with herhands as she whispered, "Mother, mother, forgive me--I understand--Iunderstand. "

CHAPTER XX

The first shock of the awakened emotions brings recklessness to somewomen, and to others fear. 

The more frivolous plunge forward like the drunken man who leaps fromthe open window believing space is water. 

The more intense draw back, startled at the unknown world beforethem. 

The woman who thinks love is all ideality is more liable to followinto undreamed-of chasms than she who, through the complexity of herown emotions, realises its grosser elements. 

It was long after midnight when Joy fell into a heavy sleep, thenight of Arthur Stuart's visit. She heard the drip of the drearyNovember rain upon the roof, and all the light and warmth seemedstricken from the universe save the fierce fire in her own heart. 

When she woke in the late morning, great splashes of sunlight wereleaping and quivering like living things across the foot of her bed;she sprang up, dazed for a moment by the flood of light in the room, and went to the window and looked out upon a sun-kissed world smilingin the arms of a perfect Indian summer day. 

A happy little sparrow chirped upon the window sill, and somechildren ran across the street bare-headed, exulting in the soft air. All was innocence and sweetness. Mind and morals are greatlyinfluenced by weather. Many things seem right in the fog and gloom, which we know to be wrong in the clear light of a sunny morning. Theevents of the previous day came back to Joy's mind as she stood bythe window, and stirred her with a sense of strangeness and terror. The thought of the step she had resolved to take brought a suddentrembling to her limbs. It seemed to her the eyes of God werepiercing into her heart, and she was afraid. 

Joy had from her early girlhood been an earnest and sincere followerof the Christian religion. The embodiment of love and sympathyherself, it was natural for her to believe in the God of Love and toworship Him in outward forms, as well as in her secret soul. It wasthe deep and earnest fervour of religion in her heart, which renderedher music so unusual and so inspiring. There never was, is not andnever can be greatness in any art where religious feeling is lacking. 

There must be the consciousness of the Infinite, in the mind whichproduces infinite results. 

Though the artist be gifted beyond all other men, though he toilunremittingly, so long as he says, "Behold what I, the gifted andtireless toiler, can achieve, " he shall produce but mediocre andephemeral results. It is when he says reverently, "Behold whatpowers greater than I shall achieve through me, the instrument, " thathe becomes great and men marvel at his power. 

Joy's religious nature found expression in her music, and sosomething more than a harmony of beautiful sounds impressed herhearers. 

The first severe blow to her faith in the church as a divineinstitution, was when her rector and her lover left her alone in thehour of her darkest trials, because he knew the story of her mother'slife. His hesitancy to make her his wife she understood, but hisabsolute desertion of her at such a time, seemed inconsistent withhis calling as a disciple of the Christ. 

The second blow came in her dismissal from the position of organistat the Beryngford Church, after the presence of the Baroness in thetown. 

A disgust for human laws, and a bitter resentment towards societytook possession of her. When a gentle and loving nature is roused toanger and indignation, it is often capable of extremes of action; andArthur Stuart had made his proposition of flight to Joy Irving in anhour when her high-wrought emotions and intensely strung nerves madeany desperate act possible to her. The sight of his face, with itsevidences of severe suffering, awoke all her smouldering passion forthe man; and the thought that he was ready to tread his creed underhis feet and to defy society for her sake, stirred her with a wildjoy. God had seemed very far away, and human love was very precious;too precious to be thrown away in obedience to any man-made law. 

But somehow this morning God seemed nearer, and the consciousness ofwhat she had promised to do terrified her. Disturbed by herthoughts, she turned towards her toilet-table and caught sight of theletter of dismissal from the church committee. It acted upon herlike an electric shock. Resentment and indignation re-enthronedthemselves in her bosom. 

"Is it to cater to the opinions and prejudices of people like THESEthat I hesitate to take the happiness offered me?" she cried, as shetore the letter in bits and cast it beneath her feet. Arthur Stuartappeared to her once more, in the light of a delivering angel. Yes, she would go with him to the ends of the earth. It was herinheritance to lead a lawless life. Nothing else was possible forher. God must see how she had been hemmed in by circumstances, howshe had been goaded and driven from the paths of peace and puritywhere she had wished to dwell. God was not a man, and He would bemerciful in judging her. 

She sent her landlady two months' rent in advance, and notice of herdeparture, and set hurriedly about her preparations. 

Twenty-five years before, when Berene Dumont disappeared fromBeryngford, she had, quite unknown to herself, left one devotedthough humble friend behind, who sincerely mourned her absence. 

Mrs Connor liked to be spoken of as "the wash-lady at the Palace. "Yet proud as she was of this appellation, she was not satisfied withbeing an excellent laundress. She was a person of ambitions. To bethe owner of a lodging-house, like the Baroness, was her leadingambition, and to possess a "peany" for her young daughter Kathleenwas another. 

