THE PHILISTINES

BY

ARLO BATES

 The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. _All's Well that Ends Well_; iv. --3

DEDICATION. 

 To my three friends who, by generously acting as amanuenses, have made it possible that the book should be finished, I take pleasure in gratefully dedicating

 "This is no square temple to the gate of which thou canst arrive precipitately; this is no mosque to which thou canst come with tumult but without knowledge. " _Persian Religious Hymn_. 

 CONTENTS. CHAPTER

 I. IN PLACE AND IN ACCOUNT NOTHING II. SOME SPEECH OF MARRIAGE III. IN WAY OF TASTE IV. NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERS V. 'TWAS WONDROUS PITIFUL VI. THE INLY TOUCH OF LOVE VII. THIS DEED UNSHAPES ME VIII. A NECESSARY EVIL IX. THIS IS NOT A BOON X. THE BITTER PAST XI. THE GREAT ASSAY OF ART XII. WHOM THE FATES HAVE MARKED XIII. THIS "WOULD" CHANGES XIV. THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT XV. LIKE COVERED FIRE XVI. WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE XVII. THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT XVIII. HE SPEAKS THE MERE CONTRARY XIX. HOW CHANCES MOCK XX. VOLUBLE AND SHARP DISCOURSE XXI. A MINT OF PHRASES IN HIS BRAIN XXII. HIS PURE HEART'S TRUTH XXIII. AS FALSE AS STAIRS OF SAND XXIV. THERE BEGINS CONFUSION XXV. AFTER SUCH A PAGAN CUT XXVI. O, WICKED WIT AND GIFT XXVII. UPON A CHURCH BENCH XXVIII. BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE XXIX. CRUEL PROOF OF THIS MAN'S STRENGTH XXX. THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVED XXXI. PARTED OUR FELLOWSHIP XXXII. HEART-BURNING HEAT OF DUTY XXXIII. A BOND OF AIR XXXIV. WHAT TIME SHE CHANTED XXXV. HEARTSICK WITH THOUGHT XXXVI. FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL AND EVER XXXVII. A SYMPATHY OF WOE

THE PHILISTINES

I

 IN PLACE AND IN ACCOUNT NOTHING. I Henry IV. ; v. --I. 

When Arthur Fenton, the most outspoken of all that band of protestingspirits who had been so well known in artistic Boston as the Pagans, married Edith Caldwell, there had been in his mind a purpose, secretbut well defined, to turn to his own account his wife's connection withthe Philistine art patrons of the town. Miss Caldwell was a niece ofPeter Calvin, a wealthy and well-meaning man against whom but two gravecharges could be made, --that he supposed the growth of art in thiscountry to depend largely upon his patronage, and that he could neverbe persuaded not to take himself seriously. Mr. Calvin was regarded byPhilistine circles in Boston as a sort of re-incarnation of Apollo, clothed upon with modern enlightenment, and properly arrayed inrespectable raiment. Had it been pointed out that to make this theoryprobable it was necessary to conceive of the god as having undergonementally much the same metamorphosis as that which had transformed hisflowing vestments into trousers, his admirers would have received theremark as highly complimentary to Mr. Peter Calvin. To assume identitybetween their idol and Apollo would be immensely flattering to the sonof Latona. 

Fenton understood perfectly the weight and extent of Calvin'sinfluence, yet, in determining to profit by it, he did not in the leastdeceive himself as to the nature of his own course. 

"Honesty, " he afterward confessed to his friend Helen Greyson, whoscorned him for the admission, "is doubtless a charming thing fordigestive purposes, but it is a luxury too expensive for me. The godsin this country bid for shams, and shams I purpose giving them. "

So well did he carry out his intention, that in a few years he came tobe the fashionable portrait-painter of the town; the artist to whompeople went who rated the worth of a picture by the amount they wererequired to pay for it, and the reputation of the painter inconventional circles; the man to whom a Boston society woman inevitablyturned when she wished the likeness of her charms preserved on canvas, and when no foreigner was for the moment in vogue and on hand. 

The steps by which Fenton attained to this proud eminence were obviousenough. In the first place, he persuaded Mr. Calvin to sit to him. Mr. Calvin always sat to the portrait painters whom he endorsed. This was asort of official recognition, and the results, as seen in theneedlessly numerous likenesses of the gentleman which adorned hisBeacon Hill mansion, would have afforded a cynic some amusement, andnot a little food for reflection. Once launched under distinguishedpatronage, Fenton was clever enough to make his way. He really was ableto paint well when he chose, a fact which was, on the whole, of lessimportance in his artistic career than were the adroitness of hisaddress, and his ready and persuasive sympathy. The qualifications of afashionable doctor, a fashionable clergyman, and a fashionableportrait-painter are much the same; it is only in the man-milliner thatskill is demanded in addition to the art of pleasing. 

As usually happens in such a case, Fenton's old friends avoided him, orfound themselves left in the distance by his rapid strides toward fameand fortune. Then such of them as still came in contact with him madehis acquaintance in a new character, and learned to accept him as awholly different man from the one they had supposed themselves to knowin the days when he was never weary of pouring forth tirades againstthe Philistinism he had now embraced. They admired the skill with whichhe painted stuffs and gowns, but among themselves they agreed that theold-time vigor and sincerity were painfully lacking in his work; and ifthey grumbled sometimes at the prices he got, it is only just tobelieve that it was seldom with any real willingness to pay, in thesacrifice of convictions and ideals, the equivalent which he had givenfor his popularity. 

Fenton was one morning painting, in his luxuriously appointed studio, the portrait of a man who was in the prime of life, and over whomvulgar prosperity had, in forming him, left everywhere her finger marksplainly to be seen. He was tall and robust, with light eyes and blondewhiskers, and a general air of insisting upon his immense superiorityto all the world. That he secretly felt some doubts of the perfectionof his social knowledge, there were indications in his manner, but onthe whole the complacency of a portly bank account overcame allmisgivings of this sort. His character might have been easily inferredfrom the manner in which he now set his broad shoulders expansivelyback in the armchair in which he was posing, and regarded the artistwith a patronizing air of condescending to be wonderfully entertainedby his conversation. 

"You are the frankest fellow I ever saw, " he said, smiling broadly. 

"Oh, frank, " Fenton responded; "I am too frank. It will be the ruin ofme sooner or later. It all comes of being born with a habit of beingtoo honest with myself. "

"Honesty with yourself is generally held up as a cardinal virtue. "

"Nonsense. A man is a fool who is too frank with himself; he is alwayssure to end by being too frank with everybody else, just from merehabit. "

Mr. Irons smiled more broadly still. He by no means followed allFenton's vagaries of thought, but they tickled his mental cuticleagreeably. The artist had the name of being a clever talker, and withsuch a listener this was more than half the battle. The men who candistinguish the real quality of talk are few and far to seek; mostpeople receive what is said as wit and wisdom, or the reverse, simplybecause they are assured it is the one or the other; and Alfred Ironswas of the majority in this. 

Fenton painted in silence a moment, inwardly possessed of a desire tocaricature, or even to paint in all its ugliness, the vulgar mouth uponwhich he was working. The desire, however, was not sufficiently strongto restrain him from the judicious flattery of cleverly softening andrefining the coarse lips, and he was conscious of a faint amusement atthe incongruity between his thought and his action. 

"And there is the added disadvantage, " he continued the conversation ashe glanced up and saw that his sitter's face was quickly, in thesilence, falling into a heavy repose, "that frankness begets frankness. My sitters are always telling me things which I do not want to know, just because I am so beastly outspoken and sympathetic. "

"You must have an excellent chance to get pointers, " responded thesitter, his pale eyes kindling with animation. "You've painted two orthree men this winter that could have put you up to a good thing. "

"That isn't the sort of line chat takes in a studio, " Fenton returned, with a slight shrug. "It isn't business that men talk in a studio. Thatwould be too incongruous. "

Irons sneered and laughed, with an air of consequence and superiority. 

"I don't suppose many of you artist fellows would make much of a fistat business, " he observed. 

"Modern business, " laughed the other, amused by his own epigram, "ischiefly the art of transposing one's debts. The thing to learn is howto pass the burden of your obligations from one man's shoulders tothose of another often enough so that nobody who has them gets tiredout, and drops them with a crash. "

His sitter grinned appreciatively. 

"And they don't tell you how to do this?"

"Oh, no. The things my sitters tell me about are of a very differentsort. They make to me confidences they want to get rid of; things you'drather not hear. Heavens! I have all I can do to keep some men fromtreating me like a priest and confessing all their sins to me. "

Mr. Irons regarded the artist closely, with a curious narrowing of theeyes. 

"That must give you a hold over a good many of them, " he said. "I shallbe careful what I say. "

Fenton laughed, with a delightful sense of superiority. It amused himthat his sitter should be betraying his nature at the very moment whenhe fancied himself particularly on his guard. 

"You certainly have no crimes on your conscience that interfere withyour digestion, " was his reply; "but in any case, you may make yourselfeasy; I am not a blackmailer by profession. "

"Oh, I didn't mean that, " Mr. Irons answered, easily; "only of courseyou are a man who has his living to make. Every painter has to dependon his wits, and when you come in contact with men of another classprofessionally it would be natural enough to suppose you would takeadvantage of it. "

The "lady's finger" in Fenton's cheek stood out white amid the suddenred, and his eyes flashed. 

"Of course a sitter, " he said in an even voice, which had somehow lostall its smooth sweetness, "is in a manner my guest, and the fact thathis class was not up to mine, or that he wasn't a gentleman even, wouldn't excuse my taking advantage of him. "

The other flushed in his turn. He felt the keenness of the retort, buthe was not dexterous enough to parry it, and he took refuge in coarsebullying. 

"Come, now, Fenton, " he cried with a short, explosive laugh, "you talklike a gentleman. "

But the artist, knowing himself to have the better of the other, andnot unmindful, moreover, of the fact that to offend Alfred Irons mightmean a serious loss to his own pocket, declined to take offence. 

"Of course, " he answered lightly, and with the air of one whoappreciates an intended jest so subtile that only cleverness would havecomprehended it, "that is one of the advantages I have always found inbeing one. I think I needn't keep you tied down to that chair anylonger to-day. Come here and see how you think we are getting on. "

And the sitter forgot quickly that he had been on the very verge of aquarrel. 

II

 SOME SPEECH OF MARRIAGE. Measure for Measure; v. --I. 

When dinner was announced that night, Mrs. Arthur Fenton had notappeared, but presently she came into the room with that guilty andanxious look which marks the consciousness of social misdemeanors. Shewas dressed in a gown of warm primrose plush, softened by draperies ofsilver-gray net. It was a costume which her husband had designed forher, and which set off beautifully her brown hair and creamy whiteskin. 

"I hope I have not kept you waiting long, " she said, "but I wanted todress for Mrs. Frostwinch's before dinner, and I was late about gettinghome. "

There was a certain wistfulness in her manner which betrayed heranxiety lest he should be vexed at the trifling delay. Arthur Fentonwas too well bred to be often openly unkind to anybody, but none theless was his wife afraid of his displeasure. He was one of those menwho have the power of making their disapproval felt from the simplefact that they feel it so strongly themselves. The most oppressive ofdomestic tyrants are by no means those who vent their ill-nature inopen words. The man who strenuously insists to himself upon his will, and cherishes in silence his dislike of whatever is contrary to it, isoftener a harder man to live with than one who is violently outspoken. Fenton was hardly conscious of the absolute despotism with which heruled his home, but his wife was too susceptible to his moods not tofeel keenly the unspoken protest with which he met any infringementupon his wishes or his pleasure. Tonight he was in good humor, and hissense of beauty was touched by the loveliness of her appearance. 

"Oh, it is no matter, " he answered lightly. "How stunning you look. That topaz, " he continued, walking toward her, and laying his fingerupon the single jewel she wore fastened at the edge of the square-cutcorsage of her gown, "is exactly right. It is so deep in color that itgives the one touch you need. It was uncommonly nice of your UnclePeter to give it to you. "

"And of you to design a dress to set it off, " returned she, smilingwith pleasure. "I am glad you like me in it. "

"You are stunning, " her husband repeated, kissing her with a faintshade of patronage in his manner. "Now come on before the dinner is ascold as a stone. A cold dinner is like a warmed-over love affair; youaccept it from a sense of duty, but there is no enjoyment in it. "

Mrs. Fenton smiled, more from pleasure at his evident good nature thanfrom any especial amusement, and they went together into the prettydining-room. 

Fenton acknowledged himself fond of the refinements of life, and hissensitive, sensuous nature lost none of the delights of a well-appointed home. He lived in a quiet and elegant luxury which would havebeen beyond the attainment of most artists, and which indeed notinfrequently taxed his resources to the utmost. 

The table at which the pair sat down was laid with exquisite damask andchina, the dinner admirable and well served. The dishes came in hot, the maid was deft and comely in appearance, and the master of thehouse, who always kept watch, in a sort of involuntary self-consciousness, of all that went on about him, was pleasantly aware thatthe most fastidious of his friends could have found nothing amiss inthe appointment or the service of his table. How much the perfectarrangement of domestic affairs demanded from his wife, Fenton found itmore easy and comfortable not to inquire, but he at least appreciatedthe results of her management. He never came to accept the smallesttrifles of life without emotion. His pleasure or annoyance dependedupon minute details, and things which people in general passed withoutnotice were to him the most important facts of daily life. Theresponsibility for the comfort of so highly organized a creature, Edithhad found to be anything but a light burden. Only a wife could haveappreciated the pleasure she had in having the most delicate shades inher domestic management noted and enjoyed; or the discomfort whicharose from the same source. It was delightful to have her husbandpleased by the smallest pains she took for his comfort; to know thathis eye never failed to discover the little refinements of dress orcookery or household adornment; but wearing was the burden ofunderstanding, too, that no flaw was too small to escape his sight. Mrs. Fenton's friends rallied her upon being a slave to herhousekeeping; few of them were astute enough to understand that, kindas was always his manner toward her, she was instead the slave of herhusband. 

The room in which they were dining was one in which the artist tookespecial pleasure. He had panelled it with stamped leather, which hehad picked up somewhere in Spain; while the ceiling was covered with anovel and artistic arrangement of gilded matting. Among Edith's weddinggifts had been some exquisite jars of Moorish pottery, and these, witha few pieces of Algerian armor, were the only ornaments which theartist had admitted to the room. The simplicity and richness of thewhole made an admirable setting for the dinner table, and as the hostwhen he entertained was willing to take the trouble of overlooking hiswife's arrangements, the Fentons' dinner parties were among the mostpicturesquely effective in Boston. 

"I have two big pieces of news for you, " Mrs. Fenton said, when thesoup had been removed. "I have been to call on Mrs. Stewart Hubbardthis afternoon, and Mr. Hubbard is going to have you paint him. Isn'tthat good?"

Her husband looked up in evident pleasure. 

"That isn't so bad, " was his reply. "He'll make a stunning picture, andthe Hubbards are precisely the sort of people one likes to havedealings with. Is he going at it soon?"

"He is coming to see you to-morrow, Mrs. Hubbard said. The picture isto be her birthday present. I told her you were so busy I didn't knowwhen you could begin. "

"I would stretch a point to please Mr. Hubbard. I am almost done withIrons, vulgar old cad. I wish I dared paint him as bad as he reallylooks. "

"But your artistic conscience won't let you?" she queried, smiling. "Heis a dreadful old creature; but he means well. "

"People who mean well are always worse than those who don't meananything; but I can make it up with Hubbard. He looks like Rubens' St. Simeon. I wish he wore the same sort of clothes. "

"You might persuade him to, for the picture. But my second piece ofnews is almost as good. Helen is coming home. "

"Helen Greyson?"

"Helen Greyson. I had a letter from her today, written in Paris. Shehad already got so far, and she ought to be here very soon. "

"How long has she been in Rome?" Fenton asked. 

He had suddenly become graver. He had been intimate with Mrs. Greyson, a sculptor of no mean talent, in the days when he had been a fervidopponent of people and of principles with whom he had later joinedalliance, and the idea of her return brought up vividly his partingfrom her, when she had scornfully upbraided him for his apostasy fromconvictions which he had again and again declared to be dearer to himthan life. 

"It is six years, " Mrs. Fenton answered. "Caldwell was born the Marchafter she went, and he will be six in three weeks. Time goes fast. Weare getting to be old people. "

Fenton stared at his plate absently, his thoughts busy with the past. 

"Has Grant Herman been married six years?" he asked, after a moment. 

"Grant Herman? Yes; he was married just before she sailed; but what ofit?"

Fenton laid down the fork with which he had been poking the bits offish about on his plate. He folded his arms on the edge of the table, and regarded his wife. 

"It is astonishing, Edith, " he observed, "how well one may know a womanand yet be mistaken in her. For six years I have supposed you to bereligiously avoiding any allusion to Helen's love for Grant Herman, andit seems you never knew it at all. "

It was Mrs. Fenton's turn to look up in surprise. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. 

Her husband laughed lightly, yet not very joyously. 

"Nothing, if you will. Nobody ever told me they were in love with eachother, but I am as sure that Helen made Herman marry Ninitta as if Ihad been on hand to see the operation. "

"Made him marry her? Why should he marry her if he didn't want to?"

"Oh, well, I don't know anything about it. I know Ninitta followedHerman to America, for she told me so; and I am sure he had no idea ofmarrying her when she got here. Anybody can put two and two together, Isuppose, especially if you know what infernally Puritanical notionsHelen had. "

"Puritanical?"

The artist leaned back in his chair and smiled at his wife in hissuperior and tantalizing fashion. 

"She thought she'd outgrown Puritanism, " he returned, "but really shewas, in her way, as much of a Puritan as you are. The country is fullof people who don't understand that the essence of Puritanism is aslavish adherence to what they call principle, and who think becausethey have got rid of a certain set of dogmas they are free from theirtheologic heritage. There never was greater rubbish than such an idea. "

Mrs. Fenton was silent. She had long ago learned the futility ofattempting any argument in ethics with Arthur, and she received insilence whatever flings at her beliefs he chose to indulge in. She hadeven come hardly to heed words which in the early days of her marriedlife would have wounded her to the quick. She had readjusted herconception of her husband's character, and if she still cherishedillusions in regard to him, she no longer believed in the possibilityof changing his opinions by opposing them. 

Her thoughts were now, moreover, occupied with the personal problemwhich would in any case have appealed more strongly to the femininemind than abstract theories, and she was considering what he had toldher of Mrs. Greyson and Grant Herman, a sculptor for whom she had awarm admiration, and a no less strong liking. 

However we busy ourselves with high aims, with learning, or art, orwisdom, or ethics, personal human interests appeal to us more stronglythan anything else. Human emotions respond instinctively and quickly toany hint of the emotional life of others. Nothing more strikingly showsthe essential unity of the race than the readiness with which all mindslay aside all concerns and ideas which they are accustomed to considerhigher, to give attention to the trifling details of the intimatehistory of their fellows. Quite unconsciously, Edith had gathered upmany facts, insignificant in themselves, concerning the relations ofMrs. Greyson and Herman, and she now found herself suddenly called uponto reconsider whatever conclusions they had led her to in the light ofthis new development. The sculptor's marriage with an ex-model hadalways been a mystery to her, and she now endeavored to decide in hermind whether it were possible that her husband could be right inputting the responsibility upon Helen Greyson. The form of his remarkseemed to her to hint that the Italian's claim upon Herman had been ofso grave a nature as to imply serious complications in their formerrelations; but she strenuously rejected any suspicion of evil in thesculptor's conduct. 

"I am sure, Arthur, " she said, hesitatingly, "there can have beennothing wrong between Mr. Herman and Ninitta. I have too much faith inhim. "

"To put faith in man, " was his answer, "is only less foolish than tobelieve in woman. I didn't, however, mean to imply anything verydreadful. The facts are enough, without speculating on what is nobody'sbusiness but theirs. I wonder how he and Helen will get on together, now she is coming home? Mrs. Herman is a jealous little thing, andcould easily be roused up to do mischief. "

"I do not believe Helen had anything to do with their marriage, " Edithsaid, with conviction. "It was a mistake from the outset. "

"Granted. That is what makes it so probable that Helen did it. Grantisn't the man to make a fool of himself without outside pressure, andin the end a sacrifice to principle is always some ridiculoustomfoolery that can't be come at in any other way. However, we shallsee what we shall see. What time are you going to Mrs. Frostwinch's?"

"I am going to the Browning Club at Mrs. Gore's first. Will you come?"

"Thank you, no. I have too much respect for Browning to assist at hisdismemberment. I'll meet you at Mrs. Frostwinch's about ten. "

III

 IN WAY OF TASTE. Troilus and Cressida; iii. --3. 

One of the most curious of modern whims in Boston has been the study ofthe poems of Robert Browning. All at once there sprang up on every handstrange societies called Browning Clubs, and the libraries wereransacked for Browning's works, and for the books of whoever has hadthe conceit or the hardihood to write about the great poet. Lovelygirls at afternoon receptions propounded to each other abstruseconundrums concerning what they were pleased to regard as obscurepassages, while little coteries gathered, with airs of supernaturalgravity, to read and discuss whatever bore his signature. 

A genuine, serious Boston Browning Club is as deliciously droll as anyform of entertainment ever devised, provided one's sense of theludicrous be strong enough to overcome the natural indignation arousedby seeing genuine poetry, the high gift of the gods, thus abused. Theclubs meet in richly furnished parlors, of which the chief fault isusually an over-abundance of bric-a-brac. The house of Mrs. Gore, forinstance, where Edith was going this evening, was all that money couldmake it; and in passing it may be noted that Boston clubs are seldom ofconstitutions sufficiently vigorous to endure unpleasant surroundings. The fair sex predominates at all these gatherings, and over them hangsan air of expectant solemnity, as if the celebration of some sacredmystery were forward. Conversation is carried on in subdued tones; eventhe laughter is softened, and when the reader takes his seat, therefalls upon the little company a hush so deep as to render distinctlyaudible the frou-frou of silken folds, and the tinkle of jet fringes, stirred by the swelling of ardent and aspiring bosoms. 

The reading is not infrequently a little dull, especially to theuninitiated, and there have not been wanting certain sinistersuggestions that now and then, during the monotonous delivery of someof the longer poems, elderly and corpulent devotees listen only withthe spiritual ear, the physical sense being obscured by an abstractionnot to be distinguished by an ordinary observer from slumber. Thereader, however, is bound to assume that all are listening, and if somesleep and others consider their worldly concerns or speculate upon theaffairs of their neighbors, it interrupts not at all the steady flow ofthe reading. 

Once this is finished, there is an end also of inattention, for thediscussion begins. The central and vital principle of all these clubsis that a poem by Robert Browning is a sort of prize enigma, of whichthe solution is to be reached rather by wild and daring guessing thanby any commonplace process of reasoning. Although to an ordinary anduninspired intellect it may appear perfectly obvious that a lyric meanssimply and clearly what it says, the true Browningite is betterinformed. He is deeply aware that if the poet seems to say one thing, this is proof indisputable that another is intended. To take a work instraightforward fashion would at once rob the Browning Club of allexcuse for existence, and while parlor chairs are easy, the air warmand perfumed, and it is the fashion for idle minds to concernthemselves with that rococo humbug Philistines call culture, societiesof this sort must continue. 

Once it is agreed that a poem means something not apparent, it is easyto make it mean anything and everything, especially if the discussion, as is usually the case, be interspersed with discursions of which thechief use is to give some clever person or other a chance to say smartthings. When all else fails, moreover, the club can always fall backupon allegory. Commentators on the poets have always found much fieldfor ingenious quibbling and sounding speculation in the line ofallegory. Let a poem be but considered an allegory, and there is nolimit to the changes which may be rung upon it, not even Mrs. Malaprop's banks of the Nile restraining the creature's headstrongranging. Only a failure of the fancy of the interpreter can afford acheck, and as everybody reads fiction nowadays, few people are withouta goodly supply of fancies, either original or acquired. 

Although Fenton had declined to go to Mrs. Gore's with his wife, he hadfinished his cigar when the carriage was announced, and decided toaccompany her, after all. The parlors were filling when they arrived, and Arthur, who knew how to select good company, managed to secure aseat between Miss Elsie Dimmont, a young and rather gay society girl, and Mrs. Frederick Staggchase, a descendant of an old Boston family, who was called one of the cleverest women of her set. 

"Is Mr. Fenwick going to read?" he asked of the latter, glancing aboutto see who was present. 

"Yes, " Mrs. Staggchase answered, turning toward him with herdistinguished motion of the head and high-bred smile. "Don't you likehim?"

"I never had the misfortune to hear him. I know he detests me, but thenI fear, that like olives and caviare, I have to be an acquired taste. "

"Acquired tastes, " she responded, with that air of being amused byherself which always entertained Fenton, "are always the strongest. "

"And generally least to a man's credit, " he retorted quickly. "What ishe going to inflict upon us?"

"Really, I don't know. I seldom come to this sort of thing. I don'tthink it pays. "

"Oh, nothing pays, of course, " was Fenton's reply, "but it is more orless amusing to see people make fools of themselves. "

The president of the club, at this moment, called the assembly toorder, and announced that Mr. Fenwick had kindly consented--"Readersalways kindly consent, " muttered Fenton aside to Mrs. Staggchase--toread, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, to which they would now listen. There was a rustle of people settling back into their chairs; thereader brushed a lank black lock from his sallow brow, and with a toneof sepulchral earnestness began:

 "'No more wine? then we'll push back chairs, and talk. '"

For something over an hour, the monotonous voice of the reader wentdully on. Fenton drew out his tablets and amused himself and MissDimmont by drawing caricatures of the company, ending with a sketch ofa handsome old dowager, who went so soundly to sleep that her jaw fell. Over this his companion laughed so heartily that Mrs. Staggchase leanedforward smilingly, and took his tablets away from him; whereat heproduced an envelope from his pocket and was about to begin anothersketch, when suddenly, and apparently somewhat to the surprise of thereader, the poem came to an end. 

There was a joyful stir. The dowager awoke, and there was a perfunctoryclapping of hands when Mr. Fenwick laid down his volume, and peoplewere assured that there was no mistake about his being really quitethrough. A few murmurs of admiration were heard, and then there was anawful pause, while the president, as usual, waited in the never-fulfilled hope that the discussion would start itself without help onhis part. 

"How cleverly you do sketch, " Miss Dimmont said, under her breath; "butit was horrid of you to make me laugh. "

"You are grateful, " Fenton returned, in the same tone. "You know I keptyou from being bored to death. "

"I have a cousin, Miss Wainwright, " pursued Miss Dimmont, "whosepicture we want you to paint. "

"If she is as good a subject as _her_ cousin, " Fenton answered, "Ishall be delighted to do it. "

The president had, meantime, got somewhat ponderously upon his feet, half a century of good living not having tended to increase his naturalagility, and remarked that the company were, he was sure, extremelygrateful to Mr. Fenwick, for his very intelligent interpretation of thepoem read. 

"Did he interpret it?" Fenton whispered to Mrs. Staggchase. "Why wasn'tI told?" "Hush!" she answered, "I will never let you sit by me again ifyou do not behave better. "

"Sitting isn't my _metier_, you know, " he retorted. 

The president went on to say that the lines of thought opened by thepoem were so various and so wide that they could scarcely hope toexplore them all in one evening, but that he was sure there must bemany who had thoughts or questions they wished to express, and to startthe discussion he would call upon a gentleman whom he had observedtaking notes during the reading, Mr. Fenton. 

"The old scaramouch!" Fenton muttered, under his breath. "I'll painthis portrait and send it to _Punch_. "

Then with perfect coolness he got upon his feet and looked about theparlor. 

"I am so seldom able to come to these meetings, " he said, "that I amnot at all familiar with your methods, and I certainly had no idea ofsaying anything; I was merely jotting down a few things to think overat home, and not making notes for a speech, as you would see if youexamined the paper. "

At this point Miss Dimmont gave a cough which had a sound strangelylike a laugh strangled at its birth. 

"The poem is one so subtile, " Fenton continued, unmoved; "it is soclever in its knowledge of human nature, that I always have to take acertain time after reading it to get myself out of the mood of merelyadmiring its technique, before I can think of it critically at all. Ofcourse the bit about 'an artist whose religion is his art' touches mekeenly, for I have long held to the heresy that art is the highestthing in the world, and, as a matter of fact, the only thing one candepend upon. The clever sophistry of Bishop Blougram shows well enoughhow one can juggle with theology; and, after all, theology is chieflysome one man's insistence that everybody else shall make the samemistakes that he does. "

Fenton felt that he was not taking the right direction in his talk, andthat in his anxiety to extricate himself from a slight awkwardness hewas rapidly getting himself into a worse one. It was one of those oddwhimsicalities which always came as a surprise when committed by a manwho usually displayed so much mental dexterity, that now, instead ofendeavoring to get upon the right track, he simply broke off abruptlyand sat down. 

His words had, however, the effect of calling out instantly a protestfrom the Rev. De Lancy Candish. Mr. Candish was the rector of theChurch of the Nativity, the exceedingly ritualistic organization withwhich Mrs. Fenton was connected. He was a tall and bony young man, withabundant auburn hair and freckles, the most ungainly feet and hands, and eyes of eager enthusiasm, which showed how the result of NewEngland Puritanism had been to implant in his soul the true martyrspirit. Fenton was never weary of jeering at Mr. Candish's uncouthness, his jests serving as an outlet, not only for the irritation physicalugliness always begot in him, but for his feeling of opposition to hiswife's orthodoxy, in which he regarded the clergyman as upholding her. The rector's self-sacrificing devotion to truth, moreover, awakened inthe artist a certain inner discomfort. To the keenly sensitive mindthere is no rebuke more galling than the unconscious reproof of acharacter which holds steadfastly to ideals which it has baselyforsaken. Arthur said to himself that he hated Candish for his ungainlyperson. "He is so out of drawing, " he once told his wife, "that Ialways have a strong inclination to rub him out and make him overagain. " In that inmost chamber of his consciousness where he allowedhimself the luxury of absolute frankness, however, the artist confessedthat his animosity to the young rector had other causes. 

As Fenton sank into his seat, Mrs. Staggchase leaned over to quote fromthe poem, --

 "'For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. '"

The artist turned upon her a glance of comprehension and amusement, butbefore he could reply, the rough, rather loud voice of Mr. Candisharrested his attention. 

"If the poem teaches anything, " Mr. Candish said, speaking according tohis custom, somewhat too warmly, "it seems to me it is the sophistry ofthe sort of talk which puts art above religion. The thing that offendsan honest man in Bishop Blougram is the fact that he looks at religionas if it were an art, and not a vital and eternal necessity, --a livingtruth that cannot be trifled with. "

"Ah, " Fenton's smooth and beautiful voice rejoined, "that is toconfound art with the artificial, which is an obvious error. Art is apassion, an utter devotion to an ideal, an absolute lifting of man outof himself into that essential truth which is the only lasting bond bywhich mankind is united. "

Fenton's coolness always had a confusing and irritating effect upon Mr. Candish, who was too thoroughly honest and earnest to quibble, and farfrom possessing the dexterity needed to fence with the artist. He beganconfusedly to speak, but with the first word became aware that Mrs. Fenton had come to the rescue. Edith never saw a contest between herhusband and the clergyman without interfering if she could, and now sheinstinctively spoke, without stopping to consider where she was. 

"It is precisely for that reason, " she said, "that art seems to me tofall below religion. Art can make man contented with life only bykeeping his attention fixed upon an ideal, while religion reconciles usto life as it really is. "

A murmur of assent showed Arthur how much against the feeling of thosearound him were the views he was advancing. 

"Oh, well, " he said, in a droll _sotto voce_, "if it is coming down toa family difference we will continue it in private. "

And he abandoned the discussion. 

"It seems to me, " pursued Mr. Candish, only half conscious that Mrs. Fenton had come to his aid, "that Bishop Blougram represents the mostdangerous spirit of the age. His paltering with truth is a form ofcasuistry of which we see altogether too much nowadays. "

"Do you think, " asked a timid feminine voice, "that Blougram was_quite_ serious? That he really meant all he said, I mean?"

The president looked at the speaker with despair in his glance; but shewas adorably pretty and of excellent social position, so that snubbingwas not to be thought of. Moreover, he was thoroughly well trained inkeeping his temper under the severest provocation, so he expressed hisfeelings merely by a deprecatory smile. 

"We have the poet's authority, " he responded, in a softly patientvoice, "for saying that he believed only half. "

There was a little rustle of leaves, as if people were looking overtheir books, in order to find the passage to which he alluded. Then ayoung girl in the front row of chairs, a pretty creature, just on theedge of womanhood, looked up earnestly, her finger at a line on thepage before her. 

"I can't make out what this means, " she announced, knitting her girlishbrow, --

 "'Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winks That used to puzzle people wholesomely. '"

"Of course he can't mean that the Madonna winks; that would be tooirreverent. "

There were little murmurs of satisfaction that the question had beenasked, confusing explanations which evidently puzzled some who had notthought of being confused before; and then another girl, ignoring thefact that the first difficulty had not been disposed of, propoundedanother. 

"Isn't the phrase rather bold, " she asked, "where he speaks of 'blessedevil?'"

"Where is that?" some one asked. 

"On page 106, in my edition, " was the reply; and a couple of momentswere given to finding the place in the various books. 

"Oh, I see the line, " said an old lady, at last. "It's one--two--three--five lines from the bottom of the page:"

 "'And that's what all the blessed evil's for. '"

"You don't think, " queried the first speaker, appealing personally tothe president, "that Mr. Browning can really have meant that evil isblessed, do you?"

The president regarded her with an affectionate and fatherly smile. 

"I think, " he said, with an air of settling everything, "that theexplanation of his meaning is to be found in the line which follows, --

 "'It's use in Time is to environ us. '"

"Heavens!" whispered Fenton to Mrs. Staggchase; "fancy that incarnaterespectability environed by 'blessed evil!'"

"For my part, " she returned, in the same tone, "I feel as if I werevisiting a lunatic asylum. " "Yes, that line does make it beautifullyclear, " observed the voice of Miss Catherine Penwick; "and I thinkthat's so beautiful about the exposed brain, and lidless eyes, anddisemprisoned heart. The image is so exquisite when he speaks of theirwithering up at once. "

Fenton made a droll grimace for the benefit of his neighbor, and thenobserved with great apparent seriousness, --

"The poem is most remarkable for the intimate knowledge it shows ofhuman nature. Take a line like:"

 'Men have outgrown the shame of being fools;'

"We can see such striking instances of its truth all about us. "

"How can you?" exclaimed Elsie Dimmont, under her breath. 

Fenton had not been able wholly to keep out of his tone the mockerywhich he intended, and several people looked at him askance. Fortunately for him, a nice old gentleman who, being rather hard ofhearing, had not caught what was said, now broke in with the inevitablequestion, which, sooner or later, was sure to come into everydiscussion of the club:

"Isn't this poem to be most satisfactorily understood when it isregarded as an allegory?"

The members, however, did not take kindly to this suggestion in thepresent instance. The question passed unnoticed, while a severe-facedwoman inquired, with an air of vast superiority, --

"I have understood that Bishop Blougram is intended as a portrait ofCardinal Wiseman; can any one tell me if Gigadibs is also a portrait?"

"Oh, Lord!" muttered Fenton, half audibly. "I can't stand any more ofthis. "

And at that moment a servant came to tell him that his carriage waswaiting. 

IV

 NOW HE IS FOR THE NUMBERS. Romeo and Juliet; ii. ----4. 

When Mr. And Mrs. Fenton were in the carriage, driving from Mrs. Gore'sto Mrs. Frostwinch's, Arthur broke into a pleasant little laugh, as ifa sudden thought had amused him. 

"Why in the world, Edith, " he asked, "couldn't you let that moon-calfCandish fight his own battle to-night? He would have tied himself allup in two moments, with a little judicious help I should have been gladto give him. "

"I knew it, " was her answer, "and that is precisely why I wanted tostop things. What possible amusement it can be to you to get the betterof a man who is so little a match for you in argument, I don'tunderstand. "

"I never begin, " Fenton responded. "Of course if he starts it I have todefend myself. "

The stopping of the carriage prevented further discussion, and the pairwere soon involved in the crowd of people struggling toward the hostessacross Mrs. Denton Frostwinch's handsome drawing-room. Mrs. Frostwinchbelonged, beyond the possibility of any cavilling doubt, to the mostexclusive circle of fashionable Boston society. Boston society is acomplex and enigmatical thing, full of anomalies, bounded by waveringand uncertain lines, governed by no fixed standards, whether of wealth, birth, or culture, but at times apparently leaning a little toward eachof these three great factors of American social standing. 

It is seldom wise to be sure that at any given Boston house whatever, one will not find a more or less strong dash of democratic flavor ingeneral company, and there are those who discover in this factevidences of an agreeable and lofty republicanism. At Mrs. Frostwinch'sone was less likely than in most houses to encounter socially doubtfulcharacters, a fact which Arthur Fenton, who was secretly flattered tobe invited here, had once remarked to his wife was an explanation ofthe dulness of these entertainments. 

For Mrs. Frostwinch's parties were apt to be anything but lively. Onewas morally elevated by being able to look on the comely and high-bredface of Mrs. Bodewin Ranger, but that fine old lady had a sort ofreligious scruple against saying anything in particular in company, arelic of the days of her girlhood, when cleverness was not the fashionin her sex and when she had been obliged to suppress herself lest sheoutshine the high-minded and courtly but dreadfully dull gentleman shemarried. 

One had here the pleasure of shaking one of the white fingers of Mr. Plant, the most exquisite _gourmet_ in Boston, whose only daughter hadmade herself ridiculous by a romantic marriage with a country farmer. The Stewart Hubbards, who were the finest and fiercest aristocrats intown, and whose ancestors had been possessed not only of influence butof wealth ever since early colonial days, were old and dear friends ofMrs. Frostwinch and always decorated her parlors on gala nights withtheir benign presence. Mr. Peter Calvin, the leader of art fashions, high priest of Boston conservatism, and author of numerous laboriouslyworthless books, seldom failed to diffuse the aroma of his patronizingpersonality through the handsome parlors of this hospitable mansionwhen there was any reasonable chance of his securing an audience toadmire him; and in general terms the company was what the newspaperscall select and distinguished. 

For Mrs. Frostwinch was entitled to a leading place in society uponwhichever of the three great principles it was based. She was descendedfrom one of the best of American families, while her good-tempered ifsomewhat shadowy husband was of lineage quite as unexceptional as herown. She was possessed of abundant wealth, while in cleverness andculture she was the peer of any of the brilliant people who frequentedher house. She was moderately pretty, dressed beautifully, was sweettempered, and possessed all good gifts and graces except repose andsimplicity. She perhaps worked too hard to keep abreast of the times intoo many currents, and her mental weariness instead of showing itselfby an irritable temper found a less disagreeable outlet in a certainnervous manner apt to seem artificial to those who did not know herwell. She was a clever, even a brilliant woman, who assembled cleverand brilliant people about her, although as has been intimated, theresult was by no means what might have been expected from such materialand such opportunities. The truth is that there seems to be a fatalconnection between exclusiveness and dulness. The people who assembledin Mrs. Frostwinch's handsome parlors usually seemed to beunconsciously laboring under the burden of their own respectability. They apparently felt that they had fulfilled their whole duty by simplybeing there; and while the list of people present at one of Mrs. Frostwinch's evenings made those who were not there sigh with envy atthought of the delights they had missed, the reality was far from beingas charming as their fancy. 

"I wish somebody would bring Amanda Welsh Sampson here, " murmuredArthur in his wife's ear, as the Fentons made their way toward theirhostess. "It would be too delicious to see how she'd stir things up, and how shocked the old tabby dowagers would be. "

But there were some social topics which were too serious to Edith to bejested upon. 

"Mrs. Sampson!" she returned, with an expression of being reallyshocked. "That dreadful creature!"

The rooms were well filled; the clatter of innumerable tongues speakingEnglish with that resonant dryness which reminds one of nothing else somuch as of the clack of a negro minstrel's clappers indefinitelyreduplicated, rang in the ears with confusing steadiness. An hour wasspent in fragmentary conversations, which somehow were alwaysinterrupted at the instant the interesting point was reached. The menbestirred themselves with more or less alacrity, making their way aboutthe room with a conscientious determination to speak to everybody whomduty called upon them to address, or more selfishly devoting themselvesto finding out and chatting with the pretty girls. Fenton found timefor the latter method while being far too politic to neglect theformer. He was chatting in a corner with Ethel Mott, when Fred Rangely, whose successful novel had made him vastly the fashion that winter, joined them. 

"When wit and beauty get into a corner together, " was Rangely'ssalutation, "there is sure to be mischief brewing. "

"It isn't at all kind, " Miss Mott retorted, "for you to emphasize thefact that Mr. Fenton has all the wit and I not any. "

"It is as kind, " Fenton said, "as his touching upon the plainness of mypersonal appearance. "

"Your mutual modesty in appropriating wit and beauty, " Rangelyreturned, "goes well toward balancing the account. "

"One has to be modest when you appear, Mr. Rangely, " Miss Mottdeclared, saucily, "simply to keep up the average. "

"Come, " Fenton said, "this will serve as an excellent beginning for aquarrel. I will leave you to carry it on by yourselves. I have got tooold for that sort of amusement. "

Rangely looked after the artist as the latter took himself off to joinMrs. Staggchase, who was holding court not far away. 

"You may follow if you want to, " Ethel said, intercepting the glance. 

Rangely laughed, a trifle uneasily. 

"I don't want to, " he replied, "if you will be good natured. "

"Good natured? I like that! I am always good natured. You had better gothan to stay and abuse me. But then, as you have been at Mrs. Staggchase's all the afternoon, you ought to be pretty well talkedout. "

The young man turned toward her with an air of mingled surprise andimpatience. 

"Who said I had been there?" he demanded. 

"It was in the evening papers, " she returned, teasingly. "All yourmovements are chronicled now you have become a great man. "

"Humph! I am glad you were interested in my whereabouts. "

"But I wasn't in the least. "

"Are you sparring as usual, Miss Mott?" asked Mr. Stewart Hubbard, joining them. "Good evening, Mr. Rangely. "

"Oh, Mr. Hubbard, " Miss Mott said, ignoring the question, "I want toknow who is to make the statue of _America_. It is going to standopposite our house, so that it will be the first thing I shall see whenI look out of the window in the morning, and naturally I aminterested. "

"Mr. Herman is making a study, and Mr. Irons has been put up to askingthis new woman for a model. What is her name? The one whose _Galatea_made a stir last year. "

"Mrs. Greyson, " Rangely answered. "I used to know her before she wentto Rome. "

"Is she clever?" demanded Miss Mott, with a sort of girlishimperiousness which became her very well. "I can't have a statue put upunless it is very good indeed. "

"She might take Miss Mott as a model, " Mr. Hubbard suggested, smiling. 

"For America? Oh, I am too little, and altogether too civilized. I'd dobetter for a model of Monaco, thank you. "

"There is always a good deal of chance about you, " Rangely said in herear, as Mr. Staggchase spoke to Mr. Hubbard and drew his attentionaway. 

Mr. Staggchase was a thin, wintry man, looking, as Fenton once said, like the typical Yankee spoiled by civilization. He had always in ascene of this sort the air of being somewhat out of place, but ofhaving brought his business with him, so that he was neither idle norbored. It was upon business that he now spoke to Hubbard. 

"Did you see Lincoln to-day?" he asked. "He has got an ultimatum fromthose parties. They will sell all their rights for $70, 000. "

"For $70, 000, " repeated Mr. Hubbard, thoughtfully. "We can afford togive that if we are sure about the road; but I don't know that we are. If Irons gets hold of any hint of what we are doing he can upset thewhole thing. "

"But he won't. There is no fear of that. "

A movement in the crowd brought Edith Fenton at this moment to the sideof Mr. Hubbard. She was radiant to-night in her primrose gown, and thegentleman, with whom she was always a favorite, turned toward her withevident pleasure. 

"Isn't it a jam, " she said. "I have ceased to have any control over mymovements. "

"That is unkind, when I fancied you allowed yourself to give me thepleasure of seeing you, " returned he with elaborate courtesy. "Let metake you in to the supper-room. "

"Thank you, " Edith replied, taking his arm. "I do not object to an ice, and I want to ask a favor. Haven't you some copying you can give a_protegee_ of mine? She's a lovely girl, and she really writes verynicely. I assure you she needs the work, or I wouldn't bother you. "

They made their way into the hall before he answered. Then he asked, with some seriousness, --

"Are you sure she is absolutely to be trusted?"

"Trusted? Why, of course. I'd trust her as absolutely as I wouldmyself. "

"I asked because I do happen to have some copying I want done; but itis of the most serious importance that it be kept secret. It is theprospectus of a big business scheme, and if a hint of it got on the airit would all be ruined. "

Edith looked up into his face and smiled. 

"Her name, " she said, "is Melissa Blake, and you will find her--Or, wait; what time shall I send her to your office to-morrow?"

Her companion smiled in turn. They had reached the door of the supper-room, where the clatter of dishes, the popping of champagne corks, andthe rattle of silver were added to the babble of conversation whichfilled the whole house. About the tables was going on a struggle which, however well-bred, was at least sufficiently vigorous. 

"You take a good deal for granted, " he said. "However, it will do noharm for me to see the young woman. She may come at eleven. What shallI bring you?"

V

 'TWAS WONDROUS PITIFUL. Othello; i. --3. 

"Dear John, I will give it up any day you say, and go back toFeltonville and live on the farm; but you know"--

Melissa Blake broke off and left her chair to take a seat on the cornerof that on which her betrothed, John Stanton, was sitting, a proceedingwhich made it necessary for him to put his arm about her trig waist tosupport her. 

"Don't think I don't understand, dear, " she said, nestling up to him, "how hard it is, and what a long drag it has been, but we shouldneither of us ever feel quite satisfied to give it up. We can hold on, can't we, as long as we are together. "

He kissed her fondly, but with a certain air of distraction whichshowed how full was his mind of the matter which troubled him. Twoyears before, he had come to Boston, and obtained work as a carpenter, determined to pay the debts left by his dead father, before he wouldmarry and settle down on the small farm which belonged to hisbetrothed, and which, while it might be made to yield a living, couldby no means be looked to for more. For the sake of being near him, Melissa had given up the school teaching of which she was fond, andcome to the city also, and although she had found the difficulty ofearning the means of support far greater than she had anticipated, shehad still clung to the fortunes of her lover, to whom her steadfastnessand unfailing cheer were of a value such as men realize only when it islost. 

"I got a letter to-day, " John went on, while Melissa stroked hisfingers fondly, "about the meadows. The time for redeeming them is upthis month, and if I try to do it I can't pay anything on the debtsthis winter. The truth is "--

Melissa sat up suddenly. 

"John!" she exclaimed. 

"Why, what--what is the matter?"

She looked at him with wide open eyes, drawing in her under lip beneathher white teeth, with the air of profound meditation. Then she freedherself abruptly from his arms and went hastily to the table upon whichwere her writing materials. She had been at work copying when her lovercame in, and her papers lay still open, with ink scarcely dry, whereshe had stopped to welcome him. She took one sheet up and studied iteagerly, and then turned toward him with shining eyes, her whole faceaglow. 

"Oh, John!" she exclaimed. 

He regarded her in puzzled silence. Then in an instant the glad lightfaded from her eyes, and her lips lost their smile. An expression ofpain and almost of terror replaced the look of joy. There had suddenlycome to Melissa a sense of what she was doing. In the paper she heldwas written the plan of the formation of a syndicate to purchase thevery range of meadows along the river in Feltonville of which thosementioned by John formed a part. At Mrs. Fenton's direction, Melissahad gone to see Mr. Hubbard, and had by him been employed to copy thesepapers for use at a meeting of the proposed stockholders, which was totake place in a few days. 

"Mrs. Fenton tells me, " he had said, "that you are to be trusted. It isabsolutely essential that you do not mention these plans to any livingbeing. Perfect secrecy is expected from you, and it is only becauseMrs. Fenton is your guarantee that I run the risk of putting them intoyour hands. "

"I think you can trust me, " she had answered; "even if, " she had added, with the ghost of a smile, "there were anybody that I know who would beat all likely to be interested. "

And now the temptation had come to her in a way of which she had neverdreamed. She had gone on with her copying, smiling to herself at thecoincidence which put into the hands of a Feltonville girl this planfor the metamorphosis of the sleepy old village into a bustlingmanufacturing town, but she had not considered that this scheme mighthave important bearing upon the fortunes of her lover. She knew thatStanton's father had owned meadows along the river where the newfactories were to lie, and she knew also that when old Mr. Stanton diedthese had been sold with a condition of redemption, but until thismoment she had not connected the facts. She did not understandbusiness, and had been puzzling her brain as she wrote, to understandwhat was meant by the statement that a certain company would sell a"six months' option at seventy thousand dollars" on a water-power fortwo thousand dollars. She did understand now, however, that were Johnin possession of the secret of the syndicate's plans, he could redeemhis father's meadows with the money he had saved toward the payment ofthe debts which had forced the old man into the bankruptcy that brokehis heart, and once he owned these lands lying in the midst of thedesirable tract, John could command his own price for them. She held inher hand the secret which would free her lover from the heavy burden ofyears, and bring quickly the wedding-day for which they had both waitedand longed so patiently. 

The blood bounded so hotly in Melissa's veins as she realized all this, that she could scarcely breathe; but like a lightning flash a thoughtfollowed which sent the tide surging back to her heart, and left hercold and faint. She remembered that this knowledge was a trust. Thatshe had given her word not to betray it. With instant recoil, sheleaped to the thought that advising her lover to redeem these meadowswas not betraying the secret. Like a swift shuttle flew her mindbetween argument and defence, between temptation and resistance, between love and duty. 

"Why, what is it, Milly?" John demanded, starting up and coming to her. "What in the world makes you act so funny? Are you sick? Why don't youspeak?"

It is not easy to express the force of the struggle which went on inpoor Milly's mind. It seemed to her at that moment as if all the hopesof her life were set against her honesty. The material issues in anyconflict between principle and inclination are of less importance thanthe desire which they represent. The few thousand dollars involved inthe redemption of the Stanton meadows was little when compared to themagnificent scheme of which this would be a mere trifling accident, butthe sum represented all the desires of Milly Blake's life, while overagainst it stood all her faith, her honesty, and her religion. 

For an instant she wavered, standing as if by some spell suddenlyarrested, with arms half extended. Then she flung down the paper andthrew herself upon her lover's breast with a burst of tears. 

"Why, Milly, " he said, soothingly. "Milly, Milly. "

He was unused to feminine vagaries. His betrothed was of the outwardlyquiet order of women, and an outburst like this was incomprehensible tohim. He could only hold the weeping girl in his strong embrace, soothing her in helpless masculine fashion, awkward, but exactly whatshe needed. 

"There, John, " she cried at last, giving him a tumultuous hug, andlooking up into his face through her tears, "I always told you you wereengaged to a fool, and this is a new proof of it. "

"But what in the world, " Stanton asked, looking down into her eyes withmingled fondness and bewilderment, "is it all about? What is thematter?"

"It is nothing but my foolishness, " she answered, leading him back tothe chair from which he had risen. "I was going to show you somethingin a paper I am copying, and just in time I remembered that I hadparticularly promised not to show it to anybody. "

He regarded her curiously. 

"But why, " he asked, with a certain deliberateness which somehow madeher uneasy, "did you want to show it to me. "

"Because--because--"

She could not equivocate, and her innocent soul had had little trainingin the arts of evasion. 

"Because what?"

Stanton leaned back in his chair, holding her by the shoulders as shesat upon his knee, and searching her face with his strong brown eyes. Milly's glance drooped. 

"Don't ask me, John, " she responded, putting her hand against hischeek, wistfully. "Don't you see I couldn't tell you without lettingyou know what is in the paper, and that is precisely the thing Ipromised not to do. "

There are few men in whom a woman's open refusal to yield a point, nomatter how trifling, does not arouse a tyrannous masculine impulse tocompel obedience. Stanton had really no great curiosity about thesecret, whatever it might be, but he instinctively felt that it wasright to demand the telling because his betrothed refused to speak. Hisface grew more grave. The hands upon Milly's shoulders unconsciouslytightened their hold. The girl intuitively felt that a struggle wascoming, although even yet the signs were hardly tangible. She grew alittle paler, putting her hand beneath her lover's bearded chin, andholding his face up so that she could look straight into his fearless, honest eyes. 

"Dear John, " she said, wistfully, "you know I never have a secret of myown that I keep from you in all the world. "

"But why, " demanded he, "can it do any harm for you to give me somereason why you ever thought of telling me this; and just at a time, too, when we were talking of business. "

"Because, " she answered, thoughtlessly, "it was about business. "

A new light came into Stanton's face. His lips subtly changed theirexpression. 

"It must have been a chance to make some money, " he said. 