She kept her mind fixed on these two achievements, and she workedalways for those two results. And as mind rules matter, so thelaundress became in time the landlady of a comfortable andrespectable lodging-house, and in its parlour a piano was the chiefobject of furniture. 

Kathleen Connor learned to play; and at last to the joy of thelodgers, she married and bore her "peany" away with her. During thetime when Mrs Connor was the ambitious "wash-lady" at the Palace, Berene Dumont came to live there; and every morning when the youngwoman carried the tray down to the kitchen after having served theBaroness with her breakfast, she offered Mrs Connor a cup of coffeeand a slice of toast. 

This simple act of thoughtfulness from the young dependant touchedthe Irishwoman's tender heart and awoke her lasting gratitude. Shehad heard Berene's story, and she had been prepared to mete out toher that disdainful dislike which Erin almost invariably feelstowards France. Realising that the young widow was by birth andbreeding above the station of housemaid, Mrs Connor and the servantshad expected her to treat them with the same lofty airs which theBaroness made familiar to her servants. When, instead, Berenetoasted the bread for Mrs Connor, and poured the coffee and placed iton the kitchen table with her own hands, the heart of the wash-ladymelted in her ample breast. When the heart of the daughter of Erinmelts, it permeates her whole being; and Mrs Connor became a secretdevotee at the shrine of Miss Dumont. 

She had never entertained cordial feelings toward the Baroness. Whena society lady--especially a titled one--enters into competition withworking people, and yet refuses to associate with them, it alwaysincites their enmity. The working population of Beryngford, from thehighest to the lowest grades, felt a sense of resentment toward theBaroness, who in her capacity of landlady still maintained the airsof a grand dame, and succeeded in keeping her footing with some ofthe most fashionable people in the town. 

Added to these causes of dislike, the Baroness was, like manywealthier people, excessively close in her dealings with workingfolk, haggling over a few cents or a few moments of wasted time, while she was generosity itself in association with her equals. 

Mrs Connor, therefore, felt both pity and sympathy for Miss Dumont, whose position in the Palace she knew to be a difficult one; and whenPreston Cheney came upon the scene the romantic mind of the motherlyIrishwoman fashioned a future for the young couple which would havedone credit to the pen of a Mrs Southworth. 

Mr Cheney always had a kind word for the laundress, and a tip aswell; and when Mrs Connor's dream of seeing him act the part of thePrince and Berene the Cinderella of a modern fairy story, ended inthe disappearance of Miss Dumont and the marriage of Mr Cheney toMabel Lawrence, the unhappy wash-lady mourned unceasingly. 

Ten years of hard, unremitting toil and rigid economy passed awaybefore Mrs Connor could realise her ambition of becoming a landladyin the purchase of a small house which contained but four rooms, three of which were rented to lodgers. The increase in the value ofher property during the next five years, left the fortunatespeculator with a fine profit when she sold her house at the end ofthat time, and rented a larger one; and as she was an excellentfinancier, it was not strange that, at the time Joy Irving appearedon the scene, "Mrs Connor's apartments" were as well and favourablyknown in Beryngford, if not as distinctly fashionable, as the Palacehad been more than twenty years ago. 

So it was under the roof of her mother's devoted and faithful mournerthat the unhappy young orphan had found a home when she came to hideherself away from all who had ever known her. 

The landlady experienced the same haunting sensation of somethingpast and gone when she looked on the girl's beautiful face, which hadso puzzled the Baroness; a something which drew and attracted thewarm heart of the Irishwoman, as the magnet draws the steel. Timeand experience had taught Mrs Connor to be discreet in her treatmentof her tenants; to curb her curiosity and control her inclination tosociability. But in the case of Miss Irving she had found itimpossible to refrain from sundry kindly acts which were not includedin the terms of the contract. Certain savoury dishes found their waymysteriously to Miss Irving's menage, and flowers appeared in herroom as if by magic, and in various other ways the good heart andintentions of Mrs Connor were unobtrusively expressed toward herfavourite tenant. Joy had taken a suite of four rooms, where, withher maid, she lived in modest comfort and complete retirement fromthe social world of Beryngford, save as the close connection of thechurch with Beryngford society rendered her, in the position oforganist, a participant in many of the social features of the town. While Joy was in the midst of her preparations for departure, MrsConnor made her appearance with swollen eyes and red, blistered face. 