She grew deadly pale, but she did not answer him. He searched her facean instant, and then he lifted her in his strong arms, rising from thechair, and seating her in his place. He took a step forward, andstretched out his hand to take the paper she had thrown upon the table. With a cry of terror she sprang up and caught his arm. 

"John!" she exclaimed. "Oh, for pity's sake, don't look at it. "

He turned and regarded her with a more unkind glance than she had everseen upon his face. 

"Will you tell me?" he asked. 

"I can't, I can't!" she answered, half sobbing. 

He looked at the paper, and then at his sweetheart. Then with a roughmotion he shook off her fingers from his arm, and without a word wentabruptly from the room. 

Milly looked toward the door which had closed after him as if she couldnot believe that he had really gone; then she sank down to the floor, and, leaning her head upon a chair, she sobbed as if her heart werebroken. 

VI

 THE INLY TOUCH OF LOVE. Two Gentlemen of Verona; ii. --7. 

Grant Herman looked across the breakfast table at his Italian wifethoughtfully a moment, considering, as he often did, what was likely tobe the effect of something he was about to say. In six years of marriedlife he had not learned how to adapt himself to the narrower mind andmore personal views of his wife. He perhaps fell into the error, socommon to strong natures, of being unable to comprehend that by far thelarger part of the principles which influence broad minds do not fornarrow ones exist at all. He continually tried to discover what processof reasoning led Ninitta to given results, but he was never able toappreciate the fact that often it was by no chain of logic whateverthat certain conclusions had been arrived at. A mental habit ofcatching up opinions at haphazard, of acting simply from emotions, however transient, instead of from convictions, was wholly outside hismental experience, and equally unrealized in his comprehension. 

He regarded Ninitta, whose foreign face and beautiful figure looked asmuch out of place behind the coffee urn as would the faun of Praxitelesat an afternoon reception, and a smothered sigh rose to his lips withthe thought how utterly he was at a loss to comprehend her. It happenedin the present case, as it often did, that his failure to understandarose chiefly from the fact that there was nothing in particular tounderstand, and, when he spoke, Ninitta received his remark quitesimply. 

"Mrs. Greyson is at home again, " he said. 

"Mrs. Greyson, " she echoed, her dark eyes lighting up with genuinepleasure. "Oh, that is indeed good. Where is she? Have you seen her?"

There shot through Herman's mind the reflection that since his wifecould not know that he married her out of love not for herself but forHelen Greyson, it was absurd to have fancied that Ninitta would bejealously displeased at Helen's return; and the inevitable twinge ofconscience at his wife's trusting ignorance followed. 

"I haven't seen her, " he answered; "she only arrived yesterday. Mrs. Fenton told me when I met her at the Paint and Clay Exhibition lastnight. "

Ninitta folded her hands on the edge of the table, with a gesture ofchildish pleasure. 

"I wonder what she will say to Nino, " she said musingly, her voicetaking a new softness. 

A sudden spasm contracted the sculptor's throat. His whole being wasshaken by the return of the woman to whom all the passionate devotionof his manhood was given, and he never heard that soft, maternal notewith which his wife spoke of his boy without emotion. 

"She may say that the young rascal ought to be out of his bed in timefor breakfast, " he retorted with affected brusqueness. "He has all theItalian laziness in him. "

He pushed back his chair as he spoke, and rose from the table. Hehesitated a moment, as if some sudden thought absorbed him, then hewent to his wife and kissed her forehead. 

"Good-by, " he said. "I sha'n't come up for lunch. Don't coddle the boytoo much. "

"But when, " his wife persisted, as he turned away, "shall I see Mrs. Greyson? I want to show her the _bambino_. "

She always spoke in Italian to her husband and her child, and indeedher English had never been of the most fluent. 

"The _bambino_" the father repeated, smiling. "He will be a _bambino_to you when he is as big as I am, I suppose. I do not know about Mrs. Greyson, but I will find out, if I can. "

He left the room and went to the chamber where his swarthy boy of fivelay still luxuriously in his crib, although he was fully awake. Ninogave a soft cry of joy at the sight of his father, and greeted himrapturously. 

"Papa, " he asked in Italian, "does the kitty know how much she hurtswhen she scratches? she made a long place on my arm, and it hurt likefire. "

"Do you know how much you hurt her to make her do it?" his fatherreturned, smiling fondly. 

"Oh, but she is so soft and so little, of course I don't hurt her, "Nino answered, with boyish logic. "Anyway, she ought not to hurt me. Idon't like to be hurt. "

The foolish, childish words came back to Herman's mind a couple ofhours later, as he waited in the boarding-house parlor for HelenGreyson. He smiled with bitterness to think how perfectly theyrepresented his own state of mind. He said to himself that he was tiredof being hurt, and rose at the moment to take in both his hands thehands of a beautiful woman, to his eyes no older and no less fair thanwhen he had said good-by to her on his wedding morning, six yearsbefore. He tried to speak, but tears came instead of words; choked andblinded, he turned away abruptly, struggling to regain his composure. 

The meeting after long years of those who have loved and beenseparated, may, for the moment, carry them back to the time of theirparting so completely that all that lies between seems annihilated. Theold emotion reasserts itself so strongly, the past lives again sovividly, that there seems to have been no break in feeling, and theystand in relation to one another as if the parting were yet to come. When they had been together a little, the time which lay between themwould once more become a reality; but at the first touch of their handsthose bitter days of loneliness ceased to exist, and they seemed tostand together again, as when they were saying good-by six yearsbefore. 

With her old time self-control, it was Helen who spoke first, and herwords recalled him from the past and its passion, to the present andits duty. 

"Tell me how Ninitta is, " she said, "and the boy. I do so want to seethat wonderful boy. "

The sculptor commanded his voice by a powerful effort. 

"They are both well, " he answered. "The boy is a wonderful littlefellow, although perhaps I am not an unprejudiced judge. Ninitta iscrazy to show him to you. She has pretty nearly effaced herself sincehe came, and only lives for his benefit. "

"She is a happy woman, " Helen said, assuming that air of cheerfulnesswhich is one of the first accomplishments that women are forced by lifeto learn. "I should know she would be devoted to her children. "

There were a few moments of silence. Both cast down their eyes, andthen each raised them to study whatever changes time might have made inthe years that lay between them. Helen's heart was beating painfully, but she was determined not to lose her self-control. She knew of oldhow completely she could rule the mood of her companion, and she feltthat upon her calmness depended his. She had been schooling herself forthis interview from the moment she began to consider whether she mightreturn to America, and she was therefore less unprepared than wasHerman for the trying situation in which she now found herself; yet itrequired all her strength of mind and of will not to give way to thetide of love and emotion which surged within her breast. 

Herman fixed his eyes resolutely on an ungainly group in pinkish claywhich represented an American commercial sculptor's idea of Romeo andJuliet at the moment when the Nurse separates them with a message fromLady Capulet. With artistic instinct he noted the stupidity of thecomposition, the vulgarity of the lines, the cheap ugliness of thegroup. In that singular abstraction which comes so frequently inmoments of high emotion, he let his glance wander to the pictures onthe wall, the enormities in embroidery which adorned the chair backs, the garish hues of the rug lying before the open grate. Then itoccurred to him, with a vague sense of amusement, how great was theincongruity between such a setting as this vulgar boarding-housereception-room, and the woman before him. The idea brought to his mindthe contrast between the life to which Helen had come, and the life atRome, artistic, rich, and full of possibilities, which she had left. 

The thought of Rome recalled instantly the old days there, almost ascore of years ago, when he had first known Ninitta. So vivid were thememories which awakened, that he seemed to see again the Roman studio, the fat old aunt, voluble and sharp eyed, who always accompanied herniece when the girl posed; and most clearly of all did his inner visionperceive the fresh, silent maiden whose exquisite figure was at oncethe admiration and the despair of all the young artists in Rome. Heremembered how Hoffmeir had discovered the girl drawing water from anold broken fountain he had gone out to sketch; and the difficultiesthat had to be overcome before she could be persuaded to pose. TheCapri maidens are brought up to be averse to posing, and Ninitta hadnot long enough breathed the air of Rome to have overcome theprejudices of her youth. He reflected, with a bitterness rendered vagueby a certain strange impersonality of his mood, how different wouldhave been his life had Hoffmeir been unable to overcome the girl'sscruples. He wondered whether the fat old aunt, and the greasy, good-natured little priest with whom she had taken counsel, would have urgedNinitta to take up the life of a model, could they have foreseen allthe results to which this course was to lead in the end. 

Then, with a sudden stinging consciousness, the thought came of allthat her decision had meant to his life. The old question whether hehad done right in marrying Ninitta forced itself upon him as if it weresome enemy springing up from ambush. He raised his eyes, and his glancemet that of Mrs. Greyson. 

"It is no use, Helen, " he broke out, impulsively, "we must talkfrankly. It is idle to suppose that we can go on in an artificialpretence that we have nothing to say. "

She put up her hand appealingly. 

"Only do not drive me away again, " she pleaded. "Don't say things thatI have no right to hear!"

A dark red stained Herman's cheek, and the tears came into his eyes. 

"No, " he returned. "If any one is to be driven away it shall not beyou. "

"But why need we trouble the things that are past, " she went on, withwistful eagerness. "Why cannot we accept it all in silence, and befriends. "

He looked at her with a passionate, penetrating glance. She felt a wildand foolish longing to fling herself upon the floor and embrace hisfeet; but the old Puritan training, the resistant fibre inherited fromsturdy ancestors, still did not fail her. 

"You have your wife, " she hurried on, "your home, your boy. That isenough. That"--

"That is not enough, " he interrupted, with an emphasis, which seemedstern. "Helen, I shall not talk love to you. I am another woman'shusband. I made a ghastly mistake when I married Ninitta, but it isdone. She loves me; she is happy, and I love"--his voice faltered intoa wonderful softness more eloquent than words, --"I love Nino. "

She would not let him go on. She sprang up and ran to him, taking hishands in hers with a touch that made his blood rush tingling throughhis veins. 

"Yes, " she cried, "you love Nino! Think of that! Think most of all thatwhatever you are, good or bad, you are for your son, for Nino! Come!There is safety for us in that. We will go and talk with Nino betweenus. Then we shall say nothing of which we can be ashamed or regret. "

There came to Herman a vision of his boy clasped in Helen's arms whichmade him feel as if suffocating with the excess of his emotion. He roseblindly, only half conscious of what he was doing; and without givingtime for objections Helen hastened to dress herself for the street, andin a few moments they were walking together toward the sculptor'shouse. 

To Herman's surprise, his wife was absent when he reached home. Themaid did not know where she had gone. She often went out in the morningwithout saying where she was going, and of course the servant did notask. 

"That is odd, " Herman said; "but she has probably gone shopping orsomething of the sort. It is too bad, she had so set her heart onshowing you the _bambino_, as she calls him, herself. "

But it proved that Nino also was out, having been taken for a walk; andso Helen, who returned home at once, saw neither of them. 

VII

 THIS DEED UNSHAPES ME. Measure for Measure; iv. --4. 

Ninitta had not gone shopping. She was posing for Arthur Fenton, at hisstudio. Even the presence of her boy could not wholly make up to theItalian for the loss of all the old interest and excitement of her lifeas a model. The boy was with his nurse or at the kindergarten for longhours during which Ninitta, who had few of the resources with which aneducated woman would have filled her time, mingled longings for her oldlife with blissful gloatings over Nino's beauty and cleverness. Herhusband was always kind, but since his marriage delicacy of sentimenthad made him shrink from having his wife pose even for himself, whilenaturally no thought of her doing so for another would have beenentertained for a moment. 

Ninitta had been so long in the life, to pose had been so large a partof her very existence, that she hardly knew how to do without the old-time flavor. Mrs. Fenton had perceived something of this without at allappreciating the strength of the feeling of the sculptor's wife, andshe had at one time tried to interest Ninitta in what might perhaps becalled missionary work among the models of Boston, a class of whosecalling Edith held views which her husband was not wholly wrong incalling absurdly narrow. She was met at once by the difficulty that itwas impossible to make Ninitta see that missionary work was neededamong the models, and the effort resulted in nothing except to convinceMrs. Fenton that she could do little with the Italian. 

Just how Arthur Fenton had persuaded her to pose without her husband'sknowledge, Ninitta could not have told; and the artist himself wouldhave assured any investigator, even that speculative spirit which heldthe place left vacant by the dismissal of his conscience, that he hadnever deliberately tried to entice her. He had talked to her of thepicture he was painting for a national competitive exhibition, it istrue, and dwelt upon the difficulty of procuring a proper model; he hadmet her on the street one day and taken her into his studio to see it;he had regretted that it was impossible to ask her; and of a hundredapparently blameless and trivial things, the result was that thismorning, while Helen and Herman were walking across the Common to findher, Ninitta was lying amid a heap of gorgeous stuffs and cushions inFenton's studio, while he painted and talked after his fashion. 

It is as impossible to trace the beginnings of any chain of events asit is to find the mystery of the growth of a seed. Whatever ArthurFenton's faults, he certainly believed himself to be one who could notbetray a friend. The ideal which he vaguely called honor, and whichserved him as that ultimate ethical standard which in one shape oranother is necessary to every human being, forbade his taking advantageof any one whose friendship he admitted. His instinct of self-indulgence had, however, made him so expert a casuist that he was ableto silence all inner misgivings by arguing that the demands of art wereabove all other laws. He reasoned that Ninitta's posing could do nopossible harm to Grant Herman, while the success of his _Fatima_depended upon it; and since art was his religion, he came at last tofeel as if he were nobly sacrificing his prejudices to his highestconvictions in violating for the sake of art his principle whichforbade his deceiving her husband. 

Least of all, in asking the Italian to pose, had Fenton been actuatedby any intention of tempting her to evil. He needed a model for the_Fatima_ as he needed his canvas and brushes; and his satisfaction athaving induced Ninitta to serve his purpose was in kind much the sameas his pleasure that his brushes and canvas were exactly what hewanted. 

But it is always difficult to tell to what an action may lead; and mostof all is it hard to foresee the consequences which will follow fromthe violation of principle. Perhaps the air of secrecy with whichNinitta found it necessary to invest her coming, had an intoxicatingeffect upon the artist; perhaps it was simply that his persistentegotism moved him to test his power. Men often feel the keenestcuriosity in regard to the extent of their ability to commit crimesinto which they have yet not the remotest intention of being betrayed;and especially is this true in their relations to women. Men of acertain vanity are always eager to discover how great an influence forevil they could exercise over women, even when they have not the nerveor the wickedness to exert it. A man must be morally great to be abovefinding pleasure in the belief that he could be a Don Juan if he chose;and moral grandeur was not for Arthur Fenton. 

From whatever cause, the fact was, that as he painted this morning andreflected, with a complacency of which he was too keen an analyst notto know he should have been ashamed, how he had secured the model hedesired despite her husband, the speculation came into his mind how farhe could push his influence over Ninitta. At first a mere impersonalidea, the thought was instantly, by his habit of mental definiteness, realized so clearly that his cheek flushed, partly, it is to be said tohis credit, with genuine shame. He looked at the beautiful model, andturned away his eyes. Then, hardly conscious of what he was doing, helaid down his palette, and took a step forward. 

At that instant the studio bell rang sharply. He started with soterrible a sense of being discovered in a crime, that his jaw trembledand his knees almost failed under him. 

Then instantly he recovered his self-possession, although his heart wasbeating painfully, and looked up at the clock. 

"Heavens!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea how late it was! It is thatbeastly Irons for his last sitting. I'd forgotten all about him. "

Ninitta rose from her position and hurried toward the screen behindwhich she dressed. 

"Don't let him in, " she said. "He knows me. "

The bell rang again, as they stood looking at each other. 

"I will try to send him off, " Arthur said. "Dress as quickly as youcan. "

She retreated behind the screen while he went to the door and unlockedit. Instantly Irons stepped inside. 

"You must excuse me, " the artist said. "I'll be ready for you infifteen minutes. I have a model here, and got to painting so busilythat I forgot the time. Come back in a quarter of an hour. "

"Oh, I don't mind, " Irons said, advancing into the studio. "I'll lookround until you are ready. "

"But I never admit sitters when I have a model, " Fenton protested, standing before him. "I shall have to ask you to go. "

The other stopped and looked at the artist with suspicion in his eyes. 

"What a fuss you make, " he commented coarsely. "No intrigue, Isuppose?"

A hot flush sprang into Fenton's face. He tried to assume a haughtyair, but the consciousness of being entrapped in a misdemeanor had notleft him. The need of getting Mrs. Herman out of the studio unseenwould have been awkward at any time; when to this was added the senseof guilt and shame which was begotten of the base impulse to which hehad almost yielded, the situation became for him painfullyembarrassing. 

"I am not in the habit of carrying on intrigues with my models, " hereplied, haughtily. "Or, " he added, regaining self-possession, "ofdiscussing my affairs with others. "

Mr. Irons laughed in a significant way which made Arthur long to killhim on the spot, and, stepping past Fenton, he walked further into thestudio. 

"Don't put on airs with me, " he said. "Your looks give you away. You'vebeen up to some mischief. "

He paused an instant before the unfinished picture on the easel, thenwhen the artist coolly took the canvas and placed it with its face tothe wall, he turned with deliberate rudeness and craned his neck sothat he could look behind the screen. A leering smile came over hiscoarse features. Without a word he went over to the most distant cornerof the studio, where he apparently became absorbed in studying a sketchhanging on the wall. 

There was a dead silence of some moments. Fenton was literallyspeechless with rage, yet, too, his quick wit was busy devising someway of escape from the unpleasant predicament in which he foundhimself. He did not speak, nor did Mr. Irons turn until Ninitta hadcompleted her toilet and slipped hastily out. As the door closed afterher, Irons wheeled about and confronted the indignant artist with asmile of triumphant glee. 

"Sly dog!" he said. 

Fenton advanced a step toward his tormentor with his clenched hand halfraised as if he would strike. 

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "Do you call yourself a gentleman?"

"Oh, come, now, " the other responded, with an easy wave of the hand, "no heroics, if you please. They won't go down with me. She's adevilish fine woman, and I don't blame you. "

"I tell you, " began Fenton, "you"--

"Oh, of course, of course. I know all that. But sit down while I saysomething to you. "

As if under the constraining influence of a nightmare, Fenton obeyedwhen Mr. Irons, having seated himself in an easy chair, waved him intoanother with a commanding gesture. The artist felt himself to have losthis place as the stronger of the two, of which he had hitherto beenproudly conscious, and he sat angrily gnawing his lip while histormentor regarded him with smiling malice. 

"Do you remember telling me one day, " Irons asked, fixing his narroweyes on the other's disturbed face, "that you could make your sitterstell you things?"

Fenton stared at his questioner in angry silence, but did not answer. 

"Now, if, " continued Irons; "I say if, you observe, --if Stewart Hubbardshould chance to tell you where the new syndicate mean to locate theirmills, it might be a mighty good thing for you. "

Still Fenton said nothing, but his regard became each moment morewrathful. 

"Of course, " the sitter continued, with an assumption of airy lightnesswhich grated on every nerve of the hearer, "you are not in a positionto turn such knowledge to advantage; but I am, and I am always inclinedto help a bright fellow like you when there is a good chance. So if youshould come to me and say that the mills are to be so and so, I'd doall I could to make things pleasant for you. I happen to belong to asyndicate myself that has bought a mill privilege at Wachusett, and itis important to us to have the new railroad go our way, and we'd liketo know how far the other fellows' plans are dangerous to ourinterests, don't you see. "

Still Fenton did not speak. He had grown very pale, and his lips wereset firmly together. His hands clasped the arms of his chair sostrongly that the blood had settled under the middle of the nails. Mr. Irons looked at him with narrow, piercing eyes. He paused a moment andthen went on. 

"You are perfectly capable of keeping a secret, " he said in a hard, deliberate tone, "so I don't in the least mind telling you what weshould do. Your sitters always tell you things, you know; and you areto be trusted. The case is here; our syndicate stand in with therailroad corporation and ask the Railroad Commissioners for acertificate of exigency, to authorize laying the new branch out throughWachusett. Now we have information that Staggchase and Stewart Hubbardand that set, are planning to spring a petition asking for speciallegislation locating the road somewhere else. Of course, they'll haveto get it in under a suspension of the rules, but they can work thateasily enough. The Commissioners will have to hold on, then, until theLegislature finishes with that petition. "

He paused again, with an air which convinced the artist that he wasgoing on with this elaborate explanation to cover his awkwardness. Fenton did not speak, and his visitor continued, --

"The Commissioners might settle the matter now, but they won't, andwe've got to have the fight, I suppose; so, of course, you can see howit is for our interest to know just what we are fighting. "

He rose as he spoke, and with an air of deliberation, buttoned hisovercoat, which he had not removed. 

"I don't think you feel like painting this morning, " he observed, "andI'll come in again. I'll leave you to think over what I have said. "

Fenton rose also, regarding him with fierce, level eyes. 

"And suppose, " he said, "that I call you a damned scoundrel, and forbidyou ever to set foot in my studio again?"

The other laughed, with the easy assurance of a bully who feels himselfsecure. 

"Oh, you won't, " he replied. "If you did, --well, I am on the committeefor the new statue, and have to see Herman now and then you know, and Ishould, perhaps, ask him why his wife poses for you. Good morning. "

And with a chuckling laugh, he took himself out. 

VIII

 A NECESSARY EVIL. Julius Caesar; ii. --2. 

"Oh, I assure you that my temper has been such for a week that myfamily have threatened to have me sent to a nervine asylum, " Ethel Mottobserved to Fred Rangely, who was calling on her, ostensibly to inquireafter her health, some trifling indisposition having kept her housedfor a few days. "What with my cold and my vexation at losing things Iwanted to go to, I have been positively unendurable. "

"That's your way of looking at it, " he responded; "but I hardly fancythat anybody else found it out. But what has there been to lose, exceptthe Throgmorton ball?"

"Well, first there was the concert Saturday night. "

"Do you care so much about the Symphonies, then? I thought you were theone girl in Boston who doesn't pretend to care for music. "

"Oh, but we have lovely seats this year, and the nicest people allabout us, you know. Thayer Kent and his mother are directly behind us. "

"Where he can lean forward and talk to you, " interrupted Rangely, jealously. 

"Yes, " she said, nodding with a gleam of mischievous laughter in herdark eyes. "And I do have a nice time at the Symphonies. Besides, Idon't in the least object to the music, you know. "

Fred fixed his gaze on a large old-fashioned oil painting on theopposite wall, a copy from some of the innumerable pastorals which havebeen made in imitation of Nicholas Poussin. It was of no particularvalue, but it was surrounded by a beautiful carved Venetian frame, andwas one of those things which confer an air of distinction upon aBoston parlor, because they are plainly the art purchases of a bygonegeneration. 

"But you have, of course, had no end of girls running in to see you, "he observed. 

"Yes; but, then, that didn't make up for the Throgmorton ball. You askwhat else there was to lose; I should think that was enough. Why, JanetGraham says she never had such a lovely time in her life. "

"Is Miss Graham engaged to Fred Gore?" Rangely asked. 

Ethel's gesture of dissent showed how little she would have approved ofsuch a consummation. 

"No, indeed, " she returned. "Fred Gore only wants Janet's money, anyway; and she can't abide him, any more than I can. "

"Then, you have the correct horror of a marriage for money. "

"I think a girl is a fool to let a man marry her for her money. She'dmuch better give him her fortune and keep herself back. Then she'd atleast save something. I don't approve of people's marrying for moneyanyway; although, of course, " she added, with a twinkle in her eye, "Ithink it is wicked to marry without it. "

There shot through Rangely's mind the reflection that Thayer Kent hadnot an over-abundance of this world's goods; and to this followed theless pleasant thought that he was himself in the same predicament. 

"But Jack Gerrish hasn't anything, " he said, aloud. 

"But Janet has enough, so she can marry anybody she wants to, " was thereply; "and Jack Gerrish is too perfectly lovely for anything. "

The visitor laughed, but he was evidently not at his ease. He wasalways uncomfortably conscious that Ethel had not the slightestpossible scruple against laughing at him, and he was not a littleafraid of her well-known propensity to tease. Ethel regarded him withsecret amusement. A woman is seldom displeased at seeing a mandisconcerted by her presence, even when she pities him and would fainput him at his ease. It is a tribute to her powers too genuine to bedisputed, and while she may labor to overcome the man's feeling, hervanity cannot but be gratified that he has it. 

"Did you ever know anything like the way Elsie Dimmont is going on withDr. Wilson?" Ethel said, presently, by way of continuing theconversation. "I can't see what she finds to like in him. He's ascoarse as Fred Gore, only, of course, he's cleverer, and he isn'tdissipated. "

"Wilson isn't a half bad fellow, " Rangely replied, ratherpatronizingly. "Though, of course, I can understand that you wouldn'tcare for that kind of a man. "

"Am I so particular, then?"

"Yes, I think you are. "

"Thank you for nothing. "

"Oh, I meant to be complimentary, I assure you. Isn't it a complimentto be thought particular in your tastes?"

"That depends upon how you are told. Your manner was not at allcalculated to flatter me. It said too plainly that you thought mecaptious. "

"But I don't. "

"Of course you wouldn't own it, " Ethel retorted, playing with atortoise-shell paper-cutter she had picked up from the table by whichshe sat; "but your manner was not to be mistaken. It betrayed you inspite of yourself. "

Rangely knew how foolish he was to be affected by light banter likethis, but for his life he could not have helped it. The fact that Ethelknew how easily she could tease him lent a tantalizing sparkle to hereyes. She smiled mockingly as he vainly tried to keep the flush fromrising in his cheeks. 

"You are singularly fond of teasing, " he observed, in a manner heendeavored to make cool and philosophical. 

"Now you are calling me singular as well as captious. "

"The girl who is singular, " returned he, in an endeavor to turn thetalk by means of an epigram which only made matters worse for him, "thegirl who is singular runs great risk of never becoming plural. "

Ethel laughed merrily, her glee arising chiefly from a sense of thechance he was giving her to work up one of those playful mock quarrelswhich amused her and so thoroughly teased her admirer. 

"Upon my word, Mr. Rangely, " she said, assuming an air of indignantsurprise, "is it your idea of making yourself agreeable to tell anunfortunate girl that she is destined to be an old maid? I could standbeing one well enough, but to be told that I've got to be is by nomeans pleasant. "

He knew she was playing with him, but he could not on that account meether on her own ground. He endeavored to protest. 

"You are trying to make me quarrel. "

"Make you quarrel?" she echoed. "I like that! Of course, though, to beso full of faults that you can't help abusing me is one way of makingyou quarrel. "

"How you do twist things around!" exclaimed he, beginning to bethoroughly vexed. 

She pursed up her lips and regarded him with an expression moreaggravating than words could have been. She had been for several daysdeprived of the pleasure of teasing anybody, and her delight in vexingRangely made his presence a temptation which she was seldom able toresist. She was unrestrained by any regard for the young author whichshould make her especially concerned how seriously she offended him;and when she now changed the conversation abruptly, it was with aforbearing air which was anything but soothing to his nerves. 

"Don't you think, " she asked, "that Mr. Berry was absurd in the way heacted about playing at Mrs. West's?"

"No, I can't say that I do, " the caller retorted savagely. "Mrs. Westgives out that she is going to give the neglected native musicians atlast a chance to be heard, and then she invites them to play theircompositions in her parlor. Westbrooke Berry isn't the man to bepatronized in any such way. Just think of her having the cheek to giveto a man whose work has been brought out in Berlin an invitation whichis equivalent to saying that he can't get a public hearing, but she'llhelp him out by asking her guests to listen to him. Heavens! Mrs. Westis a perfectly incredible woman. "

Ethel smiled sweetly. In her secret heart she agreed with him; but itdid not suit her mood to show that she did so. 

"You seem bound to take the opposite view of everything to-day, " shesaid, in tones as sweet as her smile; "or perhaps it is only that mytemper has been ruined by my cold. I told you it had been bad. "

He rose abruptly. 

"If everything is to put us more at odds, " he said, rather stiffly, "the sooner I withdraw, the better. I am sorry I have fallen under yourdispleasure; it is generally my ill luck to annoy you. "

And in a few moments he was going down the street in a frame of mindnot unusual to him after a call upon Miss Mott, from whose house he wasapt to come away so ruffled and irritated that nothing short of acounteracting feminine influence could restore his self-complacency. 

This office of comforter usually fell to the lot of Mrs. FrederickStaggchase. Indeed, his fondness for this lady was so marked as to giverise to some question among his intimates whether he were not moreattached to her than to the avowed object of his affection. 

An hour after he had made his precipitate retreat from Ethel's, hefound himself sitting in the library at Mrs. Staggchase's, with hishostess comfortably enthroned in a great chair of carved oak on theopposite side of the fire. The conversation had somehow turned uponmarriage. There is always a certain fascination, a piquant if faintsense of being upon the borderland of the forbidden, which makes such adiscussion attractive to a man and woman who are playing at making lovewhen marriage stands between them. 

"But, of course, " Rangely had said, "two married people can't live atpeace when one of them is in love with somebody else. "

Mrs. Staggchase clasped with her slender hand the ball at the end ofthe carved arm of the chair in which she was sitting, looking absentlyat the rings which adorned her fingers. She possessed to perfection theart of being serious, and the air with which she now spoke wasadmirably calculated to imply a deep interest in the subject underdiscussion. "I do not understand, " she observed, thoughtfully, "why aman and woman need quarrel because they happen to be married to eachother, when they had rather be married to somebody else. It wouldn't beconsidered good business policy to pull against a partner because onemight do better with some other arrangement; and it does seem as ifpeople might be as sensible about their marriage relations as in theirbusiness. "

Her companion glanced at her, and then quickly resumed his intentregard of the fire beside which he sat. 

"But people are so unreasonable, " he remarked. 

Mrs. Staggchase assented, with a characteristic bend of the head, and amovement of her flexible neck. She looked up with a smile. 

"I think Fred and I are a model couple, " she said. "Fred came into myroom this noon, just as I had finished my morning letters. 'Good-morning, ' he said, 'I hope you weren't frightened. '--'Frightened?' Isaid, 'what at?'--'Do you mean to say you didn't know I was out allnight?'--'I hadn't an idea of it, ' said I. He'd been playing cards atthe club all night, and had just come in. He says that the next time, he shan't take the trouble to expose himself. "

Rangely laughed in a somewhat perfunctory way. 

"But if that is a model fashion of living, what becomes of the oldnotions of kindred souls, and all that sort of thing?" he asked. "Ishouldn't want my wife"--

He paused, rather awkwardly, and Mrs. Staggchase took up the sentencewith a smile of amusement, in which there was no trace of annoyance. She was too well aware how completely she was mistress of thesituation, in dealing with Rangely, to be either vexed or embarrassedin talking with him. 

"To be as frank with another man as I am with you?" she finished forhim. "Oh, very likely not. You have all the masculine jealousy which isaroused in an instant by the idea that a woman should be at liberty tolike more than one man. You are half a century behind us. Marriage asyou conceive it is the old-fashioned article, for the use of familiesin narrow circumstances intellectually as well as pecuniarily. Love ina cottage is necessary, because people under those conditions can'tlive unless they are extravagantly devoted to each other. Marriage withus is just what it ought to be, an arrangement of mutual convenience. Fred and I suit each other perfectly, and are sufficiently fond of eachother; but there are sides of his nature to which I do not answer, andof mine that he does not touch. He finds somebody who does; I findsomebody on my part. You, for instance. "

Rangely leaned back in his chair, and clasped his plump white fingers, regarding Mrs. Staggchase with a smile of amusement and admiration. 

"You are so awfully clever, " was his response, "that you could reallynever be uncommonly fond of anybody. You'd analyze the whole businesstoo closely. "

She laughed slightly, and went on with what she was saying, withoutheeding his interruption. 

"Fred and I make good backgrounds for each other, and, after all, thatis what is required. You answer to my need of companionship in anotherdirection, and since that side of my nature is unintelligible to myhusband, he is not defrauded, while I should be if I starved my desirefor such friendship, to please an idea like yours, that a wife shouldfind her all in her husband. Fortunately, Mr. Staggchase is a broaderman than you are. "

"Thank you, " Rangely retorted, with a faint tinge of annoyance visible, despite his air of jocularity. "Arthur Fenton says a broad man is onewho can appreciate his own wife. If Mr. Staggchase does that"--

"Come, " interrupted Mrs. Staggchase, smiling with the air of one whohas had quite enough of the topic, "don't you think the subject isgetting to be unfortunately personal? I have a favor to ask of you. "

Rangely was too well aware of the uselessness of trying to direct theconversation to make any attempt to continue the talk, which, moreover, had taken a turn not at all to his liking. He settled himself in hischair, in an attitude of easy attention. 

"I am always delighted to do you a favor, " he said. "It isn't often Iget a chance. "

The relations between these two were not easy to understand, unless oneaccepted the simplest possible theory of their friendship. It was, onthe part of Mrs. Staggchase, only one of a succession of platonicintimacies with which her married life had been enriched. She found itnecessary to her enjoyment that some man should be her devoted admirer, always quite outside the bounds of any possible love-making, albeitoften enough she permitted matters to go to the exciting verge of aflirtation which might merit a name somewhat warmer than friendship. She was a brilliant and clever woman who allowed herself the luxury ofgratifying her vanity by encouraging the ardent attentions of some man, which, if they ever became too pressing, she knew how to check, or, ifnecessary, to stop altogether. She was fond of talking, and she franklyavowed her conviction that women were not worth talking to. She likedan appreciative masculine listener with whom she could converse, now ina strain of bewildering frankness, now in a purely impersonal andintellectual vein, and who, however he might at times delude himself bymisconstruing her confidences into expressions of personal regard, wasclever enough to comprehend the little corrective hints by which, whennecessary, she chose to undeceive him. 

Analyzed to its last elements, her feeling, it must be confessed, waspretty nearly pure selfishness; but she was able, without effort, andby half-unconscious art, to throw over it the air of beingdisinterested friendship. Such a nature is essentially false, butchiefly in that it gives to a passing mood the appearance of apermanent sentiment, and, while seeking only self-gratification, seemsactuated by genuine desire to give pleasure to another. 

The attitude of Rangely toward Mrs. Staggchase was, perhaps, no moreunselfish, and was certainly no more noble, but his sentiment was atleast more genuine. He was flattered by her preference, and he wasbewildered by her cleverness. He liked to believe himself capable ofinteresting her, and without in the most remote degree desiring oranticipating an intrigue, he was ready to go as far as she would allowin his devotion. He was constantly tormented by a vague phantom ofconquest, which danced with will-o'-the-wisp fantasy before him, andfrom day to day he endeavored to discover how deeply in love she waswilling he should fall. He was really fond of her, a fact that did notprevent his entertaining a half-hearted passion for Ethel Mott, theresult of this mixture of emotion being that he was the slave, albeitwith a difference, of either lady with whom he chanced to be. That hewas the plaything of Mrs. Staggchase's fancy he was far from realizing, although from the nature of things he naturally regarded his fondnessfor Miss Mott as the permanent factor in the case. He even felt acertain compunction for the regret he supposed Mrs. Staggchase wouldfeel when he should decide formally to transfer his allegiance to herrival; a misgiving he might have spared himself had he been wise enoughto appreciate the situation in all its bearings. The lady understoodperfectly how matters stood, but Rangely was her junior, and, besides, no man in such a case ever comprehends that he is being played with. 

"It is in regard to the statue of _America_ that I want you to beuseful, " Mrs. Staggchase said, replying to her visitor's proffer ofservice with a smile. "Do you know what the chances are in regard tothe choice of a sculptor?"

"Why, I suppose Grant Herman will have the commission. "

"But I think not. "

"You think not? Who will then?"

"That is just it. Mr. Hubbard has been backing Mr. Herman; and Mr. Irons, who never will agree to anything that Mr. Hubbard wants, isputting up the claims of this new woman, just to be contrary. "

"What new woman? Mrs. Greyson?"

"Yes. Mrs. Frostwinch told me all about it yesterday. Now there is ayoung man that we are interested in"--

"Who is 'we'?" interrupted Rangely. 

"Oh, Mrs. Frostwinch, and Mrs. Bodewin Ranger, and a number of us. "

"But whom have you got on the committee?"

"Mr. Calvin; and don't you see that Mr. Calvin's name in a matter ofart is worth a dozen of the other two. "

"Yes, " Rangely assented, rather doubtfully, "in the matter of givingcommissions it certainly is. "

Mrs. Staggchase smiled indulgently, playing with the ring in whichblazed a splendid ruby, and which she was putting on and off herfinger. 

"If you think, " she said, "that you are going to entrap me into adiscussion of the merits of art and Philistinism, you are mistaken. Itold you long ago that I was a Philistine of the Philistines, deliberately and avowedly. The true artistic soul which you delight tocall Pagan is only the servant of Philistinism, and I own that I preferto stand with the ruling party. As, indeed, " she added, with amischievous gleam in her eye, "do many who will not confess it. "

Rangely flushed. The thrust too closely resembled reproaches which inhis more sensitive moments he received at the hand of his own innerconsciousness, so to speak, not to make him wince. He felt himself, besides, becoming involved in a painful position. He had long been theintimate friend of Grant Herman, and felt that the sculptor had a rightto expect whatever aid he could give him in a matter like this. 

"But who, " he asked, "is your _protege?_"

"His name, " Mrs. Staggchase replied, "is Orin Stanton. He is a fellowof the greatest talent, and he has worked his way"--

Rangely put up his hand in a gesture of impatience. 

"I know the fellow, " he said. "He made a thing he called _Hop Scotch_, of which Fenton said the title was far too modest, since he'd not onlyscotched the subject but killed it. "

"One never knew Mr. Fenton to waste the chance of saying a good thingsimply for the sake of justice, " Mrs. Staggchase observed, withunabated good humor. "But you are to help us in the _Daily Observer_, and there is to be no discussion about it. Since you know you are toogood-natured not to oblige me in the end, why should you not do itgracefully and get the credit of being willing. "

And then, being a wise woman, she disregarded Rangely's mutteredremonstrance and turned the conversation into a new channel. 

IX

 THIS IS NOT A BOON. Othello; iii. --3. 

If the old-time opinion that a woman whose name is a jest with men haslost her claims to respect, Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson might be supposedto have little ground for the inner anger she felt at the scantness ofthe courtesy with which she was treated by Mr. Irons. That gentlemanwas calling upon her in her tiny suite of rooms at the top of one ofthose apartment hotels which stand upon the debatable ground betweenthe select regions of Back Bay and the scorned precincts of the SouthEnd, and he was apparently as much at home as if the sofa upon which helounged were in his own dwelling. 

The apartment of Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson gave to the experienced eyeevidences of a pathetic struggle to make scanty resources furnish atleast an appearance of luxury. The walls were adorned with amateurchina painting in the shape of dreadful placques and plates in lividhues; there was abundance of embroidery that should have beenimpossible, in garish tints and uneven stitches; much shift had beenmade to produce an imposing appearance by means of cheap Japanese fansand the inexpensive wares of which the potteries at Kioto, corrupted byforeign influence, turn out such vast quantities for the foreignmarket. Against the wall stood an upright piano--if a piano could becalled upright which habitually destroyed the peace of the entireneighborhood--and over it was placed a scarf upon which apparently someboarding-school miss had taken her first lesson in painting wildflowers. 

The room was small, and so well filled with furniture that there seemedlittle space for the long limbs of Alfred Irons, who, however, hadcontrived to make himself comfortable by the aid of various cushionscovered with bright-colored sateens. He had lighted a cigar withoutthinking it necessary to ask leave, and had even made himself more easyby putting one leg across a low chair. 

Mrs. Sampson was fully aware that in her struggles with life she hadsometimes provoked laughter, often disapproval, and now and then givenrise to positive scandal, yet she was still accustomed to at least afair semblance of respect from the men who came to see her; women, itis to be noted, being not often seen within her walls, since those whowere willing to come she did not care to receive, and those whom sheinvited seldom set her name down on their calling lists. Amongthemselves, at the clubs or elsewhere, the men speculated more or lesscoarsely and unfeelingly upon the foundations of the numerous scandalswhich had from time to time blossomed like brilliant and life-sappingparasites upon the tree of Mrs. Sampson's reputation. Her name, eitherspoken boldly or too broadly hinted at to be misunderstood, adornedmany a racy tale told in smoking-rooms after good dinners, or when thehours had grown small in more senses than one; and her career was madeto point more than one moral drawn for the benefit of the sisters anddaughters of the men who joked and sneered concerning her. 

Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson was born of a good old Boston family, towhich she clung with a desperate clutch which her relatives ignored sofar as with dignity they were able. Her father had been a lawyer ofreputation, and his portrait was still displayed prominently in thedaughter's parlor, a circumstance which had given Chauncy Wilsonopportunity for a jest rather clever than elegant concerning JudgeWelsh's well-known fondness in life for watching the progress ofcriminal cases. Of her husband, the late Mr. Sampson, there was verylittle said, and not much was known beyond the fact that having runaway from school to marry him, Amanda had shared a shady and it waswhispered rather disreputable existence for three years, at the end ofwhich she was fortunately relieved from the matrimonial net by histimely decease; an event of which she sometimes spoke to her moreintimate male friends with undisguised satisfaction. 

It might not have been easy to tell how far Mrs. Sampson's subsequentcareer was forced upon her by circumstances, and how far it was theresult of her own choice. She always represented herself as the victimof a hard fate: but her relatives, one of whom was Mr. Staggchase, declared that Amanda had no capabilities of respectability in hercomposition. Mrs. Staggchase, upon whom marriage had conferred theprivilege of expressing her mind with the freedom of one of the family, while it happily spared her from the responsibility of an actualrelative, declared that everything had been done to keep Mrs. Sampsonwithin the bounds of propriety, but all in vain. The income from theestate of the late Judge Welsh was not large, and as Mrs. Sampson'stastes, especially in dress, were somewhat expensive, it followed thatshe was often reduced to devices for increasing her bank account whichwere generally adroit and curious, but often not of a character to beopenly boasted of. She had had some business transactions already withIrons, who was at this moment laying out the plan of work in a freshoperation where she might make herself useful. 

"Of course, " he said, "all the men from Wachusett way are on our side, and the men from the other part of the county will be against us. "

"What other part of the county?" Mrs. Sampson inquired. 

She had laid down her sewing and was listening intently, with a look ofkeen intelligence, the tips of her long and rather large fingerspressed closely together. She hated Irons devoutly, but his schememeant financial profit to her, and various bills were troublesomelyoverdue. 

"That's what we have to discover. When we find out, I'll let you know. The other syndicate have been deucedly close-mouthed about their plans, but of course they can't keep dark a great while longer; and in anycase I am on the track of the information. "

"And what, " Mrs. Sampson asked, with an air of innocence too obviouslyartificial, "am I expected to do?"

Irons glanced at her with a wink, taking in her plain, vivacious facewith its sparkling eyes, her fine figure, and stylish, if somewhat toopronounced, presence. 

"The old game, " he said. "Show a tender and sisterly interest in a fewof the country members. There are one or two men from the western partof the state that we want to capture at once before the thing isstarted. Do you know anybody in that region?"

"My father, Judge Welsh, " she answered with an amusing touch amid herfrankness of the air with which she always mentioned her ancestors insociety, "had numerous connections there. "

"Ah, that is good, " the visitor responded, with evident satisfaction. 

He knocked the ashes from his cigar into a tiny bronze which Mrs. Sampson had put within his reach when he showed signs of throwing themupon the carpet, and then plunged into a discussion of the members ofthe State Legislature with whom it was possible for Mrs. Sampson toestablish an acquaintance, and whom she was likely to be able toinfluence. He drew from his pocket a list of men, and with quite asbusiness-like an air his hostess produced a similar document from herdesk; the pair being soon deep in consultation over the schedules. 

Lobbying in Massachusetts is not by the public recognized as a well-organized business, and yet any one who desires to secure personalinfluence to aid or to hinder legislation is seldom at a loss to findpeople well experienced in such work. The lobby to the eyes of thepublic, moreover, consists entirely of men, if one excepts the group offoolish intriguers in favor of the vagaries of proposed law-making bywhich it is supposed the distinctions of sex may be abolished. Thereare in the city, however, women who by no means lack experience inmanipulating the votes of country members, and who are but too willingto sell their services to whoever can make it to their pecuniaryinterest to favor a bill. 

Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson was extremely adroit and careful inconcealing her connection with the law-making of the State. She was inevidence in most public places; at the theatres, the concert halls, theCounty Club races, and at every fashionable entertainment to which hercleverness could procure her admission, her conspicuous figure, mademore prominent by a certain indefinable loudness of style, a markeddash of manner, and gowns in a taste rather daring than refined, wastoo conspicuous to be overlooked. Yet it is doubtful if she had everbeen up the steps leading to the gilded-domed capitol in her life. Shewent about much; and the unchaperoned life which in virtue of herwidowhood and her love of freedom she chose to lead, the width of thecircle over which her acquaintance extended, allowed her to carry onher work unobserved; so that while a great variety of stories of onesort of queerness or another were told of Mrs. Sampson, this particularside of her career was almost unknown. 

"There is Mr. Greenfield, " Mrs. Sampson observed, tapping her teethwith her pencil. "His wife was a cousin of my husband. I don't knowthem at all, but I could easily ask him to come and see me. It would beonly proper to offer him the hospitality of the town, you know. "

"Good!" cried Mr. Irons, slapping his open palm down on his knee. "Greenfield's the hardest nut we've got to crack in the whole business. He's the sort of man you can't talk to on a square business basis. You've got to mince things damned fine with him, and he's chairman ofthe Railroad Committee, you know. He'd have a tremendous amount ofinfluence, anyway. "

"He's a little tin god at Fentonville, I've heard, " Mrs. Sampsonresponded, laughing in the mechanical way which was her habit. "Whenhe's at home they say the sun doesn't rise there till he's given hispermission. "

Irons in his excitement took his leg down from its supporting chair andsat up straight, dropping his list of members to the floor and claspinghis knees with his heavy hands. 

"Now look here, old lady, " he said, "here's a chance to show yourmettle. If you'll manage Greenfield, I'll run the rest of the hayseedcrowd, and I'll make it something handsomer than you ever had in yourlife. "

The woman smiled a smile of greed and cunning. 

"I'll take care of him, " she said. "And he shall never know he has beentaken care of either. "

Irons laughed with coarse jocoseness. 

"A man has very little chance that falls into your clutches, " heobserved, "but in this particular case you've got a heavy contract onhand. Greenfield's got his price, of course, like everybody else, butI'm hanged if I know what it is. If you offered him tin he'd simply flyout on the whole thing and nobody could hold him. There isn't anyparticular pull in politics on him. This new-fashioned independence hasknocked all that to pieces; and Greenfield is an Independent from theword go. I don't know what you're to bait your hook with, unless it'syour lovely self. "

Mrs. Sampson began a laugh, and then recovering herself, she frowned. 

"Don't be personal, " she said. "I won't stand it. "

She began to feel that the circumstances were such as to make herimportant to her caller's schemes, and her air by insensible degreesbecame more assured and less subservient. She knew her man, and she wasprepared for his becoming proportionately more respectful. He dusted alittle heap of ashes from the small table beside him and scattered themwith his foot, in a well-meant attempt to cover the traces of hisprevious untidiness. She watched him with a covert sneer. 

"Even so difficult a problem as that, " she said, with a slight toss ofthe head, a bit of antique coquetry which impressed him with a newsense of her thorough self-possession, and imposed itself upon hisuntrained mind as the air of a true woman of the world; "I fancy I cansolve. Leave him to me. I'll find out what can be done with him. "

"If he can be got hold of, " Irons remarked, reflectively, "he willcarry the whole thing through. They'd believe him up at Feltonville ifhe told them it was right to walk backward and vote to give theirincomes to the temperance cranks. "

He rose to go as he spoke, unconsciously assuming with the overcoat heput on that air of stiffness and immaculate propriety which he worealways in public. He seldom allowed himself the undignified freedomwhich marked his intercourse with Mrs. Sampson, and he liked the resthe found in being for a time his vulgar, ill-bred self with norestraints of artificial manner. 

"Well, good afternoon, " he said, extending his large hand, into whichshe laid hers with a certain faint air of condescension. "I've got togo to a meeting of the committee on the new statue. They've got a newfellow they are trying to push in, a young unlicked cub that PeterCalvin's running. I'll let you know anything that's for our advantage. "

When he was gone, Mrs. Sampson produced a brush and a dustpan frombehind the books on a whatnot and carefully collected the scatteredashes of his cigar. 

"Vulgar old brute!" she muttered. "To think of my having to clean upafter him; his mother was my grandmother's laundress. "

Then she smiled contemptuously, and added by way of self-consolation, --

"But it will all count in the bill, Al Irons. "

X

 THE BITTER PAST. All's Well That Ends Well; v. --3. 

"Do you see much of Mrs. Herman?" Helen Greyson asked of Edith Fenton, as they sat at luncheon together in the latter's pretty dining-room. 

"Why, no, " was the somewhat hesitating answer. "I really see verylittle of her. The fact is we have so little common ground to meet on. --You know Arthur says I am dreadfully narrow, and I am sometimesafraid he is right. I have tried to know her, but of course I couldn'ttake her into society. She wouldn't enjoy it, and she wouldn't feel athome, even if she'd go with me. "

Helen smiled with mingled amusement and wistfulness. 

"No, " she responded. "I can't exactly fancy Ninitta in society. She'dbe quite out of her element. My master in Rome, Flammenti, had a way ofsaying a thing was like the pope at a dancing-party, and I fancyNinitta at an afternoon tea would be hardly less out of place. "

"But she must be very lonely, " Edith said, stirring her coffeemeditatively. "She used to have a few Italians come to see her; peopleshe met that time she ran away, you remember, and we brought her home, but they don't come now. "

"Why not?"

Edith smiled and raised her eyebrows. 

"A question of caste, I believe. "

"Of caste?" echoed Helen. "What do you mean?"

"When her son was born, " Edith responded, "she told them that the_bambino_ was born a gentleman, and couldn't associate with them. "

Helen laughed lightly; then her face clouded, and she sighed. 

"Poor Ninitta!" she said. "There is something infinitely pitiful in herdevotion and faithfulness to her youthful love. "

Edith's face assumed an expression of mingled perplexity and disquiet. With eyes downcast she seemed for a moment to be seeking a phrase inwhich properly to express some thought which troubled her. Then shelooked up quickly. 

"I don't know that I ought to say it, " she remarked, "but I can't helpfeeling that Ninitta is not so fond of her husband as she used to be. Of course I may be mistaken, but either I overestimated her devotionbefore they were married, or she cares less for him now. "

An expression of pain contracted Helen's brow. 

"Isn't it possible, " she suggested, "that her being more demonstrativein her love for the boy makes her seem cold toward her husband?"

"No, " returned Edith, shaking her head, "it is more than that. I fancysometimes that she unconsciously expected to be somehow transformedinto his equal by marrying him; and that the disappointment of being nomore on a level with him when she became his wife than before, has madeher somehow give him up, as if she concluded that she could neverreally belong to his life. Of course I don't mean, " she added, "thatNinitta would reason this out, and very likely I am all wrong, anyway, but certainly something of this kind has happened. "

"Poor Ninitta, " repeated Helen, "fate hasn't been kind to her. "

"But Mr. Herman?" Edith returned. "What do you say of him? I think hiscase is far harder. What a mistake his marriage was. I cannot conceivehow he was ever betrayed into such a _mesalliance_. She cannot be acompanion to him; she does not understand him: she is only a child whohas to be borne with, and who tries his patience and his endurance. "

Edith had forgotten her husband's suggestion that her companion wasresponsible for Grant Herman's marriage; but Helen, who for six yearshad been questioning with herself whether she had done well in urgingthe sculptor to marry his model, heard this outburst with beating heartand flushing cheek. Had Helen allowed Herman to break his early pledgeto Ninitta, and marry his later love, it is probable that all her lifewould have been shadowed by a consciousness of guilt. The consciencebequeathed to her, as Fenton rightly said, by Puritan ancestors, wouldever have reproached her with having come to happiness over the ruinsof another woman's heart and hopes. Having in the supreme hour oftemptation, however, overcome herself and given him up, it was notperhaps strange that Helen unconsciously fell somewhat into theattitude of assuming that this sacrifice gave her not only the right tosit in judgment upon Ninitta, but also that of having done somewhatmore than might justly have been demanded of her. She had often foundherself wondering whether she had been wise; whether her devotion to anideal had not been overstrained; and if she ought not to haveconsidered rather the happiness of the man she loved than devotion toan abstract principle. 

It was also undoubtedly true, although Helen had not herself reflectedupon this phase of the matter, that her half a dozen years' residencein Europe had softened and broadened her views. In the present age ofthe world there is no method possible by which one can resist the wholetendency of modern thought and prevent himself from moving forward withit, unless it be active and violent controversy. No man can be afanatic without opposition, either real or vividly fancied, upon whichto stay his resolution, and it is equally difficult to maintain a standat any given point of faith unless one has steadily to fight with vigorfor the right to possess it. 

It is probable that to-day Helen might have found it more difficultthan six years before to urge Herman to marry Ninitta, since besidesthe self-sacrifice then involved would now be a doubtfulness ofpurpose. She sat silent some moments, reflecting deeply, while herhostess watched her with a loving admiration which was growing verystrongly upon her. 

"But what is to be done now, " Helen asked slowly. "You would not havehim cast her off?"

"Oh, no, " returned Edith, in genuine consternation. "Now, it is sixyears too late. "

"I am afraid I do not wholly agree with your point of view, " answeredMrs. Greyson, roused by the doubt in her own mind to a need to combatthe assumption that the marriage was a mistake. "I certainly do notfeel that the mere ceremony is the great point. See!" she continued, becoming more animated, and half involuntarily saying aloud what shehad so often said in her own mind; "a man makes a woman love him. Astime goes on, he outgrows her. It is no fault of hers. Why should thefact that he has or has not come into the marriage relations affect herclaims on him? Isn't he in honor bound to marry her?"

"But suppose, " Edith returned, "that he has not only outgrown her butmade some other woman love him too?"

It was merely a chance shot of argument, but it smote Helen so that shetrembled as she sat. 

"Is not that woman to be considered?" Edith continued. "Is the good ofthe man to count for nothing? Mr. Herman is sacrificed to an oldmistake. Perhaps it is right that he should pay the price of his error;and that in the end it will be overruled for his good, we may hope. Butit is hard to have patience now with the state of things. "

Helen tapped her teaspoon nervously against her cup. 

"But what can be done?"

"Nothing, " Mrs. Fenton said, without the slightest hesitation. "You andI may think these things, but it would be a crime for Mr. Herman tothink them. "

"It might be cowardice to yield to them, " responded Helen; "but howcrime? And how can one help the thoughts from turning whithersoeverthey will?"

Edith pushed back her plate, leaned forward with folded arms restingupon the edge of the table. She flushed a little, as she did sometimeswhen she felt it her duty to say something to her husband which it washard to utter. 

"I do not think you and I agree in this, " she said, in a voice whichher earnestness made somewhat lower than before. "Marriage is to me asacrament, and this very fact gives it a nature different from ordinarypromises. We promise to love until death do us part. To me that is asimperative as any vow I can make to God and man. "

"But love, " Helen urged, with a somewhat perplexed air, "is not a thingto be coerced. "

"It must be, " Edith returned, inflexibly. "Even if my husband ceased tolove me, that does not absolve me. I must fulfil my promise and myduty. "

"But, " Helen responded, doubtfully and slowly, "it seems to me asacrilege to live with a man after one has ceased to love him. "

"But I would love him, " Edith broke in almost fiercely. "That is justthe point. One must refuse to cease to love him. "

"But if he ceased to love her?"

A flush came into Edith's clear cheek, and her eyes shone. Halfunconsciously to herself, she was fighting with the doubts which wouldnow and then rise in her own mind of her husband's affection. 

"Then, " she said, in a low voice, "one must still be worthy of hislove; one must do one's duty. Besides, " she added, looking up with agleam of hope, "when one has made a solemn vow, as a wife vows to loveher husband until death part them, I firmly believe that strength tokeep that vow will not be withheld. "

Helen was silent a moment. She by no means agreed to the position Edithtook. She had no belief in those promises in virtue of which thesacraments of the church took on a peculiar sanctity; she did not atall trust to any special help bestowed by higher powers. She did not, however, care to argue upon these points, and she said more lightly, --

"You task womanhood pretty heavily. "

"A little woman who is a _protegee_ of mine, " Edith returned, in thesame manner, "said rather quaintly the other day, that women were madeso there should be somebody to be patient with men. She's havingtrouble with her lover, I suspect, and takes it hardly. "

"But, " Helen persisted more gravely, "it seems to me that you setbefore the unloved wife a task to which humanity is absolutelyunequal. "

"You remember St. Theresa and her two sous, " Edith replied, her eyesshining with deep inner feeling; "how she said, 'St. Theresa and twosous are nothing, but St. Theresa and two sous and God are everything. 'I can't argue, but for myself, I could not live if I should give up myideal of duty. "

As often it had happened before, Helen found herself so deeply moved bythe fervor and the genuineness of Edith's faith, that she felt itimpossible to go on with an argument which could convince only at theexpense of weakening this rare trust. She brought the conversation backto its starting point. 

"But about Ninitta, " she said. "I saw her yesterday, and she acted asif she had something on her mind. She somehow seemed to be trying totell me something. I told her that the _bambino_, as she calls Nino, must keep her occupied most of the time, and she said the nurse stolehim away half of the day; she has the peasant instinct to take entirecharge of her own child. "

"If that is a peasant instinct, " Edith rejoined laughing, "I am afraidI am a peasant. "

"Oh, but you are reasonable about it, and know that it is better forthe boy to have change and so on. She acts as if she felt it to be aconspiracy between the nurse and her husband to steal the child'saffections from her. Really, I felt as if she was coming to love Ninoso fiercely that she had fits of almost hating her husband. "

The ringing of the door bell and the entrance of the servant with acard interrupted the conversation, and Helen had only time to say, --

"Of course on general principles you know I do not agree with you. Indeed, I should find it hard to justify what I consider the mostmeritorious acts of my life if I did. But I do want to say that, givenyour creed, your view of marriage seems to me the noble--indeed, theonly one. "

As Helen walked home in the gray afternoon, sombre with a winter mist, she thought over the conversation and measured her life by itsprinciples. 

"If one accepts Edith's standard, " she reflected, "it is impossible notto accept her conclusions. She is a St. Theresa, with her strictadherence to forms and her loyalty to her convictions. But surely one'sown self has some claims. My first duty to whatever the highest poweris, --the All, perhaps, --must be to do the best I can with myself. Itcould not be my duty to go on living with Will"--

She stopped, with a faint shudder, raising her eyes and looking aboutupon the wet and dreary landscape with an almost furtive glance, as ifshe were oppressed by the fear that the eyes of the husband with whomshe had found it impossible to live, and who for six years had beenunder the sod, dead by his own hand, might be watching her unawares. Itwas one of those moments when a bygone emotion is so vividly revived, as if some long hidden landscape were revealed by a sudden lightningflash. The years had brought her immunity from the poignancy of thepain of old sorrows, but for one brief and bitter instant she cowedwith the old fear, she trembled with the old-time agony. 

Then she smiled at the unreasonableness of her feeling, and droppingher eyes, walked on with slightly quickened steps. 

"It cannot be a woman's duty to go on living with a man who is draggingher down, or even who prevents her from realizing her best; and yet, there is the influence. That is a trick of my old Puritan training, ofcourse, but after all it is right to consider. One must count influenceas a factor if one believes in civilization, and I do believe incivilization; certainly, I would not go back to barbarism. But is awoman to be tied down--oh! how a woman is always tied down! Limitation--limitation--limitation; that is the whole story of a woman's life;and the harder she struggles to get away from her bonds the more sheproves to herself by the pain of the wrist cut by the fetters howimpossible it is to break them. Women contrive to deceive men sometimesinto believing that they have overcome the limitations of their sex;and they even deceive themselves; but they never deceive each other. Awoman may believe that she herself has accomplished the impossible, butshe knows no one of her sisters has. "

She smiled sadly and yet humorously, pausing a moment on the curbstonebefore crossing the wet and icy street. Then as she went on and acoachman pulled up his horses almost upon their haunches to let herpass, she took up the thread of her reflections once more, --

"Yet surely women must not rebel against civilization. Civilization isafter all quite as largely as anything else a determined ignoring andcombatting on the part of mankind of the cruel disadvantages underwhich nature has put women. No; we must look at it in the large; wemust hold to the conventional even, rather than fight againstcivilization, however wrong and illogical and heartless civilizationmay be. It is the best we have and we go to the wall without it. "

She had reached her boarding-house and fitted her latch-key into thelock. As she opened the door she looked back into the gathering dusk ofthe misty afternoon, and her thought was almost as if it were a lastword flung to some presence to be left behind and shut out, apersonality with whom she had argued, and who had logically defeatedbut not convinced her. 

"And yet, " she said inwardly, with a sudden swelling of defiance andconviction, "not for all the universe could I have done it. I could notgo on living with Will, --though, " she added, a sudden compunctionseizing her, "I was fond of him in a way, poor fellow. "

And the door closed. 

XI

 THE GREAT ASSAY OF ART. Macbeth; iv. --3. 

The inner history of the effigies which in Boston do duty as statueswould be most interesting reading, amusing or depressing as one feltobliged to take it. To know what causes led to the production and thento the erection of these monstrosities could hardly fail to beinstructive, although the knowledge might be rather dreary. 

The subject has been too much discussed to make it easy to touch it, but all this examination has by no means resulted in generalenlightenment, as was sufficiently evident at the meeting of thecommittee in charge of the new statue of _America_ about to be erectedin a properly select Back Bay location. The committee consisted ofStewart Hubbard, Alfred Irons, and Peter Calvin, three names which wereseldom long absent from the columns of the leading Boston dailynewspapers. Mr. Irons had been strongly objected to by both hisassociates, neither of whom felt quite disposed to assume even suchequality as might seem to follow from joint membership of thecommittee. That gentleman had, however, sufficient influence at CityHall to secure appointment, a whim which had seized him to pose as apatron of art being his obvious motive; and neither Mr. Hubbard nor Mr. Calvin was prepared to go quite to the length of declining to servewith the obnoxious parvenu. 

Stewart Hubbard was a most admirable example of the best type of anAmerican gentleman. Arthur Fenton once described him as "a genuine oldBeacon street, purple window-glass swell;" a description expressive, ifnot especially elegant. Tall and well-built, with the patrician writtenin every line of his handsome face, his finely shaped head covered withshort hair, snowy white although he had hardly passed middle age, hisclear dark eyes straightforward and frank in their glances, he was astriking and pleasing figure in any company. He had graduated, like hisancestors for three or four generations, at Harvard; and if he knewless about art than his place on the committee made desirable, he atleast had a pretty fair idea of what authorities could be trusted. 

Peter Calvin's place in Boston art matters has already been spoken of. He took himself very seriously, moving through life with a sunny-facedself-complacency so inoffensive and sincere as to be positivelydelightful. He was too good-natured and in all respects of charactertoo little virile to meet Irons with anything but kindness, but as hewas a trifle less sure of his social standing than Hubbard, he wasnaturally more annoyed at the choice of the third member of thecommittee. He made not a few protests to his friends, and gentlyrepresented himself as a martyr to his devotion to the cause of artfrom having accepted the place he held. 

When one considered, however, the way in which committees upon artmatters are made up at City Hall, it becomes evident that the wonderwas not that the present body was no better, but that it should be sogood. The truth was that the choice of Hubbard and Calvin had beenconsidered a great concession to the unreasonable prejudices of theself-appointed arbitrators of art affairs in town. A short time before, a committee consisting of a butcher, a furniture dealer and a North Endward politician, had been sent to New York on a matter connected with apublic monument, and their action had been so egregiously absurd as tobring down upon their heads and upon the heads of those who appointedthem such a torrent of ridicule that even the tough hide of City Hallcould not withstand it. It was felt that the public was more alive onart matters than had been suspected; and when a South Boston liquor-dealer manifested a singular but unmistakable desire to be appointed onthe _America_ committee, he had been promptly suppressed with theinformation that this was to be "a regular bang-up, silver-topcommittee, " and was forced to soothe his disappointed ambition withsuch consolation as lay in the promise that next time he should becounted in. 

When the committee had been named, a hint was dropped in one or twonewspaper offices that the powers which work darkly at City Hallexpected due credit for the self-sacrifice involved in putting on twomen at least from whom no reward was to be expected. The journalsimproved the opportunity, and praised highly the choice of all three ofthe members. When this called out a protest from the artists, becauseno artist had been appointed, City Hall had no words adequate to theexpression of its disgust. 

"That's what comes of trying to satisfy them fellows, " one City Fatherobserved, in an indignant and unstilted speech to his colleagues. "Theywant the earth, and nothing else will satisfy them. What if they ain'tgot no artist on the committee; everybody knows that Peter Calvin's aman who's published a lot of books about art, and it stands to reasonhe's a bigger gun than a feller that just paints. "

The committee paid no attention to the discussion concerning theirfitness, of which indeed they did not know a great deal, but cametogether in a matter-of-fact way, precisely as they would haveassembled to transact any other business. 

"I don't know what you think, " Mr. Irons observed, as the threegentlemen settled themselves in the easy-chairs of Mr. Hubbard'sprivate office and lighted their cigars, "but it seems to me we hadbetter try to come to some reasonably definite idea of what we wantthis monument to be before we go any farther. It will be time enough totalk about who's to get the order when we've made up our minds what theorder is to be. "

Both the words and the manner rasped the nerves of Mr. Calvin almostbeyond endurance. He was accustomed to phrasing his views withelegance, and although in truth his ideas in the matter on hand werenot widely different from those of Mr. Irons, the latter had stated theproposition with a boldness which made it impossible for him to agreewith it. By birth, by instinct, and by lifelong training a faithfulservant of the god Dagon, he yet seldom professed his allegiancefrankly. He sheltered his slavish adherence to conventions under adecent show of following convictions; so that the pure andstraightforward Philistinism which Mr. Irons professed from simple lackof a knowledge of the secrets of what might perhaps be called thepriestly cult of Philistia, appeared to Peter Calvin shockingly crudeand offensive. 

"Perhaps, " he said, with a smile which was hardly less sweet thanusual, so well trained were the muscles of his face in producing it, "it can hardly be said that we can decide. The artist after all cannotbe expected to accept too many limitations if he is to produce a workof art. His genius must have full play. "

Secretly, Irons had a most profound respect for the other's artknowledge, and he was too anxious to appear well in his capacity as amember of the statue committee to be willing to run any risks byattempting to controvert any aesthetic proposition laid down by Mr. Calvin. He was by no means fond of the man, however, and to his dislikehis envy of Calvin's reputation, socially and aesthetically, addedvenom. He hastened now, with quite unnecessary vigor, to defend himselffrom the mildly implied attack. 

"I suppose we have got to give an order--or a commission, if the wordsuits you better--of some sort; and whatever it is to be it needs to bedefined. "

His manner was so evidently belligerent that Mr. Hubbard hastened tointerpose. 

"That is pretty well defined for us, isn't it?" he said. "We weredirected to give a commission for a single figure representing America, to be executed in bronze and not to exceed a fixed sum in cost. Thatdoes not leave much latitude, so far as I can see, beyond the right ofselecting or rejecting models shown us. For my own part, I may as wellsay at once, I am in favor of giving Mr. Herman whatever terms he wantsto make a model, and trusting everything to him. Of course we shouldstill have the right to veto the arrangement if the figure he madeshould not prove satisfactory. "

Mr. Hubbard spoke with a certain elegant deliberation and precisionwhich Irons supposed himself to regard as affected, while secretly hethoroughly envied it. 

"Oh, we all know what Herman would do, " Irons retorted. "He'd make oneof those things that nobody could understand, and then say it wasartistic. We want something to please folks. "

Irons was more concerned about his popularity than even in regard tothe reputation as an art patron he was laboriously striving to buildup. He was an inordinately vain man, but he was an exceedingly shrewdone. His self-esteem was gratified by seeing his name among those ofmen influential in art matters; he bought pictures largely for thepleasure of being talked of as a man who patronized the properpainters, and he was looked upon as likely at no distant day to becomepresident of a club which Fenton dubbed the Discourager of Art; but herealized that for a man who still had some political aspirations therewas a substantial value in popular favor not to be found in anyreputation for culture, however delightful the latter might be. Hedistinctly intended to please the public by his action in regard to thestatue, a resolution which was rendered the more firm by the fact thathe vastly over-estimated the interest which the public was likely totake in the matter. He trimmed the ashes from his cigar as he spoke, with an air which was intended to convey the idea that he would standno nonsense. 

"Won't Mr. Herman enter a competitive trial?" Calvin asked. "We mightask two or three others and then select the best model. "

"He won't go into a competition. He says it's beneath an artist'sdignity. "

"Damned nonsense!" blustered Irons, sitting up in his chair inexcitement over such an extraordinary proposition. "Don't we all gointo competitions whenever we send in sealed proposals? Beneath hisdignity! Great Scott! The cockiness of artists is enough to take away aman's breath. "

Mr. Hubbard, who was a lawyer chiefly occupied, as far as businesswent, in managing his own large property and certain trust funds, andMr. Calvin, who had never in his life soiled his aristocratic handswith any business whatever, smiled in the mutual consciousness that"sealed proposals" were as much outside their experience ascompetitions were foreign to that of Grant Herman. The thought, passingand trivial as it was, moved their sympathy a little toward thesculptor's view of the matter, although since secretly Mr. Calvin wasdetermined that the commission should be given to Orin Stanton, thefact made little difference. 

"You evidently don't want to undergo the general condemnation that hasfallen on whoever has had a share in the Boston statues thus far, " Mr. Calvin observed, glancing at Irons with a genial smile. "If you aregoing to set yourself to hit the popular taste and keep yourself clearof the claws of the critics at the same time, I fear you've a heavytask laid out. "

"The critics always pitch into everything, " Irons responded with agrowl. "It's the taste of the people I want to please. I believe in artas a popular educator, and people can't be educated by things theywon't look at. "

"Oh, as to that, " Stewart Hubbard rejoined, with a twinkle in his eye, "conventionality is after all the consensus of the taste of mankind. "

Peter Calvin was at a loss to tell whether his friend was in earnest orwas only quizzing Irons, so he contented himself with an appreciativelook, and a smile of dazzling warmth. Irons, on the other hand, lookedtoward the speaker with suspicion. 

"I haven't much sympathy with a good deal of the stuff artists talk, "he continued, following his own train of thought. "It doesn't squarevery well with common sense and ain't much more than pure gassing, Ithink. The truth is, genius is mostly moonshine. The man I call agenius is the one that makes things work practically. "

"In other words, " said Calvin, spurred to emulate Hubbard's epigram, and involuntarily glancing toward the latter for approval, "you think agenius is a man who is able to harness Pegasus to the plough, and makehim work without kicking things to pieces. "

"That's about it, " Irons assented; "and I think Herman is tootoploftical and full of cranky theories. They say Mrs. Greyson has hitthe nail exactly on the head in that statue she showed in Paris lastyear. That pleased the critics and the public both, and that's exactlywhat we are after. I think we ought to ask her to make a design. "

Mr. Calvin saw and seized the opportunity easily to introduce his ownespecial candidate. 

"If each of you have a sculptor, " he said, lightly, "I can hardly doless than to have one, too. There's an exceedingly clever fellow justhome from Rome, that I want to see given a chance. He's done some verypromising work, and I look upon him as the coming man. "

The two men regarded him with some interest, as one who has introduceda new element into a game. Mr. Hubbard leaned back in his chair, andsent a puff of cigar smoke floating upward, before he answered. 

"I can't enter my man for the triangular contest, " said he. "He won'tgo into a competition unless he's paid for making the design. He says, in so many words, that he doesn't want the commission to make thestatue unless he can do it in his own way. He will be unhindered, or hewill let the whole thing alone. "

"For my part, " Mr. Irons responded, settling himself in his chair, witha certain air of determination, "I don't take a great deal of stock inthis letting an artist have his own way. He might put up a naked woman, or any rubbish he happened to think of. The amount of the matter isthat it isn't such a devilish smart thing to make a figure as they tryto make out. Any man can do it that has learned the trade, and Ihaven't any great amount of patience with the fuss these fellows makeover their statues. "

Neither of his companions felt inclined to enter into a generaldiscussion of the principles underlying art work, and, although neitheragreed with this broad statement, there was no direct response offered. Calvin and Hubbard looked at each other, and the latter asked, --

"Have you any notion what Mrs. Greyson would do?"

"No, I have never talked with her. "

"Very likely she'd give us another figure like those that are stuck allover Boston, like pins in a pincushion, " Hubbard objected. "Somecarpet-knight, with a face spread over with a grin as inane as that ofHenry Clay on a cigar-box cover. "

Irons laughed contemptuously, and rose, throwing away his cigar stub. 

"Well, I must go, " he announced. "We don't seem to be getting aheadvery fast. I'll try and find out if she'll go into a competition, andyou two had better do the same with your folks. Then we shall at leasthave something to go upon. The _Daily Observer_ has already begun toask why something isn't done, and I'd like to get the thing finishedup, myself. "

The two others rose also, and it was thereby manifest that thisunproductive sitting of the committee was at an end. 

XII

 WHOM THE FATES HAVE MARKED. Comedy of Errors; i. --1. 

Never was a man more utterly wretched than was Arthur Fenton, after theluckless day when Mr. Irons had lighted upon the presence of Mrs. Herman at the studio. He raged against himself, against chance, most ofall against the unmannerly and coarse-minded fellow who had forcedhimself into the studio, and then persisted in imagining evil which hadnever existed. He experienced all the acute anguish of finding himselfin the toils, and of the added sting from wounded vanity, since he feltthat he had been wanting in adroitness and presence of mind. It is tobe doubted if he did not suffer more than would have been the case hadthe injurious suspicions of Irons been correct. To a vain man, it isoften harder to be entrapped through stupidity or awkwardness thanthrough crime. 

Fenton realized well enough how impossible it was now to correct theevil that had been done. He might have explained away the fact thatNinitta had been his model, but his own bearing under the accusationhad produced an impression not to be eradicated. The wavering beforehis eyes, for a single instant, of the will-o'-the-wisp fire of suddentemptation had blinded him, so that he had been guilty of a cursedpiece of folly, which had put him at once in the power of Irons. Heknew enough of the latter to be pretty sure that he was capable ofkeeping his threat to enlighten Herman concerning his wife's visit tothe studio, and disgrace in the eyes of Herman meant more than Arthurdared to think. Sensitive to the last fibre of his being, the artistgrew faint with exquisite pain at the thought of what he must endurefrom a scandal spread among his friends. An accusation withoutfoundation would have been almost more than he could bear, but onesupported by such circumstantial evidence as lay behind the story Ironswould tell if he set himself to make trouble, --the bare idea droveFenton wild. 

Fenton had always prided himself upon his superiority to publicopinion, but without public respect he could not but be supremelymiserable. It is true that he valued his own good opinion above that ofthe world. It was his theory that the ultimate appeal in matters ofconduct was always to the man's inner consciousness, and in thishighest court only the man himself could be present, all the worldbeing shut out. It followed that a person's own opinion of his acts wasof infinitely more weight than that of any or all other peoplewhosoever. 

"All standards are arbitrary, " he was accustomed to say, "and all termsare relative. Every man must make his own ethical code, and nobody butthe man himself can tell how far he lives up to it. Why should I carewhether people who do not even know what my rules of conduct are, consider my course correct or not? Very likely the things they condemnare the things it has cost me most struggle and self-denial to achieve. We have outgrown old ethical systems, because the world has becomeenlightened enough to perceive that every mind must make its own code;to realize that what a man is must be his religion. "

This course of reasoning was one shared by many of Fenton's friends, and indeed by a goodly company of nineteenth century thinkers. Fentonwas in reality only going with the majority of liberalists in regardingsincerity to personal conviction as the highest of ethical laws; and hewas generally pretty logical in choosing the approval of his inwardknowledge to that of the world outside. Yet his vanity was keenlysensitive to disapprobation, and when the censure of the worldcoincided with the condemnation of his own reason he suffered. To self-contempt was added a baffled sense of having been discovered; and ashis imagination now ran forward to picture the effects of Irons'sdisclosure, the suffering he endured was really pitiful. 

"Nobody will understand, " he said to himself one day, half in bitterself-contempt and half in self-defence, "that I couldn't help doing asI did; no cruelty surpasses that of holding weak and sensitive naturesaccountable for shortcomings they are born incapable of avoiding. "

And having accomplished an epigram at his own expense, he felt as if hehad to some degree atoned for his fault, just as a flagellant looksupon his self-scourging as expiatory. 

How to act in the position in which he had been placed by Irons'sinsulting proposal was a question which he found more difficult toanswer than according to his theories, it should have been. When a manbecomes his own highest law he is constantly exposed to the danger offinding his theories of conduct utterly confounded by a change in self-interest; and Fenton began to have a most painful sense of beingethically wholly at sea. He had not yielded to temptation, however. Hehad given Stewart Hubbard a couple of sittings, and so great had beenhis fear lest he should inadvertently gather from his sitter some hintof the knowledge he had been urged to obtain, that he had halfunconsciously been reserved and silent. The picture was going badly, and the sitter wondered what had come over the witty and vivaciousartist. 

Besides these vexations the artist had, moreover, other causes foruneasiness at this time. His financial affairs were by no means insatisfactory condition. He had been filling a good many orders andgetting excellent prices for his work, yet somehow he had been all theyear running behindhand. He lived beyond his means, priding himselfupon being the one Boston artist who had been born, bred, and educateda gentleman, as he chose to put it to himself, and who was able to liveas a man of the world should. His summer had been passed at Newport, aplace which Edith by no means liked, and where her ideas of proprietyand religion were constantly offended, especially in regard to thesanctity of marriage. He entertained sumptuously, spent money freely atthe clubs, and, in a word, tried to be no less a man of fashion than anartist. 

The result was beginning to be disastrous. Living pretty closely up tohis income, a few losses and a speculation or two which turned outunlucky, were sufficient to embarrass him seriously. It was the oldtrite and dreary story of extravagance and its inevitable consequence;and as Fenton had no talent for finance, his struggles rather madematters worse than bettered them, as the efforts of a fly to escapefrom the web, even although they may damage the net, are apt to endalso in binding the victim more securely. 

The truth was that the painter, like many another man endowed withimaginative gifts, had little practical knowledge of affairs beyond atalent for spending money; and it is amazing how stupid a clever mancan contrive to be when he is taken out of his sphere. For such menthere is no safety save in keeping out of debt, and once the balancewas on the wrong side of his account, Fenton, self-poised as he was, lost his head. It troubled and worried him to be in debt even when hecould see his way clear to paying everything, and now that mattersbegan to get too complicated to be settled by plain and obviousarithmetic, he was miserable. 

In the midst of these unhappy complications, he was one morning workingupon the portrait of Miss Damaris Wainwright, whose cousin and aunts, the Dimmonts, had induced her to have it painted, although she was indeep mourning. He was interested in the lovely, melancholy girl, and hefelt that he was doing some of the best work of his life in herportrait. He sometimes was proud of his skill, and at others he wasunreasonably vexed that this picture should be so much better than thatof Mr. Hubbard promised to be. 

He had been talking this morning half-absently, and merely for the sakeof keeping his sitter interested. He had not noticed that her wholebeing was keyed up to a pitch of intense feeling, and he had almostunconsciously accomplished the really difficult task of putting hissitter at her ease and making her ready to talk. 

Suddenly, after a brief silence, she said, --"You provoke confidences. "

Some note in her voice and the closeness of connection between herwords and the thought in his own mind that he certainly must be able todo what Irons asked, arrested Fenton's attention. 

"Yes, " he returned, his air of sincerely meaning what he said being byno means wholly unreal; "that is because I am unworthy of them. "

Miss Wainwright smiled. The self-detraction seemed delicate, and theunexpectedness of the reply amused her. 

"That is perhaps a modest thing to say, Mr. Fenton, " she responded, "but the truth must be--if you'll pardon my saying anything sopersonal--that you are very sympathetic. "

The artist moved backward a step from his easel, regarding his workwith that half-shutting of the eyes and turning of the head which seemsto be an essential of professional inspection. 

"Even so, " persisted he, "a sympathetic person is one whose emotionsare fickle enough to give place to whatever others any sudden accidentbrings up; and if one's feelings are so transient, how can he be worthyof confidence?"

"I can't argue with you, " Damaris replied, smiling and shaking herhead, "but all the same I don't agree with what you say. "

"Oh, I hoped you wouldn't when I said it, " Fenton threw back lightly. 

He went on with his work, outwardly tranquil, as if he had no thoughtbeyond the perfect shading of the cheek he was painting; but his mindwas in a tumult. He thought how easy it is to deceive; how constantly, indeed, we do deceive whether we will or no; how foolish it is to ruleour lives by standards which rest so largely on mere seeming; how--Bah!Why should he pretend to himself? He was not really concerned withgeneralities or great moral principles. He was trying to decide whetherhe should worm a secret out of Hubbard to throw as a sop to that vilecursed cad, Irons, to keep his foul mouth shut about Ninitta. Heavens!What a tangle he had got into simply because he wanted a decent modelfor his picture! The abominable prudery and hypocrisy of the time laybehind the whole matter. But this would never do. He must work now; notthink of these exciting things. It was hardly a brief moment before tohis last words he added aloud, --

"Did what you said mean that I was to be favored with a confidence?"

A painful, deep problem was weighing upon her heart, wearing away herreason and her life alike. She had almost been ready to ask advice ofthe artist, although she by no means knew him well enough to render sointimate a conversation other than strange. 

"Not necessarily, " was her reply to Fenton's question. 

She found it after all impossible to utter anything definite upon thesubject which lay so near her heart. She even felt a dim wonder whethershe had really ever seriously contemplated speaking of it, even neverso remotely. 

"I was thinking, " she continued, "of the point the conversation hadreached this morning when I left my friend at the door downstairs. "

"It was some great moral problem, I think you said, " Fenton responded, trying to recall accurately what she had told him earlier in thesitting of a talk she had had with a friend on her way to the studio. "The object of life, or something of that sort. Well, the object oflife is to endure life, I suppose, just as the object of time is tokill time. "

"We had got so far in our talk as to decide, " Miss Wainwright went on, too much absorbed in recalling the interview she was relating to noticethe painter's words, "he decided, that is, not I--that the only thingto do is to enjoy the present and to let the future go; but I objectthat one cannot help dreading what might come. "

She spoke, of course, solely with reference to her own innerexperiences, but Fenton, with the egotism which is universal tohumanity, received the words in their application to his own case. Ifhe could but determine what would come, he might decide how to act inthis hard present. Yet, whatever that future might be, he must at anycost extricate himself from this coil which pressed so cruelly uponhim. 

"Even so he would be right, " he answered her words. "Happiness in thisworld consists, at best, in a choice of evils, and at least one maymake of the present a sauce _piquante_ to cover the flavor of the dreadof the future. "

"You take a more desperate view of the matter than my friend, " MissWainwright said, sighing bitterly. "His only fear is that I shall loseeverything by not making sure of whatever present happiness ispossible. "

Fenton glanced at her curiously, aware no less from her tone and mannerthan from her words that the conversation was touching her as well ashimself through some keen personal experience. A feeling of sharp andirritating remorse stung him from the thought that he, whose wholesensuous nature strove for selfish joyousness in life, was discussingthis question from his own standpoint, while the pale, lovely girlbefore him was regarding the whole problem from the high plane of duty. Instinctively he set himself to justify his position against hers; todemonstrate that his Pagan, selfish philosophy was the true guide. 

"Oh, " he cried out with sudden vehemence, waving his palette with agesture of supreme impatience, "I do take a desperate view! Life isdesperate, and the most absurd of all the multitudinous ways of makingit worse is to waste the present in dreading the future. I've nopatience with the notion that seems to be so many people's creed, thatwe can do nothing nobler than to be as miserable as possible. It is adreadful remainder of that awful malady of Puritanism. Besides, whereis the logic of supposing we shall be better prepared for anymisfortune that may come if we can only contrive to dread it enoughbeforehand. Good heavens! We all need whatever strength we can get fromhappiness whenever it comes, as much as a plant needs the sunshinewhile it lasts. You wouldn't prepare a delicate plant for cloudy daysby keeping it in the shadow; and I think one is simply an idiot whokeeps in the shade to accustom himself to-day after to-morrow's storm. "

His excitement increased as he went on. He was arguing against thecoward sense that he had deserved the troubles which had come upon him. He was saying in as plain language as the conditions of theconversation would allow, that he had been right in gratifying hisdesires; in living as he wished without too closely considering theconsequences which were likely to follow. He spoke with a bitterearnestness born of the intense strain under which he was laboring; andhe did not consider how his words might or might not affect his hearer. The thought came into his mind how he had deliberately sacrificed hisconvictions in marrying Edith Caldwell and going over to Philistinism;and he reflected that this decision had shaped his life. Already hiscourse was determined; it was idle to ignore the fact. 

Why should he hesitate from squeamish scruples to do what Irons askedwhen to meet the consequences of the latter's anger would not only besupremely disagreeable but contrary to his whole theory of life?

It was one of Fenton's peculiarities that he never knowingly shrankfrom telling himself the truth about his thoughts and actions with themost brutal frankness. Indeed, it might not be too much to say thatthis self-honesty was a sort of fetish to which he made expiatorysacrifices in the shape of the most cruelly disagreeable admissionsbefore his inner consciousness. He constantly settled his moralaccounts by setting down on the credit side "Self-contempt to balance, "a method of mental bookkeeping by no means rare, albeit seldom carriedon in connection with such clear powers of moral discrimination asFenton possessed when he chose to exercise them. 

"If you chance on ill-luck, " he ran on, arguing aloud with himselfconcerning the possible consequences of betraying Mr. Hubbard's trust, "you'll be glad you were happy while it was possible; and if the fatesmake you the one person in a million, by letting you get through lifedecently, you surely can't think it would be better to spend it mopinguntil you are incapable of enjoying anything. "

The form of his speech was still that of one talking simply from thepoint of view of his hearer. It did not for a moment occur to DamarisWainwright that in all he had said there had been anything but aperfectly disinterested discussion of the principles involved in herown questions and in her own perplexities. Yet, as a matter of fact, his words were but the surface indications of the conflict going on inhis own mind. He was arguing down his disinclination to accept theobvious and dishonorable means of escaping from an unpleasant position;he was fighting against the better instincts of his nature, and tryingto convince himself that the easy course was the one to be chosen, theone logically following from the conclusions forced upon him by hisstudy of life. 

"But duty!" she interposed, rather timidly, as he paused. 

She was confused by his persistent ignoring of all the standards bywhich she was accustomed to judge, and she threw out the question asone in desperation brings forward a last argument, half foreseeing thatit will be useless. 

"Duty!" he echoed, fiercely. "Life is an outrage, and what duty cantake precedence of righting it as far as we can. That old fool of aRuskin--I beg your pardon, Miss Wainwright, if you're fond of him--didmanage to say a sensible thing when he told a boarding-school full ofgirls that their first duty was to want to dance. To allow that thereis any duty above making the best of life is a species of moralsuicide. "

She looked at him with an expression of profoundest feeling. She wastoo little used to arguments of this sort to discern that the wholematter was involved in the definition one gave to the phrase "The bestof life, " and that to assume that this meant mere selfish or sensuousenjoyment, was to beg the whole question. She was carried away by thedramatic fashion in which he ended, dashing down his palette andthrowing himself into a chair. 

"There!" he exclaimed, with an air of whimsical impatience. "Now I'vegot so excited that I can't paint! That's what comes of havingconvictions. " The struggle was over. He brushed all doubts andquestions aside. There was but one thing to do, and, disagreeable as itmight be, he must accept the situation. The mention of the word "duty"reminded him that he had long ago settled in his own mind the folly ofbeing bound down by superstitions masquerading under grand names asethical principles. The duty of self-preservation was above all others. He must defend himself, no matter if he did violate the principles bywhich fools allowed their lives to be narrowed and hampered. He wouldset himself to work upon Hubbard to-morrow, and get this unpleasantthing over. 

His sitter came down from the dais upon which she had been sitting, andheld out her hand. 

"You have decided my life for me, " she said, in a low voice, "and Ithank you. "

Those who knew her perplexities had argued with her in vain; and thisstranger, talking to his own inner self, had said the final word whichhad moved her to a conclusion they had not been able to force upon her. 

He looked up with a smile, as he pressed her hand, but he said nothing;refraining from adding, as he might have done truthfully, --

"And I have decided my own. "

XIII

 THIS "WOULD" CHANGES. Hamlet; iv. --7. 

Melissa Blake was growing paler in these days, worn with the ache of ahurt love. Since the night on which he had parted from her in anger, John had been to see her only on brief errands which he could not wellavoid, and while he had made no allusion to the difference whichseparated them, it was evident that he still brooded over his fanciedgrievance. 

This phase of John's character, its least amiable characteristic, whichmarred it amid many excellent qualities, was not wholly unknown toMelissa. She was by far the more clear-headed of the two, and sheunderstood her lover with much greater acuteness than he was able tobring to the task of comprehending her. It was from intelligentperception and not merely from the feminine instinct for makingexcuses, that she said to herself that John was worn out with thestrain of burdens long and uncomplainingly borne; and she was, it mightbe added, near enough to the primitive savagery of the rustic NewEnglanders of the last generation, to find it perfectly a matter ofcourse that a man should make of his womenfolk a sort of scapegoat uponwhom to visit his wrath against the sins alike of fate and of hisfellows. 

She waited for John to relent from his unjust anger, but she did notprotest, and when he chose once more to be gracious unto his handmaidenhe would be met only with faithful affection and with no reproaches. From the abstract standpoint, nothing could be farther astray than thefulness and freedom of Milly's forgivenesses; practically, thisillogical feminine weakness made life easier and happier, not alone foreverybody about her, but for herself as well. Doubtless such a yieldingdisposition tempted her lover to injustices he would never haveventured with a more spirited woman, but after all her forgiveness wasso divine as almost to turn the transgression into a virtue for causingit. 

When the account of Milly's life was made up, there must be put intothe record long, wordless stretches of uncomplaining and prayerfulpatience, hidden from the eyes of all mankind. The capabilities ofwomen of this sort for quiet suffering are as infinitely pathetic asthey are measureless; and, although she was silent, the dark ringsunder her eyes and the lagging step told how her sorrow was wearingupon her. She went on faithfully with her work; she held still to thefaith that somehow help was sure to come; and as only suchwomen can be, she was patient with the patience of a god. 

Milly was surprised one afternoon by a visit from Orin Stanton, thehalf brother of John. The sculptor had never before come to see her, and, although Milly was little given to censoriousness, she could notavoid the too-obvious reflection that, in one known to be soconsistently self-seeking as was Orin, the probability was that someselfish motive lay behind the call. Orin had never been especially fondof Milly, and since his return from Europe, where he had beenmaintained by the liberality of an old lady, who, in a summer visit toFeltonville, had been attracted by his talent for modelling in clay, hehad avoided as far as possible all intercourse with his townspeople. The old lady, who took much innocent pleasure in imagining herself thepatroness of a future Phidias, died suddenly one day, leaving the willby which provision was made for young Stanton's future unhappilywithout signature; a fact which ever after furnished him with definitegrounds upon which to found his accusations against society and fate. 

It was largely in virtue of this interesting and pathetic story thatMrs. Frostwinch and Mrs. Bodewin Ranger had taken it upon themselves tobetter the fortunes of Stanton. Large-hearted ladies in Boston, aselsewhere in the world, find no difficulty in discovering signs ofgenius in a work of art where they deliberately look for it; and beingmoved by the sculptor's history, --in which, to say sooth, there wasnothing remarkable, and, save the disappointment in regard to the will, little that was even striking--his patronesses were not slow in comingto regard his productions with admiration curiously resemblingmomentary veneration. They in a mild way instituted a Stanton cult, asa minor interest in lives already richly full, and when more weightymatters did not interfere, Mrs. Frostwinch, in varying degrees ofenthusiasm, could be charming in her praises of the sculptor, whom shedesignated as "adorably ursine, " and of his work, which in turn, shetermed "irresistibly insistent, " whatever that might mean. 

Bearish, Orin Stanton certainly was, whether one did or did not findthe quality adorable. He was heavy in mould, with a face marked by noneof the delicacy one expects in an artist and to which his small eyesand thick lips lent a sensual cast. Milly had always found hiscountenance repulsive, strongly as she strove not to be affected bymere outward appearances. He wore his hair long, its coarse, reddishmasses showing conspicuously in a crowd, when he got to going aboutamong such people as hunt lions in Boston. 

Mrs. Bodewin Ranger patronized him from afar, and could not be broughtto invite him to her house. 

"Really, my dear, " the beautiful old lady said to her husband; "itseems to me that people are not wise in asking Mr. Stanton about somuch. It only unsettles him, and he should be left to associate withpersons in his own class. "

"I quite agree with you, " her husband replied, as he had replied toevery proposition she had advanced for the half century of theirmarried life. 

Mrs. Frostwinch was less rigid. It is somewhat the fashion of the moreexclusive of the younger circles of Boston to make a more or lessmarked display of a democracy which is far more apparent than real. Partly from the genuine and affected respect for culture and talentwhich is so characteristic of the town, and partly from some remnantsof the foolish superstition that the persons who produce interestingworks of art must themselves be interesting, the social leaders of thetown are, as a rule, not unwilling to receive into a sort of lay-brotherhood those who are gifted with talent or genius. No fashion ofplace or hour, however, can change the essential facts of life; and itis perhaps quite as much the incompatibility of aim, of purpose inlife, as any instinctive arrogance on either side, that makes anyintimate union impossible. It is inevitable that members of anyexclusive circle shall regard others concerning whose admission therehas been question with some shade of more or less conscious patronage, and sensitive men of genius are very likely as conscious of "the palespectrum of the salt" as was Mrs. Browning's poet Bertram, invited intocompany where he did not belong, because it was socially too high andintellectually and humanely too low. The members of what is awkwardlycalled fashionable society are too thoroughly trained in the knowledgeof the principles of birth, wealth, and mutual recognition upon whichtheir order is founded, to be likely to lose sight of the fact thatartists and authors and actors, not possessing, however great theircleverness in other directions, these especial qualifications, can onlybe received into the charmed ring on sufferance; and nothing could bemore absurd or illogical than to blame them for recognizing this fact. 

Mrs. Frostwinch, at least, was in no danger of forgetting where shestood in relation to such lions as she invited to her house. Sheunderstood accurately how to be gracious and yet to keep them in theirplace. Indeed, she did this instinctively, so thoroughly was she imbuedwith the spirit of her class. She did not open her doors to many peopleon the score of their talent, and least of all did she encourage lionsof appearance so coarse and uncouth as Orin Stanton. She found the roleof lady patroness amusing, however, and, although she would not haveput the sculptor's name on the lists of guests for a dinner or anevening reception, she did invite him to a Friday afternoon, when sheknew Stewart Hubbard was likely to be present; and a glowing knowledgeof this honor was in Orin's mind when he went to call on Melissa. 

"I've no doubt you're surprised to see me, " Orin said, brusquely, as heseated himself, still in his overcoat. "The truth is, I don't run rounda great deal, and if I do, it's where it will do me some good. "

Milly smiled to herself. She was not without a sense of humor. 

"Naturally, I don't expect you to waste your time on me, " she answered. "You must be very busy, and I suppose you have lots of engagements. "

"Oh, of course, " he returned, with an obvious thrill of self-satisfaction. "The Boston women are always interested in art, and Icould keep going all the time, if I had a mind to. I'm going to Mrs. Frostwinch's to-morrow. She wants to introduce me to Mr. Hubbard, oneof the committee on the new statue. "

To Orin's disappointment this fact seemed to make little impressionupon Milly, who was far too ignorant of Boston's social distinctions torealize that an invitation to one of Mrs. Frostwinch's Fridays was anhonor greatly to be coveted. 

"I am glad if people are interesting themselves in your work, Orin, "she said, with a manner she tried not to make formal. 

She had never been able to like Orin, and since the time when he hadnot only utterly refused to share with John the burden of theirfather's debts but had scoffed at what he called his brother's "idiocy"in paying them, Milly had found comfort in having a definite andlegitimate excuse for disliking him. She regarded him as greatlygifted; in the eyes of Feltonville people, Orin's talents, since theyhad received the sanction of substantial patronage, had loomed intogreatness somewhat absurdly disproportionate to their actual value. Shewas not insensible of the honor of being connected, as the betrothed ofJohn, with so distinguished a man as she felt Orin to be; but sheneither liked nor trusted him. 

"Oh, there are some people in Boston who know a good thing when theysee it, " the young man responded, intuitively understanding that herehe need not take the trouble to affect any artificial modesty. "It'sabout that that I came to talk to you. "

"About--I don't think I understand. "

"I want your help. "

"My help? How can I help you?"

The sculptor tossed his hat into a chair, and leaned forward, tappingon one broad, thick palm with the fingers of the other hand. 

"They tell me, " he said, "that you know Mrs. Fenton pretty well; ArthurFenton's wife, --he's an awful snob, I hate him. "

"Mrs. Fenton has been very kind to me, " Milly responded, involuntarilyshrinking a little, and speaking guardedly. 

"Well, put it any way you like. If she's interested in you, that's allI want, " Stanton went on, in his rough way. "You'll have a pull on herthrough the church racket, I suppose. "

Melissa looked at him with pain and disgust in her eyes. She alwaysshrank from Orin's rough coarseness; and she always felt helplessbefore him. She made no reply, but played nervously with the pen shehad laid down upon his entrance. He regarded her curiously. 

"You see, " he said, with a clumsy attempt at easy familiarity, "Mrs. Fenton's a niece of Mr. Calvin, who is on the statue committee. Mrs. Frostwinch says Mr. Calvin's the man who has most influence in thecommittee, and it occurred to me that it would be a good thing if you'dput Mrs. Fenton up to taking my part with Calvin. You see, " hecontinued, in an offhand manner, "artists don't get any show nowadaysunless they keep their eyes open, and I mean to be wide awake. I'mready to do a good turn, too, for anybody that helps me. John told methe other day that you and he had had a row, and if you can do me agood turn in this, I may be able to pay you by smoothing John down. "

Milly flushed painfully. Her delicacy was outraged, but, too, hercombative instinct was roused to defend her lover. 

"John and I haven't quarrelled, " she said, in a voice a little raised;"he is worried about the debts and that makes him out of sorts, sometimes, that is all. "

A look of shrewd cunning came into Orin's narrow eyes. He suspected theallusion to John's determination to clear his father's memory fromdishonor to be a clever device to win a concession from him. He lookedupon the remark as a statement from Milly of the price of her aid. 

"If I get this commission, " he said, watching the effect of his words, "I shall be in a position to help John pay off those debts, and I shalltell him he has you to thank for my helping him out in hisfoolishness, --for it is foolishness to waste money on dead debts. "

A glad light sprang into Milly's face. She was too childlike to suspectthe thought which led Orin to make this proffer, and the hope of havingJohn aided at once and of being able to contribute to the bringingabout of this result, made her heart beat joyfully. "You know how gladI shall be if I can help you, " she said quickly. "I will speak to Mrs. Fenton when I see her to-morrow; though I do not see what good I can doyou, " her honesty forced her to add, with sudden self-distrust. 

"Oh, you just put in and do your level best, " Orin responded, with thesmile which Mrs. Frostwinch had once called his "deplorably Satanicgrin, " "and it is sure to come out all right. There are other wiresbeing pulled. "

XIV

 THE SHOT OF ACCIDENT. Othello; iv. --I. 

It was not often that Arthur Fenton permitted himself to be ill-tempered at home. He had too keen an appreciation of good taste toallow his dark humors to vent themselves upon the heads of those withwhom he lived. 

"A man is to be excused for being cross abroad, " he was wont toobserve, "but only a brute is peevish at home. "

On the morning following his conversation with Damaris Wainwright, however, he was decidedly out of sorts, and proved but ill company forhis wife at the breakfast table. She ventured some simple remark inrelation to a plan which Mr. Candish had for the re-decoration of theChurch of the Nativity, and her husband retorted with an open sneer. 

"Oh, don't talk about Mr. Candish to me, " he said. "He is that obsoletething, a clergyman. "

"I supposed, " Edith responded good-naturedly, "that a question ofartistic decoration would interest you, even if it was connected with achurch. "

"I hate anything connected with a religion, " Fenton observed savagely. "A religion is simply an artificial scheme of life, to be followed atthe expense of all harmony with nature. "

It was evident to Edith that her husband was nervous and irritable, andwith wifely protective instinct she attributed his condition tooverwork. She did not take up the challenge which he in a manner flungdown. She seldom argued with him now; she cast about in her mind for asafe topic of conversation, and, by ill-luck, hit upon the one leastcalculated to restore Arthur to good humor and a sane temper. 

"Helen was in last evening, " she said. "She is troubled about Ninitta;but I think it is because she isn't used to her ways. "

Fenton started guiltily. 

"What about Ninitta?" he demanded. 

"Helen says she acts strangely, as if she had something on her mind;and that she complains bitterly that her husband doesn't care for her. "

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. He was on his guard now, and perfectlyself-possessed. 

"No?" he said, inquiringly. "Why should he?"

"Why should he?" echoed his wife indignantly. Then she recoveredherself, and let the question pass, saying simply: "That would lead usinto one of our old discussions about right and wrong. "

"Those struggles and quibbles between right and wrong, " Fenton retortedcontemptuously, "have ceased to amuse me. They were interesting when Iwas young enough for them to have novelty, but now I find grandpassions and a strong will more entertaining than that form ofamusement. "

Edith raised her clear eyes to his with a calmness which she hadlearned by years of patient struggle. 

"And yet, " she answered, "the people whom I have found most true, mosthelpful, and even most comfortable, have been those who believed thesequestions of right and wrong the most vital things in the universe. "

"Oh, certainly, " was the reply. "A superstition is an admirable thingin its place. "

He rose from the table as he spoke, and stood an instant with his handupon the back of his chair, looking at her in apparent indecision. Shesaw that he was troubled, and she longed to help him, but she hadlearned that his will was definite and unmanageable, and she secretlyfeared that her inquiry would be fruitless when she asked, --

"What is it that troubles you this morning, Arthur? Has anything gonewrong?"

"Things are always wrong, " replied he. Then, with seeming irrelevance, he added: "People are so illogical! They so insist that a man shallthink in the beaten rut. They are angry because I don't like the tasteof life. Good Heavens! Why haven't I the same right to dislike lifethat I have to hate sweet champagne? If other people want to live andto drink Perrier Jouet, I am perfectly willing that they should, but, for my own part, I don't want one any more than the other. "

What he said sounded to Edith like one of the detached generalities hewas fond of uttering, and if she had learned that beneath his seeminglyirrelevant words always lay a connecting thread of thought, she hadlearned also that she could seldom hope to discover what this cordmight be. To understand his words, now, it would have been necessaryfor her to be aware of the net spread for him by Irons, the struggle inhis mind as he talked with Miss Wainwright, and the effort he was nowmaking to bring himself up to the firmness needed for the importantinterview with Mr. Hubbard which lay before him. In the sleepless hoursof the night, Fenton had gone over the ground again and again; he hadpainted to himself the baseness of the thing he meant to do, and allhis instincts of loyalty, of taste, of good-breeding, rose against it;but none the less did he cling doggedly to his determination. Hispurpose never wavered. His decision had been made, and this summing upof the cost did not shake him; it only made him miserable by the keenappreciation it brought him of the bitter humiliation fate--for so heviewed it--was heaping upon his head. 

The strength and weakness which are often mingled in one character, like the iron and clay in the image of the prophet's vision, make themost surprising of the many strange paradoxes of human life. Fenton wassensuous, selfish, yielding, yet he possessed a tenacity of purpose, amight of will, which nothing could shake. He looked across the tablenow, at his sweet-faced, clear-eyed wife, with a dreadful sense of herpurity, her honor, her remoteness; it cut him to the quick to thinkthat the breach of trust he had in view would fill her mind withloathing; yet the possibility of therefore abandoning his purpose didnot occur to him. Indeed, such was his nature, that it might be saidthat the possibility of abandoning his deliberately formed intention, on this or on any other grounds, did not for him exist. 

It was one of the peculiarities which he shared with many sensitive andsensuous natures, that his first thought in any unpleasant situationwas always a reflection upon the bitterness of existence. He alwaysthought of the laying down of life as the easiest method of escape fromany disagreeable dilemma. He was infected with the distaste of life, that disease which is seldom fatal, yet which in time destroys all savelife alone. He thought now how he hated living, and the inevitablereflection came after, how easy it were to get out of the coil ofhumanity. A faint smile of bitterness curled his lips as he recalled aremark which Helen Greyson had once quoted to him as having been madeof him by her dead husband. "He'll want to kill himself, but he won't. He's too soft-hearted, and he'd never forget other people and theiropinions. " He had acknowledged to himself that this was true, and hewondered whether Mrs. Greyson appreciated its justice. 

The thought of Helen brought up the old days when he had been sofrankly her friend that he had told her everything that was in hisheart except those things which vanity bade him conceal lest he fall inher estimation. 