"And it's the talk of that ould witch of a Baroness, may the divilrun away with her, that is drivin' ye away, is it?" she criedexcitedly; "and it's not Mrs Connor as will consist to the daughterof your mother, God rest her soul, lavin' my house like this. Tothink that I should have had ye here all these years, and never knownye to be her child till now, and now to see ye driven away by thedivil's own! But if it's the fear of not being able to pay the rintbecause ye've lost your position, ye needn't lave for many a long dayto come. It's Mrs Connor would only be as happy as the queen herselfto work her hands to the bone for ye, remembering your darlint of amother, and not belavin' one word against her, nor ye. "

So soon as Joy could gain possession of her surprised senses, shecalmed the weeping woman and began to question her. 

"My good woman, " she said, "what are you talking about? Did you everknow my mother, and where did you know her?"

"In the Palace, to be sure, as they called the house of that imp ofSatan, the Baroness. I was the wash-lady there, for it's not MrsConner the landlady as is above spakin' of the days when she wasn'tas high in the world as she is now; and many is the cheerin' cup ofcoffee or tay from your own mother's hand, that I've had in theforenoon, to chirk me up and put me through my washing, bless hersweet face; and niver have I forgotten her; and niver have I ceasedto miss her and the fine young man that took such an interest in herand that I'm as sure loved her, in spite of his marrying the Judge'sspook of a daughter, as I am that the Holy Virgin loves us all; andit's a foine man that your father must have been, but young Mr Cheneywas foiner. "

So little by little Joy drew the story from Mrs Connor and learnedthe name of the mysterious father, so carefully guarded from her inMrs Irving's manuscript, the father at whose funeral services she hadso recently officiated as organist. 

And strangest and most startling of all, she learned that ArthurStuart's insane wife was her half-sister. 

Added to all this, Joy was made aware of the nature of the reportswhich the Baroness had been circulating about her; and her feeling ofbitter resentment and anger toward the church committee was modifiedby the knowledge that it was not owing to the shadow on her birth, but to the false report of her own evil life, that she had been askedto resign. 

After Mrs Connor had gone, Joy was for a long time in meditation, andthen turned in a mechanical manner to her delayed task. Her book of"Impressions" lay on a table close at hand. 

And as she took it up the leaves opened to the sentence she hadwritten three years before, after her talk with the rector aboutMarah Adams. 

"It seems to me I could not love a man who did not seek to lead mehigher; the moment he stood below me and asked me to descend, Ishould realise he was to be pitied, not adored!"

She shut the book and fell on her knees in prayer; and as she prayeda strange thing happened. The room filled with a peculiar mist, likethe smoke which is illuminated by the brilliant rays of the morningsun; and in the midst of it a small square of intense rose-colouredlight was visible. This square grew larger and larger, until itassumed the size and form of a man, whose face shone with immortalglory. He smiled and laid his hand on Joy's head. "Child, awake, "he said, and with these words vast worlds dawned upon the girl'ssight. She stood above and apart from her grosser body, untrammelledand free; she saw long vistas of lives in the past through which shehad come to the present; she saw long vistas of lives in the futurethrough which she must pass to gain the experience which would leadher back to God. An ineffable peace and serenity enveloped her. Thedivine Presence seemed to irradiate the place in which she stood--shefelt herself illuminated, transfigured, sanctified by the holy flamewithin her. 

When she came back to the kneeling form by the couch, and rose to herfeet, all the aspect of life had changed for her. 

CHAPTER XXI

Joy Irving had unpacked her trunks and set her small apartment torights, when the postman's ring sounded, and a moment later a letterwas slipped under her door. 

She picked it up, and recognised Arthur Stuart's penmanship. She satdown, holding the unopened letter in her hands. 

"It is Arthur's message, appointing a time and place for ourmeeting, " she said to herself. "How long ago that strange interviewwith him seems!--yet it was only yesterday. How utterly the whole oflife has changed for me since then! The universe seems larger, Godnearer, and life grander. I am as one who slept and dreamed ofdarkness and sorrow, and awakes to light and joy. "

But when she opened the envelope and read the few hastily writtenlines within, an exclamation of surprise escaped her lips. It was abrief note from Arthur Stuart and began abruptly without an address(a manner more suggestive of strong passion than any endearingwords). 

"The first item which my eye fell upon in the telegraphic column ofthe morning paper, was the death of my wife in the Retreat for theInsane. I leave by the first express to bring her body here forburial. 

"A merciful providence has saved us the necessity of defying the lawsof God or man, and opened the way for me to claim you before all theworld as my worshipped wife so soon as propriety will permit. 

"I shall see you at any hour you may indicate after to-morrow, for abrief interview. 

"ARTHUR EMERSON STUART. "

Joy held the letter in her hand a long time, lost in profoundreflection. Then she sat down to her desk and wrote three letters;one was to Mrs Lawrence; one to the chairman of the church committee, who had requested her resignation; the third was to Mr Stuart, andread thus:

"My Dear Mr Stuart, --Many strange things have occurred to me since Isaw you. I have learned the name of my father, and this knowledgereveals the fact to me that your unfortunate wife was my half-sister. I have learned, too, that the loss of my position here as organist isnot due to the narrow prejudice of the committee regarding the shadowon my birth, but to malicious stories put in circulation by MrsLawrence, relating to me. 