It was so long since he had known a friend on those intimate termsunder which it makes no especial difference what is said, since even insilence the understanding is perfect, and the pleasure of talkingdepends chiefly on the exchange of the signs of complete mutualcomprehension, that the old days appealed to him with wonderful power. There is an immeasurable and soothing restfulness in such intercourse, especially to a man like Fenton, in whom exists an inner necessityalways to say something when he talks; and as he recalled them now, something almost a sob rose in Arthur's throat. Many men supposethemselves to be cultivating their intellect when they are only, by thegratification of their tastes, quickening their susceptibilities; andFenton's whole self-indulged existence had resulted chiefly inrendering him more sensitive to the discomforts of a universe in themaking of which other things had been considered besides his pleasure. 

He looked across the breakfast table at his wife. He noted withappreciation the beautiful line of her cheek outlined against the darkleather of the wall behind her. He felt a twinge of remorse for comingso far short of her ideal of him. He knew how resolutely she refused tosee his worst side, and he reflected with philosophy half bitter andhalf contemptuous, that no woman ever lived who could wholly outgrowthe feeling that to believe or to disbelieve a thing must in someoccult way affect its truth. At least she had fulfilled all theunspoken promises, so much more important than vows put into wordscould be, with which she had married him. A remorseful feeling cameover his mind, and instantly followed the instinctive self-excuse thatshe could never suffer as keenly as he suffered, no matter how greatlyhe disappointed her. 

"People are to be envied or pitied, " he said aloud, "not for theircircumstances, but for their temperaments. "

Edith looked up inquiringly. He went round to where she was sitting, smiling to think how far she must be from divining his thought. 

"I stayed at the club too late last night, " he said, stooping to kissher smooth white forehead in an unenthusiastic, habitual way whichalways stung her. "Some of the fellows insisted upon my playing poker, and I got so excited that I didn't sleep when I did get to bed. "

Edith sighed, but she made no useless remonstrances. 

Walking down to his studio, carefully dressed, faultlessly booted andgloved, and, as Tom Bently was accustomed to say, "too confoundedlywell groomed for an artist, " Fenton tried in vain to determine how heshould manage the important conversation with Mr. Hubbard. He hadracked his brains in the night in vain attempts to solve this problem, but in the end he was forced to leave everything for chance orcircumstances to decide. 

When Stewart Hubbard sat before him, Fenton was conscious of a tinglingexcitement in every vein, but outwardly he was only the more calm. Aclose observer might have noticed a nervous quickness in his movements, and a certain shrillness in his voice, but the sitter gave no heed tothese tokens, which he would have regarded as of no importance had heseen them. The talk was at first rather rambling, and was not kept upwith much briskness on either side. Fenton, indeed, was so absorbed inthe task which lay before him that he hardly followed the other'sremarks, and he suddenly became aware that he had lost the thread ofconversation altogether, so that he could not possibly imagine what theconnection was when Hubbard observed, --

"Yes, it is certainly the hardest thing in the world for one being tocomprehend another. "

Fenton rallied his wits quickly, and retorted with no apparenthesitation, --

"It is so. Probably a cat couldn't possibly understand how a humanmother can properly bring up a child when she has no tail for heroffspring to play with. "

"That wasn't exactly what I meant, " the other returned, laughing; "butwhat a fellow you are to give an unexpected turn to things. "

"Do you think so?" the artist said. Then, with a painful feeling oftightness about the throat, and a soberness of tone which he could notprevent, he added, --"That is a reason why I have always felt that I wasone of those comparatively rare persons whom wealth would adorn, ifsomebody would only show me an investment to get rich on. "

"You are one of those still rarer persons who would adorn wealth, " Mr. Hubbard retorted, ignoring the latter part of the artist's remark. "Only that you are so astonishingly outspoken, that you might cause arevolution if you had Vanderbilt's millions to add weight to yourwords. It doesn't do to be too honest. "

The sigh which left Fenton's lips was almost one of relief, although hefelt that this first attempt to turn the talk into financial channelshad failed. 

"No, " he replied. "Civilized honesty consists largely in making thetruth convey a false impression, so that one is saved a lie in wordswhile telling one in effect. "

"It is strange how we cling to that old idea that as long as the letterof what we say is true it is no matter if the spirit be false, " was Mr. Hubbard's response. "I thought of it yesterday at the meeting of thecommittee on the statue, when we were all sitting there trying to getthe better of each other by telling true falsehoods. "

"How does the statue business come on?" Fenton asked. 

"Not very fast. I am sure I wish I was out of it. America always was atrouble, and this time is no exception to the rule. "

"I hope, " Arthur said, speaking with more seriousness, "that GrantHerman will be given the commission. He's all and away the best man. "

He had secretly a feeling that he was putting an item on the creditside of his account with the sculptor in urging his fitness for thiswork. 

"It is hard to do anything with Calvin and Irons. I've always been forHerman, but I don't mind telling you in confidence that I stand aloneon the committee. "

"Isn't there any way of helping things on? Wouldn't a petition from theartists do some good?"

"It might. But if you get up one don't let me know. I'd rather be ableto say that I had no knowledge of it if it came before us. "

Fenton smiled and continued his painting. With a thrill half oftriumph, half of rage, he became aware that he was this morningsucceeding admirably in getting just the likeness he wanted in thesitter's portrait. He had feared lest his excitement should render himunfit for work, but it had, on the contrary, spurred him up to unusualeffectiveness. The thought came into his mind of the price at which hewas buying this skill, and it was characteristic that the reflectionwhich followed was that at least, if he caused Hubbard to lose money bybetraying the secret he hoped to get from him, he was, to a degree, repaying him by painting a portrait which could under no othercircumstances be so good. 

It was no less characteristic of Fenton's mental habits that he lookedupon himself as having committed the crime against his sitter which hadyet to be carried out. In his logic, the legitimate, however distorted, legacy from Puritan ancestors, the sin lay in the determination; and hewould have held himself almost as guilty had circumstances at thismoment freed him from the disagreeable necessity of going on with hisattempt. Doubtless in this fact lay in part the explanation of thefirmness of his purpose. He would still have suffered in self-respect, since abandonment of his plan, even if voluntary, would not alter thefact that he had in intention been guilty. He would have said thattheoretically there was no difference between intention and commission, and however casuists might reason, he took a curious delight in beingscrupulously exacting with himself in his moral requirements, the factthat he held himself in his actions practically above suchconsiderations naturally making this less difficult than it otherwisewould have been. Every man has his private ethical methods, and thiswas the way in which Arthur Fenton's mind held itself in regard to thatright of which he often denied the existence. 

"I suppose, " he remarked at length, with deliberate intent ofentrapping Hubbard into some inadvertent betrayal of his secret, "thatyou business men have no sort of an idea how ignorant a man of myprofession can be in regard to business. I had a note this morning froma broker whom I've been having help me a little in a sort of infantileattempt at stock gambling, and he advises me to find a financialkindergarten and attend it. "

"I dare say he is right, " the other returned, smiling. "You had betterbeware of stock gambling, if you are not desirous of ending your daysin a poorhouse. "

"But what can one do? It is only the men of large experience and somuch capital that they do not need it who have a chance at safeinvestments. "

He felt that he was bungling horribly, but he knew no other way ofgetting on in his attempt. He was terrified by the openness of histactics. It seemed to him that any man must be able to perceive what hewas driving at, but he desperately assured himself that after allHubbard could not possibly have any reason to suspect him of a designof pumping him. 

"Oh, there are plenty of safe investments, " the sitter said, as if thematter were one of no great moment. Then, looking at his watch, headded, "I must go in fifteen minutes. I have an engagement. "

Fenton dared not risk another direct trial, but he skirted about thesubject on which his thoughts were fixed. His attempts, however, thoughingenious, were fruitless; and he saw Hubbard step down from the daiswhere he posed, with a baffled sense of having failed utterly. 

"The country is really beginning to look quite spring-like, " he said, as he stood by while his sitter put on his overcoat. 

He spoke in utter carelessness, simply to avoid a silence which wouldperhaps seem a little awkward; but the shot of accident hit the mark atwhich his careful aim had been vain. 

"Yes, it is, " the other responded. "I was out of town with Staggchaseyesterday, looking at some meadows we talk of buying for a factorysite, and I was surprised to see how forward things are. "

Yesterday Mrs. Staggchase had casually mentioned to Fred Rangely thather husband had gone to Feltonville; and at the St. Filipe Club in theevening, as they were playing poker, Rangely had excused the absence ofMr. Staggchase, who was to be of the party, by telling this fact. 

After Hubbard was gone, Fenton stood half dizzy with mingled exultationand shame. He exulted in his victory, but he felt as if he hadcommitted murder. 

And that evening Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson received a note from Mr. Irons, in which Feltonville was mentioned. 

XV

 LIKE COVERED FIRE. Much Ado about Nothing; iii. --2. 

Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson was playing a somewhat difficult game, andshe was playing it well. She was entertaining Mr. Greenfield, theFeltonville member, and she had also as a casual guest for the evening, Mr. Erastus Snaffle, and successfully to work the one off against theother was a task from which the cleverest of society women might beexcused for shrinking, even had it been presented to her in terms ofher own circle. 

Greenfield was an honest, straightforward countryman; big, and ratherburly, with a clear eye and a curling chestnut beard. He was a man atonce of great force of character, and of singular simplicity. Heexerted a vast influence in his country neighborhood in virtue of therespect inspired by his invincible integrity, a certain shrewdnesswhich was the more effective at short range from the fact that it wasreally narrow in its spread, and perhaps most of all of his bluff, demonstrative kindliness. Tom Greenfield's hearty laugh and cordialhandshake had won him more votes than many a more able man has beenable to secure by the most thorough acquaintance with the questions andinterests with which election would make it the duty of a man to beconcerned; but it must be added that no man ever used his influencemore disinterestedly and honestly, or more conscientiously fulfilledthe duties of his position, as he understood them. 

Such a man was peculiarly likely to become the victim of a woman likeMrs. Sampson. The plea of relationship on which she had sought hisacquaintance disarmed suspicion at the outset. His country manners werefamiliar with family ties as a genuine bond, and he had no reasonwhatever to suppose that any ulterior motive was possible to this womanwho affected to be so ignorant of politics and public business. 

In the weeks which had elapsed since her interview with Alfred Irons, Mrs. Sampson had been making the most of the fraction of the seasonwhich remained to her. She had offered excuses which Greenfield'ssimple soul found satisfactory why she had not sought her cousin'sacquaintance early in the winter, and the very irksomeness of theenforced absence from his country home which seized him as spring cameon, made him the more susceptible to the blandishments of the maturesiren who, with cunning art, was meshing her nets about him. 

He had quite fallen into the habit of passing his unoccupied eveningswith the widow, and she in turn had denied herself to some of herfamiliar friends on occasions when she had reason to expect him. Hadshe known he was likely to come this evening, she would have taken careto guard against his meeting with Snaffle; but as that gentleman wasfirst in the field, she had her choice between sending Greenfield awayand seeing them together. Like the clever woman she was, she chose thelatter alternative, and found, too, her account in so doing. 

Erastus Snaffle was more familiarly than favorably known in financialcircles of Boston, as the man who had put afloat more wild-cat stocksthan any other speculator on the street. It might be supposed that hisconnection with any scheme would be enough to wreck its prospects, yetwhatever he took hold of floated for a time. There was always a feelingamong his victims that at length he had come to the place where he mustconnect himself with a respectable scheme for the sake of re-establishing his reputation; but this hope was never realized. Perhapswhatever he touched ceased from that moment to be either reliable orrespectable. However, since Snaffle was possessed of so inexhaustible afund of plausibility that he never failed to find investors who placedconfidence in his wildest statements, it after all made very littledifference to him what his reputation or his financial standing mightbe. 

By one of those singular compensations in which nature seems now andthen to make a struggle to adjust the average of human characteristicswith something approaching fairness, Snaffle was hardly less gulliblethan he was skilful in ensnaring others. He was continually making afortune by launching some bogus stock or other, but it seemed always tobe fated that he should lose it again in some equally wild schemestarted by a brother sharper. Perhaps between his professional strokeshe was obliged to practise at raising credulity in himself merely tokeep his hand in; perhaps it was simply that the habit of believingfinancial absurdities had become a sort of second nature in him; or yetagain is it possible that he felt obliged to assume credulity in regardto the falsehoods of his fellow sharpers, as a sort of equivalent forthe faith he so often demanded of them; but, whatever may have been thereason, it was at least a fact that his money went in much the same wayit came. 

In person, Erastus Snaffle was not especially prepossessing. His facewould have been more attractive had the first edition of his chin beenlarger and the succeeding ones smaller, while the days when he couldstill boast of a waist were so far in the irrevocable past that theimagination refused so long a flight as would be required to reach it. His eyes were small and heavy-lidded, but in them smouldered a dullgleam of cunning that at times kindled into a pointed flame. His dresswas in keeping with his person, and his manner quite as vulgar aseither. 

He was sitting to-night in one corner of the sofa, his corpulent personheaped up in an unshapely mass, talking with a fluency that now andthen died away entirely, while he paused to speculate what sort of agame his hostess might be playing with Mr. Greenfield. 

"The fact is, " Mrs. Sampson was saying, as Snaffle recalled hisattention from one of these fits of abstraction, "that I don't knowwhat I shall do this summer; and I don't like to believe that summer isso near that I must decide soon. "

"You were at Ashmont last year, weren't you?" Snaffle asked. "Why don'tyou go there again. "

Mrs. Sampson shot him a quick glance which Snaffle understood at onceto mean that he was to second her in something she was attempting. Hedid not yet get his clew clearly enough to understand just how, but thelook put him on the alert, as the hostess answered, --

"Oh, it is all spoiled. The railroad has been put through and all thesummer visitors are giving it up. I'm sure I don't know what willbecome of all the poverty-stricken widows that made their living out oftaking boarders. That railroad has been an expensive job for Ashmont inevery way. "

Greenfield smiled, his big, genial smile which had so much warmth init. 

"That isn't usually the way people look at the effect of a railroad ona town. "

This time the look which Mrs. Sampson gave Snaffle told him so plainlywhat she wanted him to do that he spoke at once, her almostimperceptible nod showing him that he was on the right track. 

"Oh, a railroad is always the ruin of a small town, " he said, "unlessit is its terminus. It sucks all the life out of the villages along theway. You go along any of the lines in Massachusetts, and you will findthat while the towns have been helped by the road, the small villageshave been knocked into a cocked hat. All the young people have leftthem; all the folks in the neighborhood go to some city to do theirtrading, and the stuffing is knocked out of things generally. "

Mrs. Sampson looked at Snaffle with a thoroughly gratified expression. 

"I don't know much about the business part of the question, of course, "she said, "but I do know that a railroad takes all the young men out ofa village. A woman I boarded with at Ashmont last year wrote to me theother day in the greatest distress because her only son had left her. She said it was all the railroad, and her letter was really pathetic. "

"Oh, that's a woman's way of looking at it, " rejoined Greenfield, thegreatest struggle of whose life, as Mrs. Sampson was perfectly wellaware, was to keep at home his only child, a youth just coming tomanhood. "It is easy enough for boys to get away nowadays, and justhaving a railroad at the door wouldn't make any great difference. "

"It does, though, make a mighty sight of difference, " Snaffle said, rolling his head and putting his plump white hands together. "Somehowor other, the having that train scooting by day in and day outunsettles the young fellows. The whistle stirs them up, and keepsreminding them how easy it is to go out West or somewhere or other. I've seen it time and again. "

"Well, " Greenfield returned, a shadow over his genial face, "I have ayoungster that's got the Western fever pretty bad without any railroadscoming to Feltonville. But what you say is only one side of thequestion. When a railroad comes it always brings business in one way oranother. The increase of transportation facilities is sure to buildthings up. "

"Oh, yes, it builds them up, " Snaffle chuckled, as if the idea affordedhim infinite amusement, "but how does it work. There are two or threemen in the town who start market gardens and make something out of it. They sell their produce in the city and they do their trading there;they hire Irish laborers from outside the village; and how much betteroff is the town, except that it can tax them a trifle more if it canget hold of the valuation of their property. " "Which it generallycan't, " interpolated Greenfield grimly, with an inward reminder ofcertain experiences as assessor. 

"Or somebody starts a factory, " Snaffle went on, "and then the town ismade, ain't it? Outside capital is invested, outside operatives broughtin to turn the place upside down and to bring in all the deviltriesthat have been invented, and all the town has to show in the long runis a little advance in real estate over the limited area where theywant to build houses for the mill-hands. There's no end of rot talkedabout improving towns by putting up factories, but I can't see itmyself. "

Snaffle sometimes said that he believed in nothing but making money, and there was never any reason to suppose he held an opinion because heexpressed it. He said what he felt to be politic, and a long andcomplicated experience enabled him to defend any view with more or lessplausibility upon a moment's notice. He was clever enough to see thatfor some reason the widow wished him to pursue the line of talk he hadtaken, and he was ready enough to oblige her. He never took the troubleto inquire of himself what his opinions were, because that question wasof so secondary importance; he merely exerted himself to make the mostof any points that presented themselves to his mind in favor of theside it was for his advantage to support. 

"'Pon my word, " Greenfield said, with a laugh, "you talk like an oldfogy of the first water. I wouldn't have suspected you of looking atthings that way. "

"Mr. Snaffle is always surprising, " Mrs. Sampson said, with her mostdazzling smile, "but he is generally right. "

"Thank you. I can't help at any rate seeing that there are two sides tothis thing, and I am too old a bird to be caught with the common chaffthat people talk. "

Mr. Greenfield settled himself comfortably in his chair and laughedsoftly. The discussion was so purely theoretical that he could beamused without looking upon it seriously. 

"For my part, " he remarked, his big hand playing with a paper-knife onone of the little tables, which, to a practised eye, suggested cards, "I am of the progressive party, thank you. I believe in opening up thecountry and putting railroads where they will do the most good. A fewpeople get their old prejudices run against, but on the whole it is forthe interest of a town to have a railroad, and it is nonsense to talkany other way. "

Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson leaned forward to lay her fingers upon thespeaker's arm. 

"That is just it, Cousin Tom, " she said, with a languishing glance. "You always look at things in so large a way. You never let the matterof personal interest decide, but think of the public good, "

The flattery was somewhat gross, but men will swallow a good deal inthe way of praise from women. They are generally slow to suspect thefair sex of sarcasm, and allow themselves the luxury of enjoying thepleasure of indulging their vanity untroubled by unpleasant doubtsconcerning the sincerity of compliments which from masculine lips wouldoffend them. Greenfield laughed with a perceptible shade ofawkwardness, but he was evidently not ill pleased. 

"Oh, well, " he returned, "that is because thus far it has happened thatmy personal interests and my convictions have worked together so well. You might see a difference if they didn't pull in the same line. "

Mrs. Sampson considered a moment, and then rose, bringing out adecanter of sherry with a supply of glasses and of biscuit from aconvenient closet in the bottom of a secretary. 

"That's business, " Snaffle said, joyously. "Sherry ain't much for a manof my size, but it's better than nothing. "

"It is a hint though, " the hostess said, filling his glass. 

"A hint!" he repeated. 

"Yes; a hint that it is getting late, and that I am tired, and you mustgo home. "

"Oh, ho!" he laughed uproariously; "now I won't let you in for thatgood thing on the Princeton Platinum stock. You'll wish you hadn'tturned me out of the house when you see that stock quoted at fifty percent above par. "

"Ah, I know all about Princeton Platinum, " she responded, showing herwhite teeth rather more than was absolutely demanded by the occasion;"besides, I've no money to put into anything. "

"What about Princeton Platinum?" Greenfield asked, turning toward theother a shrewd glance. "I've heard a good deal of talk about it lately, but I didn't pay much attention to it. "

"Princeton Platinum, " the hostess put in before Snaffle could speak, "is Mr. Snaffle's latest fairy story. It is a dream that people buypieces of for good hard samoleons, and"--

"Good _what?_" interrupted the country member. 

"Shekels, dollars, for cash under whatever name you choose to give it;and then some fine morning they all wake up. "

"Well?" demanded Snaffle, to whom the jest seemed not in the leastdistasteful. "And what then?"

"Oh, what is usually left of dreams when one wakes up in the morning?"

The fat person of the speculator shook with appreciation of the wit ofthis sally, which did not seem to Greenfield so funny as from thelaughter of the others he supposed it must really be. The latter rosewhen Snaffle did and prepared to say good-night, but Mrs. Sampsondetained him. "I want to speak with you a moment, " she said. "Good-night, Mr. Snaffle. Bear us in mind when Princeton Platinum has madeyour fortune, and don't look down on us. "

"No fear, " he returned. "When that happens, I shall come to you foradvice how to spend it. "

There was too much covetousness in her voice as she answered jocoselythat she could tell him. The struggle of life made even a jestingsupposition of wealth excite her cupidity. She sighed as she turnedback into the parlor and motioned Greenfield to a seat. Placing herselfin a low, velvet-covered chair, she stretched out her feet before her, displaying the black silk stocking upon a neat instep as she crossedthem upon a low stool. 

"I am sure I don't know how to say what I want to, " she began, knittingher brows in a perplexity that was only part assumed. "Something hascome to me in the strangest way, and I think I ought to tell you, although I haven't any interest in it, and it certainly isn't any of mybusiness. "

Her companion was too blunt to be likely to help her much. He simplyasked, in the most straightforward manner, --

"What is it?"

"It's about public business, " she said. "Why!" she added, as if asudden light had broken upon her. "I really believe I was going to be alobbyist. Fancy me lobbying! What does a lobbyist do?"

"Nothing that you'd be likely to have any hand in, " returnedGreenfield, smiling at the absurdity of the proposition. "What is allthis about?"

"I suppose I should not have thought of it but for the turn the talktook to-night, " she returned with feminine indirectness. "It was odd, wasn't it, that we should get to talking of the harm railroads do, whenit was about a railroad that I was going to talk. "

"There's only one railroad scheme on foot this spring that I knowanything about, and that's for a branch of the Massachusetts OutsideRailroad through Wachusett. That isn't in the Legislature either. "

"That's the one. It's going to be in the Legislature. There's going tobe an attempt to change the route. "

"Change the route?"

"Yes, so it will go through--but will you promise not to tell this to aliving mortal?"

"Of course. "

"I suppose, " she said, regarding her slipper intently, "that I reallyought not to tell you; but I can't help it somehow. Your name is to beused. "

"My name?"

"Yes, the men who are planning the thing say that it will be so evidentthat you'd want the road to go this new way, that if you vote with theWachusett interest they'll swear you are bought. "

"Swear I'm bought? Pooh! Tom Greenfield is too well known for that sortof talk to hold water. "

"But through your own town"--

Mrs. Sampson regarded her companion closely as she slowly pronouncedthese words. They roused him like an electric shock. 

"Through Feltonville?"

She nodded, compressing her lips, but saying nothing. 

"Phew! This is a tough nut to crack. But are you sure that is to betried?"

"Yes; there is a scheme for a few monopolists to buy up mill privilegesand run factories at Feltonville; and they mean to make the road servethem, instead of its being put where the public need it. "

"So that's what Lincoln's been raking up in Boston, " Greenfield said tohimself. "I knew he was up to some deviltry. Wants to sell off thosemeadows he's been gathering in on mortgages. "

"Of course you'll want to help your town, " Mrs. Sampson said, regretfully. "The men that voted for you'll expect you to do it; butit's helping on a sly scheme at the expense of the state. I'm sorryyou've got to be on that side. "

"Got to be on that side?" he retorted, starting up. "Who says I've gotto be on that side? we'll see about that before we get through. The menthat voted for me expect me to do what is right, and I don't thinkthey'll be disappointed just yet. "

And all things considered, Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson thought she haddone a good evening's work. 

XVI

 WEIGHING DELIGHT AND DOLE. Hamlet; i. --2. 

"Oh, this is completely captivating, " Mrs. Frostwinch said, as she satdown to luncheon in Edith Fenton's pretty dining-room, and looked atthe large mound-like bouquet of richly tinted spring leaves whichadorned the centre of the table. "That is the advantage of havingbrains. One always finds some delightful surprise or other at yourhouse. "

"Thank you, " Edith returned, gayly; "but at your house one always has adelightful surprise in the hostess, so you are not forced to resort tomakeshifts. "

Helen Greyson, the third member of the party, smiled and shook herhead. 

"Really, " she said, "is one expected to keep up to the level ofelaborate compliment like that? I fear I can only sit by in admiringsilence while you two go on. "

"Oh, no, " the hostess responded. "Mrs. Frostwinch is to talk to you. That is what you people are here for. I am only to listen. "

Edith had invited Helen and Mrs. Frostwinch to take luncheon with her, and she had really done it to bring these two more closely together. She was fond of them both, and the effect of her life in the world intowhich her marriage had introduced her had been to render her capable ofjudging both these women broadly. She admired them both, and while herfeeling of affection had by circumstances been more closely cementedwith Helen, she felt that a strong friendship was possible betweenherself and Mrs. Frostwinch should the lines of their lives ever fallmuch together. 

The modern woman, particularly if she be at all in society, hasgenerally to accept the possibilities of friendship in place of thatgracious boon itself. The busy round of life to-day gives ampleopportunity for judging of character, so that it is well nighimpossible not to feel that some are worthy of friendship, someespecially gifted by nature with the power of inspiring it, while, onthe other hand, there are those who repel or with whom the bond wouldbe impossible. But friendship, however much it be the result of eternalfitness and the inevitable consequence of the meeting of two harmoniousnatures, is a plant of slow growth, and few things which require timeand tranquillity for their nourishment flourish greatly in this age ofrestlessness and intense mental activity. The radical and unfetteredBohemian, or such descendants of that famous race as may be supposedstill to survive, attempts to leap over all obstacles, to create whatmust grow, and to turn comradeship into friendship simply because onenaturally grows out of the other; the more conservative and logicalPhilistine recognizes the futility of this attitude, and in his toocareful consistency sometimes needlessly brings about the very samefailure by pursuing the opposite course. 

Edith was not of the women who naturally analyze their own feelingstoward others over keenly, but one cannot live in a world withoutsharing its mental peculiarities. The times are too introspective toallow any educated person to escape self-examination. The century whichproduced that most appalling instance of spiritual exposure, the"_Journal Intime_" which it is impossible to read without blushing thatone thus looks upon the author's soul in its nakedness, leaves smallchance for self-unconsciousness. Edith could not help examining hermental attitude toward her companions, and it was perhaps a proof ofthe sweetness of her nature that she found in her thought nothing ofthat shortcoming in them, or reason for lack of fervor in friendshipother than such as must come from lack of intercourse. 

Perhaps some train of thought not far removed from the foregoing madeher say, as the luncheon progressed, --

"Really, it seems to me as if life proceeded at a pace so rapidnowadays that one had not time even to be fond of anybody. "

"It goes too fast for one to have much chance to show it, " Helenresponded; "but one may surely be fond of one's friends, even withoutseeing them. "

"If you will swear not to tell the disgraceful fact, " Mrs. Frostwinchsaid, "I'll confess that I abhor Walt Whitman; but that one dreadful, disreputably slangy phrase of his, 'I loaf and invite my soul, ' echoesthrough my brain like an invitation to Paradise. "

Edith smiled. 

"If Arthur were here, " she returned, "he would probably say that youthink you mean that, but that really you don't. "

"My dear, " Mrs. Frostwinch answered, with her beautiful smile and acharacteristic undulation of the neck, "your husband, although he isclever to an extent which I consider positively immoral, is only a man, and he does not understand. Men do what they like; women, what theycan. There may be moral free will for women, although I've ceased to besure of that even; but socially no such thing exists. Do we wear thedreadful clothes we are tied up in because we want to? Do we ordersociety, or our lives, or our manners, or our morals? Do we"--

"There, there, " interrupted Helen, laughing and putting up her hand. "Ican't hear all this without a protest. If it is true I won't own it. Ihad rather concede that all women are fools"--

"As indeed they are, " interpolated Mrs. Frost-winch. 

"Than that they are helpless manikins, " continued Helen. "In any othersense, that is, " she added, "than men are. "

"My dear Mrs. Greyson, " the other said, leaning toward her, "you takethe single question of the relation of the sexes, and where are we? Iwouldn't own it to a man for the world, but the truth is that men aregoverned by their will, and women are governed by men; and, what ismore, if it could all be changed to-morrow, we should be perfectlymiserable until we got the old way back again; and that's the mosthorribly humiliating part of it. "

"It is easy to see that you are not a woman suffragist, " commentedEdith. 

"Woman suffrage, " echoed the other, her voice never for an instantvaried from its even and highbred pitch; "woman suffrage must remain apractical impossibility until the idea can be eradicated from societythat the initiative in passion is the province of man. "

"Brava!" cried the hostess. "Mr. Herman ought to hear that epigram. Heasked me last night if he ought to put an inscription in favor of womansuffrage on the hem of the _America _he is modelling. "

Helen turned toward her quickly. 

"Is Mr. Herman making a model of the _America_?" she asked. "Has he thecommission?"

"He hasn't the commission, because nobody has it, but he has been askedby the committee to prepare a model. "

"That is"--began Helen. "Strange, " she was going to say, butfortunately caught herself in time and substituted "capital. It is goodto think that Boston will have one really fine statue. "

"Aren't you in that, Mrs. Greyson?" Mrs. Frostwinch asked. 

"No, " Helen answered. "I am really doing little since I came home. I amwaiting until the time serves, I suppose. "

She spoke without especial thought of what she was saying, desiringmerely to cover any indications which might show the feeling aroused bywhat she had just heard and the decision she had just taken to havenothing to do with the contest for the statue of _America_, althoughshe had begun a study for the figure. 

"I admire you for being able to make time serve you instead of servingtime like the rest of us, " Mrs. Frostwinch said. 

"I shouldn't hear another call you a time server without taking up thecudgels to defend you, " responded Edith. 

Mrs. Frostwinch smiled in reply to this. Then she turned again toHelen. 

"To tell the truth, Mrs. Greyson, " she observed, "I am glad you are notconcerned in this statue, for I am myself one of a band of conspiratorswho are pushing the claims of a new man. "

"Is there a new sculptor?" Helen asked, smiling. "That is wonderfulnews. "

"Yes; we think he is the coming man. His name is Stanton; OrinStanton. "

"Oh, " responded Helen, with involuntary frankness in her accent. 

Mrs. Frostwinch laughed with perfect good nature. 

"You don't admire him?" she commented. "Well, many don't. To say thetruth, I do not think anybody alive, if you will pardon me, Mrs. Greyson, knows the truth about sculpture. Perhaps the Greeks did, butwe don't, even when we are told. I know the Soldiers' Monument on theCommon is hideous beyond words, because everybody says so; but theydidn't when it was put up. Only a few artists objected then. "

"And the fact that a few artists have brought everybody to theiropinion, " Edith asked, "doesn't make you feel that they must be right;must have the truth behind them?"

"No; frankly, I can't say that it does, " Mrs. Frostwinch responded. 

She leaned back in her chair, a soft flush on her thin, high-bred face. Her figure, in a beautiful gown of beryl plush embroidered with gold, seemed artistically designed for the carved, high-backed chair in whichshe sat, and both her companions were too appreciative to lose thegrace of the picture she made. 

"I cannot see that it is bad, " she went on. "Mr. Fenton has proved itto me, and even Mr. Herman, who seems, so far as I have seen him, themost charitable of men, when I asked him how he liked it, spoke withpositive loathing of it. I can't manage to make myself unhappy over it, that's all. And I believe I am as appreciative as the average. "

To Helen there was something at once fascinating and repellent in thistalk. She was attracted by Mrs. Frostwinch. The perfect breeding, thegrace, the polish of the woman, won upon her strongly, while yet thesubtile air of taking life conventionally, of lacking vitalearnestness, was utterly at variance with the sculptor's temperamentand methods of thought. She no sooner recognized this feeling than sherebuked herself for shallowness and a want of charity, yet even so theimpression remained. To the artistic temperament, enthusiasm is theonly excuse for existence. 

"I think Mrs. Fenton is right, " she said. "The few form the correctjudgment, and the many adopt it in the end because it is based ontruth. It seems to me, " she continued, thoughtfully, "that the primecondition of effectiveness is constancy, and only that opinion can beconstant that has truth for a foundation, because no other basis wouldremain to hold it up. "

"That may be true, " was the reply, "if you take matters in asufficiently long range, but you seem to me to be viewing things fromthe standpoint of eternity. "

The smile with which she said these last words was so charming thatHelen warmed toward her, and she smiled also in replying, --

"Isn't that, after all, the only safe way to look at things?"

"What deep waters we are getting into, " Edith commented. "And yet theysay women are always frivolous. "

"The Boston luncheon, " returned Mrs. Frost-winch, "is a solemn assemblyfor the discussion of mighty themes. Yesterday, at Mrs. BodewinRanger's, we disposed of all the knotty problems relating to the lowerclasses. "

"I didn't know but it might be something about my house. The last timeMrs. Greyson lunched here we solemnly debated what a wife should dowhose husband did not appreciate her. "

She spoke brightly, but there was in her tone, an undercurrent offeeling which touched Helen, and betrayed the fact that this return tothe old theme was not wholly without a cause. Mrs. Greyson divined thatEdith was not happy, and with the keenness of womanly instinct shedivined also that there was not perfect harmony between Mrs. Fenton andher husband. She looked up quickly, with an instinctive desire to turnthe conversation, but found no words ready. 

Edith had at the moment yielded to a woman's craving for sympathy. Anincident which had happened that forenoon troubled and bewildered her. She had been down town, and remembering a matter of importance aboutwhich she had neglected to consult her husband in the morning, she hadturned aside to visit his studio, a thing she seldom did in his workinghours. She found him painting from a model, and she was kept waiting amoment while the latter retired from sight. She thought nothing ofthis, but as she stood talking with Arthur, her glance fell upon a wrapwhich she recognized as belonging to Mrs. Herman, and which had beencarelessly left upon the back of a chair in sight. Even this might nothave troubled her, had it not been that when she looked questioninglyfrom the garment to her husband, she caught a look of consternation inhis eyes. His glance met hers and turned aside with that almostimperceptible wavering which shows the avoidance to be intentional; anda pang of formless terror pierced her. 

All the way home she was tormented by the wonder how that wrap couldhave come in her husband's studio, and what reason he could have forbeing disturbed by her seeing it there. She was not a woman given topetty or vulgar jealousy, and she had from the first left the artistperfectly free in his professional relations to be governed by thenecessities or the conveniences of his profession. She could not to-day, however, rid herself of the feeling that some mystery lay behindthe incident of the morning. She began to frame excuses. She speculatedwhether it were possible that Arthur were secretly painting theportrait of his friend's wife, to produce it as a surprise to them all. She said to herself that Ninitta naturally knew models, and mighteasily have enough of a feeling of comradeship remaining from the timewhen she had been a model herself, to lend or give them articles ofdress. Unfortunately, she knew how Ninitta kept herself aloof from herold associates since the birth of her child, and the explanation didnot satisfy her. 

No faintest suspicion of positive evil entered Edith's mind. She wasonly vaguely troubled, the incident forming one more of the trifleswhich of late had made her very uneasy in regard to her husband. Shetold herself that she had confidence in Arthur; but the woman who isforced to reflect that she has confidence in her husband has alreadybegun, however unconsciously, to doubt him. 

"The question is profound enough, " Mrs. Frostwinch answered Edith'swords in her even tones, which somehow seemed to reduce everything to awell-bred abstraction. "Of course the thing for a Woman to do is toremain determinedly ignorant until it would be too palpably absurd topretend any longer; and then she must get away from him as quietly aspossible. The evil in these things is, after all, the stir and thetalk, and all the unpleasant and vulgar gossip which inevitably attendsthem. "

Poor Edith cringed as if she had received a blow, and to cover heremotion she gave the signal for rising from the table. But as she didso, her eyes met those of Helen, and the truth leaped from one to theother in one of those glances in which the heart, taken unaware, reveals its joy or its woe with irresistible frankness. Whatever wordsEdith and Helen might or might not exchange thereafter, the story ofMrs. Fenton's married life and of the anguish of her soul was told inthat look; and her friend understood it fully. 

XVII

 THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. Measure for Measure; iv. --10. 

The temper of clubs, like that of individuals, changes from time totime, however constant remains its temperament. Those who reflectedupon such matters noticed that at the St. Filipe Club, where a fewyears back there had been much talk of art and literature, and abstractprinciples, there had come to be a more worldly, perhaps a Philistinewould say a more mature, flavor to the conversation. There were a goodmany stories told about its wide fireplaces, and there was much runningcomment on current topics, political and otherwise. There was, perhaps, a more cosmopolitan air to the talk. 

That the old-time flavor could sometimes reappear, however, was evidentfrom the talk going on about nine o'clock on the evening of the day ofEdith's luncheon. The approach of the time set for an exhibition ofpaintings in the gallery of the club turned the conversation towardart, and as several of the quondam Pagans were present, the old habitsof speech reasserted themselves somewhat. 

"I understand Fenton's going to let us see his new picture, " somebodysaid. 

"He is if he gets it done, " Tom Bently answered. "He's painting so manyportraits nowadays that he didn't get it finished for the New Yorkexhibition. "

"He must be making a lot of money, " Fred Rangely observed. 

"He needs to to keep his poker playing up, " commented Ainsworth. 

"He's lucky if he makes money in these days when it's the swell thingto have some foreign duffer paint all the portraits, " Bently said. "Itmakes me sick to see the way Englishmen rake in the dollars over here. "

"How would you feel, " asked Rangely, "if you tried to get a living bywriting novels, and found the market glutted with pirated Englishreprints?"

"Oh, novels, " retorted Tom, "they are of no account any way. Modernnovels are like modern investments; they are all principle and nointerest. "

"I like that, " put in Ainsworth, "when most of them haven't anyprinciple at all. "

"Neither have investments in the end, " Bently returned. "At least Iknow mine haven't. "

"If you were a writer you'd be spared that pain, " was Rangely's reply, "for want of anything to start an investment with. "

"I've about come to the conclusion, " another member said, "that a manmay be excused for making literature his practice, but that he is afool to make it his profession. It does very well as an amusement, butit's no good as a business. "

"The idea is correct, " Rangely replied, ringing the bell and orderingfrom the servant who responded, "although it does not strike me asbeing either very fresh or very original. "

There was a digression for a moment or two while they waited for theirdrinks and imbibed them. And then Fred, with the air of one who uttersa profound truth, and answers questions both spoken and unspoken, observed as he set down his glass, --

"There's one thing of which I am sure; American literature will neveradvance much until women are prevented from writing book reviews. "

"Meaning, " said Arthur Fenton, entering and with his usual quicknessseizing the thread of conversation at once, "that some woman critic orother hit the weak spot in Fred's last book. "

"Hallo, Fenton, " called Bently, in his usual explosive fashion. "Ihaven't seen you this long time. I did not know whether you were deador alive. "

"Oh, as usual, occupying a middle ground between the two. Are youcoming upstairs, Fred?"

A smile ran around the circle. 

"At it again, Fenton?" Ainsworth asked. "You'll have to go West and bemade a senator if you keep on playing poker every night. "

"If I don't have better luck than I've been having lately, " Fentonrejoined, as he and Rangely left the room, "I should have to have asubscription taken up to pay my travelling expenses. "

The card-rooms were upstairs, and Fenton and Rangely went to themwithout speaking. The artist was speculating whether a ruse he had justexecuted would be successful; his companion was thinking of the news hehad just had from New York, that a girl with whom he had flirted at themountains last summer was about to visit Boston. 

Around a baize-covered table in the card-room sat three or four men, inone of whom Rangely recognized the corpulent and vulgar person of Mr. Erastus Snaffle. He nodded to him with an air of qualifying hisrecognition with certain mental reservations, while Fenton said as hetook his place beside Chauncy Wilson, who moved to make room for him, --

"Good evening, Mr. Snaffle. Have you come up to clean the club outagain?"

Mr. Snaffle looked up as if he did not fully comprehend, but hechuckled as he answered, --

"I should think it was time. I was never inside this club that I didn'tget bled. "

The men laughed in a somewhat perfunctory way, and the cards havingbeen dealt, the game went on. They were all members of the club exceptSnaffle, and they all knew that this rather doubtful individual had nobusiness there at all. There had of late been a good deal of feeling inthe club because the rule that forbade the bringing of strangers intothe house had been so often violated. The St. Filipe was engaged in theperfectly fruitless endeavor to enforce the regulation that visitorsmight be admitted provided the same person was not brought into therooms twice within a fixed period. Some of the members violated therule unconsciously, since it was awkward to invite a friend into theclub and to qualify the courtesy with the condition that he had notbeen asked by anybody else within the prescribed period, and it waseasy to forget this ungracious preliminary. Some few of the members--since in every club there will be men who are gentlemen but by brevet, --deliberately took advantage of the uncertainty which always arisesfrom so anomalous a regulation, and the result of deliberate and ofinvoluntary breaches of the rule had been that the club house was madefree with by outsiders to a most unpleasant extent. 

Not yet ready to do away with the by-law, since many members found--itconvenient and pleasant to take their friends into the club-house, themanagers of the affairs of the St. Filipe were making a desperateeffort to discover all offenders who were intentionally guilty ofviolating the regulation. They had their eye on several outsiders whomade free with the house, and it was understood that certain men werein danger of being requested not to continue their visits to a placewhere they had no right. Snaffle, who had been first brought to theclub by Dr. Wilson to play poker, was one of these, and the men who satplaying with him to-night were secretly curious to know how he happenedto be there on this particular occasion. He had come into the card-roomalone, with the easy air of familiarity which usually distinguishedhim, and appearances seemed to point to his having taken the liberty ofwalking into the house in the same way. The men liked well enough tohave him in the game, because he played recklessly and always leftmoney at the table, but not one of them, even Dr. Wilson, who was morerecklessly democratic in his habits and instincts than any of the rest, would have cared to be seen walking with Erastus Snaffle on the streetsby daylight. 

When Snaffle entered the club house, the servant whose duty it was towait at the outer door, had gone for a moment to the coat-roomadjoining the hall. Here Snaffle met him and offered him his coat andhat. The servant extended his hand mechanically, but he looked at thenew-comer so pointedly that the latter muttered, by way ofcredentials, --

"I came with Mr. Fenton. "

The servant made no comment, but as Mr. Snaffle went upstairs, hereported to the steward that the intruder was again in the house andhad been introduced by Mr. Fenton. The steward in turn reported this tothe Secretary, and before Arthur himself came in, a rod was alreadypreparing for him in the shape of a complaint to be made before theExecutive Committee. 

It was thus that precisely the thing happened which Fenton had with hisusual cleverness endeavored to guard against. Impudent as Mr. Snafflewas capable of being, he would never have ventured uninvited into theprecincts of the St. Filipe Club, where even when introduced he foundhimself somewhat overpowered by the social standing and the loftymanners of those around him. This feeling of awe showed itself in twoways, had any one been clever enough to appreciate the fact. Itrendered him unusually silent, and it induced him to play high, as ifhe felt under obligations to pay for his admission into company wherehe did not belong. 

It was to this last fact that he owed his invitation to be present onthis particular evening. Arthur Fenton was going to the club to playpoker, urged partly by the love of excitement and perhaps even more bythe hope of raising a part or the whole of the fifty dollars of whichhe had pressing need, when he encountered Snaffle standing on a streetcorner. Fenton's acquaintance with the man had been confined to theirmeetings in the card-room of the St. Filipe, but he had once or twicecarried home in his pocket very substantial tokens of Snaffle'sreckless play. Almost without being conscious of what he did, Fentonstopped and extended his hand. 

"Good evening, " he said. "What is up? Are you ready for your revenge?"

"Oh, I'm always ready for a good game, " Snaffle answered. "I was goingto see my best girl, but I don't mind taking a hand instead. "

Fenton smiled as the other turned and walked with him toward the club, but inwardly he loathed the fat, vulgar man at his side. His sense ofthe fitness of things was outraged by his being obliged to associatewith such a creature, and that the obligation arose entirely from hisown will, only showed to his mind how helpless he was in the hands offate. He was outwardly gracious enough, but inwardly he nourished abitter hatred against Erastus Snaffle for constraining him to gothrough this humiliation before he could win his money. 

As they neared the club, Fenton recalled the fact that there had beensome talk about visitors, and that the presence of this very man hadbeen especially objected to, and reflected that in any case he had nodesire to be seen going in with him. As they entered the vestibule thedoor was not opened for them, and Fenton's quick wit appreciated thefact that the servant who should be sitting just inside, was not in hisplace. With an inward ejaculation of satisfaction at this good fortune, he put his hand to his breast pocket. 

"Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed. "There are those confounded letters Ipromised to post. You go in, Mr. Snaffle, and I'll go back to theletter box on the corner. You know the way, and you'll find the fellowsin the first card-room. "

He opened the door as he spoke, and as Snaffle entered and closed itafter him, Fenton ran down the steps and walked to the next corner. Hehad no letters to mail, but it was characteristic of his dramatic wayof doing things that he walked to the letter-box, raised the drop andwent through the motion of slipping in an envelope. He was accustomedto say that when one played a part it could not be done too carefully, and it amused him to reflect that if he were watched his action wouldappear consistent with his words, while if he were timed he would befound to have been gone from the club house exactly long enough. Notthat he supposed anybody was likely to take the trouble to do either ofthese things, but Fenton was an imaginative man and he found a humorouspleasure in finishing even his trickery in an artistic manner. 

It was Saturday night, and just before midnight a servant opened thecard-room door. The room was full of smoke, empty glasses stood besidethe players, and piles of red and blue and white "chips" were heaped inuneven distribution along the edges of the table. 

"It is ten minutes of twelve, gentlemen, " the servant said, andretired. 

"Jack-pots round, " said Rangely, dealing rapidly. "Look lively now. "

He and Fenton had been winning, the pile of blue counters beside thelatter representing nearly thirty dollars, with enough red and whiteones to cover his original investments. The first jackpot and thesecond were played, Dr. Wilson wining one and Snaffle the other on thefirst hand. On the third, Fenton bet for awhile, holding three acesagainst a full hand held by the fifth man. 

"It's all right, " Fenton remarked, as Rangely chaffed him. "I amwaiting for the 'kittie-pot. ' See what a pile there is to go into that. I always expect to gather in the 'kittie. '"

The fourth pot was quickly passed, and then Wilson, who had beenmanaging the "kittie, " put upon the table the surplus, which to-nightchanced to be unusually large. The cards were dealt and dealt threetimes again before the pot could be opened, and then Rangely startedit. Arthur looked at his hand in disgust. He held the nine of hearts, the five, six, eight, and nine of spades, and as he said to himself henever had luck in drawing to either straight or flush. Still the stakewas good, and he came in, discarding his heart. He drew the seven ofspades. Rangely was betting on three aces, and Wilson on a full hand, so that the betting ran rather high. 

"Twelve o'clock, gentlemen, " the servant said at the door. 

And when Fenton began his Sunday by winning the pot on his straightflush, he found himself more than sixty dollars to the good on hisevening's work. 

"You've regularly bled me, Fenton, " Snaffle observed with muchjocularity, as the players came out of the club house. "I've hardly gota car fare left to take me home. I'm afraid the St. Filipe is a den ofthieves. "

"I don't mind lending you a car fare, Mr. Snaffle, " the artistreturned, endeavoring to speak as pleasantly as if he did not object tothe familiarity of the other's address. "But don't abuse the club. "

"I think I'll go to church, " Dr. Wilson said with a yawn. "It must bemost time. "

"Church-going, " Fenton returned, sententiously, "is small beer forsmall souls. "

"There, Fenton, " retorted Rangely, as at this minute they came to thecorner where they separated, "don't feel obliged to try to be clever. You can't do it at this time of night. "

Snaffle continued his walk with the artist almost to Fenton's door, although the latter suspected that it was out of his companion's way. Arthur was willing, however, to give the loser the compensation of hissociety as a return for the greenbacks in his pocket, and his naturalacuteness was so far from being as active as usual that when he foundMr. Snaffle speaking of Princeton Platinum stock he did not suspectthat he was being angled for in turn, and that the gambling for theevening was not yet completed. He listened at first without muchattention, but the man to whom he listened was wily and clever, andafter he was in bed that night the artist's brain was busy planning howto raise money to invest in Princeton Platinum. 

"I never saw such luck as yours, " Snaffle observed admiringly. "The wayyou filled that spade flush on that last hand was a miracle. It is justthat sort of luck that runs State street and Wall street. "

Fenton smiled to himself in the darkness, the proposition was somanifestly absurd, but he was already bitten by the mania forspeculation, and when once this madness infects a man's brain the mostimprobable causes will increase the disease. Snaffle, of course, wastoo shrewd to ask his companion to buy Princeton Platinum stock, andindeed declared that although he had charge of putting it upon themarket, he was reluctant to part with a single share of it. He addedwith magnanimous frankness, that all mining stock was dangerous, especially for one who did not thoroughly understand it. 

But his negatives, as he intended, were more effective thanaffirmatives would have been, and the bait had been safely swallowed bythe unlucky fish for whom the astute speculator angled. Fenton hadinvited him to the club to be eaten, but the wily visitor secretlyregarded the money he lost at the poker table as a paying investment, believing that in the end it was not the bones of plump Erastus Snafflewhich were destined to be picked. 

XVIII

 HE SPEAKS THE MERE CONTRARY. Love's Labor's Lost; i. --I. 

Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson sat in her bower, enveloped in anunaccustomed air of respectability, and in a frame of mind exceedinglyself-satisfied and serene. She had secured a visit from a New Yorkrelative, a distant cousin whose acquaintance she had made in themountains the summer before, and she hoped from this circumstance tosecure much social advantage. For at home Miss Frances Merrivale movedin circles such as her present hostess could only gaze at from afarwith burning envy. In her own city, Miss Merrivale would certainlynever have consented to know Mrs. Sampson, relationship or norelationship; but she chanced to wish to get away from home for a weekor two, she thought somewhat wistfully of the devotion of Fred Rangelyat the mountains last summer, and she was not without a hope that ifshe once appeared in Boston, the Staggchases, who should have invitedher to visit them long ago, she being as nearly related to Mr. Staggchase as to Mrs. Sampson, might be moved to ask her to come tostay with them. 

It cannot be said that Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson, dashing, vulgarsocial adventurer that she was, had much in common with her guest. MissMerrivale, it is true, had the incurable disease of social ambition asthoroughly as her hostess; but the girl had, at least, a recognized andvery comfortable footing under her feet, while the unfortunate widowkept herself above the surface only by nimble but most tiresome leapsfrom one precarious floating bit to another. In these matters, moreover, a few degrees make really an immense difference. There is allthe inequality which exists between the soldier who wields his sword ina disastrous hollow, and one who strikes triumphant blows from thehillock above. The elevation is to be measured in inches, perhaps, butthat range reaches from failure to success. Whether social ambition isproper pride or vulgar presumption depends not upon the feeling itselfso much as upon the grade from which it is exercised, and MissMerrivale very quickly understood that while she was placed upon oneside of the dividing line between the two, her hostess was unhappily tobe found upon the other. 

Indeed Miss Frances had hardly recognized what Mrs. Sampson'ssurroundings were until she found herself established in the littleapartment as a guest of that lady. Her newly found cousin had at themountains spoken of her father, the late judge, and of her ownacquaintances among the great and well known of Boston, with an airwhich carried conviction to one who had not known her too long. Shespoke with playful pathos of her poverty, it is true, but when awoman's gowns will pass muster, talk of poverty is not likely to betaken too seriously. Miss Merrivale knew, moreover, that the widow, like herself, could boast a connection with the Staggchase family. 

Now she found herself at the top of an apartment house in a street ofNottingham lace curtains carefully draped back to show the Rogers'groups on neat marble stands behind their precise folds. The awful gulfwhich yawned between this South End location and the region where abodethose whom she counted her own kind socially, was apparent to her themoment she arrived and looked about her. Fred Rangely had called, butMrs. Sampson had regaled her guest with such tales of his devotion toMrs. Staggchase that Miss Merrivale received him with much coldness, and his call was not a success. Now she was impatiently waiting for theappearance of Mrs. Staggchase, who, it did not occur to her to doubt, would of course call. She was curious to see her relative, and herfondness for Rangely, such as it was, was marvellously quickened by thepresence of a rival in the field. Instead of the appearance of Mrs. Staggchase, however, came a note asking Miss Merrivale to dine, whereatthat young woman was angry, and her hostess, although she was tooclever to show it, was secretly furious. 

This invitation was the result of a conversation between Mr. And Mrs. Richard Staggchase, which had begun by that gentleman's asking his wifeat dinner when she was going to call upon Miss Merrivale. 

"Not at all, my dear, " Mrs. Staggchase answered, "as long as she isvisiting that dreadful Mrs. Sampson, I'm not sure, Fred, but that if Ihad known that creature could claim a cousinship to you, I should haverefused to marry you. "

"She is a dose, " Mr. Staggchase admitted. "I wonder where she livesnow. Didn't Frances Merrivale send her address?"

"She lives on Catawba Street, at the top of a speaking tube in one ofthose dreadful apartment houses where you shout up the tube and theyopen the door for you by electricity. I wonder how soon it will be, Fred, before you'll drop in a nickel at the door of an apartment houseand the person you want to see will be slid out to you on a platform. "

"Gad! That wouldn't be a bad scheme, " her husband returned, with anappreciative grin. "But, really now, what are you going to do aboutthis girl. She's a sort of cousin, you know, and she's a great friendof the Livingstons. "

"We might ask her to come here after she gets through with that woman. I'll write her if you like. "

"Without calling?" Mr. Staggchase asked, lifting his eyebrows a little. 

"My dear, " his wife responded, "I try to do my duty in that estate inlife to which I have been appointed, and I am willing to made allpossible exceptions to all known rules in favor of your family; butMrs. Sampson is an impossible exception. I will do nothing that showsher that I am conscious of her existence. "

"But it will be awfully rude not to call. "

"One can't be rude to such creatures as Mrs. Sampson, " returned Mrs. Staggchase, with unmoved decision. "She is one of those dreadful womenwho watch for a recognition as a cat watches for a mouse. I've seen herat the theatre. She'd pick out one person and run him down with hergreat bold eyes until he had to bow to her, and then she'd stalkanother in the same way. Call or her, indeed! Why, Fred, she'd inviteyou to a dinner _tete-a-tete_ to-day, if she thought you'd go. "

Mr. Staggchase laughed rather significantly. 

"Gad! that might be amusing. She is of the kittle cattle, my dear, butyou must own that she's a well-built craft. "

"Oh, certainly, " replied his better half, who was too canny by far toshow annoyance, if indeed she felt any, when her husband praisedanother woman. "If everybody isn't aware of her good points, it isn'tthat she is averse to advertising them. She has taken up with youngStanton, the sculptor, just because some of us have been interested inhim. "

"Is he going to make the _America_ statue?"

"That is still uncertain, but for my part I half hope he won't, if thatSampson woman is his kind. "

Mr. Staggchase dipped his long fingers into his finger bowl, wiped themwith great deliberation and then pushed his chair back from the table. It was very seldom that his wife denied a request he made her, but whenshe did he knew better than to contend in the matter. 

"Very well, " he said, "you may do whatever you please. Whether youwomen are so devilish hard on each other because you know your own sexis more than I should undertake to say. "

"Are you going out?"

"Yes, " he answered, "I have got to go to a meeting of the ExecutiveCommittee of the St. Filipe. There is some sort of a row; I don't knowwhat. How are you going to amuse yourself. "

"By doing my duty. "

"Do you find duty amusing then; I shouldn't have suspected it. "

"Oh, duty's only another name for necessity. I'm going to the theatrewith Fred Rangely. He wrote an article for the _Observer_ in favor ofthat great booby Stanton's having the statue. It was a very lukewarmplea, but I asked him to do it, and as a reward"--

"He is allowed the inestimable boon of taking you to the theatre, "finished her husband, "I must say, Dian, that you are, on the whole, the shrewdest woman I know. "

"Thank you. I must be just, you know, " she returned smiling asbrilliantly as if her husband were to be won again. 

It was not without reason that Mrs. Staggchase had spoken of herselfand her husband as a model couple. Given her theory of married life, nothing could be more satisfactory and consistent than the way in whichshe lived up to it. Her ideal of matrimony was a sort of mutual_laisser faire_, conducted with the utmost propriety and politeness. She made an especial point of being as attractive to her husband as toany other man; and she had the immense advantage of never having beenin love with anybody but herself and of being philosophical enough notto consider the good things of conversation wasted if they were saidfor his exclusive benefit. She had no children, and had once remarkedin answer to the question whether she regretted this, "There must besome pleasure in having sons old enough to flirt with you; but I don'tknow of anything else I have lost that I have reason to regret. "

Her husband, thorough man of the world as he was, and indeed perhapsfor that very reason, never outgrew a pleased surprise that he foundhis wife so perennially entertaining. He was not unwilling that sheshould exercise her fascinations on others when she chose, since he hadno feeling toward her sufficiently warm to engender anything likejealousy; but he appreciated her to the full. 

He rose from his seat and walked to the sideboard, where he selected acigar. 

"I must say, " he observed, between the puffs as he lighted it, "thatyou are justice incarnate. You have always kept accounts squared withme most beautifully. "

Mrs. Staggchase laughed softly, toying with the tiny spoon of Swisscarved silver with which she had stirred her coffee. Her husband hadexpressed perfectly her theory of marital relations. She balancedaccounts in her mind with the most scrupulous exactness, and was anadmirable debtor if a somewhat unrelenting creditor. She had a definitestandard by which she measured her obligations to Mr. Staggchase, andshe never allowed herself to fall short in the measure she gave him. She was fond of him in a conveniently mild and reasonable fashion, anda marriage founded upon mutual tolerance, if it is likely never to beintensely happy, is also likely to be a pretty comfortable one. Mrs. Staggchase paid to her husband all her tithes of mint and anise andcumin, and she even sometimes presented him with a propitiatoryoffering in excess of her strict debt; only such a gift was always setdown in her mental record as a gift and not as a tribute. 

"This Stanton is an awful lout, Fred, " she observed. "Perhaps he canmake a good statue of _America_, but if he can it will be because he isso thoroughly the embodiment of the vulgar and pushing side of Americancharacter. "

"Then why in the world are you pushing him?"

"Oh, because Mrs. Ranger and Anna Frostwinch want him pushed. I don'tknow but they may believe in him. Mrs. Ranger does, of course, but thedear old soul knows no more about art than I do about Choctaw. As tothe statues, I don't think it makes much difference, they are alwayslaughed at, and I don't think anybody could make one in this age thatwouldn't be found fault with. "

"Nobody nowadays knows enough about sculpture to criticise itintelligently, " Staggchase remarked, somewhat oracularly, "and the onlysafe thing left is to find fault. "

"That is just about it, and so it may as well be this booby as anybodyelse that gets the commission. It isn't respectable for the town not tohave statues, of course. "

Mr. Staggchase moved toward the door. 

"Well, " he said, "I don't know who's in the fight, but I'll bet on yourside. Good night. I hope virtue will be its own reward. "

"Oh, it always is, " retorted his wife. "I especially make it a pointthat it shall be. "

XIX

 HOW CHANCES MOCK. II Henry IV. ; iii. --I. 

A man often creates his own strongest temptations by dwelling uponpossibilities of evil; and it is equally true that nothing else rendersa man so likely to break moral laws as the consciousness of havingbroken them already. The experience of Arthur Fenton was in these daysaffording a melancholy illustration of both of these propositions. Thehumiliating inner consciousness of having violated all the principlesof honor of his fealty to which he had been secretly proud begot in himan unreasonable and unreasoning impulse still further to transgress. When arraigned by his inner self for his betrayal of Hubbard, it washis instinct to defend himself by showing his superiority to all moralcanons whatever. He felt a certain desperate inclination to trample allprinciples underfoot, as if by so doing he could destroy the standardsby which he was being tried. 

Fenton was not of a mental fibre sufficiently robust to make thisimpulse likely to result in any violent outbreak, and, indeed, but forcircumstances it would doubtless have vapored itself away in words andvagrant fancies. He had once remarked, embodying a truth in one of hisfrequent whimsically perverse statements, that the worst thing whichcould be said of him was that he was incapable of a great crime, andonly the constant pressure of an annoyance, such as the threats ofIrons in regard to Ninitta, or the presence of an equally constanttemptation, such as that to which he was now succumbing in allowing hisrelations with Mrs. Herman to become more and more intimate, would havebrought him to any marked transgression. 

In a nature such as that of Fenton there is, with the exception ofvanity and the instinct of self-preservation, no trait stronger thancuriosity. The artist was devoured by an eager, intellectual greed toknow all things, to experience all sensations, to taste all savors oflife. He made no distinction between good and bad; his zeal forknowledge was too keen to allow of his being deterred by the lineordinarily drawn between pain and pleasure. His affections, hispassions, his morals were all subordinate to this burning curiosity, and only his instinct of self-preservation subtly making itself felt inthe guise of expediency, and his vanity prettily disguised as taste, held the thirst for knowledge in check. 

It was by far more the desire to learn whether he could bend Ninitta tohis will than it was passion which carried Fenton forward in thedangerous path upon which he was now well advanced; and it was perhapsmore than either a half-unconscious eagerness to taste a newexperience. Even the double wickedness of betraying the wife of afriend and of enticing a woman to her fall had for Fenton, in hispresent mood, an unholy fascination. He was too self-analytical todeceive himself into a supposition that he was in love with Ninitta, and even his passion was so much under the dominion of his head that hecould have blown it out like a rushlight, had he really desired to bedone with it. He looked at himself with mingled approbation, amusement, and horror, as he might have regarded a favorite and skilful actor in avicious _role_; and the man whose mind is to him merely anamphitheatre, where games are played for his amusement, is alwaysdangerous. 

As for Ninitta, the processes of her mind were probably quite ascomplex as those of his, although they appeared more simple, in virtueof their being more remote. She had, in the first place, a curiousjealousy of her husband because of his passionate fondness for Nino, and a dull resentment at the secret conviction that the father had thegifts and powers which were sure to win more love than the child wouldbestow upon her. She could better bear the thought that the boy shoulddie, than that he should live to love anybody more than he loved her. 

It was also true that Grant Herman, large-hearted and generous as hewas, did not know how to make his wife happy. He was patient andchivalrous and tender; but he was hardly able to go to her level, andas she could not come to his, the pair had little in common. He feltthat somehow this must be his fault; he told himself that, as thelarger nature, it should be his place to make concessions, to masterthe situation, and to secure Ninitta's happiness, whatever came to him. He had even come to feel so much tenderness toward the mother of hischild, the woman in whose behalf he had made the great sacrifice of hislife, that a pale but steadfast glow of affection shone always in hisheart for his wife. But his patience, his delicacy, his steadfastnesscounted for little with Ninitta. She had been separated from him forlong years of betrothal, during which he had developed and changedutterly. She had clung to her love and faith, but her love and faithwere given to an ardent youth glowing with a passion of which it washardly possible to rekindle the faint embers in the bosom of the manshe married. Even Ninitta, little given to analysis, could not fail torecognize that her husband was a very different being from the lovershe had known ten years before. One fervid blaze of the old love wouldhave appealed more strongly to her peasant soul than all the patienceand tender forbearance of years. 

Indeed, it is doubtful whether Ninitta might not have been better andhappier had Herman been less kind. Had he made a slave of her, shewould have accepted her lot as uncomplainingly as the women of her racehad acquiesced in such a fate for stolid generations. She could haveunderstood that. As it was, she felt always the strain of being triedby standards which she did not and could not comprehend; the misery ofbeing in a place for which she was unfitted and which she could notfill, and the fact that no definite demands were made upon herincreased her trouble by the double stress of putting her upon her ownresponsibility, and of leaving her ignorant in what her failures lay. 

There was, too, who knows what trace of heredity in the readiness withwhich Ninitta tacitly adopted the idea that infidelity to a husband wasrather a matter of discretion and secrecy; whereas faithfulness to herlover had been a point of the most rigorous honor. And Ninitta foundArthur Fenton's silken sympathy so insinuating, so soothing; thetempter, merely from his marvellous adaptability and faultless tact, sosatisfied her womanly craving, and fostered her vanity; she was socompletely made to feel that she was understood; she was tempted with acunning the more infernal because Fenton kept himself always up to thelevel of sincerity by never admitting to himself that he intended anyevil, that it was small wonder that the time came when her ardentItalian nature was so kindled that she became involuntarily the tempterin her turn. 

It was one of the singular features of Fenton's present attitude thateven he, with all his clear-sightedness, failed to see the error ofsupposing that his departure from the paths of rectitude was nothingbut a temporary episode. He fully expected to take up again his formerattitude toward life when he would have scorned such a contemptibleaction as the betrayal of Hubbard, or the more trifling, but perhapseven more humiliating act of smuggling Snaffle into the club that hemight win his money. He even had a certain vague feeling that if he hadany viciousness to get through he must do it at once, lest theresumption of his former respectability should deprive him of theopportunity. He maintained before the world, indeed, a perfectpropriety of deportment, partly from the force of habit and partly fromthe instinctive cunning which always tried to preserve for him themeans of retreat; but so complete was his abandonment, for the timebeing, to the enjoyment of evil, that he was constantly assailed withthe temptation to make some public demonstration of his state offeeling. He secretly longed to shock people with blasphemous orimprudent expressions; to outrage all honor by stealing his host'sspoons when he dined out; his fancy rioted in whimsical evil of which, of course, he gave no outward sign. 

He had a scene with Alfred Irons, one morning, at his studio. Ironscame in with a look on his face which secretly enraged the artist, whowas almost rude in the coldness of his greeting, although the calleronly grinned at this evidence of his host's irritation. 

"Well, Fenton, " he said, with bluff abruptness, "I suppose it is timefor us to square accounts, isn't it?"

"I was not aware that we had any accounts to square, " the otherreturned, with his most icy manner. 

Irons laughed, and looked about the studio. 

"That's your new picture, I suppose" he observed, settling himself backin his chair, with the determined mien of a man who recognizes the factthat he has a battle to fight, but is perfectly willing to join thefray. 

The significance of his air, as he nodded toward the big canvas on theeasel, so plainly brought up the unfortunate hold which the _Fatima_had given Irons over the artist, that Fenton flushed in spite ofhimself. 

"It is a picture, " he returned; "and it is unfinished. "

Irons chuckled. 

"Very well, " he said. "We won't fence. I thought you might beinterested to know that we've got our railroad business into first-rateshape; and there's no doubt that the Wachusett route will carry theday. I tell you we had a hot time in the Senate yesterday, " he went on, warming with the excitement of his subject. "We made a pretty stifffight in the Railroad Committee to get them to report 'not expedient'on the Feltonville petition. I tell you Staggchase fought like a bulltiger at the hearing, and those fellows must have put in a pot ofmoney. But we beat 'em. Then the fight came to get the report acceptedin the Senate. Everybody said that Tom Greenfield would settle thething with a big broadside in favor of his own town; and I'll own thatI was scared blue myself. But we haven't been cooking Tom Greenfieldall this time for nothing. I don't mind telling you that your help inthe matter was of the greatest value; and when Greenfield got up in theSenate yesterday, and put in his best licks for the Wachusett route, you'd have thought they'd been struck by a cyclone. We got a vote tosustain that report that buries the Feltonville project out of sight;and now there's no doubt that the Railroad Commissioners will give usour certificate without any more trouble. "

During this rather long and not wholly coherent speech, Fenton sat withhis eyes coldly fixed upon his visitor, without giving the slightestsign of interest. 

"I am glad, " he said, in a manner as distant as he could make it, "thatyour business is likely to succeed to your mind. "

"Oh, it must succeed. The Commissioners only suspended operations tillthe Legislature disposed of the question of special legislation. Nowthey're all ready to give us what we want. "

"And all this, " Fenton said, "is of what interest to me?"

Irons flushed angrily. 

"You were good enough, " he returned, drawing his lips down savagely, "to give us a bit of information which we found of value. Very likelywe might have hit upon it somewhere else, but that's no matter, as longas we did get it through you. We've no inclination to shirk our debt. Now what's your price?"

Fenton rose from his chair, with an impulsive movement; then hecontrolled himself and sat down again. He looked at his visitor witheyes of fire. 

"I am not aware, " he returned, "that I have ever been in the market, sothat I have not been obliged to consider that question. "

Alfred Irons was silent for a moment. He felt somewhat as if he hadreceived a dash of ice-water in the face. He wrinkled up his narroweyes and studied the man before him. He could not understand what theother was driving at. He was little likely to be able to follow thesubtile changes of Fenton's imaginative mind, and he could at presentsee no explanation of the way in which his advances were met, exceptthe theory that the artist was fencing to insure a larger reward forhis treachery than might be given him if he accepted the first offer insilence. 

Fenton, on his part, was so filled with rage that it was withdifficulty that he restrained himself. The length to which his intimacywith Ninitta had now gone, however, made it absolutely necessary thathe should avoid a quarrel in which her name might be brought up; and hehad, moreover, put himself into the hands of Irons, by giving him theinformation in regard to the plans for Feltonville. 

"Oh, well, " Irons said at length, rising with the air of one who cannotwaste his time puzzling over trifles; "have it your own way. It's onlya matter of words. "

He took out his pocket-book, and with deliberation turned over thepapers it contained. He selected one, read it carefully, and then heldit out to Fenton. 

"Our manufacturing corporation is practically on its legs now, " hesaid, "and the stock will be issued at once. That entitles you to tenshares. They will be issued at sixty, and ought to go to par by fall. Indeed, in a year's time, we'll make them worth double the buyingprice, or I am mistaken. "

Fenton looked at the paper as if he were reading it, but its lettersswam before his eyes. He needed money sorely, and had this gift come ina shape more readily convertible into cash, he might have found itimpossible to resist it. As it was, he allowed himself to be fiercelyangry. He was furious, but he was consciously so. He raised his eyes, flashing and distended, and fixed them upon the mean, hateful facebefore him. He paused an instant to let his gaze have its effect. 

"And I understand, " he said, with a slow, careful enunciation, "that inconsideration of the service I have done you, you give me your promisenever to mention the fact that you saw a lady in my studio. "

"Certainly, " Irons returned. 

Fenton's look made him uncomfortable. The artist was reasserting theold superiority over him which the visitor had found so irritating, andit was Iron's instinct to meet this by an air of bluster. 

"Very well, " Arthur said. "We may then consider what you are pleased tocall our account as closed. "

He walked forward deliberately and laid the paper he held on the heapof glowing coals in the grate. It curled and shrivelled, and beforeIrons could even compress his thick lips to whistle, nothing remainedof the document but a quivering film. 

"Well, " Irons commented, "you are a damned fool; but then that's yourown business. "

The artist bowed gravely. 

"Naturally, " he replied. 

He stood waiting as if he expected his caller to go, and, despitehimself, Irons felt that he was being bowed out of the studio. He tookhis leave awkwardly, feeling that he had somehow been beaten withtrumps in his hand, and hating Fenton ten times more heartily thanever. 

"The confounded snob!" he muttered under his breath, as he went downthe stairs of Studio Building. "He puts on damned high-headed airs; butI'm not done with him yet. "

And Fenton meanwhile stood looking at that thin fluttering film on thered coals with despair in his heart. He had taken the money which heimperatively needed to pay notes soon due, and invested in PrincetonPlatinum, with which the obliging Erastus Snaffle had supplied him outof pure generosity, if one could credit the seller's statements; and hehad been secretly depending for relief upon this very gift from Ironswhich he had destroyed. His affairs were every day becoming moreinextricably involved, and Fenton, it has already been said, with allhis cleverness, had no skill as a financier. 

"Well, " he commented to himself, shrugging his shoulders, "that is theend of that; but I did make good play. "

The satisfaction of having well acted his part, and of having got thebetter of Irons, did much toward restoring the artist's naturallybuoyant spirits. He fell to reckoning his resources, and by dint ofintroducing into the account several pleasing but most improbablepossibilities, he succeeded in building up between himself and ruin afanciful barrier which for the moment satisfied him; and beyond themoment he refused to look. 

XX

 VOLUBLE AND SHARP DISCOURSE. Comedy of Errors; ii. --I. 

Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson had in the course of a varied, if not alwaysdignified career, learned many things. There are people who seemcompelled by circumstances to waste much of their mental energy inattending to the trivial and sordid details of life, and the widowoften repined that she was one of these unfortunates. She secretlyfretted not a little, for instance, over the fact that she wascompelled to be gracious to servants, to butcher and baker andcandlestick maker, from unmixed reasons of policy. To be gracious inthe _role_ of a _grande dame_ would have pleased her, but she resentedthe necessity; and she avenged herself upon fate by gloating upon thestupidity of that power in wasting her energies in these petty things, when results so brilliant might have been attained by a more wiseutilization of her cleverness. 

This morning, for instance, when Mrs. Sampson chatted affably with thecarpenter who had come to do an odd job in the china closet of her tinydining-room, she really enjoyed the talk. She was one of those womenwho cannot help liking to chat with a man, and John Stanton was bothgood looking enough and intelligent enough to make her willing to exertherself for his entertainment. This did not, however, prevent her beinginwardly indignant that she felt herself compelled to converse withStanton because experience had taught her that a little amiabilityproperly exhibited was sure to increase the work and lessen the bill atthe same time. She did not forego the pleasure of pitying herselfbecause she chanced to find the task imposed upon her an agreeable one. There are few people in this world who are sufficiently just andsufficiently sane to deny themselves the luxury of self pity merelybecause the occasion does not justify that feeling. 

Stanton, with his coat off and his strong arms bare to the elbow, wasplaning down a shelf to make it fit into its place, and as he paused toshake the long creamy shavings out of his plane, he looked up to sayapologetically, --

"I'm making an awful litter, ma'am, but I don't see how I can help it. "

Mrs. Sampson laughed. 

"Oh, it isn't of the least consequence, " she answered. "If I wasinclined to complain it would be because after keeping me waiting forsix weeks for this work, you come just when I have company staying withme, and gentlemen coming to dine. "

She had walked into the room with a not illy simulated air of havingcome with the intention of going out again immediately, and stood wellposed, so that her fine figure came out in relief against a crimsonJapanese screen. 

"I haven't anything to do with that, ma'am, " Stanton replied. "The bossmakes out the orders, and we go where we are sent. "

"Well, " the widow said, smiling brilliantly, and moving across the roomto the table where the dishes taken from the closet were piled, "itcan't be helped, I suppose; but I hope you will let me get thingscleared up in time for dinner. "

"Oh, I'll surely get through by eleven or half past. "

"And I don't have dinner till half past six. "

The carpenter looked up questioningly. Then he went on with his work. 

"I never can get used to city ways, " he observed. "I don't see howfolks can get along without having dinner in the middle of the day whenit's dinner time. "

Mrs. Sampson busied herself with the plates, arranging things on thesideboard ready for evening. Her guest, Miss Merrivale, was out drivingwith Fred Rangely, and the widow's resources in the way of servantswere so limited that it was necessary that the hands of the mistressshould attend to many of the details of the housekeeping. She enjoyedtalking to this stalwart, vigorous fellow. She was alive to the lastfibre of her being to the influence of masculine perfections, andStanton was a splendidly built type of manhood. She utilized themoments and secured an excuse for lingering by going on with her workwhile the carpenter continued his, carrying out her theory of gettingthe most out of a laborer by personal supervision, and withalgratifying her intense and instinctive fondness for the presence of amagnificent man. 

"You are not city bred, perhaps, " she answered his last remark, for thesake of saying something. 

"Oh, no, ma'am, " John answered. "I was raised at Feltonville. "

The widow became alert at once. 

"Feltonville?" she repeated. "Why, I have a cousin living there, theHon. Thomas Greenfield. "

"Oh, Tom Greenfield. Everybody knows Tom Greenfield, " John said, hisface lighting up. "We call him 'Honest Tom' up our way. He's here inthe Legislature now. "

"Yes, I know he is. He's coming here to dinner to-night. "

"Is he? He's an awful smart man, and he's a good one, too, as everwalked. He's awful interested in Orin's getting the job to make the newstatue of _America_. Orin, " he added in explanation, "Orin Stanton, he's the sculptor and he's my brother; my half-brother, that is. You'veheard of him?"

"Oh, of course, " she answered, warmly. 

Mrs. Sampson knew little of Orin Stanton, but she did know that AlfredIrons was on the committee having in charge the commission for the newstatue, and the fact that Mr. Greenfield had an interest, howeverindirect, in the same matter, was a hint too valuable not to be actedupon. 

Despite the confidence with which he had spoken to Fenton, the railroadbusiness was by no means settled. The Staggchase syndicate had ralliedto raise objections to prevent the Railroad Commissioners fromauthorizing the other route. A hearing had been granted, and for itelaborate preparations were being made. The Irons syndicate wereextremely anxious that Greenfield should speak at this hearing, butthere had been so much feeling aroused at Feltonville by his action inthe Senate that he was not inclined to do so; and Mrs. Sampson, who hadalready proved so successful in influencing her relative, had beenrequested to continue her efforts. 

The widow had pondered deeply upon the tactics she should use, and itis to be noted that she set down the amount of the obligation incurredby Irons as the greater because she had really become in a way fond ofGreenfield, and she was too clever not to understand the fact, to whichthe senator with singular perversity remained obstinately blind, thathe could not but injure his political prestige by the course he wastaking. She had aroused his combativeness by telling him that if hisconvictions forced him to vote against the Feltonville interest, peoplewould say he was bought. She knew that now this was said, and thatopenly;--indeed, despite all her shrewdness and knowledge of humannature, she had moments when she wondered whether the charge might notbe true, so incomprehensible did it seem that a man should throw awayhis own advantage. She had no sentiment strong enough to make herhesitate about going on to sacrifice Greenfield to her own interests, but she distinctly disliked the fact that Irons should also profit bythe senator's loss. 

All day the widow pondered deeply on the situation, and the result ofthe chance disclosure of John Stanton was that when her guests arrivedshe made an opportunity to take Irons aside for a moment's confidentialtalk. 

The widow's dinner-party was a somewhat singular one to give incompliment to a young girl, there being no one of the guests near MissMerrivale's own age except Fred Rangely. The widow's acquaintance amongwomen whom she could ask to meet the New Yorker was limited, and havingdecided upon inviting Greenfield, Irons, and Rangely to dinner, thehostess sat gnawing her stylographic pen in despair a good half hourbefore she could decide upon a fourth guest. A woman she must have, andfew women whom she wished to ask would come to her house even to call. When she now and then gathered at an afternoon tea a handful of peoplewhose names she was proud to have reported in the society papers, shedid it by securing a lion of literary or of theatrical fame, whoseunwary feet she entangled in her cunningly laid snares before he knewanything about social conditions in Boston. There were many people, moreover, who would go to see a celebrity at a house like that of Mrs. Sampson much as they would have gone to the theatre, when they wouldhave received neither the guest of honor nor the hostess, the latter ofwhom, to their thinking, stood for the time being much in the positionof stage manager. 

Mrs. Sampson never set herself to a problem like this without a feelingof bitterness. To consider what woman of any standing could be inducedto eat her salt brought her true social position before her withpainful vividness. She could not, in face of the facts which thenforced themselves upon her, shut her eyes to the truth that her painfulstruggles for position had been pretty nearly fruitless. She did nowand then get an invitation to a crush in a desirable house, some over-sensitive woman who had been to stare at one of Mrs. Sampson's capturesthus discharging her debt, and at the same time virtually wiping herhands of all intercourse with the dashing widow. As for asking her totheir tables or going to hers, everybody understood that that was notto be thought of. 

With the cleverness born of desperation, Mrs. Sampson solved herdifficulty by asking Miss Catherine Penwick to fill the vacant place. Miss Catherine Penwick was the last forlorn and fluttering leaf on thebare branches of a lofty but expiring family tree. The Penwicks hadcome over in the Mayflower, or at a period yet more remote, and theacme of the prosperity and social distinction of the name wascoincident with the second administration of President Washington. Since that time its decadence had been steady; at first slow, but laterwith the accelerating motion common to falling bodies, until nothingremained of the family revenues, little but a tradition of the familygreatness, and none of the race but this frostbitten old lady, poor andforsaken in her desolate old age. 

Miss Penwick was one of the learned ladies of her generation, a factwhich counted for less in the erudite day into which it was hermisfortune to linger than in those of her far-away youth. She struggledagainst the tide with pathetic bravery, endeavoring to eke out somesort of a livelihood by giving feeble lectures on Greek art, which noliving being wished to hear, or could possibly be supposed to be anybetter for hearing, but to which the charitably disposed subscribedwith spasmodic benevolence. The poor creature, with her antique curlsquivering about her face, yellow and wrinkled now, its high-bredexpression sadly marred by the look of anxious eagerness which comes ofwatching, like the prophet, for the ravens to bring one's dinner, wasbut too glad to be invited to sit at any table where she could get acomfortable meal and be allowed to play for the moment at being thegrand lady her ancestresses had been in reality. 

"I hope you don't mind my asking Miss Penwick as the only lady, " Mrs. Sampson said to her guest; "but she is such a dear old creature, andour family and hers have been intimate for centuries. She is gettingold, poor dear, and she hasn't any money any more, just as I haven't. But you know she is wiser than Minerva's owl, and quite the fashion inBoston. One really is nobody who doesn't know Miss Penwick; and she is_so_ well bred. "

Miss Penwick, dear old soul, had a feeling that Mrs. Amanda WelshSampson was somehow too hopelessly modern for one of her generationever to be really in sympathy with the widow; but Mrs. Sampson had beenborn a Welsh, and Miss Catherine was too unworldly to be aware of allthe gossip and even scandal which had made the name of the dashingadventuress of so evil savor in the nostrils of people like Mrs. Frederick Staggchase. 

And it must be confessed also, that to such petty economies was thelast of the Penwicks reduced by poverty that a dinner was an object toher. She could not afford to lose an opportunity of dining at the priceof two horse-car tickets, and so promptly at the moment she presentedherself in the dainty elegance of bits of real old lace, with familyminiatures and locks of hair from the illustrious heads of great-great-grandmothers and grandfathers decorously framed in split pearls, thelustre of the jewels, like that of their wearer, tarnished by time. 

Miss Merrivale did feel that the company assembled was an odd one, although she lived too far away to appreciate the fact that none of theguests, with the possible exception of Rangely, were exactly what shewould have been asked to dine with at home. A country member, a self-made vulgarian, an antiquated spinster, and a literateur who, afterall, was received rather upon sufferance into such exclusive houses ashe entered at all, made up a group of which Miss Merrivale, withfeminine instinct, felt the inferiority, despite the fact that she hadno means of placing the guests. Miss Penwick appreciated the socialstanding of her fellow-diners, but she had by a long course of socialhumiliations come to accept unpleasant conditions where getting adinner was concerned; and she was, moreover, somewhat relieved that atMrs. Sampson's she was not obliged to meet anybody worse. Her instinctswere keen enough, after all her melancholy experiences, to enable herto recognize the fact that Tom Greenfield was the most truly agentleman of the three men, and she was pleased that he should take herin to dinner. 

Mrs. Sampson, as she went in on the arm of Irons, contrived to let himknow what she had heard that morning from young Stanton of Greenfield'sinterest in the young sculptor; adding a hint or two of the use to bemade of this information. Rangely, just behind her, was chatting withMiss Frances in that half amorous badinage which some girls alwaysprovoke, perhaps because they expect and keenly relish it. 

"Oh, no, " he observed, just as Mrs. Sampson was able to give an ear towhat was being said by the young people. "I am not fickle. I amconstancy itself, but when you are in New York and I am in Boston, youreally can't expect me to sigh loud enough to be heard all thatdistance. "

"I know you too well to suppose you will sigh at all, " she returned, with a coquettish air. "Especially with the consolations I am given tounderstand that you have near at hand. "

"What consolations?" he asked, visibly disconcerted. 

"What has that confounded widow been telling her?" he wonderedinwardly. "Is it Mrs. Staggchase or Ethel Mott she's aiming at?"

Miss Merrivale tossed her head, as they paused in the doorway of thetiny dining-room a moment to give Mr. Irons opportunity to convey hisungainly length into its proper niche. Her shot had been purely arandom one and, unless one believes in telepathy, so was the questionby which she abruptly changed the subject. 

"Do you know my cousin, Mrs. Frederick Staggchase?"

He held himself in hand wonderfully. 

"Oh, yes, " was his reply. "I know Mrs. Staggchase very well, but Ididn't know she was your cousin. All the good gifts of life seem tofall to her lot. "

"Thanks for nothing. She has not been to see me. She invited me to dineand I declined, and then she wrote and asked me to visit there when Ifinished my stay here. "

"Shall you do it?"

The thought with which Rangely asked this question was one oddlymingled of regret and of hope. He had flirted too seriously with MissMerrivale to wish to meet her at Mrs. Staggchase's, although he hadnever seriously cared for her; and he reflected with a humorous senseof relief that if the pretty New Yorker should really visit her cousin, he was likely to be put in a position to give his undivided attentionto wooing Miss Mott, a consummation for which he wished without havingthe strength of mind to bring it about. As she let his question pass insilence, he smiled to himself at the ignominious manner in which hemust retreat from his attitude as the devoted admirer of Mrs. Staggchase and of Miss Merrivale, feeling that to set about the earnestattempt to win Ethel would be quite consolation enough to enable him toreconcile himself to even this. The comfort of having circumstancesmake for him a decision which he should make for himself, is often to aself-indulgent man of far more importance than the decision itself. 

As the dinner progressed, Miss Penwick, warming with the good cheer--for Mrs. Sampson was too thoroughly a man's woman not to appreciate thevalue of palatable viands--become decidedly loquacious; and at last, bya happy coincidence for which her hostess could have hugged her on thespot, she introduced the name of Orin Stanton. 

"I hear you are on the _America_ committee, Mr. Irons, " she said. "Weladies are so much interested in that just now. I called on Mrs. Bodewin Ranger yesterday, and she is really enthusiastic over thisyoung Stanton that's going to make it. He is going to make it, isn'the?"

Irons laughed his vulgar laugh, which Fenton once said was the laugh ofa swineherd counting his pigs. 

"It has not been decided, " he answered. "Stanton seems to have a goodmany friends. "

"Oh, he has, indeed, " responded Miss Penwick eagerly. "He is a youngman of extraordinary genius. I saw a beautiful notice of him in the_Daily Observer_ the other morning, Mr. Rangely, " she continued, turning to Fred, "and Mrs. Frostwinch said she thought you wrote it. Itwas very appreciative. "

"Yes, I wrote it, " he responded, not very warmly. "Mr. Stanton isendorsed by Mr. Calvin, you know, Mr. Irons; and Mr. Calvin is ourhighest authority, I suppose. "

Of those present no one except the hostess was surprised at thisadmission, which marked the great change in Rangely's position sincethe days when, like Arthur Fenton, he was a pronounced Pagan anddenounced Peter Calvin as the incarnation of Philistinism in art. Onone occasion Rangely had boldly reproached his friend with having goneover to the camp of the Philistines; and he had been met with theretort, --

"We have found it pleasant in the camp of Philistia, have we not?"

"We?" Rangely had echoed, with an accent of indignation. 

"Yes, " Arthur had replied, with cool scorn. "You Pagans pitched into mebecause I made my way over; but I am not so stupid as not to see thatthere has been considerable sneaking after me. "

"But at least, " Fred had urged, "we fellows preserved the decency of arespect for the principles we had professed. "

"Ah, bah! The principles we had professed Were the impossible dreams ofextreme youth. Honesty is a weakness that is outgrown by any man whohas brains enough to do his own thinking. You still profess theprinciples, and betray them, while I boldly disavow them at the start. "

"At least, " Rangely had said, driven to his last defences, "if we havefallen off, we have done it unconsciously, and you"--

"I, " Fenton had flamed out in interruption, "have, at least, made it apoint to be honest with myself, whether I was with anybody else or not. I find it easier to be mistaken than to be vague, and I had far ratherbe. "

The thought of Fenton floated through Fred's mind as he endorsed PeterCalvin, and with no especial thought of what he was saying, heobserved--

"Arthur Fenton wants Grant Herman to have the commission, and I mustsay Herman would be sure to do it well. "

"If Fenton wants Herman, " Irons returned, with an attempt at lightnesswhich only served to emphasize the genuine bitterness which underlaidhis words, "that settles my voting for him. "

"Don't you and Mr. Fenton agree?" the hostess asked. "I supposed youwere one of his admirers or you wouldn't have had him paint yourportrait. "

"I admire his works more than I do him, " Irons answered, adding withclumsy jocularity "I am waiting for offers from the friends ofcandidates. "

"I am interested in young Stanton, " Mr. Greenfield said; "I might makeyou an offer. "

"Oh, to oblige you, " the other responded, "I will consent to supporthim without money and without price. "

The talk meant little to any one save the hostess and Irons, but theyboth felt that this move in their game, slight as it seemed, was bothwell made and important. Later in the evening Irons took occasion toassure Greenfield that he would really support Stanton in thecommittee, adding that with the vote of Calvin this would settle thematter. When a few days later Irons asked the decision of Greenfield inregard to the railroad matter, he found that the attitude of thechairman of the committee was satisfactory. And honest Tom Greenfieldhad the satisfaction of believing that he had been instrumental infurthering the interests of Orin Stanton, in whose success he felt thepride common to people in a country district when a genius has appearedamong them and secured recognition from the outside world sufficient toassure them that they are not mistaken in their admiration. Nor was themind of the country member disturbed by any suspicion that he had beenmanaged and deceived, and that he had really played into the hands ofthat most unscrupulous corporation, the Wachusett Syndicate. 

XXI

 A MINT OF PHRASES IN HIS BRAIN. Love's Labor's Lost; i. --I. 

It was a peculiarity which the St. Filipe shared with most other clubsthe world over, that the doings of its committees in private sessionwere always known within twenty-four hours and discussed by the knot ofhabitues of the house who kept close watch upon its affairs. It did notlong remain a secret therefore, that the Executive Committee had takena firm stand in regard to the troublesome matter of introducingstrangers illegally, and that Fenton had been summoned to appear beforethem to answer to the charge of introducing Snaffle. 

The excitement was intense. Fenton was a man whose affairs alwaysprovoked comment, and while there was much discussion in regard to whatwould be done, there was quite as much as to how he would take it. Themen who had been in the card-room on the night in question chanced notto be on hand to say that Snaffle had appeared alone, and the word ofthe servant was accepted as conclusive. 

"Fenton's a queer fellow anyway, " one man observed reflectively. "He'sa damned arrogant cuss. "

"He has not only the courage of his convictions, " Ainsworth responded, "but he has also the courage of his dislikes. "

"He will never give up the assumption that he is above all rules, " thefirst speaker continued. "He feels that he is being bullied if he isever asked to submit to a law of any kind. "

"The committee are bound to put things through this time. They've beenwaiting for a chance to jump on somebody for a long time, and Fentonput a rod in pickle for himself when he tried to run Rangely in forsecretary last election. "

"One thing is certain, " Ainsworth said, rising and buttoning his coat;"Fenton isn't an easy man to tackle, and if we don't have some musicout of this before we are done, I shall be surprised. "

There was a general feeling that something unusual would come of thisaction on the part of the Executive Committee. Fenton was a man of somuch audacity, so fertile in resource, and so persistent in hisefforts, that while nobody knew what he would do, it was generallysupposed that he would make a fight; and expectation was alive to seeit. 

As to Fenton, he was at first completely overwhelmed by the summonsfrom the committee. Disgrace, reproof, --even examination was a horribleand unspeakable humiliation, which it seemed to him impossible to bear. He hated life and was so thoroughly wretched as to be physically almostprostrated, although his strong will kept him upon his feet still. 

As he reflected, however, the hopeful side of the situation presenteditself to his mind. He had been confident that his tracks were so wellhidden that his share in introducing Snaffle into the Club would not besuspected, unless the guest had himself mentioned it. He made thePrinceton Platinum stock a pretext for calling upon the speculator, andendeavored to discover whether the latter had spoken, but he learnednothing. He was not quite ready to ask frankly whether Snaffle hadbetrayed him, and short of doing so he could not discover. Still Fentontold himself that the only thing he had to fear was some hearsay thatmight have reached the ears of the Executive Committee, and he trustedto his cleverness to answer this. 

He presented himself at the meeting of the committee with a bold frontand an air of restrained indignation, which became him very well. Allhis histrionic instincts were aroused by such an occasion as this. Hedelighted to act a part, and the fact that real issues were the stakeof his success, added a zest which he could not have found on theboards. He spoke to the gentlemen present or replied to their greetingwith a manner of dignity which was effective because it was not in theleast overdone, and then sat down very quietly to await what might besaid. 

He had not long to wait. The Secretary of the St. Filipe heartilydisliked Fenton, chiefly because Fenton openly disliked him. He was aman who was petty enough to take advantage of his office to gratify hispersonal spite, and shallow enough not to perceive that he had done so. His whole fat person quivered with indignant gratification as he sawFenton in the _role_ of a culprit, and he bent his look upon the notesspread out before him because he was aware that his eyes showed moresatisfaction than was by any means decorous. 

The meeting partook of that awkward unofficial nature which makesmatters of discipline so hard in a social club. The men present wereFenton's companions and associates, and the dignity with which theirposition invested them was hardly sufficient to put them at their ease. They heartily wished to be done with the disagreeable business, andwere not without a feeling of personal vexation against the culprit forforcing upon them anything so unpleasant as sitting in judgment uponhim. 

The chairman, Mr. Staggchase, opened the case by saying in an offhandmanner, that they were all very sorry for the turn things had taken, but that the evil of having strangers introduced into the club hadgrown to proportions which made it impossible longer to overlook it, and that this was especially true of the bringing into the house menwho not only were there in violation of the rules, but who were of acharacter which made it more than a violation of good taste tointroduce them into the club at all. He added that he was convincedthat the present case was the result of a misunderstanding, and hehoped the gentleman who had been asked to meet the committee wouldcomprehend that he was there rather to assist the government of theclub in maintaining discipline, than for any other reason. 

He looked at Fenton and smiled as he concluded, and the artist bowed tohim with a glance of answering friendliness. Thus far all had beenpleasant, so pleasant indeed that the corpulent Secretary had ceasedsmiling. The remarks of Mr. Staggchase had been conciliatory andgracious, and showed so distinct a leaning toward the accused, that theSecretary felt himself to be personally attacked in this slighting wayof holding charges which he had given. He drew his thin lips togetherand cleared his throat in a preparatory cough, rustling his papers asif to call attention to them. 

"If the Secretary is ready, " Mr. Staggchase said, "he may read thememorandum of the matter about which we wished to consult Mr. Fenton. "

"The charge against Mr. Fenton, " the Secretary responded, withdeliberate insolence, "is that on the evening of March 13th he broughtMr. Erastus Snaffle into the club house, knowing that that individualhad already been several times in the club within the time specified bythe by-laws, and knowing him to be a man unfit to be introduced into agentleman's club at any time. "

"I have the honor of Mr. Erastus Snaffle's acquaintance, " Fentoninterpolated, in a perfectly cool, self-controlled voice, "in virtue ofhaving had him presented to me by the Secretary of this club in thepool-room upstairs. "

The members of the committee smiled, but the Secretary flushed withanger. The statement was literally true, and he could not at the momentgo into the rather lengthy explanation which would have made it evidentthat his thus standing sponsor for Mr. Snaffle was entirely the resultof a provoking accident rather than of his choice. He hurried on tocover the awkward interruption. 

"Mr. Fenton further broke a rule of the club in neglecting, or I shouldsay omitting to register his guest, and his share in the matter mightnot have been known had not Mr. Snaffle told the servant at the doorthat he came at Mr. Fenton's invitation. "

Arthur had settled himself in an attitude of placid attention, secretlyenjoying the clever thrust he had given his adversary. At these lastwords he sat upright. 

"Mr. Staggchase, " he said, turning toward the chairman, and speakingwith sudden gravity, "do I understand that I have been summoned beforethis committee in consequence of the report of a servant. "

"I think such is the fact, Mr. Fenton, " was the reply, "but of courseyour simple word will be received as ample exoneration. "

"Exoneration!" echoed Fenton, starting to his feet, his face pale withexcitement which easily passed for virtuous indignation. "Do you fancyI would stoop to exonerate myself from such a charge? Since when hasthe testimony of servants been received in a club of gentlemen?"

He had his cue, and he felt perfectly safe in letting himself go. Hewas frightened at the possible consequences of the coil in which he hadbecome involved, since he foresaw easily enough that while his onlycourse was to carry things through with a high hand, his words hadalready bitterly incensed the Secretary and might in the end set thecommittee also against him. He experienced a wild delight, however, ingiving vent to his excitement in any form, and this simulation ofburning indignation served to relieve his pent-up nervousness. He didbelieve the principle upon which with so much quickness he had hit ashis best defence, and could with all his force sustain it. He lookedabout the room in silence a moment, but nobody was quick enough to pinhim down to facts and insist upon his denying or allowing the chargebrought against him. The indisputable correctness of his position thata servant's testimony could not be taken against a member in a club ofgentlemen confounded them, and before any one thought of the rightthing to say, Fenton continued, with growing indignation, --

"Why I personally should be chosen for insult by this committee I willnot attempt to decide, although the source of the malice is to beguessed from the manner in which the evidence was brought to theirnotice. When the Secretary has a charge to bring against me that agentleman would bring, I shall be ready to answer it. A charge likethis it is an insult to expect me to notice. "

He walked toward the door, as he finished, and turned to bow as he puthis hand on the latch. 

"Oh, come now, Fenton, " Mr. Staggchase said confusedly, "don't go offthat way. Of course"--

He hesitated, not knowing how to continue, and another member took upthe word. 

"All that is nonsense, of course. If the servant was mistaken, whycan't you say so, and put yourself right with the committee?"

"Because, " Fenton answered, throwing up his head, "I prefer retainingmy self-respect even to putting myself right with this or any othercommittee. Good morning. "

He went out quickly. He felt that this was a good point for an exit, and he wished to get away lest he should be unable to keep up to thelevel of the scene as he had played it. So thoroughly was his wholeattitude consciously theatrical, that he smiled to himself outside thedoor as the whimsical reflection crossed his mind that he reallydeserved a call before the curtain. Then he remembered how awkward heshould find it to be called back; and with a smile he ran down stairsto get his hat and coat, and hurried out of the house into thedarkening spring afternoon. 

When Fenton had gone, the members of the committee sat looking at eachother in that condition of bewilderment which could easily turn toeither indignation or contrition as the direction might be determinedby the first impulse. Unfortunately for Fenton, it was his enemy theSecretary who spoke first. 

"Heroics are all very well, " he sneered, "but they don't change facts. He's evidently played poker enough to know how to bluff in good shape. "

There was a rustle of impatience in the room. The men seemed to bereminded that a very high tone had been taken with them, and that theyhad all come in for a share of the rebuke which Fenton hadadministered. They were irritated by the mingling of a secretconcurrence with the artist's position that a member of the club shouldnot be impeached on the testimony of a servant, and the conviction thatFenton was really guilty of the charge brought against him, so that itwas contrary to both justice and common sense to allow him to escape ona mere technicality. 

"Fenton is so hot-headed, " Mr. Staggchase began; and then he added: "Ican't say that I blame him so very much, though. I don't fancy I shouldbe very amiable myself if I were brought up on the word of one of theservants. "

"But it was the duty of the servant to inform me, " the Secretaryreturned doggedly, "and why shouldn't the committee take action oninformation which comes to it that way as well as any other. We didn'tset the servant to spy on the members, and I can't for the life of mefollow anything so fine spun as Fenton's theory. He only set it up, inmy opinion, to get himself out of a bad box. "

"He might at least have had the grace to deny it, if he could, " anotherman said. "It leaves us in a devilish awkward fix as it is. We can'tdrop the matter, and if he shouldn't be guilty"--

"Oh, he's guilty, fast enough, " the Secretary interrupted, his littlegreen eyes shining under their fat lids. "He's one of the set that havebeen playing poker in the club until it's begun to be talked aboutoutside, and I saw him go out with Snaffle that night myself. "

There was some deliberation, some doubting, and some hesitation inregard to the proper course in such a case. The committee felt thattheir own dignity had suffered, that their authority should beasserted, and their majesty avenged. Mr. Staggchase was the mostlenient in his views of the situation, and even he admitted thatwhether Fenton were innocent of the offence with which he was chargedor not, he had at least treated the committee most cavalierly, andagainst the ground taken by most of the members, that if Fenton hadbeen able to deny the charge he would have done so, he could onlyreply, --

"I don't think that at all follows. In the first place he wasn't asked. He is just the man to feel that a summons before this committee is initself a pretty severe reprimand, as plenty of men would. He's highspirited and sensitive as the devil, and there was nothing in what hesaid to-day that wasn't compatible to my mind with his being perfectlyinnocent. Indeed, I don't believe he has cheek enough to carry it offso, if he were not sure of his position. "

"Oh, as to cheek, " retorted the Secretary, venomously, "Arthur Fentonhas enough of that for anything. And, as for that matter, almost anyman will fight when he is cornered. "

In the end the Secretary prevailed, and the committee, albeit somewhatdoubtingly, passed a vote of censure upon Fenton. The Secretary wasdirected to communicate this fact to the artist, and he took it uponhimself also to include the information in the printed notices of themonthly meeting which were sent out a few days later, an innovationwhich stirred the club to its very depths and became town talk withintwenty-four hours. 

XXII

 HIS PURE HEART'S TRUTH. Two Gentlemen of Verona; iv. --2. 

Helen Greyson was at work in her studio modelling the hand of a statue. The pretty hand of Melissa Blake lay before her, so near that Milly'sface came close to her own as she sat beside the modelling stand. Itwas one of those anomalies of which nature is fond the world over, andin which she displays nowhere more whimsical wilfulness than in NewEngland, that Melissa, born of a race of plain country farmers, shouldhave the hand of a princess. It was slender and beautiful, withexquisite taper fingers which had not as yet been spoiled by hard work, although were the present generation of New England maidens called uponto labor as vigorously as did their grandmothers the girl's hands wouldhardly have retained their comeliness so long. 

Helen was working silently, absorbed in thought, and going on with hermodelling mechanically. She was pondering the old question, whether shehad done well in coming back to America, or whether she should havestill kept the ocean between herself and Grant Herman. While she was inEurope, the longing to see him, to feel that he was near, to breathethe same air, had become ever more strenuous, until at last it couldnot be resisted. The sense of safety she had while so far awayprevented her from appreciating that she was returning to the samedanger from which she had fled. She told herself that time had sosoftened and changed her feelings, that Herman with wife and son was sodifferent from the lonely man who had sought her love, and whom she hadbravely renounced from a stern sense of duty, whether wise or not, thatthere could be no danger. She was a woman, and she had kept temptationat a distance until the nerve of resistance was worn out; then she hadcome home. 

Now she asked herself what she had gained. She had renounced thepassive acquiescence which she had won by years of hard struggle, andshe had in exchange only a fierce unrest which was well-nighunendurable. To be near Herman and yet to be as far removed from him asif the universe were between was a torture such as she had not dreamedof. All the old love awoke, and something of the old conviction whichhad made renunciation possible had failed her with time. 

Nothing is more common than for the conscience half unconsciously toassume that a heroic self-sacrifice has been of so great efficacy thateven the conditions which made it right are thereby altered. Withoutrealizing it, Helen's mental attitude was that in giving up Herman'slove and bringing about his marriage to Ninitta that his honor might beunstained, she had accomplished a self-denial so tremendous that eventhe need of making it was thereby destroyed. The idea was paradoxical, but that a proposition is paradoxical is no obstacle to its being heldfirmly by the feminine mind. 

But by coming home Helen had also been put in a position where shecould not avoid seeing something of Herman's married life, and it wasat once impossible for her to help perceiving that it was a failure, orto evade the conclusion that if it were a failure she was to blame forthe part she had taken in bringing it about. It is always dangerous tojudge of actions by their results, since by so doing one refers them tothe code of expediency rather than to that of ethics. Helen was notprepared to pronounce her old decision wrong; but the feeling that herrenunciation had been vain forced itself more and more strongly uponher. 

She was losing sight of her conviction that the need of doing what onefelt to be right was in itself so imperative that no course of actioncould be wrong which was based upon this principle. The truth is thatall mortals, and perhaps women especially, feel that a virtuousresolution, a noble self-denial, must bring with it a spiritualuplifting which will render it possible to hold to it. The hour ofself-conquest is one of inner exaltation which is so vivid that it isimpossible to realize that it can be otherwise than perpetual; a lifeof self-conquest is a continuous struggle against the double doubtwhich is the ghost of the short-lived exaltation that promised to beimmortal. 

From her reverie, Helen was aroused by a question of Melissa whichalmost seemed as if suggested by thought transference. 

"Do you know, " Melissa asked, "why the commission was not given to Mr. Herman?"

"The commission?" Helen repeated, so startled by the mention of thename which had been in her mind that for the moment she did notcomprehend the question. 

"Why, for the _America_, " returned Melissa. "I thought you knew Mr. Herman, and Orin said that you had withdrawn. "

Helen looked at her with a puzzled air. 

"I did withdraw, " she said, "but I did not know the matter had beendecided. Who is Orin? Orin Stanton?"

"Yes, he is to make the statue. "

"Did he tell you so?"

"Yes, he thinks I helped him by speaking to Mrs. Fenton; but she saidMr. Calvin already wanted Orin, so it made no difference. "

"How long has it been decided?" asked Helen. 

"He showed me the letter from Mr. Calvin day before yesterday. Thecommittee hadn't met, but Mr. Irons had promised his vote, and he andMr. Calvin make a majority. Orin had been afraid Mr. Irons would votefor Mr. Herman, and I did not know but what you could tell. We are allso much interested in the statue. "

Helen laid down her tools with an air of sudden determination. 