"Infamous and libellous tales regarding my life have been told, andmust be refuted. I have written to Mrs Lawrence demanding a letterfrom her, clearing my personal character, or giving her thealternative of appearing in court to answer the charge of defamationof character. I have also written to the church committee requestingthem to meet me here in my apartments to-morrow, and explain theirdemand for my resignation. 

"I now write to you my last letter and my farewell. 

"In the overwrought and desperate mood in which you found me, it didnot seem a sin for me to go away with the man who loved me and whom Iloved, before false ideas of life and false ideas of duty made himthe husband of another. Conscious that your wife was a hopelesslunatic whose present or future could in no way be influenced by ouractions, I reasoned that we wronged no one in taking the happiness solong denied us. 

"The last three years of my life have been full of desolation andsorrow. From the day my mother died, the stars of light which hadgemmed the firmament for me, seemed one by one to be obliterated, until I stood in utter darkness. You found me in the very blackesthour of all--and you seemed a shining sun to me. 

"Yet so soon as my tired brain and sorrow-worn heart were able tothink and reason, I realised that it was not the man I had worshippedas an ideal, who had come to me and asked me to lower my standard ofwomanhood. It was another and less worthy man--and this other was tobe my companion through time, and perhaps eternity. When I learnedthat your insane wife was my sister, and that knowing this fact youyet planned our flight, an indescribable feeling of repulsion awokein my heart. 

"I confess that this arose more from a sentiment than a principle. The relationship of your wife to me made the contemplated sin nogreater, but rendered it more tasteless. 

"Had I gone away with you as I consented to do, the world would havesaid, she but follows her fatal inheritance--like mother likedaughter. There were some bitter rebellious hours, when that thoughtcame to me. But to-day light has shone upon me, and I know there isa law of Divine Heredity which is greater and more powerful than anytendency we derive from parents or grandparents. I have believedmuch in creeds all my life; and in the hour of great trials I found Iwas leaning on broken reeds. I have now ceased to look to men orbooks for truth--I have found it in my own soul. I acknowledge nounfortunate tendencies from any earthly inheritance; centuries ofsinful or weak ancestors are as nothing beside the God within. Thedivine and immortal ME is older than my ancestral tree; it is as oldas the universe. It is as old as the first great Cause of which itis a part. Strong with this consciousness, I am prepared to meet theworld alone, and unafraid from this day onward. When I think of theoptimistic temperament, the good brain, and the vigorous body whichwere naturally mine, and then of the wretched being who was mylegitimate sister, I know that I was rightly generated, howeverunfortunately born, just as she was wrongly generated though legallyborn. 

"My father, I am told, married into a family whose crest is tracedback to the tenth century. I carry a coat-of-arms older yet--theCross; it dates back eighteen hundred years--yes, many thousandyears, and so I feel myself the nobler of the two. Had you been moreof a disciple of Christ, and less of a disciple of man, you wouldhave realised this truth long ago, as I realise it to-day. No manshould dare stand before his fellows as a revealer of divineknowledge until he has penetrated the inmost recesses of his ownsoul, and found God's holy image there; and until he can show othersthe way to the same wonderful discovery. The God you worshipped wasfar away in the heavens, so far that he could not come to you andsave you from your baser self in the hour of temptation. But thetrue God has been miraculously revealed to me. He dwells within; onewho has found Him, will never debase His temple. 

"Though there is no legal obstacle now in the path to our union, there is a spiritual one which is insurmountable. I NO LONGER LOVEYOU. I am sorry for you, but that is all. You belonged to myyesterday--you can have no part in my to-day. The man who tempted mein my weak hour to go lower, could not help me to go higher. And myface is set toward the heights. 

"I must prove to that world that a child born under the shadow ofshame, and of two weak, uncontrolled parents, can be virtuous, strong, brave and sensible. That she can conquer passion andimpulse, by the use of her divine inheritance of will; and that shecan compel the respect of the public by her discreet life and loftyideals. 

"I shall stay in this place until I have vindicated my name andcharacter from every aspersion cast upon them. I shall retain myposition of organist, and retain it until I have accumulatedsufficient means to go abroad and prepare myself for the musicalcareer in which I know I can excel. I am young, strong andambitious. My unusual sorrows will give me greater power ofcharacter if I accept them as spiritual tonics--bitter butstrengthening. 

"Farewell, and may God be with you. 

"Joy Irving. "

When the rector of St Blank's returned from the Beryngford Cemetery, where he had placed the body of his wife beside her father, he foundthis letter lying on his table in the hotel.