"Why are you?" she asked, rather absently. "When Mrs. Fenton told meshe had asked you to let me model your hands, she didn't mention yourbeing interested in my art. "

"Oh, I don't know anything about it, " returned the other, with theutmost frankness, "only that Orin's a sculptor. "

Helen smiled at the girl's _naivete_. 

"And am I to congratulate you on Orin's success?"

Melissa blushed. 

"Of course I am pleased, " she answered, "especially for John's sake. "

"And John?" Helen pursued, finishing her preparations for leaving herwork. 

"John is Orin's half-brother, " Milly replied, in a voice and with amanner which made it unnecessary for Mrs. Greyson to question farther. 

"I shall not work any more this morning, " she said. "I have to go out. "

She dressed herself for the street, and, for the first time in sixyears, took the well-remembered way toward Herman's studio down amongthe warehouses and wharves. She was indignant at the action of thecommittee, of which she felt that Herman should be told. As, however, she neared the place, old associations and feelings made her heart beatquickly. When she put aside the great Oran rug and entered the studio, she felt a choking sensation in her throat, and the tears sprang to hereyes. She remembered so vividly the day when she had stood in this veryspot and parted from her lover, that it almost seemed to her for themoment as if she had come to enact that scene again. 

The place was more bare than of old. The pictures from the walls andmany of the ornaments had been removed to the house which Herman hadfitted up on his marriage with Ninitta; but in his usual place stoodthe sculptor, at work by his modelling stand, and over the rail of thegallery above, toward which her eyes instinctively turned as the oldmemories wakened, she saw the sculptured edge of a marble Grecianaltar. The recollections were too poignant, and she started forwardquickly, as if to escape an actual presence. 

The studio was so large that Herman had fallen into the way of savinghimself the trouble of answering the bell by putting up the sign "Comein" upon the door, and he was not aware of Helen's presence until hesaw her standing with her hand upon the portiere, as he had seen hersix years before when she had renounced him, placing his honor beforetheir love. With an exclamation that was almost a cry, he dropped hismodelling tool and started forward to meet her. 

"Helen!" he cried, and the intensity of his feelings made it impossiblefor him to say more. 

Yet, however strong the emotions which were aroused by this meeting, --and for both of them the moment was one of keenest feeling, --they wereschooled to self-control, and after that first exclamation the sculptorwas outwardly calm as he went to greet his visitor. Even for those whoare not guided by principle, self-restraint comes as the result ofhabit, and none of us in this age of the world assert the right ofemotion to vent itself in utterance. The Philoctetes of Sophocles mightshriek to high heaven, and Mars vent the anguish of his wounds in criesand sobs, but we have changed all that. Even the muse of tragedy isself-possessed in modern days; good breeding has conquered even thefierce impulse of passion to find outlet in words. 

Both Herman and Helen were alive to the danger of the situation, andtheir meeting was one of perfect outward calm. 

"Good morning, " she said, "it seemed so natural to walk in, that Ishould almost have done it if your card hadn't been on the door. "

She held out her hand as she spoke. 

"I cannot shake hands, " he said, "I am at work, you see. "

She answered by a little conventional laugh which might mean anything. Both of them hesitated a moment, their real feeling being too deep forit to be easy quickly to call to mind conventionalities of talk. Thenthe sculptor turned to lead the way up the studio, waving his hand ashe did so toward the place where he had been working. 

"You couldn't have come more opportunely, " remarked he. "You are justin time to criticise my model for _America_. I was just looking it overfor the last touches. "

"It was that I came to talk about, " Helen returned, moving forwardtoward the modelling stand on which was a figure in clay. "I have justlearned that the commission has already been awarded; and I thought youought to know how the committee is acting. "

"I do know, " he answered. "Mr. Hubbard came and told me, although thecommittee meant to keep the decision quiet until after the models werein. "

"But you are finishing yours. "

"Yes, I declined to enter a competition and was hired to make a model. Of course I finish that, whatever the decision of the committee. Mr. Hubbard told me because he had before assured me of his support, and hewished to avoid even the suspicion of double dealing. "

"The action of the committee is outrageous!" Helen protested, indignantly. "They might as well put up a tobacconist's sign as thething Orin Stanton will make. It shows that you are right in refusingto enter a competition, since they have decided without even seeing themodels they asked for. "

"Yes, " was Herman's reply. He paused a moment, and added, "Was that thereason you withdrew?"

Helen flushed slightly, and turned her face aside. 

"It hardly seemed worth while, " she began; but he interrupted her. 

"I would not have gone in, " he said, "even as I did, if I had knownthere was a chance of your competing. "

She turned toward him, and her eyes unconsciously said what she hadbeen careful not to put into words. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed, with sudden comprehension. "You knew I was in itand that is why you withdrew. "

"Well, " she said, trying to laugh lightly, "it would not have beenmodest for me to compete against my master. "

She moved away as she spoke. She had a tingling sense of his nearness, a passionate yearning to turn toward him and to break down all barrierswhich made her afraid. She felt that she had been rash in coming to thestudio, and had overestimated her own strength. She glanced aroundquickly, as if in search of something which would help to bring theconversation to conventional levels; but her eye fell upon a terra-cotta figure which sent the blood surging into her head so fiercelythat a rushing sound seemed to fill her ears. It was the nude figure ofa soldier lying dead upon a trampled mound, with broken poppies abouthim, while across the pedestal ran the inscription, --

 "I strew these opiate flowers Round thy restless pillow. "

It was the figure beside the clay model of which, yet wet from hishand, the sculptor had told her, that day long ago, of her husband'sdeath. In the years since, she had believed herself to have worn herlove into friendship, to have beaten her passion into affection; butevery woman, even the most clear-headed, deceives herself in matters ofthe heart, and now Helen knew what pitiful self-deception her beliefhad been. 

Over and over and over again has it been noted how great a part inhuman life and action is played by trifles, and despite this constantreiteration the fact remains both true and unappreciated. And yet itis, after all, more exact to consider that the thing is simply ourhabit of noticing the obvious trifles rather than the underlyingcauses, as it is the straws on the surface of the current that catchour eye rather than the black flood which sweeps them along. It was thechance sight of the figure of the dead soldier which now broke downHelen's self-control, but the true explanation of her outburst lay inlong pent up and well-nigh resistless emotions. 

She turned toward her companion with a passionate gesture. 

"It is no use, " she broke forth, "I did wrong to come home. I shouldhave kept the ocean between us. I must go back. "

Herman grasped the edge of the modelling stand strongly. 

"Helen, " he said, in a voice of intensest feeling; "We may as well facethe truth. We were wrong six years ago. "

"Stop!" she interrupted piteously, putting up her hand. "You must notsay it. Don't tell me that all this misery has been for nothing, andthat we have sacrificed our lives to an error. And, besides, " she wenton, as he regarded her without speaking, "however it was then, surelynow Ninitta has claims on you which cannot be gainsaid. "

"Yes, " he said bitterly, "and of whose making?"

She looked at him, pale as death, and with all the anguish of years ofpassionate sorrow in her eyes. He faltered before the reproach of herglance, but he would not yield. The disappointment of his married life, his sorrow in the years of separation, the selfish masculine instinctwhich makes all suffering seem injustice, asserted themselves now. Theeffect of the fact that he was forbidden to love this woman was to makehim half consciously feel as if he had now the right to consider onlyhimself. He almost seemed absolved from any claims for pity which shemight once have had upon him. Even the noblest of men, except the twoor three in the history of the race who have shown themselves to bepossessed of a certain divine effeminacy, instinctively feel that adisappointment in passion is an absolution from moral obligation. 

"See, " he said, with a force that was almost brutal; "we loved eachother and we have made that love simply a means of torture. My God!Helen, the besotted idiots that fling themselves under the wheels ofJuggernaut are no more mad than we were. "

She hurried to him and clasped both her hands upon his arm. 

"Stop!" she begged, her voice broken with sobs, "for pity's sake, stop!It is all true. I have said it to myself a hundred times; but I willnot believe it. Don't you see, " she went on, the tears on her cheek, "that to say this is to give up everything, that if there is no truthand no right, there is nothing for which we can respect each other, andour love has no dignity, no quality we should be willing to name. "

He looked at her with fierce, unrelenting eyes. 

"Ah, " he retorted cruelly, "my love is too strong for me to argue aboutit. "

She loosed her hold upon his arm and stepped backward a little, regarding him despairingly. She did not mind the taunt, but the moralfibre of her nature always responded to opposition. She broke outexcitedly into irrelevant inconsistency. 

"It is right, " she cried. "We were right six years ago, and you shallnot break my ideal now. I must respect you, Grant. Out of the wreck ofmy life I will save that, that I can honor where I love. "

She stopped to choke back the sobs which shook her voice, and to wipeaway the tears which blinded her. The sculptor stood immovable; but hisface was softened and full of yearning. 

"And, oh, " Helen said, the memory of sorrowful years surging upon her, "you would not try to shake my conviction if you realized howabsolutely it has been my only support. It is so bitter to doubtwhether the thing that wrings the heart is really right after all. "

Herman made a sudden movement as if he would start forward, then herestrained himself. 

"Forgive me, " he said, in a strangely softened voice. "You haveforgiven me for being cruel before. To have done a thing because youbelieve it is right is of more consequence than anything else can be. The truth is in the heart, not the thing. "

She tried to smile. She felt as if she were acting again an old scene, the trick of taking refuge from too dangerous personal feeling in theexpression of general truths carrying her back to the time when theexpedient had served them both before. 

"But people who have faith, " she said, "who believe creeds anddoctrines, can have little conception how much harder it is for us thanfor them to do what we think is the right. "

He did not answer her, and a moment they stood in silence with downcastlooks. Then she moved slowly down the great studio toward the door, andhe followed by her side. 

As she put her hand upon the Oran rug to lift it, she raised her eyesand met his glance. The blood rushed into their faces. They rememberedtheir parting embrace and the burning kisses of long ago. 

"Good-by, " she said, and even before he could answer her she had goneout swiftly. 

XXIII

 AS FALSE AS STAIRS OF SAND. Merchant of Venice; v. --2. 

The fact that her mother was a Beauchester Mrs. Staggchase neverforgot, although she seldom spoke of it. It formed what she would havecalled a background to her life, and gave her the liberty of doing manythings which would have been unallowable to persons of lessdistinguished ancestry. It was, perhaps, in virtue of her Beauchesterblood, for instance, that she made the somewhat singular selection ofguests brought together at a luncheon which she gave in honor of MissFrances Merrivale when that young lady came to pay her a visit, at theconclusion of her stay with Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson. 

Miss Merrivale had been in doubt whether she could properly accept thisinvitation, in view of the fact that her cousin's wife had neglected tocall upon her since her arrival in Boston. The reflection, however, that this visit to the Staggchase's was the chief object of herbecoming Mrs. Sampson's guest at all had decided the young lady uponoverlooking considerations of etiquette, and from the flat of the widowshe had removed to the more aristocratic region of Back Bay. 

Miss Frances had been shrewd enough to forestall all possibleobjections by accepting the invitation before mentioning it to Mrs. Sampson; and however deep the chagrin of that enterprising individual, she was too astute to protest against the inevitable. Mrs. Sampsoneven, in her secret heart, considered the advisability of calling uponher late guest in her new quarters, but reluctantly abandoned the ideaas being likely, on the whole, to be productive of no good resultssocially. That Miss Merrivale would probably forget her as quickly aspossible she was but too well assured, and it pretty exactly indicatesthe position of the widow toward society that this prospectiveingratitude moved her to no indignation. It was so exactly the coursewhich in similar circumstances she herself would have pursued, that noquestion of its propriety presented itself to her mind. Even the faintair of conscious guilt with which the girl announced her intention didnot arouse in Mrs. Sampson any feeling of surprise or bitterness. Society to her mind was a ladder, and being so, to climb it was but tofollow the use for which it was designed. 

Miss Merrivale was of better stuff, and if not well bred enough to liveup to the obligations she had assumed by becoming Mrs. Sampson's guest, she was at least conscious of them; and she said good-by with an air ofapologetic cordiality, quieting her conscience by the secretdetermination some time to repay the widow's kindness in one way oranother, although she should be obliged to repudiate her socially. Hadshe known Mrs. Staggchase better, and been aware how much she fell inthat lady's estimation by throwing Mrs. Sampson overboard, her decisionmight have been different. 

"She is coming, my dear, " Mrs. Staggchase had said to her husband, onreceiving Miss Merrivale's acceptance of her invitation. "I shouldn'thave expected it of one of your family. "

"You know we can't all be born Beauchesters, " he had returned, withgood-natured sarcasm. 

Once at Mrs. Staggchase's, Miss Merrivale began to see Boston societyunder very different auspices. She had been at a luncheon at EthelMott's, given in compliment to herself, where she had sat nearlyspeechless for an hour and a half while half a dozen young ladies haddiscussed the origin of evil with great volubility, and what seemed toher, however it might have impressed metaphysicians, astoundingerudition and profundity. She had assisted at that sacred rite ofmusical devotees, the Saturday night Symphony concert, where a handfulof people gathered to hear the music, and all the rest of the worldcrowded for the sake of having been there. She had been taken by MissMott to a select sewing-circle--that peculiar institution by means ofwhich exclusive Boston society keeps tally of the standing of all itsyoung women. She was somewhat bewildered, but enjoyed what might becalled a hallowed consciousness that she was doing exactly the rightthing; and it was, perhaps, only a delicate consciousness of thefitness of things that made her answer all questions as to the time ofher arrival in Boston with the date of her coming to Mrs. Staggchase, ignoring her previous visit to a woman of whose existence it was onlyproper to assume her new acquaintances to be entirely unaware. 

Fred Rangely was shrewdly and humorously appreciative of her attitude, being the more keenly conscious of the exact situation because hehimself made a point of ignoring his acquaintance with Mrs. Sampson. Hehad debated in his mind what change in his conduct was advisable nowthat Miss Merrivale was visiting Mrs. Staggchase. He had astutelydecided that the latter, at least, would make no remarks about him toher guest; and, in view of the fact that it was scarcely possible toconceal his flirtation with the New Yorker from the penetration of herhostess, he decided to content himself with hiding from the strangerhis devotion to his older friend. He still assured himself that hisserious intentions were directed toward Miss Mott, and he secretlysmiled to himself with the foolish over-confidence of a vain man, when, from time to time, he heard allusions to the devotion of Thayer Kent toEthel. Kent had been in the field before Rangely presented himself as arival candidate for the damsel's good graces; and the novelist mighthave been less confident had not personal interest blinded him to astate of things which he would have apprehended easily enough whereanother was concerned. The easy familiarity, born of long friendshipand perfect understanding, which Ethel showed toward Kent, Fred mistookfor indifference. His own sudden popularity had somewhat turned hishead, so that he failed to distinguish between the attentions shown tothe author and those bestowed upon the man, and constantly felt himselfto be making personal conquests when he was simply being lionized. 

Mrs. Staggchase invited the guests for her luncheon before she spoke ofthem to Miss Merrivale. 

"I have asked Mrs. Bodewin Ranger, " she explained, "although she is oldenough to be your grandmother, because she is the nicest old lady inBoston, and it is a liberal education to meet her. "

The other guests were Mrs. Frostwinch, Ethel Mott, and Elsie Dimmont. 

"Elsie Dimmont, " Mrs. Staggchase observed, "needs to be looked after. She is either going to make a fool of herself by marrying that odiousDr. Wilson or she is allowing herself to be made a fool of by him, which is quite as bad. "

Secretly Mrs. Staggchase, for all her Beauchester blood, had a gooddeal of sympathy for the girl who was defying her family in receivingthe attentions of a man of no antecedents, although, having done thesame thing herself, she was the more strongly bound outwardly todiscountenance any such insubordination. 

Guests may be selected on the principle of harmony of taste andfeeling, or simply with an eye to variety; in the present instance itwas distinctly the latter method which had obtained; and it was perhapsto be regarded as no mean triumph of social civilization that a harmonyapparently so perfect resulted from the strange combination which thehostess had brought about. Whether from a secret intention of rebukingMiss Dimmont for her associations with one socially so impossible asChauncy Wilson, or with the less amiable design of disciplining MissMerrivale for her friendship with Mrs. Sampson, the hostess adroitlyand deliberately turned the conversation to social themes, and thenceon to what perhaps were best described as the proprieties of caste. 

She was too clever a woman to do this crudely, and indeed would haveseemed to any but the most acute observer to follow the conversationrather than to lead it. Ethel and Elsie chatted briskly of the currentgossip of the day, and it was Mrs. Bodewin Ranger who was skilfully ledon to strike the keynote of the talk by saying, --

"Doesn't it seem to you that the modern fashion of admitting artistsinto society is mixing up things terribly? Nowadays one is alwaysmeeting queer people everywhere, and being told that they are writersor painters. "

The fine old lady smiled so genially that one seeing her benigncountenance framed in its beautiful snowy curls, must know her well torealize that in truth she meant exactly what she said. Mrs. Frostwinch's answering smile was not without a tinge of sarcasm, --

"It is worse than that, " she said. "You even meet actors in quiterespectable houses. "

"Oh, actors!" threw in Ethel Mott, briskly; "nowadays they even gobelow the level of humanity and invite those things calledelocutionists. "

"But of course, " ventured Miss Merrivale, wishing to put herself onrecord and striking a false note, as usually happens in such cases, "one doesn't really know these people. They are only brought in toamuse. "

"One never knows undesirable people, my dear, " Mrs. Staggchaseresponded, without the faintest shadow of the sarcastic intent whichher guest yet secretly felt in her words. 

"Bless me!" broke in Elsie Dimmont, with characteristic explosiveness. "What an abandoned creature I must be! I am actually going to theFenton's to dine to-night. "

"Mr. Fenton, " Mrs. Bodewin Ranger responded, in her soft voice, "is agentleman by birth, and his wife was a Caldwell; her mother was aCalvin, you know. "

Ethel Mott laughed. 

"And so he passes, " she said, "in spite of his being an artist. Howpleased he would be if he knew it. "

"It would be worth while to tell him, " Mrs. Frostwinch interpolated, "just to hear his comments. "

"We owe Arthur Fenton more scores than we can ever settle, " observedthe hostess, "for the things he says about women. He said to me theother day that the society of lovely woman is always a delight exceptwhen a man was in earnest about something. "

"I said to him, one night, " added Elsie Dimmont, "that Kate West wasn'tin her first youth. 'Oh, no!' he said, 'her third or fourth at least. '"

The others smiled, except Mrs. Ranger. 

"Poor Kate!" she said; "all you girls seem to dislike her somehow. Mrs. West was a somebody from Washington, " she added, reflectively, as ifshe unconsciously sought in the girl's pedigree some explanation of herunpopularity. 

"Is it so dreadful to come from Washington?" asked Miss Merrivale; andthen wondered if she ought to have said it. 

"It is not the coming from Washington, " was Mrs. Frostwinch's reply, delivered in the same faintly satirical manner which she had maintainedthroughout the discussion; "it is the being merely a somebody insteadof having a definite family name behind her. "

"It is all very well for you to make fun of my old-fashioned notions, Anna, " Mrs. Ranger returned, good-naturedly. "You think just as I do. "

"I should be sorry not to think as you do about everything, " was theanswer. "And, to be perfectly honest, I can't help being a littleashamed that a cousin of mine has gone on to the stage. She was alwaysdreadfully headstrong. "

"Has she talent?" asked Mrs. Staggchase. 

"Yes, she has talent; but is anything short of genius an excuse fortaking to the boards?"

"I wish I could act, " put in Miss Dimmont, emphatically. "I'd go on tothe stage in a minute. "

Mrs. Ranger looked shocked and grieved as well. 

"My dear, " she said, "you can't realize what you are saying. The stagehas always been a hotbed of immorality from the very beginning oftheatrical art, and nothing can reform it. "

"Reform it, " echoed Mrs. Staggchase, suavely; "we don't want to reformit. Nothing would so surely ruin the actor's art as the reformation ofhis morals. "

"Oh, my dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Ranger. 

"Really, Diana, " Mrs. Frostwinch said, good-naturedly, "your sentimentsare too shocking for belief. "

"But she doesn't mean them, " added Mrs. Ranger. 

"I am sorry to shock anybody, " the hostess responded, "but I really domean what I say. Not that I can see, " she added, "that society canafford to be too squeamish on the question of morals. "

A look of genuine distress began to shadow

Mrs. Ranger's face, and it deepened as Miss Merrivale said, flippantly, --

"Is Boston such an abandoned place?"

"Really, Diana, " the old gentlewoman remarked, with a manner in whichplayfulness and earnestness were pretty equally mingled, "I don't thinkyou ought to talk so before these girls. When I was your age, half acentury ago, it wouldn't have been considered at all proper. "

Mrs. Staggchase laughed softly. 

"But, nowadays, " she returned, "the girls are so sophisticated thatwhat we say makes no difference. "

There was a moment of silence while the servant changed the plates, andthen Miss Dimmont broke out, saying, with unnecessary force, --

"I don't care who people are if they only amuse me, and I'll knowanybody I like, whether they had any grandfathers or not. "

"Since when?" Ethel whispered significantly into her ear. 

Elsie crimsoned, but she gave no other sign that she had heard orunderstood the thrust. 

"Then there is Fred Rangely, " Mrs. Staggchase remarked, in a tone soeven that it showed she meant mischief. "He comes here to see Frances, and you can't think, Mrs. Ranger, that it's my duty to be rude to himjust because he writes for the newspapers. "

"It is impossible to imagine Mrs. Staggchase being rude to anybody, "quickly interpolated Ethel, with smiling malice; "and I supposed Mr. Rangely had won at least a brevet right to be considered in the swimfrom his long intimacy with social leaders. "

The hostess was too old a hand not to be pleased with a clever stroke, even at her own expense, and she took refuge in an irrelevantgenerality which might mean anything or nothing. 

"One learns so much in life, " she said, "and of it appreciates solittle. "

And Frances Merrivale looked from Miss Mott to Mrs. Staggchase with anuncomfortable wonder what allusions to Fred Rangely lay behind thistalk, which she could not understand. 

XXIV

 THERE BEGINS CONFUSION. I Henry VI. ; iv. --1. 

Fred Rangely began to find himself in the condition of being controlledby circumstances, instead of himself controlling them. Nor with all hisastuteness could he decide how far he was being managed by Mrs. Staggchase, or led on by Miss Merrivale. He went about in a state ofcontinual astonishment at the extent to which he had committed himselfwith the latter, and fell into that dangerous mental condition whereone seems passively to regard his own actions rather than to directthem. Rangely had been so long settled in the conviction that he was tomarry Ethel Mott, even the not infrequent rebuffs of that ladyproducing in his mind only temporary misgiving, that his present doubtsbewildered him. He was less of a coxcomb than might seem to follow fromthis statement, albeit there was no timidity and little burning passionin his feeling toward her. His was simply the cool masculine assuranceof a man selfish enough to regard even love in a cold-blooded manner. He approved of his own choice socially, financially, and aesthetically;and since he loved himself rather more for having selected Ethel, hefell into the not unnatural error of supposing himself to be in lovewith her. 

His entanglement with Miss Merrivale, on the other hand, was largely amatter of vanity. What had begun as an idle flirtation, designed tokill the leisure of summer days in the mountains, was continued from ahalf-conscious fear that he should appear at a disadvantage by breakingit off. It so keenly wounded Rangely's self-love to be thought ill ofby a woman, that he was often forced to play at devotion which he notonly did not feel but of which the simulation was almost wearisome tohim. Nevertheless he was not, in this instance, without a shrewdappreciation of all the possibilities of the situation. He said tohimself philosophically, that if worst came to worst and the fates hadreally decided to marry him to Miss Merrivale, she had money, goodlooks, and a fair position, and might on the whole prove moremanageable as a wife than one so clever and so high spirited as Ethel. 

Miss Merrivale, on her part, was foolishly and fondly in love with thebroad-shouldered egotist. She had made up her mind from a variety ofcauses that she should, on the whole, prefer to marry in Boston, although in reality this meant simply that she wanted to marry FredRangely. She pored over his books in secret, talked to him of them witha want of comprehension only made tolerable by the fervor of heradmiration, and took pains to show him that she regarded him as theliterary hope of his generation of novelists. In vulgar parlance, sheflung herself at his head; and in such a case a girl's success may besaid to depend almost wholly on opportunity and the extent of herlover's vanity. 

Rangely had vanity enough and Mrs. Staggchase supplied the opportunity. If a feminine mind could ever properly be called spherical, thatepithet should be applied to Mrs. Staggchase's inner consciousness. Shewas so sufficient unto herself, she so absolutely scored success orfailure simply as a matter of her own sensations that her self-poisewas perfect. She had even the quality, rare in a woman, of being almostindifferent whether others shared her opinions or not. She was contentwith the knowledge that she had succeeded in doing what she wished, while often the results and effects were so subtile and remote as to beimperceptible to others. Life was to her a toy with which she amusedherself, and she found her chief enjoyment in trying experiments uponit of which the results were intangible to all but herself. 

In the present case it amused Mrs. Staggchase and gave her somefeminine satisfaction as well, to think that Rangely should marryFrances Merrivale. By promoting this marriage into which she was awarethat he had no intention of being drawn, she avenged herself upon himfor having presumed to show attentions to another while she honored himwith her intimate friendship. It was not so much the nature of thepunishment which pleased her as the fact that she was able to constrainhim to her will. She found an ungenerous satisfaction in proving toherself that it lay within her power to do with him what she would; andif this conclusion did not inevitably follow from the premises, herlogic was at least satisfactory to herself, and that was sufficient todetermine her course of action. She found some pleasure, too, infeeling that she was taking away a lover from Ethel Mott, for whom shehad a dislike which in another woman would have been petty but which inMrs. Staggchase was merely intellectual, since she was not a womanwithout understanding that one of her sex must feel the loss of even anadmirer for whom she has no love. She did not share Rangely's mistakeof supposing that Ethel would marry him, yet it was distinctly herintention that Miss Mott should not have the satisfaction ofundeceiving him, but that Fred should carry through life the regretfuland tantalizing conviction that he had thrown away this chance. Itrequired only a little cleverness in bringing together the young manand Miss Merrivale, with a little skill in dropping now and then a wordassuming his devotion to her guest, and Mrs. Staggchase's plan wasevidently in a fair way of accomplishment. 

On the morning of the day of her luncheon, for instance, she hadmanaged that Rangely should take Frances to some of the studios. Thegirl had little acquaintance with artistic life, but it attracted herby that romantic flavor which it is so apt to have for the uninitiated. 

"I should think, " she observed, as they walked along in the brightsunny morning, "that you would want to go to the studios all the time, if you know so many artists. I'm sure I should. "

"Oh, it very soon gets to be an old story, " was his answer. "One studiois very like another. "

"But their work? That must be awfully interesting. "

"Yes, to a novice, but that soon gets to be an old story too. An artistis only a man who puts paint or charcoal on cardboard or canvas withmore or less cleverness, just as an author is a man who has more orless skill in getting ink on to paper. "

Miss Merrivale laughed, with more glee than comprehension. 

"You are always so witty, " she said. "I don't wonder your books sell. Ithink that girl who couldn't tell which man she liked best was just toofunny for anything. I can't for the life of me see how you think ofsuch things, anyway. "

"The trouble isn't to think what to say, but to tell what not to say. "

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Now of course an artist just seesthings, and all he has to do is to make pictures of them; but you haveto make up things. "

"But we see things too, " the novelist responded, smiling upon her, andreflecting that she was looking uncommonly pretty that morning. 

"Oh, but that's different. Now you never knew a girl who was hesitatingwhich of two lovers to choose, and she wouldn't tell you how she feltif you did; but there it is all in your book so natural that every girlsays to herself that's just the way she should feel. "

The flattery was too evidently sincere not to be pleasing. So long aspraise is genuine, few men are so exacting as to insist that it be alsointelligent. 

"Thank you, " he said; "you at least understand the art of saying nicethings. Though that, " he added, with his warmest smile, "is perhapsonly natural in one who must have had so many nice things said to her. "

She laughed, her ready, girlish laugh, which always seemed to him soyoung; and they climbed the crooked stairs of Studio Building, theirbreath hardly being any longer sufficient for much speech. 

"I'm going to take you to Arthur Fenton's first, " Rangely observed, asthey paused to rest on one of the landings. "These stairs are awful. Iwonder how he gets his elderly sitters up here. "

Miss Merrivale seated herself upon a bench benevolently placed on thelanding. 

"They sit down here, of course, " she responded. 

"This is a sort of life-saving station, " he remarked, seating himselfbeside her. 

"Oh, Mr. Rangely, how awfully funny you are. "

"It's my trade; I have to be to earn my living. Now you and I are theonly survivors from a wreck. "

"Alone on a desert island?"

"Life-saving stations are not generally on desert islands; but I hopeyou wouldn't mind so very much if it were. "

She looked at him with bright eyes, and then let her glance fall. 

"That would depend, " she responded demurely. 

"Upon what? How I behaved?"

"Oh, of course you'd behave well. "

"Of course; but how would I have to behave to make you contented on adesert island?"

She shot him a keen quick glance from beneath her bent brows. 

"I never said I should be contented. "

"But you implied it. "

She whirled her muff over and over upon her two hands like the wheel ofa squirrel cage, regarding it intently with her pretty head on oneside. 

"No, I didn't imply it either. I don't believe I could be contented. "

"Not even with me?"

She flushed, but evidently not with displeasure. 

"Why with you more than anybody else?" she softly inquired, with greatapparent artlessness. 

"Because, " he began, "I should"--He was going to add, "be so fond ofyou, " but reflected that this was perhaps going a little too fast andtoo far, and concluded instead--"take such good care of you. "

Perhaps it was because approaching footsteps sounded on the stairsbelow them; perhaps it was because her subtile feminine senseappreciated the fact that he was on his guard; but for some reason orfor no reason she tossed her head and rose to her feet. 

"I am fortunately not obliged to go so far as a desert island to gettaken care of, " she said. 

Her companion was not unwilling that the talk should be broken in upon. He smiled to himself as he followed her lead, and in a moment more hewas knocking at the door of Fenton's studio, which was well up towardthe roof. There was no response, and, as Fred rapped the second time, acarpenter who was at work on the casing of a door near by looked up, and said, --

"Mr. Fenton has a sitter, sir. "

"He is in then?" said Rangely. 

"Yes, " answered John Stanton, straightening himself up, with his planein his hand, "but since Mrs. Herman went in half an hour ago, he hasn'topened the door to anybody. "

"Mrs. Herman?" echoed Rangely, in astonishment. 

"Yes, sir. "

It was a capricious fate which brought John Stanton to tangle the webof Fenton's life. His brother Orin's relations with artists had givenJohn a sort of acquaintanceship with them at second-hand, a kind ofvicarious proprietorship in the privileges of art circles. He had longknown Fenton by sight, while that he recognized Mrs. Herman also wasthe result of accident. He had been standing with Orin a few daysbefore on a street corner, when the sculptor had lifted his hat to Mrs. Herman and named her in answer to John's question. There had not beenin his honest mind the faintest tinge of suspicion when he saw herenter the studio, and he never had any intimation of the mischief hehad clone in mentioning her name to Rangely. 

Fred and Miss Merrivale went on to Tom Bentley's curio-crowded rooms, while the sound of their knock still lingered in the double ears of thetwo people who sat confronting each other within the studio, with lookson the one hand sullen; on the other, pleading. Fenton's picture of_Fatima_ was finished, yet Ninitta continued to come to the studio. Hisbrief passion, which had been more than half mere intellectualcuriosity how far his power over the Italian could go, had ended withthat curiosity. In its place was a gradually increasing hatred for thiswoman, who seemed to assert a claim upon him, this model whom he neverhad loved, and whom he could now scarcely tolerate, since he had ceasedto respect her. He cursed himself vehemently after the fashion of suchoffenders, when eager, vibrating passion has given place to a sense ofirksome obligations, but more vigorously still did he upbraid fate, towhose score he set down all annoyance. 

As for Ninitta, she, perhaps, no more truly loved Fenton than he hadcared for her, but she clung to him as a frightened child might clutchthe arm of one with whom it has wandered into the darkness of somevault beset with pitfalls. Ninitta's moral sense was of the mostrudimentary character. She was, perhaps, incapable of appreciating anethical principle, and her spiritual life never soared beyond thecrudest emotions and the simplest questions of personal feeling. Shehad come to live without the guidance of a priest, and this fact, initself, had left her without moral support. She had now no particularconsciousness of having done wrong, although she was moved by the fearof the consequences of the discovery of her transgression. 

It has been said that Ninitta's affection for her husband might havebeen more enduring had he been less gentle with her. She came of a raceof peasants whose women understood masculine superiority in the oldbrutal, physical sense, and whenever Herman bore patiently with hiswife's caprices he lessened a respect which he could have retained onlyat the expense of a blow. With all Arthur Fenton's soft and caressingways toward Ninitta, there was always an instinctive masterfulness inhis attitude toward any woman and especially since he had tired of herdid he keep Mrs. Herman figuratively at his feet. The more strongly herappealing attitude seemed to press upon him claims which he could notsatisfy and had no mind to acknowledge, the more harsh he became, andthe more she bent before him. The language of brutality was one whichshe Understood by inherited instinct. 

"But why, " Fenton was saying impatiently, when Rangely's knock startledthem, "do you come here, when I haven't sent for you? There's somebodyat the door, now, and we haven't even the shadow of an excuse, sincethe picture is done. "

"I wanted to see you, " Ninitta answered humbly, her plain face workingwith her effort to keep back the tears. "It is so lonely at home, andthey take even Nino away from me. "

The artist started up impatiently, and took his wet palette from thestand beside him. 

"Well!" he said, answering as she had spoken, in Italian, "you must beanxious that your husband shall know of your coming here, or you wouldnot take such pains to have him find it out. "

He began painting sullenly, putting in the last touches upon thebackground of the portrait of a beautiful girl. The lovely face ofDamaris Wainwright, so pathetic, so pure, and so noble, looking at himfrom the canvas stung him inwardly into an impotent fury. His finesense of the fitness of things was outraged by the presence of Ninittabeside the spiritual personality which shone upon him from theportrait. He could even feel the incongruity between himself and hiswork, though this appealed to his sense of humor as the other arousedhis anger. 

Ninitta watched in silence a moment; then she rose from her seat, herwrap falling away from her shoulders. Her tears were done, and a whitelook of intense feeling showed the despair that she felt. All theisolation which tortured her, that pain which souls like hers, blind, groping, and helpless, are least able to bear, had left its stamp uponher. Perhaps even her sin had been a desperate and only half-consciousattempt once more to draw in sympathy really near a human heart. Shehad learned little from the changed conditions into which the fates ofher life had brought her, but she had been separated, in mind no lessthan in body, from her own kind without being fitted for othercompanionship. She was utterly and fatally alone, and a terrible senseof her remoteness from all human fellowship smote her now at Arthur'scruelty. She hesitated an instant, supporting herself by the arms ofthe big carved chair in which she had been sitting; then, with animpulsive gesture, she threw her arms above her head, wringing herhands together. 

"Oh, my God!" she cried, "what shall I do?"

Fenton turned quickly toward her. 

"Oh, _mon Dieu!_" was his inward comment; "what a divine pose! What aglorious figure! But ah, how tiresome she is!" Then, aloud, he said:"Come, come, don't be foolish, Ninitta! You know as well as I do thatthere is no danger, if you are only careful. "

And putting aside his palette again, he soothed her with soft wordsuntil she was calm enough to be sent home. 

When she was gone, he shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his handswith a deprecatory gesture. 

"After all, " he soliloquized aloud, "it is difficult for civilizationto get on without the sultan's sack and bowstring. "

 XXV

 AFTER SUCH A PAGAN CUT. Henry VIII. ; i. --3. 

The announcement by the Secretary of the St. Filipe Club that a vote ofcensure had been passed upon Fenton had not only caused a tempest ofexcitement, but had brought about the unexpected result of elicitingtestimony to prove that the charge against him was without foundation. Men came forward to testify that Snaffle entered the club alone on theevening when Fenton was said to have brought him there, while TomBently, Ainsworth, and others had seen the artist come in afterward, and had spoken with him before he went upstairs with Fred Rangely tothe card-room. The Executive Committee found itself in a most awkwardpredicament, and its members took what comfort they could in pitchingupon the Secretary, who had, without authorization, announced the voteof censure on the call for the monthly meeting. He was now directed towrite to Mr. Fenton a letter of apology, which he did with such smallgrace as he could command, taking the precaution to mark the note"confidential. "

The artist experienced more than a feeling of conscious virtue at beingthus exonerated from a fault which he had committed; and it was withmingled glee and a certain dare-devil desperation that he resolved uponhis own course of action. 

The monthly meeting of the St. Filipe came on the evening of the daywhen Mrs. Staggchase gave her luncheon. By a misunderstanding ofFenton's wishes, his wife had invited friends to dine that night. Hemeant to excuse himself after dinner and go to the club for a shorttime, returning to his guests after he had said a few words upon whichhe had determined. 

The guests were Mr. And Mrs. Stewart Hubbard, Helen Greyson, EthelMott, Miss Catherine Penwick, Thayer Kent, the Rev. De Lancy Candish, and Fred Rangely. It was wholly by chance, and without malicious intentthat Edith assigned Ethel to Mr. Kent, while Rangely took Mrs. Greysonin to dinner. Mrs. Fenton, of course, knew that gossip had sometimesconnected the names of Ethel and Rangely in a speculative way, but shepartly suspected and partly knew by feminine intuition that Fred waspractically out of the running, and that Ethel's heart was given toThayer Kent. It was hardly to be expected that Rangely should bepleased at the sight of his rival's advantage; but having passed themorning in squiring Miss Merrivale, his conscience was hardly case-hardened enough to have made him at his ease had he been able toexchange places with Kent. 

To Mr. Candish was given the care of Miss Penwick, since with her Edithknew that his sensitive awkwardness would be as comfortable as waspossible with any one; and the guests were so arranged that theclergyman sat upon his hostess's left hand, being thus in a mannerintrenched between her and Miss Penwick against the raillery which Mrs. Fenton knew her husband would press as far as his position as hostwould allow. Edith always made it a point to do all that she could forMr. Candish's comfort, and it was largely on his account that she hadincluded Miss Penwick in the list of guests. She had a certaintenderness for the forlorn old lady, but it might not have found activeexpression had not the rector's pleasure come into the question. Arthurhad laughed when the proposed arrangement was submitted to him. 

"Does your care for your pastor's spiritual welfare go so far, " heasked jocosely, "that you don't dare trust him with a young woman?Really, it looks as if you were jealous of the red-haired angel. "

"Mr. Candish is not a young woman's man, " had been Edith's answer;whereat her husband laughed again. 

The talk at dinner was less animated than was usual at Fenton's table. The host was preoccupied, despite his efforts not to appear so, and thecompany was somehow not fully in touch. No conversation could be whollydull, however, which Arthur led; and while the "lady's finger" in hischeek told his wife and Helen that he was laboring under some intenseexcitement, he held himself pluckily in hand. 

The conversation at first was between neighbors, but soon the host, according to his fashion, began to answer any remark that his quickears caught, no matter from whose lips. 

"You talk about marriage like a Pagan, " he heard Helen say to Rangely. 

"Oh, no, " Fenton broke in, "he doesn't go half far enough for a Pagan. The Pagan position is that matrimony is a matter of temperament andconvenience; it is essentially Philistine to consider that a marriageceremony imposes eternal obligations. "

"There, Mr. Fenton, " Mrs. Hubbard rejoined, "I haven't heard you sayanything so heathenish for half a dozen years. I hoped your wife hadreformed you. "

"Or that he had come to years of discretion, " suggested Mr. Hubbard, with his charming smile. 

"Oh, but I find years of indiscretion so much more interesting, " Fentonretorted. 

A moment later Helen said something about the truth, and Rangelyretorted, --

"Truth is generally what one wishes to believe. "

"Except in Puritanism, " broke in Arthur, "there it was whatever onedidn't wish to believe. "

"Don't you think, " questioned Mr. Hubbard, "that you are always alittle hard on the Puritans? You must admire their conviction and theirbravery. "

"Oh, yes, " was Fenton's reply; "there is something superb in theearnestness of the Puritans, and their absorption in one idea; but thatidea has left its birthmark of gloom on all their descendants, and onecannot forget that Puritanism was the soil from which sprang theunbelief of today. "

"Bless us!" cried Rangely, "is Saul also among the prophets? Are youalso condemning unbelief?"

"Not at all, " said Fenton, coolly, "I only want those who defendPuritanism to accept its legitimate results. "

"It seems to me, " protested Mr. Candish, who had become very redaccording to his unfortunate wont; "that if you argue in that way, youmust always condemn good, because evil may come after it. "

"Oh, I do, " retorted Fenton, airily. 

Everybody except the clergyman laughed at the unexpectedness of thisreply; but Mr. Candish was wounded by the most faint suspicion ofanything like trifling with sacred things. 

"My husband is utterly abandoned, as you see, Mr. Candish, " said Edith, coming to the rescue, as she always did when Arthur showed signs ofbaiting the rector. "Is the decision made in regard to the _America_?"she continued, turning to Mr. Hubbard, by way of changing the subject. 

"Yes, " he answered, "the commission is to be given to Orin Stanton. "

"Orin Stanton?" asked Kent. "Who is he?"

"Oh, he, " returned Fenton, "is a man that had the misfortune to be bornwith a wooden toothpick in his mouth instead of a silver spoon. "

"Is he Irish?"

"No, but he ought to be to have won favor in the sight of a committeeappointed by the Boston City Government. "

"Come, " said Helen; "that is rather severe when Mr. Hubbard is on thecommittee. "

"Oh, I don't mind, " returned Hubbard. "I know Fenton wouldn't lose achance of having his fling at the Irish. "

"Well, " Fenton explained, defensively, "I am always irritated at thepity of the United States having expended so much blood and treasure tofree itself from the dominion of the whole of Great Britain simply tosink into dependence upon so insignificant a part of that kingdom asIreland. "

"Mercy!" exclaimed Miss Penwick. "What extreme sentiments!"

They smiled at the old lady's words, and then Edith went back to thestatue. 

"I fancy young Stanton hasn't been above some wire-pulling, " sheremarked. "He sent his prospective sister-in-law, Melissa Blake, to askme to use my influence with Uncle Peter in his behalf. "

"He needn't have troubled, " Mr. Hubbard returned. "Mr. Calvin supportedhim from the first. "

"Oh, yes, " Ethel said; "Mrs. Frostwinch and Mrs. Bodewin Ranger choseStanton long ago and persuaded Mr. Calvin to help them. "

"I can't fancy Mr. Calvin as anybody's tool, " commented Kent, who wouldhave regarded his companion's words as a trifle too frank to be spokenat the table of Mr. Calvin's niece, had his mind been in a condition totake exception to anything that she said. 

"Isn't that Melissa Blake, " asked Mr. Hubbard of Edith, "the one yourecommended to me as a copyist?"

"Yes, I hope you found her satisfactory. "

Mr. Hubbard smiled somewhat grimly. 

"Indeed he did not, " broke in Mrs. Hubbard speaking for him. "She brokeconfidence. "

"Broke confidence!" echoed Edith, in astonishment. "Melissa Blake?"

"Yes, " Hubbard returned. "I really didn't mean to tell you, but mywife, you see, has all the indignation of a woman against a woman. "

"But how did she break confidence?" demanded Edith. "I would trust heras implicitly as I would myself. "

"The papers she copied, " was the reply, "were the plans for a syndicateto put up mills at Fentonville. We kept the scheme quiet until theroute of the new railroad should be decided, and when we came beforethe Committee of the House, the whole thing had been given away, andthe Wachusett men had even secured the chairman, Tom Greenfield. Helives in Fentonville himself, and we had counted him at least as sure. "

"That must have been the thing, " placidly observed Miss Penwick toRangely, "that Mr. Irons was talking to Mrs. Sampson about, the nightwe dined there to meet Miss Merrivale. "

Rangely glanced up in vexation, to see if Miss Mott were listening, andcaught a gleam of mischievous intelligence from her eyes. 

"I don't remember it, " he answered ambiguously. 

"But how do you know, " persisted Edith, "that the information came fromMiss Blake?"

"Because Mr. Staggchase found out at Fentonville afterward that shecame from there, and that a young man she is engaged to had justforfeited on a mortgage some of the meadows our company was to buy. "

"The evidence doesn't seem to me conclusive, " remarked Fenton, "andsimply as a matter of family unity I am bound to believe in my wife's_proteges_. "

Even the faint sense of humor which he felt at the situation could notprevent him from experiencing the sting of self-shame. Had it been anequal who was unjustly accused of a fault he had committed he wouldhave felt less humiliated. To the degradation of having betrayedHubbard, the addition of this last touch of having also unconsciouslyinjured an inferior came to him like the exquisite irony of fate. Hewondered in an abstract and dispassionate way whether the ghost of allhis misdeeds were continually to rise before him. "Really, " he said tohimself with a smile that curled his lips "in that case I shall becomea perfect Macbeth. " And at that instant the ghost most dreadful of allrose at the feast like that of Banquo as Rangely said, --

"I knocked at your studio this morning but couldn't get in. "

There flashed through Fenton's mind all the possibilities of discoveryand disaster that might lie behind this remark, and his one strongfeeling was that it would be unsafe to venture on a definite statement;he took refuge in the vaguest of general remarks. 

"I am sorry not to have seen you, " he said. 

He tried to reflect, while Edith said something further in defence ofMelissa. He joked with Ethel about the probable appearance of thestatue young Stanton would make, which was to be set up directlyopposite her father's house. He noticed that Helen was very silent, andhe even reflected how handsome a man was Thayer Kent; but through itall he seemed to hear the echo of that knock upon his studio door and aforeboding which he could not shake off made him reflect gloomily howutterly defenceless he should be in case of discovery. 

A brief silence suddenly recalled him to his duties as host, and hecaught quickly at the first topic which presented itself to his mind, going back to the question of the _America_, which had been muchdiscussed because the funds to pay for it had been bequeathed to thecity by a woman of prominent social position. 

"I suppose, " he observed, turning to Hubbard, "that with two suchlights of the art world as Peter Calvin and Alfred Irons on thecommittee, the new statue will be regarded as the flower of Bostonculture. Of all droll things, " he added, "nothing could be funnier thancoupling those two men. It is more striking than the lion and the lambof Scriptural prophecy. "

"Who is the lion and who the lamb?" asked Candish. 

"It is your place to apply Scripture, not mine, " retorted Fenton. 

"I represent the minority of the committee, " was Hubbard's reply to hishost's question. "There is no other position so safe in matters of artas that of an objector. "

"That is because art appeals to the most sensitive of humancharacteristics, " Arthur retorted smiling, --"human vanity. "

"Vanity?" echoed Mrs. Hubbard. 

"That from you?" exclaimed Miss Mott. 

"Really, Mr. Fenton, " protested Miss Penwick, in accents of realconcern, "you shouldn't say such a thing; there are so many people whowould suppose you meant it. "

The simple old creature knew no more of the real meaning of art thanshe did of that of the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian obelisk, but shehad lectured on it, and she felt for it the deep reverence common tothose who label their superstition with the name "culture. "

"But I do mean it, " returned Fenton, becoming more animated from thepleasure of defending an extravagant position. "What is the object ofart but to perpetuate and idealize the emotions of the race; and howdoes it touch men, except by flattering their vanity with theassumption that they individually share the grand passions of mankind. "

A chorus of protests arose; but Arthur went on, laughingly over-ridingit. 

"Really, " he said, "we all care for the Apollo Belvidere and the Venusof Milo because it tickles our vanity to view the physical perfectionof the race to which we belong; it is our own possibilities of anguishthat we pity in the Laocoon and the Niobe; it is"--

"Oh, come, Fenton, " interrupted Rangely; "we all know that you can bemore deliciously wrongheaded than any other live man, but you can'texpect us to sit quietly by while you abuse art. "

"That is more absolute Philistinism, " put in Hubbard, "than anything Ihave heard from Mr. Irons even. "

"Oh; Philistinism, " was Fenton's rejoinder, "is not nearly so bad asthe inanities that are talked about it. "

"That sounds like a personal thrust at Mr. Hubbard, " Kent observed; andas Arthur disclaimed any intention of making it so, Mrs. Fenton gavethe signal for rising. 

XXVI

 O, WICKED WIT AND GIFT. Hamlet; i. --5. 

It was fortunate for Fenton's plans that most of his guests had earlyengagements that evening, and by nine o'clock he was able to leave thehouse with Rangely to take his way to the meeting of the Club. As theycame out of the house, Thayer Kent was just saying good-by to Miss Mottafter putting her into her carriage. Fenton's fear lest he should betoo late for the business meeting had made him follow rather closely inthe steps of his departing guests, and he and Rangely were just in timeto hear Ethel say, --

"But I am going that way and I will drop you at the club. "

Kent hesitated an instant, and then followed her into the carriage. Fenton laughed as they drove away. 

"With Ethel Mott, " he said, "that is equivalent to announcing anengagement. "

"Nonsense!" protested Fred, incredulously. 

Fenton laughed again, a little maliciously. 

"Oh, I've been looking for it all winter, " he said. "Ever since youdevoted yourself to Mrs. Staggchase, and gave Thayer his innings. Well, since you didn't want her, I don't know that she could have donebetter. "

Fenton pretty well understood the truth of the matter in regard toRangely's relations to Ethel, and this little thrust was simply aninstalment toward the paying of sundry old scores. He had neverforgiven Fred for having taunted him, long ago, with going over toPhilistinism; especially, as he inwardly assured himself, that thedifference between their cases was that he had had the frankness openlyto renounce Paganism, while his companion would not acknowledge hisapostasy even to himself. In Fenton's creed, self-deception was putdown as the greatest of crimes, and he had fallen into the way of halfunconsciously regarding his inner frankness as a sort of expiation forwhatever faults he might commit. 

He chuckled inwardly at the discomfort which he knew his remark broughtto Fred, humorously acknowledging himself to be a brute for thus takingadvantage of circumstances with a man who had just eaten his salt. Theexcitement of the thing he was about to do had mounted into his headlike wine, and he hastened toward the club with a feeling of buoyancyand exhilaration such as he had not known for months. He laughed andjoked, ignoring Rangely's unresponsiveness; and when he entered theclub parlors his cheeks were flushed and his eyes shone as in the oldPagan days. 

He was just in season. The monthly business meeting was about beingcompleted, and Fenton had scarcely time to recover his breath beforethe President said, --

"If there is no other business to come before this meeting we will nowadjourn. "

Then Fenton stepped forward. 

"Mr. President, " he said, in his smooth, clear voice, only a trifleheightened in pitch by excitement. 

The President put up his eyeglasses and recognized him. 

"Mr. Fenton. "

There was an instant hush in the room. Every member of the club knew ofthe vote of censure, which had excited much talk, and of which thepropriety had been violently discussed. A few were aware that thecensure had been withdrawn, and all were sufficiently well acquaintedwith Fenton's high-spirited temperament to feel that something excitingwas coming. 

Fenton was too keenly alive to what he would have called the stageeffect to fail of appreciating to the utmost the striking situation. Hethrew up his head with a delicious sense of excitement, the pleasingconsciousness of a vain man who is producing a strong and satisfactoryimpression, and who feels in himself the ability to carry through thething he has undertaken. With a sort of tingling double consciousnesshe felt at once the enthusiasm of injured virtue at last triumphant, and the mocking scorn of a Mephistopheles who bejuggles dupes too dullto withstand him. He looked around the meeting, and in a swift instantnoted who of friends or foes were present; and even tried to calculatein that brief instant what would be the effect upon one and another ofwhat he was going to say. 

"Mr. President, " he began, deliberately, "if I may be pardoned a wordof personal explanation, I wish to say that the motion I am about tomake is not presented from personal motives. I might make this motionas one who has the right, having suffered; but I do make it as one whobelieves in justice so strongly that I should still speak had my owncase been that of my worst enemy. I move you, sir, that the St. FilipeClub pass a vote of unqualified censure upon its Executive Committeefor admitting in the investigation of an alleged violation of its rulesthe testimony of a servant, thereby assuming that the word of agentleman could not be taken in answer to any question the committeehad a right to ask. "

He had grown pale with excitement as he went on, and his voice gainedin force until the last words were clear and ringing to the farthestcorners of the room. 

A universal stir succeeded the silence with which he had been heard. Half a dozen men were on their feet at once amid a babble of comment, protestation, and approval. The Secretary managed to get the floor. 

"Mr. President, " he said, his round face flushed with anger, and hisfat hands so shaking with excitement that the papers on the tablebefore him rustled audibly, "since it must be evident that thegentleman's remarks are instigated by anger at the committee'streatment of himself, it is only justice to the committee to state whatmany of the members may not know, that a letter of ample apology hasbeen sent by them to Mr. Fenton. "

The men who had been eager to speak paused at this, and everybodylooked at the artist. 

"Mr. President, " he said, with a delightful sense of having himselfperfectly in hand, and of being in an unassailable position, "I havebeen insulted by the committee under cover of a charge which they nowacknowledge to be false; and, contrary to the usage of the club, aprinted notice of this has been sent to every member. I have received anote of apology from the Secretary. "

He paused just long enough to let those who were taking sides againsthim emphasize their satisfaction at this acknowledgment by half-suppressed exclamations; then, in a voice of cutting smoothness, hecontinued, --

"At the head of that note was the word 'confidential, ' which forbademe, as a gentleman, to show it. This was evidently the committee's ideaof reparation for the outrage of that printed circular. "

He paused again, and the impression that he was making was evident fromthe fact that nobody attempted to deprive him of the floor; then hewent on again, --

"I have already said that my motion was not a personal matter; if mycase serves as an illustration, so much the better, as long as theprinciple is enforced. "

"The motion, " interposed the President, gathering his wits together, "has not been seconded, and is therefore not debatable. "

"I second it, " roared Tom Bently in his big voice, adding _sotto voce_:"We won't let the fun be spoiled for a little thing like that. "

The half laugh that followed this sally seemed to recall men from thestate of astonishment into which they had been thrown by the audacityof Fenton's attack. There were plenty of men to speak now;--men whothought Fenton's position absurd;--men who believed in upholding thedignity of the Executive Committee;--men, more revolutionary, who werealways pleased to see the existing order of things attacked;--men whowanted explanations, and men who offered them;--men who rose to pointsof order, and men who proposed amendments; with the inevitable men whoare always in a state of oratorical effervescence and who speak uponevery occasion, quite without reference to having anything to say. 

Fenton was keenly alive to everything that was said, and in hisexcitement fell into the mood not uncommon with people of histemperament of regarding the whole debate from an almost impersonalstandpoint. His sense of humor was constantly appealed to, and helaughed softly to himself with a feeling of amusement scarcely tingedby concern for the result of the contest when Mr. Ranger, stately andponderous, got upon his feet. He could have told with reasonableprecision the inconsequent remarks which were to come; and theinterruption which they made appealed to his sense of the ludicrous asstrongly as it irritated many impatient members. 

"I am confident, " began Mr. Ranger with dignified deliberation, "thatall the excitement which seems to be manifest in many of the remarksthat have been made is wholly uncalled for. I am sure no member of thisclub can suppose for an instant that its Executive Committee can haveintentionally been guilty of any discourtesy, and far less of any wrongto a member. And we all have too much confidence in their ability tosuppose that they could fall into error in so important a thing as amatter of discipline. And I need not add, " he went on, not even thereal respect in which he was held being able wholly to suppress themovement of impatience with which he was heard, "that we all must holdMr. Fenton not only as blameless but as painfully aggrieved. "

"Mr. Facing-both-ways, " said Fenton to himself as the speaker paused, apparently to consider what could be added to his lucid exposition ofthe situation. 

One or two men had the hardihood to rise, but the President had toomuch respect for Mr. Ranger's hoary locks to deprive him of the floor. 

"It seems to me, " the speaker continued, placidly, "that this is amatter which is better adjusted in private. The discipline of the clubmust be maintained, and individual feeling should be respected; butwhere we all have the welfare of the club at heart, it seems to me thatmembers would find no difficulty in amicably adjusting theirdifferences with the club officials in private conference. "

He gazed earnestly at the opposite wall a moment, as if seeking forfurther inspiration. Then as no handwriting appeared thereon, heresumed his seat with the same deliberate dignity that had marked hisrising. 

Mr. Staggchase, alert and business-like as usual, next obtained thefloor. 

"As chairman of the Executive Committee, " he said, "perhaps I am toomuch in the position of a prisoner at the bar for it to be in goodtaste for me to speak on this motion. Naturally I do know something, however, about the circumstances of this case, and I am willing to sayfrankly that I cannot blame Mr. Fenton for feeling aggrieved at thepainful position in which he has been placed entirely without fault onhis part. It is only just to the committee, however, to state that thecharge as presented to them in the first place was supported byevidence which appeared to them convincing; that Mr. Fenton neverdenied it; and that I and, I presume, every member of the committeesupposed until this evening that the letter of apology sent him hadbeen ample and satisfactory. That it was marked 'confidential' wascertainly not the fault of the committee, who now learn this fact forthe first time. "

This statement evidently produced a strong impression. Fenton felt thatit told against him, yet he was more irritated at what he consideredthe stupidity of the members in not seeing that Mr. Staggchase had nottouched upon the point at issue at all, than he was by the injury doneto his cause. In the midst of the excitement raging about him he sat, outwardly perfectly calm and collected. He refused to admit to himselfthat after all there was little probability of his motion's beingcarried; although in truth at the outset he had intended nothing morethan to take this striking method of stating his grievance against thecommittee. He was amused and delighted at the commotion he had caused. He likened himself to the man who had sown the dragon's teeth, andwhile listening keenly to what was being said, he rummaged about in hismemory for the name of that doughty classic hero. 

It was with a shock that it came upon him all at once that the tide wasturning against him. There had been warm expressions of sympathy withhimself and of disapprobation at the course of the committee; and GrantHerman had announced his intention of offering another motion, whenthis should have been disposed of, to the effect that a printed noticeof the removal of the vote of censure be sent to each member of theclub; but it was evident that there was a general feeling that Fenton'sattitude was too extreme. The club was evidently willing to exoneratehim and to offer such reparation as lay in its power, but it was notprepared formally to rebuke its committee. The debate had continuednearly an hour, and speakers were beginning to say the same things overand over. At the farther end of the room some men began to call"question. " The word brought Fenton to his feet like the lash of awhip; he put his hands upon his chest as if he were panting for breath, his eyes were fairly blazing with excitement, and when he spoke hisvoice shook with the intensity of his emotion. 

"Mr. President, " he began, "it seems to me that the honor of this clubis in question. It had not occurred to me to regard this so much apersonal affront as an insult to the club which has elected me to itsmembership. It is forced upon me by the remarks that have been made tolook at the personal side of the matter. Gentlemen have been insistingthat I am seeking reparation for an insult which they acknowledge hasbeen offered me; which they acknowledge has been gratuitous, and towhich all the publicity has been given which lay within the power ofthe officers of this club. Very well, then, far as it was from myoriginal intention, I present my personal grievance and I claimredress. The vote of censure which the committee has passed upon me Iregard as merely a stupid and offensive blunder; the implicationconveyed by listening to a servant in relation to a charge against amember is an insult to him as a gentleman, which, to me personally, seems too intolerable to be endured. I came into this club as to a bodyof gentlemen, and I have a right to claim at your hands that I shall betreated as such by its officers. "

Fenton had many enemies in the St. Filipe, but the splendid dash andaudacity of his manner, even more than his words, produced a tremendouseffect. There was an instant's hush as he ended, and then the voice ofTom Bently, big and vibrating, rang through the room in defiance of allrules of order and of all the proprieties as well. 

"By God! He is right!" said Tom, and a burst of applause answered him. 

The day was won, and although there were a few protests, they weresilenced by cries of "Question! Question!" and the motion was carriedby a majority which, if not overwhelming, was large enough to bewithout question. 

"The motion is carried, " announced the president. 

Fenton rose to his feet again. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, "I cannot resist the temptation personally tothank you. Mr. President, I have now the honor to tender you myresignation from the St. Filipe Club. "

He bowed and turned to walk from the room. He was full of a wildexultation over his success, and he reasoned quickly with himself thateven if his resignation were accepted, he retired in good order. Hehad, too, a half-defined feeling that in thus tempting fate stillfurther, he made a sort of expiatory offering for his actual guilt. Hesaid to himself, with that lightning-like quickness which thoughtpossesses in a crisis, that since the principle for which he contendedstood above the question of his individual transgression, it was butjust that the motion should have been carried, and that now he wasready to take his punishment by losing his membership in the St. Filipe. 

But before he had gone half a dozen steps, two or three men had calledout impulsively, --

"Mr. President! I move this resignation be not accepted. "

There were plenty of men there who would gladly have seen Fenton leavethe club; the members of the Executive Committee were smarting underthe rebuke he had brought upon them; but the excitement of the moment, the admiration which courage and dash always excite, carried all beforethem. The motion was voted with noise enough to make it at least seemhearty, and with no outspoken negatives to prevent its appearingunanimous. His friends dragged him back and insisted upon drinking withhim, the formalities of adjournment being swallowed up in the uproar. His triumph could not have been more complete, and its celebration, with much discussion, much congratulation and not a little wine, lasteduntil midnight. 

And all the while, as he talked and jested and argued and laughed anddrank, his brain was playing with the question of right and wrong as achild with a shuttlecock. Without a hearty conviction of the absolutejustice of the principle for which he contended, it is doubtful ifFenton could have acted the lie of assumed innocence. He had entangledthe question of his guilt with that of the propriety of the action ofthe committee so inextricably that one could scarcely be taken upwithout the other. He admired himself as an actor, he approved ofhimself as a logician, and he despised himself--without any heart-burning bitterness--as a liar. He was too clear-headed to be able tobejuggle himself with the reasoning that he had not been guilty offalsehood because he had never specifically and in word denied thecharge of the committee. Yet with all his pride in his self-comprehension, he really deceived himself. He supposed himself to havebeen animated by the desire to establish a principle in which he reallybelieved, to conquer and humiliate the Secretary, and to please himselfby acting an amusing _role_; while in truth he had been instigated byhis dominant selfish instinct of self-preservation. But he thoroughlyenjoyed his triumph, and by the time he left the house he seemed tohave established himself on quite a new footing of friendship with eventhe members of the Executive Committee. 

As he went down the steps of the club, starting for home, ChauncyWilson said to him, with his usual rough jocularity, --

"I'll bet you a quarter, Fenton, you did bring Snaffle in that night, after all. By the way, did you know that Princeton Platinum had goneall to flinders?"

XXVII

 UPON A CHURCH BENCH. Much Ado about Nothing; iii. --3. 

When Fenton went to the club that night he left Helen Greyson and Mr. Candish, both of whom were sufficiently familiar to excuse theinformality. The combination of the clergyman and the sculptor mightseem likely to be incongruous, but the two had much more in common thanat first sight appeared. Fenton had been right in declaring that Helenwas by instinct a Puritan. It was true that she had shaken herself freefrom all the fetters of old creeds and that her religious beliefs wereof the most liberal. The essence of Puritanism, however, was not itsdogmas, but its strenuous earnestness, its exaltation of self-denial, and its distrust of the guidance of the senses. 

The original Puritans made their religion satisfy their aestheticsense, even while they were insisting upon the virtue of starving thatpart of their nature. To believe literally and with a realizing senseof its meaning the creed of Calvin, would have been impossible withoutmadness to any nature short of the incarnate inhumanity of a JonathanEdwards. The aesthetic sense of humanity demands that the imaginationshall be nourished; and the imagination is fed by receiving things asonly ideally true. The Puritans were right in declaring that art washostile to religion as they conceived it; but they failed to perceivethat this hostility arose from the fact that the acceptance of theirtheology was only possible in virtue of the very faculties to which artappealed. They were obliged to deprive the imagination of its naturalfood, in order that it should be forced to feed upon that theassimilation of which they conceived to be a moral obligation. It may, at first sight, seem a bold assertion that our Puritan ancestorsbelieved their creed, however unconsciously, simply in the sense inwhich we believe in the bravery of the heroes of Homer or in the lovesand sorrows of the heroines of Shakespeare. It is to be reflected, however, that those unhappy creatures who attempted to receiveCalvinism literally and absolutely paid for their mistake with madness;and that it did not enter into the minds of generations of Puritans, who lived and died in the error that they believed with theirunderstanding what they really received only with the imagination, totake this view, in no way affects its truth. 

Helen's position differed from that of her Puritan grandmothers fromthe fact of her having turned her imagination back to art; but sheshared with them the temperament which made Puritanism possible. Theaesthetic sense, which is as universal in mankind as the passions, clung in her case to sensuous beauty, while that of Mr. Candish clungto what he considered beauty moral and spiritual; but the controllingforce in the life of both was the stinging inspiration of a fixed ideaof duty. They were thus able, although rather as a matter ofunconscious sympathy than of deliberate understanding, to comprehendeach other; and if Helen had the broader sight, Mr. Candish possessedthe greater power of ignoring self. 

Edith stood on a middle ground between the two. At the time of hermarriage she had been much nearer to the position occupied by theclergyman; and she would have been startled and shocked had sherealized how much her views had been modified during the six years ofher life with Fenton. She had certainly been led into no toleration ofmoral laxity, and indeed the effect of her husband's cynical Paganismhad been to make her dread more acutely any infringement upon morallaws. She had been constantly learning, however, the enjoyment andappreciation of beauty, not merely in a conventional and Philistinesense, but as a pure Pagan aestheticism. The change showed itselfchiefly in her increased tolerance of views less rigid than her own, which made possible the perfecting of the intimacy with Helen, whichhad begun simply from her sense of pity for the sadness of the other'slife. 

"Isn't it charming, " Edith said to-night, as the three sat before thefire after Arthur had gone out, "to see Mr. And Mrs. Hubbard together. It's not only that they are so fond of each other, but they are soperfectly in accord. It seems to me an ideal marriage. "

Helen looked at her with an inward sigh. 

"It is much the fashion, nowadays, " she said, "to insist that the idealmarriage is no marriage at all. "

Mr. Candish looked at her inquiringly. 

"Or, in other words, " she explained, with a passing thought of his wantof quickness of apprehension, "that no marriage can be ideal. "

"Or anything else, for that matter, " put in Edith quickly. "Theiconoclasts of this generation will spare absolutely nothing. "

"These objectors don't take into account, " observed Mr. Candish, "thatif we once begin to give up things because their possibilities are notrealized, we shall soon end by having nothing left. Plenty of people donot live up to the possibilities of marriage, but the fact is that thetrouble is with themselves. The blame that they lay on the institutionreally belongs on their own shoulders. "

"Yes, " agreed Edith; "like everything else it comes back to a questionof egotism. " "And egotism, " added Helen, smiling, yet wistfully, "isthe supreme evil. "

Mr. Candish nodded approvingly. 

"I don't know, " he said, "that a bachelor like myself has any right todiscuss marriage, except on general principles; but certainly, evenwithout taking the religious view of it, one can see that the veryobjections brought against wedlock are reasons in its favor. "

"Yes, " Edith returned, but she moved uneasily in her chair, and Helendivined that the subject was painful to her. 

"The difficulty is, " she said, with an air of dismissing the wholesubject, "that most people marry for the honeymoon and very few for thewhole life. "

She fell to thinking in an absorbed mood which was not wholly free fromirritation, how constantly this question of marriage met one at everyturn, as if the whole fabric of life, social and ethical, dependedentirely upon this institution. She sighed a little impatiently, looking into the fire with mournful eyes. She thought of the marriageswith which her destiny had been most intimately connected, her own ill-starred mating, the union of Herman and Ninitta, that of Fenton andEdith. She had long ago settled in her own mind that wedlock was notonly the mainstay of society, but that it was largely a concession tothe weakness of her sex; and yet instinctively she protested; thatrevolt against being a woman which few of her sex have failed at onetime or another to experience taking the form of a revolt againstmatrimony. 

"Indeed, " she broke out, half humorously and half pathetically, "themost joyful promise for the Christians hereafter is that they shallneither marry nor be given in marriage. "

Mr. Candish looked a little shocked; but Edith said softly, --

"That is only possible when they become as the Sons of God. "

Helen spread out her hands in a deprecatory gesture. 

"Come, Edith, " she said, "that isn't fair, to take the discussion intoregions where I can't follow you. "

Edith smiled, but made no rejoinder in words. Turning to Mr. Candishshe remarked, with an abrupt change of subject, --

"When may I tell Melissa Blake about the Knitting School?"

"I see no reason, " he answered, "why she shouldn't know at once. Weshall be ready to begin operations in a month at most, and ought toknow her decision. "

"Isn't it capital?" Edith explained, turning toward Helen. "TheKnitting School is really to be started. Mrs. Bodewin Ranger guaranteesthe funds for a year, and we have contracts for work to be delivered inthe fall that will keep from a dozen to twenty girls busy all summer;while the matron's salary will put Melissa Blake on her feet verynicely. It's such a relief to have some of those girls provided for. "

"That's the Melissa Blake, isn't it, " Helen asked, "that Mr. Hubbardspoke of at dinner?"

"Yes, " answered Edith, "but it is impossible that he should be right. "

Helen replied only by that look of general sympathy which does duty asan answer when one has no possible interest in the subject underdiscussion, but Mr. Candish, who knew Melissa, shook his head with anair of conviction. 

"No, " he observed, "Miss Blake has too much principle to be guilty of abreach of confidence. I am sure Mr. Hubbard must be mistaken. "

"And yet, " commented Helen, "there is such a general feeling that ifone keeps the letter of his word he may do as he pleases about thespirit, that she may have contrived to give her lover a hint withoutactually breaking her promise as she would understand it. "

"I don't know, " Edith returned earnestly, "that we have any right tojudge other people more harshly than we should ourselves. If one of ourfriends had betrayed Mr. Hubbard's plans we should say he was a rascalbecause we should assume that he knew what he was doing; and wewouldn't believe such a charge unless we knew he was really bad. "

"But, " persisted Helen, with an unconscious irony which Fenton wouldhave keenly appreciated had he but been there to hear, "in our class ofcourse it's different. A nice sense of honor is after all very much asocial matter nowadays. That may sound a bit snobbish, but don't youthink it is true?"

"It is and it isn't, " was Mr. Candish's reply. "It would undoubtedly betrue if religious principle did not come into the matter; but religiousprinciple is stronger in what we call the middle classes than amongtheir social superiors. "

Mrs. Greyson was not sufficiently interested to continue thediscussion, and she let the matter drop, while Edith contented herselfwith reiterating her conviction in Melissa's perfect trustworthiness. 

They chatted upon indifferent subjects for a little while, and then Mr. Candish went to keep an appointment at the bedside of a sickparishioner; so that Helen and Edith were left alone. 

They sat together a little longer, and then Helen asked casually, --

"By the way, Edith, how long has Arthur been painting Ninitta?"

"Painting Ninitta?" echoed Edith. 

She remembered the wrap she had seen in the studio, with the waveringevasion of her husband's eyes when her glance had sought his inquestion, and painful forebodings against which she had striven, lestthey should become suspicions, were awakened by Helen's words. 

"Yes, " the other went on. "Fred Rangely told me at dinner to-night thathe couldn't get into the studio this morning because Arthur waspainting Mrs. Herman. "

"What did you say to him?" asked Edith. 

"I said, " her companion returned, looking up in surprise at her tone, "that I fancied the picture must be intended as a surprise for Mr. Herman and he'd better not speak of it. "

"But, " Edith objected, "if Arthur told him she was there"--

"He didn't, " interrupted Helen; "a man outside the door said he hadseen her go in. "

Edith grew pale as ashes. She evidently made a strong effort at self-control; and then, burying her face in her hands, she burst intoviolent weeping. Helen bent forward and put her arms about her. Shedrew the quivering form close, resting Edith's beautiful head upon herbosom. She did not speak, but with soft, caressing touch she smoothedthe other's hair. She remembered vividly the time, six years before, when Edith, who had left her at night in indignation and disapproval, had come to her on the morning after her husband's death. She couldalmost have said to this weeping woman, the words with which sheremembered the other had then greeted her, --"You must feel so lonely. "

She dared not speak now. She feared to ask the cause of this outburst, both lest Edith might be led to say what she would afterward wishunspoken, and because she dreaded to hear unpleasant truths in regardto Arthur. 

"Oh, Helen, " Edith sobbed. "Life is too hard! Life is too hard!"

Still Helen did not answer, save by the caress of her fingers. Thetears were in her own eyes. One woman instinctively appreciates thetragedy of another's life, and her unspoken sympathy was balm toEdith's soul. 

"Come, " she said, patting Edith's shoulder as one might soothe aweeping child, "you're all tired out. I can't take the responsibilityof letting you have hysterics; Arthur would never leave you alone withme again. "

She spoke with as much lightness of tone as she could command, whileher embrace and her caresses conveyed the sympathy she would not putinto words. 

Presently Mrs. Fenton disengaged herself from her companion's arms andsat up, wiping away her tears. 

"I must be tired, " she said, "or I shouldn't be so foolish. "

"You do too much, " Helen returned. Then, with the design of giving herfriend a chance to retreat from their dangerous nearness toconfidences, she added, --

"Now tell me what you've done to-day. "

"I have done a good deal, " the other replied, smiling faintly andshowing the recovery of her self-possession by sundry little touches tothe crushed roses in her gown. "At nine o'clock I went to the SaturdayMorning Club, to hear Mr. Jefferson's paper on 'The Over-Soul inBuddhism'; then, at eleven, I went to Mrs. Gore's to see an example ofthe way they teach deaf and dumb children to read lip language; thenArthur and I went to luncheon at Christopher Plant's, and at half pastthree was the meeting of the committee on the Knitting School; thenthere was the reception at Uncle Peter's, and the tea at Mrs. West's, before I came home to dress for dinner. "

Helen leaned back in her chair and laughed musically. She felt, withmingled relief and a faint sense of disappointment, that her effort toavoid a confidence had been successful. 

"I should think, " she said, "that you Boston women would be worn toshreds, and I don't wonder that you have a leaning toward hysterics. Did you carry a clear idea of the Buddhistic over-soul through all thethings that came after it in the day?"

She rose as she spoke, with the desire to hasten away. She had littlemind to know more than she must of the causes of Edith's unhappiness. She was glad to help her friend, but she felt that she could do so nobetter from knowing anything Edith could tell her; and she was, moreover, sure that Mrs. Fenton's loyal soul would bitterly regret itif she were by the emotion of the minute betrayed into revelations thatinvolved her husband. 

"No, " Edith answered, rising in her turn; "I am not even sure whetherthe Buddhists believe themselves to have an over-soul. But why must yougo? Wait, and let Arthur walk home with you. "

"Oh, I shall take a car, " Helen said. "I don't in the least mind goingalone; and it's time both of us were in bed. Good-night, dear; do tryand get rested. "

XXVIII

 BEDECKING ORNAMENTS OF PRAISE. Love's Labor's Lost; ii. --1. 

Edith Fenton did not, however, follow Helen's advice and go to bed. Shewent to her room and exchanged her dinner gown for a wrapper, and thensat down before the wood fire in her chamber to wait for Arthur'sreturn. 

It is a dismal vigil when a wife watches for her husband and questionsherself of the love between them. It was Edith's conviction that it isa wife's duty to love her husband till death; not alone to fulfil herwifely obligations, to preserve an outward semblance of affection, butto love him in her heart according to the vows she has taken at thealtar. Had one told her that the limit of human power lay at self-deception, and that, while it was possible to cheat one's self into thebelief of loving, affection could not be constrained, she would withperfect honesty have replied as she had answered Helen in her allusionto St. Theresa. She said to herself to-night, with unshaken convictionand the concentration of all her will, that she would not cease to loveArthur; but she could not wholly ignore the difference between theunquestioning affection she had once given him and this love whoseforce lay in her will. 

A picture of Caldwell, painted a year ago just before his long hair hadbeen sacrificed at his boyish entreaties, hung over her mantel. Shelooked up at it while her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. The keenly sensitive soul instead of becoming hardened to sufferingfeels it more and more sharply. The powers of endurance become wornout, and to the pain is added a sense of injustice. Since it sufferedyesterday the heart claims the right to be happy to-day, and feelswronged that this is denied it. With all her endurance, and with allher faith, Edith could scarcely repress the feeling of passionateprotest which rose in her bosom. She said to herself that she had doneall, and been all, that lay in her power; that there was no sacrificein life she was not ready to make to preserve her husband's love; andthe most cruel pang of all she felt in thinking of her boy. Forherself, it seemed to her, she could have borne anything; but that theatmosphere of the home in which her son was reared should fall short inanything of the utmost ideal possibilities caused her intolerableanguish. It seemed to her a cruel wrong to Caldwell that the love andconfidence between his parents should not be perfect. It is probablethat more of her personal pain was covered by this pity for her sonthan she was aware; but as she looked up at his picture she felt almostas if he were half-orphaned by this estrangement between herself andArthur, which it were vain for her to attempt to ignore. 

It was after midnight when she heard the street door open and close;and a moment later came her husband's tap. 

"I saw the light in your room, as I came down street, " he said. "Whaton earth kept you up so late?"

"I was waiting, " Edith replied, "to talk with you. "

He came across the chamber, and regarded her a moment curiously; thenhe turned away with a slight shrug of the shoulders. 

"You will perhaps excuse me, " he said, "if I make myself comfortable. Iam pretty tired. "

He went to his dressing-room, coming back a moment later in smokingjacket and slippers, cutting a cigar as he walked. The reaction fromthe excitement of the evening already showed itself in the darkenedcircles beneath his eyes, and the pallor of his lips. 

"Do you mind my smoking?" he asked, carelessly. "We've been having thedeuce of a time at the club, and my nerves have all gone to pieces. Itell you, Edith, " he went on, a sudden spark of excitement showing inhis eyes, "I've had a tremendous row, but I've beaten. I made them passa vote of censure on the Executive Committee, and then Herman got themto instruct the Secretary to send out a printed notice taking back thatvote of theirs; and then I offered my resignation, and they votedunanimously not to accept it. "

"I am so glad!" Edith responded warmly. "That censure was sooutrageous. Tell me all about it. "

She was so pleased to find herself talking cordially and intimatelywith her husband that she forgot for the moment what she had meant tosay to him. She listened with eager interest while he gave her apicturesque version of the exciting scene at the club. Edith hardlyrealized how little of the old familiarity there was now betweenherself and Arthur. It was his nature to be communicative. He enjoyedtalking, partly from his pleasure in words and the delight he found ineffective and picturesque phrasing, and partly because it pleased hisvanity to excite attention and to produce striking effects. He had aninveterate habit of telling his most intimate and inner experiences insome sort of fantastic disguise. The very vain man is apt to be eitherextremely reticent or very communicative. The only secrets which Fentonkept well were those which his vanity guarded. As desire for admirationand attention provoked him to continual revelations, so the fear thatthe disclosure of a secret would react to his disadvantage could causehim to be silent. 

From the feeling that his wife disapproved of much that he told her hadgrown up in Fenton's mind, at first, an irritated desire to shock andstartle her as much as possible. As there came into his life, however, things which he knew she would view not only with disapproval but withabhorrence, and especially since his entanglement with Ninitta, he hadgrown constantly more guarded in his speech. Edith felt keenly the lossof the old familiar talks, though, womanlike, she invented a thousandexcuses to prevent herself from believing in the growing estrangementof her husband. To-night she yielded herself to the pleasure of themoment, and she had almost forgotten both the sad thoughts of her vigiland the fear that troubled her, as she listened to Arthur's animatedwords. It was not until he rose as if to say good-night, that her mindcame back suddenly to the matter of which she wished to speak. 

It was in a very different mood, however, from that in which she wouldhave spoken half an hour before, that she now brought up the thing thathad been troubling her. She hesitated a little how to question herhusband without seeming to jar upon the friendly tone in which they hadbeen talking. He was watching her keenly, wondering why she had waitedfor his coming, and speculating whether it were possible that she mightaltogether have forgotten what she meant to say. He thought she wasabout to speak, and anticipated her by saying, --

"Really, Edith, it would be hard to find, even in Boston, a moreincongruous company than we gathered together at dinner to-night. "

"There was a good deal of variety, " she returned; adding defensively, "but then they fitted together pretty well. "

"What a funny old party Miss Penwick is, " Arthur went on, inwardlygathering himself up for a rapid retreat. "Almost as soon as she hadsaid, 'how do you do' she asked me what I thought the object of lifewas. "

"How very like her; what did you tell her?"

"Oh, I said I supposed the object of life is to transform the crudeanimal and vegetable substances of our food into passions and pettysentiments. "

Edith laughed absently, her thoughts elsewhere. 

"And she looked dreadfully puzzled, " Fenton continued, "as to whethershe ought to be shocked or not. But bless me, how late it is! Good-night, my dear. "

He stretched up his arms in a yawn. Edith turned quickly toward him. 

"Arthur, " she said abruptly, but with the kindness of her softenedmood, "are you painting Ninitta?"

He gave her a startled glance and sat down again in his chair. Thereran through his mind a sudden pang of fear, but he said to himselfinstantly that Edith was not one to suspect evil, and she could notpossibly know the truth. 

"Painting Ninitta?" he returned. "Why do you ask that?"

"Because Fred Rangely told Helen at dinner to-night that you were. "

"Where did he get his information?" asked Fenton, with a feeling oftightness in his throat as he remembered how Rangely had knocked at hisdoor that morning. 

"He said, " was Edith's answer, "that a carpenter told him Mrs. Hermanwas in the studio to-day; and I remembered seeing her wrap there lastweek. "

Fenton felt the insecurity of a man about whom all things totter in theshock of an earthquake, but he refused to yield to fear. He wonderedhow much was to be inferred from the fact that an unknown mechanic wasaware of Mrs. Herman's visits. He had an overwhelming sense of beingtrapped, and he inwardly gnashed his teeth with rage against Ninittaand against fate. 

But he felt the supreme importance of self-control, and he wasoutwardly collected as he asked, --

"What did Helen say to him?"

"She said, " answered Edith, with an exquisite note of sadness in hervoice, "that you must be making a portrait for a surprise to herhusband. "

The artist's heart gave a bound and he caught eagerly at thissuggestion, which afforded him a means of escape. 

"Helen is too shrewd by half, " he said, with a smile. "It is forGrant's birthday and nobody was to know. As a matter of fact, " headded, his invention quickly leaping to the refinements of details inhis falsehood, "I fancy Ninitta really wants it for the _bambino_, asshe calls him. "

He smiled with relief as he went on, and rose again to his feet. 

"Deception, " he observed, with his natural lightness of manner, "is thebane of married life, but marital felicity is impossible withoutdiscreet reserves. It wasn't my secret, you see, so I didn't feel atliberty to tell you. "

"You were perfectly right, " she answered. "The truth is, " shecontinued, hesitatingly, "I was afraid you had persuaded Ninitta to sitfor the _Fatima_, you know you said once that she was the only model inBoston who was what you wanted. "

"Did I say that? What a dreadful memory you have. I should expect Grantto make a burnt sacrifice of me if I had beguiled her into such anindiscretion. He won't even have her sit to himself since she wasmarried. "

"Of course not, " rejoined Edith, emphatically. "Poor Grant! He can't bevery happy with Ninitta. She never can get the taint of Bohemia out ofher blood. "

Arthur laughed and flung his cigar end into the fire. 

"You speak, " he said, "as if that were a hopeless poison. "

He stood smiling to himself an instant. He had pushed off one slipperand was endeavoring to pick it up, using his foot like a hand. He wasin that state of high excitement when he would have found relief in thewildest and most boisterous actions; and it pleased him to be ablestill to retain the appearance of his ordinary calm. 

"Modern civilization, " he observed, "consists largely in learning tolive without the use of either truth or the toes. Good-night, my dear. I want to get a nap before the church bells begin to ring. "

He stooped and kissed her, and went to his chamber. He closed the doorand began to recite with exaggerated gestures a fragment from_Macbeth_. The varied emotions of the evening had set every nervequivering. He was so excited that he was not even despondent over thecollapse of Princeton Platinum stock, although this meant to himdesperate financial straits. He knew that he was in no condition toconsider anything calmly; but half the remainder of the night he tossedupon a sleepless bed, reacting the scene at the club, reflecting uponhis narrow escape from the discovery of his relations with Ninitta, resolving to begin her portrait at once, and thinking a thousandconfused things which made his brain seem to him filled with whirlingmasses of fiery thought-clouds. 

It was really only just before the church bells began to ring that hefell asleep at last, to dreams hardly less vivid than his wakingreflections. 

XXIX

 CRUEL PROOF OF THIS MAN'S STRENGTH. As You Like It; i. --2. 

Orin Stanton had been tolerably sure of getting the commission for the_America_, and had been busily at work preparing his model for thefigure. By the time the decision of the committee was reached, hisstudy was practically complete, and only a day or two after he had beenofficially notified that the choice had fallen upon him the public wereinvited to his studio to view the statue. 

Whatever else Orin might or might not be, he was undeniably energetic. He missed no opportunities through neglect, and he never left undoneanything which was likely to tell for his own advantage. He had oncebefore called upon the world to admire his work on the completion ofhis masterpiece, a figure called _Hop Scotch_, representing accordingto Bently "a tenement-house girl having a fit on the sidewalk. " Hetherefore understood well enough the usual methods of managing theseaffairs, and as the ladies who had taken him up felt bound to make apoint of patronizing the exhibition, the affair succeeded capitally. 

Stanton had no regular studio in Boston, and had for this work secureda room on the ground floor of a business building. The light, to besure, was not all that might have been desired, but it was abundant, window screens were cheap and the sculptor not over sensitive tosubtile gradations of values. He made no attempt to decorate the roomfor his exhibition, partly from a certain indifference to its bareness, and partly from a native shrewdness which enabled him to feel both thedifficulty of doing this adequately, and the fact that the statueappeared better as things were. There were a few benches, scantilycushioned, two or three chairs, not all in perfect repair, with theparaphernalia essential to his work. A few sketches in crayon andpencil were pinned to the wall, and among them the artist had had thefatuity to pin up a photograph of that most beautiful figure, the_Winged Victory_ of Paionios. 

The study for _America_, which was of colossal size, represented awoman seated, leaning her left hand upon a rock. The right hand heldslightly uplifted a bunch of maize and tobacco plant; her head wore acrown in which the architectural embattlements not uncommon in classicheaddresses had been curiously and wonderfully transformed into thelikeness of the domed capitol at Washington. The figure was completelydraped, only the head, the left hand and the right arm to the elbowemerging from the voluminous folds in which it was wrapped, save thatthe tip of one sandalled foot was visible, resting upon a ballot box. Half covered by the hem of the robe were seen a tomahawk, an axe, aprinter's stick, a calumet, and various other emblems of American life, civilized and barbarous. 

A secret which Stanton did not impart to the public and which, with aboldness allied to impudence, he trusted to their never discovering, was the fact that his figure had been stolen bodily from an antique. There exists in the museum of the Vatican a statuette representing awork by Eutychides of Sikyon. Bas-reliefs of the same figure exist alsoon certain coins of Antioch still extant. The figure represented thecity goddess _Tyche_ resting her foot upon the shoulder of the rivergod _Orontes_, who seems to swim from beneath the rock upon which sheis seated. Stanton had a sketch of the statuette which he had made inRome, and from this he had modelled his _America_, replacing the god_Orontes_ by a ballot-box, changing the accessories and adding as manysymbolical articles as he could crowd around the feet. He was notwholly untroubled by an inward dread lest the source of his inspirationshould be discovered; but when he had been complimented by Peter Calvinupon the marked originality of the design, he threw his fear to thewinds and delivered himself up to the enjoyment of receiving thepraises of his visitors. 

There was a strange mixture of people present. Stanton had invited theartists, members of the press, and all the people that he knew, whetherthey knew him or not. Mrs. Frostwinch was there, Mrs. Staggchase, ElsieDimmont, and Ethel Mott; and although Mrs. Bodewin Ranger was notactually present, she in a manner lent her countenance by sending hercarriage to the door to call for one of her friends. Fred Rangely waspresent, talking in a satirical undertone to Miss Merrivale and viewingthe statue with a wicked look in his eye which boded little good to thesculptor. Melissa Blake was there, rather overpowered by the crowd andclinging tightly to the arm of her companion, a girl whose acquaintanceshe had made in her boarding-house, and who was much given to anaffectation of profound culture as represented by attendance uponstereopticon lectures and the exhibitions of the local art clubs. 

"Oh, I should think, " this young lady said to Melissa, in a simperingrapture, "you'd be just too proud for anything, to know Mr. Stanton. Itmust be too lovely to know a real sculptor. "

"I don't know him so very well, " returned the conscientious Melissa. 

"But you really know him, " persisted the other, "and he's been to callon you. Isn't it funny how some men can make things just out of theirheads without anything to go by?"

Rangely, who was standing close by, caught the remark and secretly madea grimace for the benefit of Miss Merrivale. 

"That, " said he in her ear, "is genuine Boston culture. "

She laughed softly, not in the least knowing what to say. The statuemeant nothing whatever to her, and had the original of Eutychides beenplaced by its side she would have been unable to understand that incopying it Stanton had transformed its dignity into clumsiness, itsgrace into vulgarity. Had she been at home in New York, she would havesaid frankly that she neither knew nor cared anything about the_America_; being in Boston, she had a superstitious feeling that suchfrankness would be ill-judged, and she therefore contented herself withnon-committal laughter. 

"How do you do, Miss Merrivale?" at this moment said a cheery voiceclose by her. 

She looked up to see the merry eyes and corn-colored beard of ChauncyWilson. 

"I say, Fred, " went on the doctor, confidentially, "don't you thinkthis thing is beastly rubbish? It looks like an old grandmother wrappedup in her bedclothes. And what has she got that toy village on her headfor?"

"Oh, Doctor Wilson!" exclaimed Miss Merrivale, in a manner that mightmean reproval or amusement. 

Miss Frances was having a very good time. Although Mrs. Staggchase hadbeen throwing her guest and Rangely together for motives of her own, the result to Miss Merrivale had been as pleasing as if her hostess hadbeen purely disinterested. It is true, the time for her return to NewYork drew near, but visions of the pleasure of imparting to her familyand friends the news of her engagement to the brilliant young novelistdid much to alleviate her regret at departing from Boston. She had apleasant consciousness that afternoon, of sharing in the attentionwhich Rangely received in public nowadays, especially since his novelhad been violently attacked in the _London Spectator_ and defended inthe _Saturday Review_. She noted the glances that were cast at him, receiving their homage with a certain secret feeling of having a sharein it. 

But bliss in this world is always transient, and at her happiest momentMiss Merrivale looked up to perceive Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson bearingdown upon her. Mrs. Sampson was accompanied by the Hon. Tom Greenfield, who both felt and looked utterly out of place; and who was draggedalong in the wake of his companion quite as much by his unwillingnessto be left to his own devices in a crowd of strangers, as by anyparticular desire to follow her. 

"My dear Frances, " the widow said effusively, kissing Miss Merrivale onboth cheeks. "I am _so_ glad to see you. Really it is perfectly cruelthat you haven't been to see me. But then, I know, " she ran on withoutgiving the other time to speak, "how busy you've been. I've seen yourname in the _Gossip_, and you've been everywhere. "

"Yes, I have, " returned Miss Merrivale, catching rather awkwardly atthe excuse supplied to her. 

Chauncy Wilson laughed significantly. He never felt it necessary totreat the widow with any especial respect. 

"Mrs. Sampson passes the whole of Sunday forenoon committing thesociety columns of the _Gossip_ to memory, and wishing her name wasthere, " he chuckled, with a jocoseness which seemed to that ladyextremely ill-timed. 

But she kept her temper beautifully, long years of social strugglehaving taught her at least this art of self-restraint. 

"Dr. Wilson is nothing if not satirical, " she returned, with aconventional smile. 

It would not have been displeasing to Miss Merrivale had the floor atthat particular instant opened and engulfed her former hostess. Itneeds unusual breadth of mind to forgive those toward whom we have beendiscourteous. On the other side of the statue, Frances saw Mrs. Staggchase watching the encounter with a sort of quiet amusement. Itflashed across her mind that if she were to become Mrs. Rangely, andlive in Boston, it would be necessary to drop Mrs. Sampson from hercalling list, and the reflection instantly followed that the sooner theprocess of breaking the acquaintance were begun the better. Her faceinsensibly, hardened a little. 

"Of course, " she said, "one can't help being put into the _Gossip_, butI should never think of reading it. "

Mrs. Sampson understood that this was a snub, and her cheek flushed. Wilson laughed maliciously. 

"Oh, everybody reads the _Gossip_, " Rangely interposed, good-naturedlycoming to the rescue; "although it's to the credit of humanity thateverybody has the grace to be ashamed of it. "

There was a bustle and stir in the crowd as Tom Bently pushed his wayup to the group. 

"By Jove, Rangely, " he said, "have you got on to that statue? Do youknow what it's cribbed from?"

"No, " returned Fred; "is it from anything in particular? I supposed itwas just a general steal from the antique, and Stanton appropriatesonly to destroy. "

"I don't know what it is, " was Bently's reply, "but I know there's acut of it in a book I've got at the studio. "

Rangely's eyes flashed. 

"Good, " said he, "I'll come round to-night and we'll look it up. I'mgoing to do a notice of the _America_ for the _Observer_. "

The two exchanged significant glances, laughing inwardly at thediscomfiture of the unfortunate sculptor. 

"But don't you admire the figure?" asked Mrs. Sampson, eagerly seizingan opportunity to get into the conversation. 

"It's the kind of thing I should have liked when I was young, " Bentlyreturned. "I was taught to like that sort of thing; but all thepreliminary rubbish that was plastered on to me when I was a youngster, I have shed as a snake sheds its skin. "

The movement in the crowd gave Miss Merrivale an excuse for changingher position; and she improved the opportunity to turn away from thewidow until the latter could see little except her back. Mrs. Sampsonflushed angrily, but she covered her discomfiture, as well as she wasable, by turning her attention to the statue, and descanting upon itsbeauties to Greenfield. 

"How exquisitely dignified the drapery is, " she remarked, "and sobeautifully modest. "

"Big thing, ain't it, " said the strident voice of Irons, close to herear. "I think we've hit something good this time. I'm really obliged toyou, Greenfield, for putting me up to vote for Stanton. I like a statuewith some meaning to it. Now just look at the significance of all thoseemblems of American progress. "

"Yes, it is very fine, " admitted Greenfield, with a helpless air. "I'llwork it into a speech, sometime, " he added, his face brightening withthe relief of having an idea; "there's the ballot-box at the bottom asa foundation, and you work up through all the industries till you getto the capitol, the centre of government, at the top. "

"Hear! hear!" exclaimed the widow, clapping her hands very softly andprettily; "really you must speak at the unveiling of the statue. "

"Capital idea, " exclaimed Irons, to whose gratitude for Greenfield'said in the railroad matter was added the politic forecast that he mightsome time need his help again; "there's Hubbard over there now; I'll goand ask him whether our committee chooses the orator. "

He started to make his way through the crowd, followed by the admiringlooks of various young women who had been frankly listening to theconversation, although they were strangers. 

"Oh, isn't the statue just too lovely for anything, " gushingly remarkedone of them, with startling originality; "it's so noble and--. And, oh, " she broke off suddenly, the light of a new discovery shining inher face, "just see, girls, that's corn in her hand. "

"Oh, yes, and cotton, " responded her companion. "See, it really iscotton, and something else. "

"Yes, that must be maize, " returned the other, oracularly; "it's all sobeautifully American. "

The crowd moved and swayed and changed, until Ethel Mott stood close tothe _America_, with her back turned squarely upon the figure. Sheevidently found more pleasure in looking at her companion than instudying the work of the sculptor, which she had nominally come to see. 

"I think it will be too cold, Thayer, to go out in the dog-cart, " shesaid, with one of those glances whose meaning not even a poet could putinto words. 

"Oh, no, " Kent answered. "I have a tremendously heavy rug, and you canwrap up. "

"Well, " was her answer, "if it's pleasant, and the sun shines, and Idon't change my mind, and I feel like it, perhaps I'll go. At any rateyou may come round about ten o'clock. "

Rangely was too far away to catch, amid the babble of the crowd, asingle word of this conversation, but he noted the looks which the pairexchanged. 

"Oh, do come along, " a corpulent lady in the crowd observed to hercompanion. "We've seen everybody here that we know, and I want to godown to Winter Street and get some buttons for my grey dress. Mirandawanted me to have them covered with the cloth, but I think steel oneswould be prettier. "

"Yes, they say steel's going to be awfully fashionable this spring. Arethey going to put that statue up just as it is?"

"Oh, they bake it or paint it or something, " was the lucid answer, asthe corpulent lady threw herself against Mr. Hubbard, nearlyannihilating him in her effort to clear a path through the crowd. 

"I think, my dear, " Hubbard observed to his wife, "unless you'vedesigns on my life insurance, you'd better take me out of this crowd. "

"But we haven't seen the statue, " she returned. 

"I have, " he retorted grimly, "and I assure you you haven't lostanything. You'll see it enough when it's set up, and you'll go aboutperjuring your soul by denying that I was ever on the committee. "

"Hush, " she said, "do be quiet; people will think you're cross becauseyou were overruled. "

On the other side of the statue the sculptor had been receivingcongratulations all the afternoon, and now Mr. Calvin and Mrs. Frostwinch chanced to approach him at the same time to take theirleave. 

"I am so glad to have seen the statue, " was the latter's form of adieu, "it is distinctly inspiring. Thank you so much. "

He bowed awkwardly enough, stammering some unintelligible reply, andthe lady moved away with Mr. Calvin, who observed as the pair emergedinto the open air:

"It is such a relief to me that this statue has turned out so well. There has really been a good deal of feeling and wire-pulling, and someNew York friends of mine will never forgive me that the commission wasnot given to one of their men. I really feel as if the thing had beenmade almost a personal matter. "

"It must be a great satisfaction to you, " his companion returned, "thathe has succeeded. "

"It is, " was Calvin's reply. "I meant to see Mr. Rangley and ask him tosay a good word in the _Observer, _ but everybody is so much pleasedthat I think he may be trusted to be. "

"Oh, he must be, " she answered. 

And as she spoke Tom Bently passed by, quietly smiling to himself. 

XXX

 THE WORLD IS STILL DECEIVED. Merchant of Venice; iii. --2. 

On the evening following his reception, Orin Stanton presented himselfat the rooms of Melissa. He was fairly beaming with self-complacencyand gratification. He had been awarded the commission, the exhibitionof his model had been attended, as he assured Melissa, "by no end ofswells, " and five thousand dollars had been paid over to him as anadvance upon which to begin his work. He felt as if the world wereunder his feet and he spoke to Melissa with an air of loftycondescension which should have amused her, but which she received withthe utmost humility. 

"Well, " he said, "what do you think of that for a crowd? Wasn't that aswell mob? Didn't you notice what a lot of bang-up people there were atthe studio this afternoon?"

"Of course I didn't know many of them, " Melissa returned humbly; "but Icould see that there were a lot of people that everybody seemed toknow. I'm glad that you were pleased. "

Orin pulled out a big cigar and bit the end off it excitedly. 

"Pleased!" he echoed. "I was more than pleased--I was delighted. Allthe committee were there, of course, and half the fashionable women ofBoston. "

"I heard a lady telling another who the artists were, " Milly observed, glad to find a subject upon which she could talk to Orin easily. 

"O yes, there were a lot of artists there, but they don't count formuch in getting a fellow commissions. "

Stanton had evidently no intention of being satirical, but spoke withstraightforward plainness what he would have regarded, had he given thematter any thought at all, as being a truth too obvious to need anydisguises. His Philistinism was of the perfectly ingrained, inbornsort, which never having appreciated that it is naked has never feltthe need of being ashamed; and he let it be seen on any occasion with afrankness which arose from the fact that it had never occurred to himthat there was any reason why he should conceal it. He was one of thoseartists who never would be able wholly to separate his idea of the musefrom that of a serving-maid; and he viewed art from the strictlyutilitarian standpoint which considers it a means toward the payment ofbutcher and baker and candlestick maker. He was not indifferent to theopinion of his fellow sculptors; but the criticism of Alfred Irons, which he knew to be backed by a substantial bank account, would haveoutweighed in his mind the judgment of Michael Angelo or Phidias. 

Milly, of course, had no ideas about art beyond a faint sentimentaltendency to regard it as a mysterious and glorious thing which onecould not wholly escape in Boston; while her thrifty New Englandnurture enabled her to appreciate perfectly the force of theconsiderations Orin brought forward. 

"I am glad you are getting commissions, " she said, "but it must be niceto have the artists like your work, for after all, don't you think richpeople depend a good deal upon what the artists say?"

"Oh yes, they do, some, " admitted the sculptor. 

He puffed his cigar, and with the aid of a penknife performed upon hisnails certain operations of the toilet which are more usually attendedto in private. Milly sat nervously trying to think of something to say, and wondering what had brought the sculptor to visit her. She was tookindly to suspect that possibly he had come because in her company hecould enjoy the pleasure of giving free rein to his self-conceit. Thewords of her companion of the afternoon had given her a new sense ofthe honor of a visit from her prospective brother-in-law, although thisincreased her diffidence rather than her pleasure. 

"Was Mr. Fenton there this afternoon?" she asked, at length, simply forthe sake of saying something. 

The face of her companion darkened. 

"Damn Fenton!" he returned, with coarse brutality. "He's a cad and asnob; he says Herman ought to have made the _America_, and he abuses mymodel without ever having seen it. "

The remark of Fenton's which had given offence to Stanton had been madeat the club in comment upon a photograph of the model which somebodywas showing. 

"The only capitol thing about it, " Fenton had said, "is the headgear. "

The remark was severe rather than witty, and it was its severity whichhad given it wings to bear it to the sculptor's ears. 

"I don't like Mr. Fenton very well, " Milly admitted, "but Mrs. Fentonis perfectly lovely; she's been awfully good to me. "

By way of reply the sculptor, with a somewhat ponderous air, unbuttonedhis coat and produced a red leather pocket-book. This he opened, tookout a handful of bills, and proceeded to count them with greatdeliberation. Melissa watched while he counted out a sum which seemedto have been fixed in his mind. He smoothed the package of bills in hishand, then he glanced up at her furtively as if to ascertain whethershe knew how much he had laid out. She involuntarily averted herglance. Instantly Orin gathered up several of the bills quickly, conveying them out of sight with a guilty air as if he were purloiningthem. Then he held the remainder toward his companion. 

"There, " he said, "I should have kept my promise if you hadn't hintedby speaking of Fenton. Of course you understand that I can't give youanything very tremendous, but there's a hundred and fifty dollars. "

Melissa flushed and drew back. 

"I had no idea of hinting, " was her reply. "Of course I thank you verymuch, but you ought to give the money to John, not to me. "

"No, " Orin insisted, "you helped me with Mrs. Fenton, and John might aswell know that I wouldn't put this money into a hole just to pleasehim. I know John. He'll set more by you if the money comes throughyou. "

"But I don't believe, " protested she, "that what I said to Mrs. Fentonreally made any difference. "

But in Orin's abounding good nature her disclaimer passed unheeded. Hepressed the money upon her, and went away full of the consciousness ofhaving exercised a noble philanthropy. 

It is possible that had he waited to read Fred Rangely's criticism uponhis _America_ which appeared in the _Daily Observer_ next morning hemight never have made this contribution toward paying his father'sdebts. With Bently's help Rangely had discovered the original of thestatue, and had then written a careful comparison between the work ofEutychides and that of Stanton. It hardly need be added that the resultwas not at all flattering to the latter. Rangely possessed a verypretty gift of sarcasm, and it was his humor to consider that inattacking the sculptor he was to a certain degree settling scores withMrs. Staggchase for her change in attitude toward him after MissMerrivale came. He served up the unlucky statue and its more unluckymaker with a piquancy and a zest which made his article town talk for amonth. The sculptor sheltered himself, so far as he could, by keepingout of sight, while Peter Calvin, unable to endure the jibes andlaughter which everywhere met him, abandoned the cause of his _protege_and the town together, by starting two months earlier than he hadintended on a trip to Europe. 

Rangely was angry with himself for having been persuaded by Mrs. Staggchase to write an article sustaining Stanton's claims in the firstplace, and not having signed it, he endeavored to give to thiscriticism a tone which should indicate, without its being specificallystated, that he had not written the former paper. He understoodperfectly well that Mrs. Staggchase would regard his position as adeclaration of independence, and indeed when the lady read the_Observer_ that morning she smiled with an air of comprehension. 

"That's an end to that, " she said to herself. "When you've known a manas long as I have Fred Rangely, he's like a book that's been read;you've got all the good there is in him. There are other men in theworld. "

When Orin had gone, Milly stood turning over and over in her hand theroll of bills he had given her. Then she spread them out upon thetable, counting them and gloating over them, with a delight which arosequite as largely from her foretaste of John's pleasure and the joy ofhaving helped to cause it, as it did from mere love of money. She hadjust taken the precious roll to put it away, when her lover himselfappeared. 

John Stanton was really of more kindly disposition than might have beeninferred from his misunderstanding with his betrothed. He had been halfa dozen weeks coming to his right mind, but whatever he did he didthoroughly, and in the end he had reached a point where he was willingto acknowledge himself wrong, and to make whatever amends lay in hispower. He came in to-night with the determined air of one who has madeup his mind to get through a disagreeable duty as speedily as possible. 

Milly opened the door for him, and stood back to let him pass; she hadlearned in these weeks of their estrangement to restrain themanifestation of her joy at his coming. It was with so great a rush ofblissful surprise that she now found herself suddenly caught up intohis arms, that she clung closely to his neck for one joyful instant, and then burst into a passion of weeping. 

"There, there, " her lover said, caressing her; "don't cry, Milly. I'vebeen a brute, and I know it; but if you'll forgive me this time I'llsee that you never need to again. "

He moved toward a chair as he spoke, half carrying her in his arms. Inher excitement she loosened her hold upon the roll of money, which wasstill in her hand, and the bills were scattered on the floor behind himas he walked. He sat down and took her in his lap, stroking her hairand soothing her as well as he was able. By a strong effort shecontrolled herself, dried her tears, and sat up, half laughing. 

"I'm getting to be dreadful teary, " she said. "I"--

"What in the world, " he interrupted her in amazement, "is that on thefloor?"

She turned and saw the money, and burst into a peal of laughter. Springing down from his knee, she ran and gathered up the bills in hertwo hands; then, dancing up to him, half wild with delight, her cheeksflushed, her eyes shining, she scattered the precious bits of greenpaper fantastically over his head and shoulders. 

 "'Take, oh take, the rosy, rosy crown!'"

She sang, in the very abandonment of gayety. 

"Are you gone crazy?" he demanded, clutching the floating bills, andthen catching her about the waist. "You act like a witch! Where did allthis money come from? The savings-bank?"

"No, " she returned, becoming quiet, and nestling close to him. "TheLord sent it by the hand of your brother Orin. "

It was some time before John could be made to understand the wholestory; and when it had been told, he instantly leaped to the conclusionthat the whole credit of Orin's getting the commission belonged ofright to Milly, a conviction in which he remained steadfast despite allher disclaimers. 

At last she gave up protesting, and shut his mouth with a kiss. SinceJohn, as well as Orin, thought so, she felt that her part must havebeen more important than she had realized; but she was too modest tobear so much praise. 

"John, " she said at length, "I have something awful to confess. I'vebeen keeping a secret from you. "

"I'm afraid I've been too much of a bear for it to have been safe totell me, " returned her lover, smiling. 

His own heart was filled with the double joy of reconciliation, and ofhaving brought it about himself by a manly confession of his fault. 

"It wasn't that at all, " she protested. "It was because I wasn't sureabout it; and then I wanted to surprise you if I got it. "

"Got what? You speak as if it was the smallpox. Is it anythingcatching?"

"Oh, no, " answered Milly, laughing gleefully at his sally, which to herpresent mood seemed the most exquisite wit. "You needn't be afraid;it's only the matronship of the new Knitting School, thank you, with asalary of five hundred dollars a year. "

"Really, Milly?"

"Really, John; and don't you think"--

"Think what?"

She had made up her mind to say it even before this blessed agreementhad come about, but now that the moment came, the habits and trammelsof generations held her back. 

"Why, " she stammered, blushing and hesitating, "don't you think, --wouldn't it seem more appropriate if a matron was"--Her voice failedutterly. She flung her arms convulsively about her lover's neck, anddrew his ear close to her lips. "Surely, now, John, dear, " shewhispered, "we could afford to"--

She finished with a kiss. 

"If you can put up with me, darling, " he answered her, with a mightyhug; "we'll be married in a week, or, better still, in a day. "

"I think in a month will do, " responded Mistress Milly, demurely, sitting up to blush with decorum. 

XXXI

 PARTED OUR FELLOWSHIP. Othello; ii. --1. 

The news of the collapse of Princeton Platinum stock, which Dr. Wilsonhad given Arthur on Saturday night, proved to be somewhat premature. OnSunday it was decided at the club, where the matter was discussed in acold-blooded and leisurely fashion, that the whole scheme had gone topieces; and of course this decision was accompanied by the statement, in various forms, that everybody knew that there was nothingsubstantial behind the certificates. On Monday, however, the stock tookan unexpected rise, and for two or three days held its own with afirmness which greatly encouraged its holders. 

Fenton had bought the bulk of his shares at two and seven-eights, andstill held them, notwithstanding the rumors of disaster in the air. With a folly that would be incredible were it not one of the mostcommon things in amateur stock transactions, the artist had by thistime put the bulk of his little fortune into this wild-cat stock, whichhe now held with a desperate determination not to sell below the figureat which he had purchased. He could so little afford the least loss, that, with the genuine instinct of the gambler, he trusted to luck, andran the risk of utter ruin for the sake of the chance of making abrilliant stroke, or at least of coming out even. Having made up hismind to hold on, he clung to the position with his customary obstinacy, even dismissing the matter, as far as was possible, from his thoughts. 

He was very busy preparing an exhibition of pictures at the St. Filipeclub. The matter had been left in his hands by the other members of theArt Committee, of which he was chairman; but his attitude toward theclub had prevented his taking any steps until after the meeting onSaturday night. Now, he was particularly anxious to make the exhibitiona brilliant success, to give a signal instance of the value of hisservices. 

He had gone to his studio on Sunday afternoon and sketched in a head ofNinitta, and upon this he worked, now and then, with a desperate energyborn of the feeling that it substantiated his story to Edith. He hadbeen seized with grave doubts as to the advisability of exhibiting the_Fatima_ just now; but he did not see his way clear to spare so largeand important a picture from the collection, and he comforted himselfwith the thought that the face was different, and that if the modelwere recognized he would be supposed to have worked up old sketchestaken when Ninitta had posed for him before her marriage. 

He worked with all his marvellous energy, collecting pictures, directing their hanging, soothing artists whose canvases were notplaced to their liking, making out the catalogue, and arranging all thedetails which in such a connection are fatiguing and well-nighinnumerable. 

The exhibition was opened on Wednesday evening with a reception toladies, and by nine o'clock the gallery began to fill. Fenton haddecorated the rooms a little, chiefly with live pampas grass and palmsand India-rubber trees. It is difficult to see how mankind in thenineteenth century could exist without the India-rubber tree. If thatplant were destroyed, civilization would be left gasping, helpless andcrippled; and of late years, not content with making it serviceable inevery department of practical life, men have brought the shrub into thedomain of aesthetics by using it for decorative purposes. 

The collection of paintings was an interesting one, made up of the workof the best artists in town. Fenton had spared no pains either inprocuring what he wanted, or in arranging the gallery. The _Fatima_hung in a position of honor opposite the main entrance. The selectionof so prominent a place for his own work offended Fenton's taste, andannoyed him with an uncomfortable sense of how strongly the picture wasin evidence. The exigencies of hanging, and the fact that the canvaswas the most important one in the room forced him to place it as hedid; and Bently, whom he called to his assistance, laughed at hisscruples. None of the artists had seen the picture, and Bently wasquite carried away by his admiration of it. 

"By Jove! Fenton, " he said, "I didn't know you had it in you. It'sperfectly stunning. But it's beastly wicked, " he added. "Perhaps that'sthe reason it's so good. "

"Come, " Fenton said with a laugh, "that sounds quite like the old Pagandays. "

"But how in the dickens, " Tom went on, "did you get Mrs. Herman to posefor you?"

"Great Heavens!" ejaculated Fenton, "don't say that to anybody else. Ihad no end of studies of her, made long ago; but I didn't suppose I hadfollowed them closely enough for it to be recognized. "

"You don't mean, " Tom returned, "that that side and arm are done fromold studies!"

Fenton had a delicate dislike to literal falsehood. It was not aquestion of morality directly, but one of taste. Albeit, since taste issimply morality remote from the springs of action, it perhaps came tomuch the same thing in the end. He felt now, however, that the time forthe selfish indulgence of his individual whims was past, and that heowed to Ninitta the grace of a downright and hearty falsehood. 

"Why, of course, " he said, "I had one or two models to help me out; butthe inspiration came from the old studies. "

"And she didn't pose for you?" Tom persisted incredulously. 

"Pose for me?" echoed Fenton, impatiently. "Why, man alive, think whatyou're saying! Of course, she didn't pose for me. She never has posedfor anybody since she was married. "

"And a devilish shame it is, too, " responded Tom. 

This conversation, which took place Wednesday afternoon, made Fentonextremely uneasy. Fate seemed to have worked against him. He hadpainted the picture to go to the New York Exhibition, where he hoped itwould be sold without ever coming under the eye of Herman at all. Hereflected now that Ninitta had posed for Helen and for several of hisbrother painters, while it was scarcely credible that the likenesswhich Bently had perceived at a glance should escape the trainedartist's eye of her husband; and it seemed to him now, little less thanmadness to have brought the picture here at all. 

Upon second thought, however, he reflected that even were the picturerecognized, no great harm would probably come of it. No one would belikely to speak on the subject to Herman, and, least of all, was therea probability that the latter would confess that he was aware of whathis wife had done. Herman's condemnation, Fenton said to himself with ashrug, he must, if worst came to worst, endure; this was to be set downwith other unpleasantnesses which belong to the unpleasant conditionsof life as they exist in these days. As long as there was no openscandal, he could ignore whatever lay beneath the surface, and heassured himself that in any event it were wisest, as he had long agolearned, to carry things off with a high hand. 

It was about half past nine when Fenton brought Edith into the gallery. The crowd had by this time become pretty dense, and just inside thedoor they halted, exchanging greeting with the acquaintances whoappeared on every side. The St. Filipe was an old club, and for morethan a quarter of a century had maintained the reputation of leading inmatters of art and literature. Its influence had, on the whole, beenremarkably even and intelligent; but of late it began to be felt, amongthose who were radical in their views, that the club was coming underPhilistine influence. Half a dozen years before, when Fenton hadproposed Peter Calvin for membership, even the social influence of thecandidate did not save him from a rejection so marked that Arthur hadthreatened to resign his own membership. Now, however, Peter Calvin wasnot only a member of the St. Filipe, but he was on the ElectionCommittee. The club was held in favor in the circles over which hisinfluence extended, and although workers in all branches of art werestill included among the members, they were pretty closely pushed bythe more fashionable element of the town. Fenton was not far from rightin asserting, as he did one day to Mrs. Greyson, after her return fromEurope, that the change in his own attitude toward art was prettyexactly paralleled by the alteration which had taken place in that ofBoston. 

The character of the membership of the club was indicated to-night bythe brilliancy of the company present. It was one of those occasionswhen everybody is there, and the scene, as the new-comers looked overthe gallery, was most bright and animated. Although the ladies hadevidently labored under the usual uncertainty in regard to the properdress which seems inseparable from an art exhibition in Boston, andwere in all varieties of costume from street attire to full eveningtoilette, there were enough handsome gowns to supply the necessarycolor. There was also abundance of pretty and of striking faces, andthe crowd had that pleasant look of familiarity which one gets fromrecognizing acquaintances all through it. 

One of the first persons the Fentons saw was Ethel Mott, who, under thechaperonage of Mrs. Frostwinch, was making the tour of the gallery withKent, and paying far more attention to her companion than to thepictures. 

"Oh, Arthur, " Edith whispered, "I saw Mrs. Staggchase in the dressing-room, and she told me that Ethel's engagement is out to-day. "

Arthur smiled, remembering his perspicacity when Ethel had driven awayfrom his dinner with Kent in her carriage. 

"Isn't the crowd dreadful?" the voice of Mrs. Bodewin Ranger said, atEdith's elbow. "I'm really getting too old to trust myself in such acrush. "

While Edith chatted with her, the steward called Fenton away, inconnection with some question about the catalogues, and when Mrs. Ranger moved on, Edith found herself for an instant alone. The mentionof her husband's name behind her caught her ear and her attention. 

"Fenton's cheeky enough for anything!" said an unknown voice. "But hemakes a point of his good taste, and I think it's beastly poor form forhim to show that picture here. "

"Bently says, " returned another voice, also strange to Edith, "thatFenton says she didn't pose for him, but that he worked it up from oldstudies. "

"I don't care if he did, " was the response. "All the fellows know it, and Herman must feel like the deuce. "

"But you can't suppress every picture that has a study of her in it. "

"Hush, " said the other voice, "there comes Herman himself. "

It seemed to Edith that this brief dialogue had been shouted out sothat it could not be inaudible to any one in the room. She looked aboutfor her husband. Her ears rang with the meaningless babble of voices, the jargon of human sounds conveying far less impression ofintelligence than the noise of water on the shore, or the sound of thewind in the tree-tops. All about her were faces wreathed inconventional smiles, the inevitable laughter, the usual absence ofearnestness, and in the midst of all, with a shock hardly less painfulthan that of the discovery she had just made, she heard the voice ofHerman bidding her good evening. 

She held out her hand to him with a hasty, excited gesture. She waspainfully conscious that he had but to lift his eyes to see the_Fatima_ hanging on the opposite wall of the gallery, and sheinstinctively felt that she must draw his attention away. 

"How do you do, Mr. Herman, " she said, with eager warmth. "Is Mrs. Herman with you?"

She moved half around him as she spoke, as if compelled by the shiftingof the crowd to change her position; and while she shook hands managedto bring herself almost face to the picture, so that his back wastoward it. 

"No, " he answered, "she never comes to these things if she can possiblyhelp it. I hear your husband has outdone himself on this exhibition. "

Edith looked about despairingly for Arthur. She felt herself unequal tothe emergency, and longed for his clever wits to contrive some means ofescape from the cruel dilemma in which his act had placed her and hisfriend. Indignation, shame, and sorrow filled her heart. She recognizedthat Arthur had not told her the truth in regard to Ninitta. The dreadand the suspicion which she had felt on the night of the dinnerreturned to her with tenfold force. But the greatest triumph of moderncivilization is the power it has bestowed upon women of concealingtheir feelings. The pressing need of the moment was to show to Herman asmiling and untroubled face, and to avoid arousing his suspicion thatanything was wrong. 

"The truth is, " she returned, "that I haven't seen the exhibition. It'simpossible to see pictures in such a crowd, don't you think? I knowArthur has worked very hard. I've hardly seen him this week. "

"He has a most tremendous power of accomplishing what he undertakes, "Herman said heartily. "But tell me about yourself. You're lookingtired. "

"It is the time of year to look tired. I believe I am feeling a littleanxious that spring should arrive. "

She was struggling in her thoughts for a means of preventing thediscovery, which it seemed to her must be inevitable the moment sheceased to engage Herman in conversation and he turned away. Over hisshoulder she could see the beautiful, sensuous _Fatima_ lying with longsleek limbs amid bright-hued cushions. Now that she knew the truth, shecould see Ninitta in every line, and her whole soul rose in indignantprotest. It was her friend, the wife of this man she honored, who wasdelivered up on the wall yonder to the curious eyes of all thesepeople. The stinging blush of shame burned in Edith's cheeks, and, asat this instant she turned to find her husband beside her, the glancewhich darted from her eyes to his was one of righteous scorn andindignation. 

His wife's burning look showed Arthur that she knew; and, reflectingquickly, he decided that Herman did not. It was characteristic of himthat he instantly chose the boldest policy. 

"Come, " he said to Herman as soon as they had greeted each other, "Iknow you haven't seen my _Fatima_. The boys say its the best thing I'vedone, but I couldn't get a decent model, and had to depend so much onold studies, that, for the life of me, I can't tell whether it's goodor not. "

Like two blows at once came to Edith a sense of shame that she couldeven involuntarily have wished for her husband's aid, and anoverwhelming consciousness of the readiness and boldness of hisfalsity. She saw the face of Grant Herman, nobly instinct with truth inevery line, and, as he turned at her husband's word, everything blurredbefore her vision. She believed she was going to faint, and she ralliedall her self-command to hold herself steady. The lights danced, and thesound of voices faded as into the distance. Then, with a supreme effortof will, she rallied, and the voices rolled back upon her ear with anoise like the roar of an incoming wave. 

A sphere of silence seemed to envelop Herman and Arthur and herself inthe very midst of the crowd, as for an instant which seemed to hercruelly long she stood waiting for what the sculptor should say. 

"Your friends are right, Fenton, " Herman said, at length, in a voice sochanged from its previous cordiality that it was idle to suppose thelikeness had escaped him. "You have never painted anything better. "

"Thank you, " Fenton responded, brightly. "I am awfully glad you likeit. I fancy, " he added, with a laugh, "that the tabby-cats will beshocked. "

His companion made no reply, and the approach of Rangely affordedArthur a chance to change the conversation. 

"I say, Fred, " he demanded, "have you congratulated Thayer Kent yet?"

"Congratulated him?" echoed Rangely. 

"Yes. Didn't you know his engagement is out?"

Rangely might have been said to take a page out of Fenton's own book, as he answered, --

"But what's the etiquette of precedence?" "Of precedence?" echoedArthur, in his turn. 

"Yes, " Rangely returned. "Which of us should congratulate the otherfirst? Only, " he added, hitting to his own delight upon a positionwhich might save him from some awkwardness in the future, "of course myengagement can't be announced until Miss Merrivale gets home to hermother. "

"Well, " Arthur said, "marriage is that ceremony by which man lays asidethe pleasures of life and takes up its duties. I congratulate you onyour determination to do anything so virtuous. "

"Sardonic, as usual, " retorted Fred, laughing; and then he went to findMiss Merrivale, convinced that under the circumstances the sooner heproposed to her the better. 

XXXII

 HEART-BURNING HEAT OF DUTY. Love's Labor's Lost; i. --1. 

All the world feels the pathos of helplessness hurt and wounded; butonly some recognize how this applies to a great and noble natureattacked by unscrupulousness. In an encounter with dishonesty, nobilityof soul may be, in its effect for the moment, utter weakness. Assailedby deceit or treachery the great heart has often no resource butendurance; and while endurance may save, it cannot defend. 

The moment Grant Herman's eyes fell upon the _Fatima_, he understoodfully why Fenton had so volubly remarked that he had painted thepicture from old studies. He tried to fight with his conviction thatwhat the artist said was false, although even as he did so he could notcrush down the feeling of having been wounded by the hand of a friend. It seemed to him incredible that Fenton, even though the painter'sdefection from the Pagans had caused something of a breach betweenthem, could have been guilty of this outrage. He choked with anintolerable sense of shame for himself, for the artist, and forNinitta. A terrible anguish wrung his heart as he looked across thecrowded gallery gay with lights, with the rich dresses, with laughter, and with the beauty of women, to where hung the picture of the motherof his boy, an image of sensuous enticement. The fact that Fenton hadsubstituted another face for that of Ninitta did not, for the moment, console him. To his sculptor's eye, form was the important thing, andthe fact that he recognized the model bore down all else. He rememberedhow marked had been Ninitta's unwillingness to accompany him to theexhibition, and the possible connection between this and the pictureforced itself upon his mind. 

With all the instinctive generosity of his soul, however, Herman stroveto believe that the _Fatima_ had been painted, as Fenton said, from oldstudies, and that his wife had not been guilty of the painful indecorumof posing. He compelled himself to answer the artist calmly, althoughhe could not make his manner cordial. And as he spoke, his eye, searching the picture for confirmation of his hope or of his fear, recognized among the draperies a Turkish shawl he had himself given hiswife after their marriage. 

He made his way out of the gallery and out of the club house. He feltthat he must get away from the innumerable eyes by which he wassurrounded. He started toward home, but before he had gone a block, hestopped, hesitated a moment, and struck off into a side street. He wasnot ready to go home. He had said to himself too often, reiterating itin his mind constantly for six years, that in dealing with his wife hismust be the wisdom, the patience, and the forbearance of both. Heremembered a night long ago, when he had gone to Ninitta's room, in amood of contrition, to renew the troth of his youth, and had falleninstead into a fit of bitter anger. With no evident reason, came backto him to-night the beautiful weeping figure of the Italian as she hadcast herself at his feet and implored his forgiveness. He would not goto her now until he was calmer, and until he had considered carefullyall the points of the situation. 

In that whirl which comes in desperate circumstances before thestartled and bewildered thoughts can be reduced to order, Hermanwandered on, not thinking where he was going, until he found himselfleaning against a railing and looking over the waters of the CharlesRiver. It was a beautiful starlight night with a wavering wind thatcame in uncertain gusts only to die away again. The water was like aflood of ink, across which streamed thin tremulous lines of brightness, and over which were strewn the flickering reflections of the stars. Thegas jets of the city across the flood, the rows of lamps which markedthe bridges, the distant horse cars which rumbled between Cambridge andBoston with their colored lights, the green and red lanterns thatglowed from the railroad tracks farther down the river, all suggestedthe busy life of men with its passions, its greed, and itsheartlessness; but the darkness held all remote, as if the world of menwere a dream. And overhead the immovable stars, like the unpityinggods, hung above the city and were reflected in the water, and woundedthe soul of the lonely man with the terrible sense of power inimitablyremoved, of passionless strength which served to humanity but as ameasure of its own weakness and triviality. The misfortunes of lifemight be endured; its disappointments, its anguish, even its inviolableloneliness might be supported, but a sense of the awful futility ofexistence crushes man to the depths of impotent despair. 

A review of the past is usually a protest against fate, and manly asHerman was it was inevitable that into his reverie should come a sensethat the wrong and suffering of his life had been thrust upon himundeserved. He could not be blind to the fact that it had been throughhis virtues that he had been wounded. A sense of injustice comes withthe consciousness of having suffered through merit. Many a man is toonoble basely to avoid the consequences of his acts, but few can whollyrid themselves of the feeling that the uncomplaining acceptance ofpainful results should serve as expiation for the deeds which causedthem. The nobility of his nature, the purity of his intentions had madeof a boyish folly the curse of a lifetime. With whatever tenderness thesculptor regarded Ninitta as the mother of his son, it was vain for himto attempt to deceive himself in regard to his love for her. A man withwhom cordiality was instinctive, who was born for the most frank andintimate domestic relations, he found in his wife small sympathy andless comprehension. He had married her, believing that she had a rightto claim happiness at his hands because he had taught her to love him. He had long since been obliged to own to himself that he had done thisat the expense of his own peace, and he now questioned whether theexperiment had succeeded better in her case than in his. If she had notbeen able to comprehend his aims and to enter into his scheme of life, it was equally true that she must have found in him little response tothe calls of her own nature. The bitterness of the sigh which wrung hisbosom, as he stood with his hand upon the railing and looked over thewater with the lights reflected on its blackness, was as much for heras for himself. 

Yet he would not have been human had he not felt thrills of anger whenhe thought of the _Fatima. _ No faintest suspicion crossed his mind ofany darker shame which might lie behind the fact that his wife hadposed for Fenton. This he could not doubt that she had done. Thisexplained her frequent absences from home in the morning, to which hehad before given no thought. He remembered, too, that for weeks afurtive restlessness, poorly concealed, had been evident in Ninitta'smanner. He had attributed it to her intense opposition to Nino's beingsent to school; but now he read it differently. He could not but beangry, yet his pity was greater than his wrath; and he resolved notonly to be forbearing with his wife, but hereafter to use greaterendeavors to enrich her colorless life. He was too thoroughly an artisthimself not to feel and appreciate how much the old love of posing, thelonging for the air of a studio, and the art instinct might have had todo with Ninitta's fault. 

But in regard to Fenton his heart burned with that rage which islargely grief. It was like the anger, which is half astonishment, of achild who is unexpectedly struck by its playmate. The fact that he wasincapable of comprehending how it was possible to betray a friend madehim confused in thinking of the artist's share in the transaction; andthe fact that he could vent upon Fenton his righteous indignationenabled him to free his feelings toward Ninitta of almost allanimosity. When at last he turned to go home, it was with a profoundpity that he thought of his wife. 

It was a little after eleven when he reached his house. The gas wasburning in his chamber and Ninitta lay apparently sleeping. Thewretched woman feigned a slumber which she had in vain courted. She wasconvinced that her husband could not see the _Fatima_ withoutdiscovering her secret, and the guilty knowledge in her heart filledher with growing fears as the moments went on. 

When at last she heard Herman's step, she had started up in bed like awild creature, her heart fluttering, her ears strained as if to catchfrom the sound some clue to his mood. But instantly she had lain downagain, and, with an instinct like that of the timorous animals whosenature it is to feign death when they cannot flee, had composed herselfinto the appearance of slumber. 

Herman paused a moment, just inside the chamber door, and looked at hiswife. Something in her pose suggested to him so vividly the _Fatima_that, despite his self-conquest on the bridge, a flood of anger swelledwithin him. The masculine instinct, nourished through a thousandgenerations, that no palliation gives the wife a right to claimforgiveness from her husband for the shame she has put upon him by aviolation of modesty, surged up within him. He drew in a deepinspiration and started forward with an inarticulate sound as if hecould throw himself upon this woman and tighten his fingers on herthroat. 

Ninitta raised herself in bed with an exclamation of fear. Her blackhair streamed loose, and her dark eyes shone. Her swarthy passionateface was an image of terror. She was not far enough away from herpeasant ancestors not to be moved by the size and strength of herhusband's large and vigorous frame. Many generations and much subtletyof refinement must lie between herself and savagery before a woman canlearn instinctively to fear the soul of a man rather than his musclesin a crisis like this. Husband and wife confronted each other as hewalked quickly across the chamber. Her cowering attitude, the fearwhich was written in every line of her face, fed his anger, until, inhis blind rage, all pity and self-restraint seemed to be swept away. 

But just as he neared the bed, when in his burning look Ninitta seemedalready to feel his hands clutching her with cruel force, his footstruck against something which lay on the floor. It was one of Nino'swooden soldiers. The father stopped, and his look changed. Heremembered how Nino had come in from the nursery while he was dressingthat night, bringing his arms full of more or less shattered figureswhich he had appealed to his father to put to rights for a grand battlewhich was to be fought in the morning. Herman looked down at the toyand forgot his anger. He looked up at his wife and she saw with wonderthe change in his face. It had been full of indignation against thewife who had deceived him; on it now was written reproachful anguish, and pity for the mother of his son. 

"Ninitta, " he said. "How could you do it?"

She cowered down in the bed, burying her face in her hands. She couldnot answer, and there came over him a painful sense of the uselessnessof words. 

"Everybody must recognize Fenton's picture, " he said. "If you did notremember me, Ninitta, how could you forget Nino? How will he feel whenhe is old enough to realize what you have done?"

The frightened woman burst into convulsive sobs mixed with moans likethose of a hurt animal. In the last hours she had been thinking no lessthan her husband; but where he had considered her, she had thoughtchiefly of her boy. Mingled with the fear of her husband's anger hadbeen the nobler feeling, that she was no longer worthy to be with herson. The very passion of the love she bore him moved her now with thedetermination to leave him. It was always Ninitta's instinct to runaway in trouble, and now, added to the impulse to escape from herhusband was the determination forming itself with awful stress ofanguish in her soul, to go away from Nino; to take away from her sonwhom she loved better than life itself, this woman who had no right inhis pure presence. She did not look upon it as an expiation of herfault; it was only that maternal love gathered up whatever was noble inher nature, in this supreme sacrifice for her son. 

To Herman, looking down upon the cowering figure of his wife, with aheartbreaking sense of the impossibility of effecting anything bywords, she was simply a cowardly woman who took refuge in tears fromthe reproaches which her conduct deserved. Could he have known what waspassing in her heart, it would have moved him to a deeper respect and akeener pity than he had ever felt for her. No more than a dumb animalhad she any language in which she could have made him understand herfeelings had she tried; and at last he turned away with a choking inhis throat. 

XXXIII

 A BOND OF AIR. Troilus and Cressida; i. --3. 

The stock of the Princeton Platinum Company was issued in ten-dollarshares, it being the conviction of Erastus Snaffle, deduced from a moreor less extensive experience, that the gullible portion of the publicis more likely to buy stock of a low par value. On the morning afterthe exhibition at the St. Filipe Club, the shares were quoted at twodollars and an eighth. 

Arthur Fenton read the stock reports at breakfast. He laid the paperdown calmly, drank his coffee in silence, and absently played with hisfork, while his wife attended to Caldwell's breakfast and her own. Hesaid nothing until the boy, whose mind was intent upon some new toy orother, having hastily finished his meal, asked to be excused. 

"Don't be in a hurry, Caldwell, " his mother said, gently. "I want youto learn to wait for older people. "

"Let him go, Edith, " his father interposed. "I want to talk to you. "

The boy jumped down quickly and ran to give his father a hasty kiss. Hehad learned to look to Fenton to help him in evading his mother'sattempts at discipline, and Edith noted with pain, as she had too oftennoticed before, the knowing smile which came into the child's face ather husband's words. Caldwell evidently regarded his father's remarkmerely as a convenient excuse, and it hurt Edith to see how in subtileways her son was learning to distrust the honesty of his father. 

On this occasion, however, Arthur had meant what he said. When the doorhad closed behind the little fellow, he looked up to observe in themost matter-of-fact tone, --

"I suppose it is only fair, Edith, that I should tell you that we areruined. "

She looked at him with a puzzled face. 

"What do you mean?" she said. 

"I mean, " he returned, "that I have been getting into no end of a mess, and that some stock I bought to help myself out of it, has gone downand made things ten times worse. "

She folded her hands in her lap and regarded him wistfully. She hadbeen so often repressed when she had tried to gain his confidence inregard to business matters that she hesitated to speak now. 

"Should I understand if you told me about it?" she asked. 

"Oh, very likely not, " he returned, coolly; "but I don't in the leastmind telling you, if it's any satisfaction to you. It isn't any greatmatter, only that I live so near the ragged edge that a dollar or twoeither way makes all the difference between poverty and independence. "Edith breathed more freely. Her husband's self-possessed manner, andthe fact that she knew him to be so given to exaggeration, made herfeel that things were not so hopeless as his words had at firstimplied. 

"I have three thousand shares of Princeton Platinum stock, " Fenton wenton, with the condescending air of one who elaborately explains detailswhich he knows will not be understood. "I bought at two and seven-eighths, with money that should go to pay notes due on Saturday. Thestock was worth two and an eighth last night and very likely by to-night won't be worth anything. "

"Then why didn't you sell yesterday?" Edith asked. 

Arthur smiled at the feminine turn of her words. 

"Because, my shrewd financier, I don't want to sell at a loss, and Mr. Irons assures me that there will be a rise before the final collapse. "

He did not add, as he might have done, the substance of the talkbetween himself and Irons. That wily financier had said to him oneday, --

"Fenton, you were almighty toploftical about those railroad shares, andI'll give you another chance. I've had four thousand shares ofPrinceton Platinum turned over to me on an assignment. It cost me two, and you may have it at that figure, though it's worth two and a half inthe market to-day. "

"You are too generous, by half, " Fenton had answered. 

"Well, the fact is, " Irons had responded, "I hate infernally to beunder obligations. Princeton Platinum is wild-cat fast enough, but itwill touch four before they let the bottom drop out. That I happen toknow. This will give you a chance to make a neat thing out of it, andit will square off the obligation our syndicate's under to you. "

"Thank you, " was Fenton's answer; "but the obligation, such as it is, Iprefer to have stand, and I haven't any money to put into stock of anykind now. "

"Well, think it over. Don't let your sentiments interfere too much withbusiness. I'll hold the stock for you for three days. If you're foolenough to miss your opportunity after that I'm not responsible. "

Naturally, this portion of the conversation Fenton did not impart tohis wife. 

Edith's look became more perplexed as her talk with her husbandcontinued; and the matter-of-fact way in which he spoke of approachingdisaster was to her unintelligible. 

"What is going to collapse?" she asked at length. "The stock?"

"Certainly, my dear. There isn't anything behind it. I doubt if thereever was any Princeton Platinum mine, but I did think the men who weremanaging it were clever enough to get it to four or four and a halfbefore they let go. "

"But how could they get it to four or four and a half, if there isn'tany mine?"

"By gulling fools like me, my dear; that's the way these things arealways done. "

A troubled look came over Mrs. Fenton's face, and her lips closed alittle more tightly. 

"Well, " demanded her husband impatiently, "what is it? Moral scruples?"

"It doesn't seem to me to be very honest stock to be dealing in, " Edithreplied, timidly. 

"To discuss the morality of stock speculation, " he replied, with coollyelaborate courtesy, "is much like eating a fig. You may be biting theseeds all day without being sure you've finished them. "

She was silenced, and cast down her eyes waiting for what he mightchoose to say next. 

"The situation, " he continued, after a pause, "is merely this. Ihaven't the cleverness properly to manage being in debt. I don't knowhow those notes are to be paid Saturday, and have been given tounderstand that there are reasons, doubtless judicious, but extremelyinconvenient, why they will not be renewed. "

His manner was as calm as ever, but there was a growing hardness in histone and a cruel tightening of his lips. His restraint had much of thecalmness of despair. His was a nature which always outran actualitieswith imagined possibilities, and thus found in even the fullest joy asense of loss and failure; while in misfortune, it magnified all evilsuntil it was overwhelmed with the burden of their weight. He sufferedthe more acutely because he endured not only the sting of the presentevil, but of all those which he foresaw might follow in its wake. Hefelt at this moment a growing necessity to find some one against whomhe might logically turn his anger; and while he was firmly determinednot to vent his displeasure upon his wife, his attitude toward herbecame constantly more stern. 

"If Uncle Peter were at home, " Edith began, after a pause, "he might"--

"He might not, " interrupted Arthur, roughly. "In any case he has takenthe light of his countenance abroad, so he's out of the question. "

"But some of your friends, Arthur, might lend you the money you want. "

"My dear Edith, do you fancy that within the past month I have failedto go over the list of my friends, backward and forward? Don't saythose tiresome, obvious things. I'll fail and have an auction, and giveup the house, and lose caste, and have a pleasant tea-party generally. That's the only thing there is to do. "

Edith rose from her seat, and went around to where he was sitting. Standing behind his chair she laid her hands on his shoulders, and, bending forward, kissed his cheek. 

"I dare say, Arthur, " she said, "that we should be quite as happy if wegave up trying to live in a way that we can't afford; but meanwhilethere is godmamma. "

"Mrs. Glendower?"

"Yes. You know she has left me five thousand dollars in her will; andshe told me once that if the time came that I needed the moneydesperately I should have it for the asking. "

"That is kind of her, " was her husband's comment, "but it would bekinder to let you get it at once in the natural way. The comfort abouta bequest is that you don't have to feel grateful to any live man forit. "

His words were brutal enough, but there was a new lightness in histone. He caught instantly at this hope of relief, and he showed hisappreciation of his wife's cleverness in devising this scheme bycaressing the hand which lay upon his shoulder. 

"You can go to New York to-night, " remarked Edith thoughtfully, ignoring his words, "and be back by Saturday morning. If you didn't somuch dislike going to New York in the day time, you might get there intime to see godmamma to-night. "

"To-morrow will be time enough, " he answered. "You are a brick, Edith, to help me out of this scrape, and the magnitude of the moral reformsI'll institute in honor of my deliverance will astonish you. "

He sprang up as light-heartedly as a boy. The means of escaping theannoyance of the present moment had been found, and his buoyant spiritslifted him above the doubts and troubles of the future. 

They discussed together the details of his coming interview with Mrs. Glendower, and the terms of the letter which Edith should write to her. There was something most touching in the tender eagerness with whichEdith prolonged the talk and clung to the occasion which had broughther and her husband, for the moment, together. She even forgot todeplore the misfortune which had given rise to this confidence, and, inher desire to be helpful to Arthur, she did not even remember that onceher pride would have risen in rebellion at the bare suggestion oftaking advantage of Mrs. Glendower's offer. All day long she went aboutwith a happier smile on her lips than had been there for many a longday. The danger of impending ruin seemed to have brought herconsolation instead of grief; and in the prayers which she murmured inher heart as she stood with her arms clasped about Caldwell, whenFenton drove away that night, there was not a little thanksgivingmingled with her supplications. 

XXXIV

 WHAT TIME SHE CHANTED. Hamlet; iv. --7. 

The stock report which caused Fenton such unpleasant sensations wasread that same morning by Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson with keensatisfaction of a sort seldom known to the truly virtuous. Mrs. Sampsonwas engaged in financial transactions of which the very magnitudecaused her naive satisfaction, while the possible results made herbosom glow with unwonted emotion. Mrs. Sampson's affection for AlfredIrons was neither deep nor tender in its nature, and in settling thebill for services rendered in the railroad case there was no sentimentlikely to restrain her from making the best possible bargain. Thebargain she made was of a nature to send her about her flat singingsongs of triumph such as Deborah sang over the slaughter of theunfortunate Sisera. 

The wily but impressible Erastus Snaffle, cheered by the widow's wine, warmed by her smile, and smitten by her amiable conversation, hadbestowed upon her, merely as a tribute which mammon might pay to theever-womanly, three thousand shares of Princeton Platinum stock. He haddone this at a time when it seemed doubtful whether even his adroitnesscould make the scheme a success; and it somewhat mars the lustre of hisgenerosity to record that he afterward regretted his impulsive open-handedness. He had been able to prevent Mrs. Sampson from realizing onher stock, very reasonably feeling that he was making philanthropicendeavors to benefit an ungrateful world rather against its will, andhe did not mean that she should make a stumbling-block for him of hisown generosity by putting this gift on the market when he wished tosupply all buyers himself. 

When it was quoted at three, the high-water mark so far, he hadbeguiled the widow with a cock-and-bull story about the formalities oftransferrence on the books of the company of stocks which had beengiven away; and by the time Mrs. Sampson had cleared her mind from theentanglements of this ingenious fiction the bottom had dropped out ofthe market. 

In the midst of her disappointment in seeing what to her would havebeen almost a fortune melting into thin air, the fertile brain of Mrs. Sampson had given birth to what was nothing less than an inspiration, She had gone to see Alfred Irons, and delicately but firmly insinuatedthat it was high time she received substantial tokens of the gratitudeof the Wachusett Syndicate, for her efforts in their behalf with theHon. Thomas Greenfield. Mr. Irons had answered, as she had expected himto, that she had presented no bill. To this her reply was ready. Shewas prepared to state what would satisfy her. She explained that shefelt the delicacy of her position, since, if any consideration passedto her directly from the corporation, it was sure to be known, andunpleasant comment made. She had in her possession, she continued, certain stock, of which the market value was somewhere between two andtwo and a half, which, it struck her, might serve admirably to veil thegenerosity which had been promised her. Her proposition, in brief, wasthat Irons should take her three thousand shares of stock at fourdollars, the difference between this and the market value, of course, being refunded to him by the company. 

"By Gad! you're a cheeky one!" had been Iron's comment, more expressivethan elegant, when the widow had laid her scheme wholly before him. 

The railroad matter had, however, been settled to the satisfaction ofthe syndicate. Mr. Greenfield's support of the Wachusett scheme at thehearing had been of the utmost importance, especially as Mrs. Sampsonhad been able to persuade "Honest Tom" that a perfectly fairproposition made to him by Mr. Staggchase was in the nature of a high-handed bribe. This proposition had been presented in a somewhatscandalous light, and in the face of it Hubbard had induced hisassociates to throw up the whole Feltonville scheme. The RailroadCommissioners had issued the coveted certificate for the Wachusettroute, and the rest was easy. Irons was therefore grateful to thewidow, and he at length agreed to consult his associates, and he didnot deny Mrs. Sampson's observation that it was as much for the benefitof the corporation as of herself that money passing between them shouldbe covered by some such disguise as that of this stock operation. 

The widow had returned home not over sanguine, and her astonishment wasscarcely less than her pleasure when, on Wednesday afternoon, shereceived a note from Irons, assenting to her proposition with themodification that the purchasing figure should be three dollars insteadof four. It was a fact as far beyond the limits of the widow'sknowledge as it was beyond that of his colleagues, that Irons meant tomake this transaction the means of increasing a revenge which healready had in train. That gentleman had never forgiven Fenton forburning the order for railroad bonds, and when accident threw thePrinceton Platinum stock into his hands he determined to make it themeans of the artist's discomfiture. It was only the day after he hadoffered Fenton his four thousand shares that Mrs. Sampson appeared withher offer of three thousand more. He had no doubt of his ability toentrap Fenton into buying, the one weak spot in his plan being thefact, of which he was in complete ignorance, that Fenton already heldstock and had nothing whatever with which to buy more. He was willingto let the widow's bribe pass to her under so plausible a disguise, andhe said to himself with a chuckle that he had far rather sell Fentonthe seven thousand shares than four. 

If he were unable to sell to Fenton it appeared to Irons as on thewhole highly probable that he could dispose of the stock for thecorporation at a price which would materially lessen the amount oftheir bonus to the widow; or if the market should chance to lookpromising, he might find it worth while to buy it from his colleagueswith a view to realizing something on it himself. 

Perhaps it was because he was doing business with a woman, perhaps itwas the consciousness of the bribe which the bargain covered and adesire to leave as little record of it as possible, perhaps it was onlythe carelessness of extreme haste, that caused Irons to send to thewidow so ambiguous and dangerous a note as the following, --

"DEAR MRS. SAMPSON, --I am suddenly called to New York, and leave to-night. I will take all your Princeton Platinum stock at three dollars. Please deliver it at my office to-morrow with this note as a voucher. "Yours truly, "ALFRED IRONS. "

It was the misfortune of Alfred Irons that Mrs. Sampson took an extracup of coffee that evening and could not sleep; and in the watches ofthe night, either the devil or her own soul--the inspirations of thetwo being too similar for one rashly to venture to discriminate betweenthem--said to her, "Amanda! Now is your chance. " Thereafter, no fumesof coffee were necessary to keep the widow awake for the remainder ofthe night; and on Thursday morning before she presented herself atIrons's office she had an interesting interview with no less apersonage than Mr. Erastus Snaffle himself. 

Mrs. Sampson began by declaring that she wished to purchase a certainamount of Princeton Platinum stock, but before long the need she feltof having her feminine guile supported by masculine intelligence hadled her to make a clean breast of the situation. She showed Mr. SnaffleMr. Irons's note, calling his attention particularly to the ill-chosenword "all" which seemed to her to afford the means of unloadingindefinitely at the expense of the absent financier. Her enthusiasmreceived a cruel shock when Snaffle retorted with a burst of ill-bredlaughter, --

"Oh Lord! You must think Irons is a dog-goned fool!"

"But, " the widow persisted, "it says 'all' the stock, doesn't it?"

"Do you think you could make his firm buy up all the Princeton on thatflimsy dodge?" retorted Snaffle contemptuously. 

"We'll see, " Amanda declared, nodding her head determinedly. "Thequestion is how much do you think they will stand? A man ought to knowthat better than a woman. "

A new look of cunning came into the fat face of the speculator, and hisnumerous superfluous chins began to be agitated as if with excitement. 

"Well, " he said, "if you can stick them for any I don't see why youcan't for a lot. I've just four thousand shares left, and you might aswell run them all in on the old man. "

The widow laughed with malicious glee. 

"I don't know, " she replied, "how this will turn out, but if I wasn'tgoing to get a cent from it, I'd try it just for the sake of gettingeven with Al Irons. "

"Oh, its your opportunity, " he said, with agile change of base, "and asfor getting ahead of him, I'm blessed if I wouldn't bet on you everytime. Seven thousand shares isn't much for a house like theirs. We putthe stock at ten dollars on purpose so folks could handle a lot of itand talk big without having much money in. Come, you just clear out thewhole thing for me, and I'll let you have it at two and a half, justfor your good looks. "

"Thank you for nothing, " was the reply of the redoubtable widow. "Itook the trouble to find out the market price on my way down here andanybody can buy plenty of it for two and an eighth, without being goodlooking at all. "

Erastus chuckled, rubbing his fat hands together in delightedappreciation of his companion's wit. 

"Come, " he pleaded, "when you get to making eyes at that clerk, he'llbuy anything you offer, no matter what Irons told him. I wouldn't givemuch for the man that would let a little memorandum stand in the way ofobliging a lady. "

Amanda did not have good blood in her veins without appreciating thecoarse vulgarity of Snaffle; but neither had she associated for yearswith his kind without having the edge of her distaste worn away. Shewas, besides, a woman and a vain one, and the undisguised admirationwith which he regarded her put her in excellent humor. It confirmed theverdict of her mirror that the care with which she had arrayed herselffor this expedition had not been wasted. She smiled as she answeredhim, tapping her chin with her well-gloved forefinger. 

"But, of course, " she observed, dispassionately, "if I bought of you atall I should buy conditionally. I'll give you two for the stock, andtake it if I can sell it to Irons. "

"Oh, don't rob yourself, " Snaffle returned, with good-natured sarcasm. "What's to hinder my selling it for two and an eighth myself?"

"Two and an eighth asked and no buyers is what they told me!" retortedthe widow imperturbably. "I don't know much about stocks, but I knowthat if you could have sold for almost any price you'd have done itlong ago. "

"Right you are, " admitted Snaffle, good-naturedly, "if I'd nobody toconsider but myself; but just the same, I sha'n't kick the bottom outof the market before it falls out of itself. "

"Then I understand, " said the widow, with an air, gathering herselftogether as if to depart, "that you won't take my offer. "

"Oh, come now, " protested Snaffle, "why don't you ask me to give it toyou as I did the other?"

"So delicate of him, " murmured the widow, confidentially to theuniverse at large, "to fling that at me. "

"I ain't flinging it at you, " Snaffle returned, unabashed. "But, comenow, let's talk business. If I give you an option on this, so long asyou are going to sell it at three dollars, of course you ought to payme more than the market price. I'll be d'ed if I let you have it lessthan two and a half. "

"One doesn't know which to admire most, Mr. Snaffle, your politeness toladies or your generosity. "

"Oh, don't mention it, " was the speculator's grinning reply. "Come, now, don't be a pig. Twenty per cent profit ought to satisfy anybody. "

"I'll give you two, " said Mrs. Sampson, with feminine persistency. 

Snaffle turned on his heel with a word seldom spoken in the presence ofladies. 

"Well, you might as well get out of this, then, " he remarked, brusquely. "You're a beauty, but you don't know anything aboutbusiness. "

Amanda regarded him with an inscrutable glance for an instant, evidently making up her mind that he meant what he said. 

"Well, " she observed; "if you want to rob me, I'm only a woman withnobody to take my part, and I shall have to give you what you ask. "

"Gad!" he ejaculated. "If one man in ten was as well able to take hisown part as you are, things 'd be some different from what they arenow. "

And the smile of Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson indicated that even so high-flavored a compliment as this was not wholly displeasing to her. Thecertificates of stock were produced and duly endorsed, and, tuckingthem into her handbag, the widow went on her way attended by wishes forher success which were probably the more genuine because thetransaction was only conditional. 

"Well, " Snaffle communed with himself after she had departed; "thereain't no flies on the widow, and I guess she'll manage that clerk. She's a clever one, but if she'd been a little cleverer, so as toappreciate that I couldn't put that amount of stock on the marketwithout sending the price down to bed rock, she might have had the lotat her own figure. I'd have been glad to take one fifty for it. "

Meanwhile the widow had pursued her scheming way toward State Street. The moral support of Snaffle's testimony to her ability and hisadmiration for her personal appearance probably upheld her during herinterview with Mr. Iron's clerk. That young man, an exquisite creature, who had the appearance of giving his mind largely to his collars, wasoverwhelmed by the amount of stock which Mrs. Sampson produced. Heexplained with some confusion that in the hurry incident upon Mr. Iron's unexpected departure, he had neglected to make a memorandum, butthat he understood that he was to receive three thousand shares ofPrinceton Platinum with Mr. Iron's letter as a voucher. 

"I may have been mistaken, " he observed, apologetically. "Mr. Irons wascalled away in a great hurry, and I did get some of his directionsconfused. It's singular that he didn't name the amount in the letter. "

"I'm very sorry he didn't, " returned the widow, with an engaging air ofappealing to the other's generosity. "It puts me in a very awkwardposition, just as if I were trying to impose on you. Mr. Irons knewjust what I had and said he'd take it all. "

"Oh, I didn't mean for an instant, " the clerk protested, blushing withconfusion, "that you were trying to impose on us. "

The clerk was young and susceptible, the widow was mature and adroit;he was confused and uncertain, she was definite and determined. Mr. Irons had, moreover, given the young man to understand that thetransaction was a confidential and personal one, which involved morethan appeared on the surface. Confronted by the phraseology of Mr. Iron's note, backed by Mrs. Sampson's insinuating manner and unblushingstatements, the clerk laid aside his discretion, and in the end allowedhimself to fall a victim to the wiles of the astute widow, who walkedaway considerably richer than she came, besides being able to bring joyto the heart of Erastus Snaffle by a neat sum of ready cash, which shedelivered after another prolonged discussion over the price she shouldpay him for the stock. 

And on the following morning when she read in the stock reports thatPrinceton Platinum had fallen to one and a half, she remembered herstroke of yesterday with a conscience which if not wholly clear wasthoroughly satisfied. 

XXXV

 HEARTSICK WITH THOUGHT. Two Gentlemen of Verona; i. --1. 

Fenton's forenoon at his studio was broken by a visit from Ninitta. Hismind full of his trip to New York, and of speculations concerning hisinterview with Mrs. Glendower, he had let the whole question of the_Fatima_ and his entanglement with its model slip from his mind, andwhen he opened the door to find Mrs. Herman standing there, the shockof his surprise was a most painful one. Ninitta's eyes were swollenwith weeping, and the sleepless night had made her plain face haggardand ugly. With a quick, irritated gesture, the artist put his hand uponher arm and drew her impatiently into the studio. Closing the door, hestood confronting her a moment, studying her expression, as if todiscover the cause of her disturbance. 

"Well, " at length he said, harshly, "have you betrayed me?"

Ninitta answered his look with one of helpless and confused despair. The anguish of the long hours during which she had been making up hermind what to do in the emergency that had arisen, had stupefied her sothat she could not think clearly. She still suffered, and Fenton'sbrutal manner brought tears to her eyes, but she was benumbed anddazed, and could neither think nor feel clearly. 

"Grant found out himself, " she said, "that I posed. "

"Well?" Fenton demanded, with an intensity that made his smooth voicehoarse. 

"That's all, " Ninitta responded dully. "I'm going away. "

"Going away?" echoed Fenton, the words arousing again his fears thatthe worst might have been discovered. "Then Herman does know?"

"He only knows that I posed, " repeated Ninitta; "but he says Nino wouldbe ashamed, and I am going away. "

"But where are you going?"

"Home; to Capri. "

The artist looked at her with an impatient feeling that it was idle toreason with her, and that she had somehow passed beyond his control. Hemoved away a few steps, and sat down in an old carved monkish chair, while his visitor leaned, as if for support, against the casing of thedoor. He looked at her curiously, wondering what her mental processeswere like, and saying to himself, with mingled chagrin and philosophy, that it was impossible to deal with a creature so irrational, but thatfortunately he was not responsible for her movements His glancewandered about the studio, noting with artistic appreciation thepleasant coloring of a heap of cushions thrown carelessly on the divan. He wondered if it would have been better had he arranged that blue onein a fuller light, as a background for the beautiful shoulder of his_Fatima_, yet reflected that on the whole the value he had chosenbetter brought out the quality of the flesh-tones. What a splendidpicture the _Fatima_ was. It was worth some inconvenience to haveachieved such a success, and, after all, he would not be so foolish asto begrudge the price he must pay for his triumph. 

And yet, and yet--He turned back with a movement of impatience towardthat sad, silent figure standing just inside his door. A wave of angerrose within him. He felt that he had a right to consider himselfaggrieved by her persistent presence. Why must his will, his happiness, his artistic powers be hampered and thwarted by this woman who was onlyfit to serve his art and be laid aside, like his mahl-stick andpalette. 

"It seems to me, " he burst out, more harshly than ever, "that you mighthave had the sense to keep away from here, at least until Herman getsover his anger. "

"But I am going away, " she said, "and I came to you for some money. "

He stared at her in fresh amazement an instant; then he burst intoderisive laughter. 

"Well, " he said, "I like that. Why, I'm going to New York myself to-night, to try to beg enough to keep me out of the poor-house. "

"But I can't ask Mr. Herman, " Ninitta said, beseechingly. 

"In Heaven's name, Ninitta, " exclaimed Fenton, "don't be an idiot. There's no sense in running away. Besides, what are you afraid of?"

"But it might hurt Nino if I stayed, " returned poor Ninitta. 

Through the bitter watches of the night, she had been saying that overand over to herself. With all her weakness and her sin, her mother-lovestood the supreme test. As she had been able to give up her Italianfriends when the boy was born, because, as she said, Nino was born agentleman and must not associate with them; now, when she was convincedthat he would be better without her, she was able to give him up, although with a breaking heart. Many times she had been forced toconfess to herself that Nino's mother was not a lady like Mrs. Fentonor Helen Greyson, or others of her husband's friends; and although shehad always comforted herself with the reflection that at least no boyhad a mother who loved him more than she did her son, the thought thather child might be better without her had more than once forced itselfupon her mind. It was idle for Fenton to argue; Ninitta's decision hadpassed beyond argument, and perhaps her understanding was, for the timebeing, too benumbed by suffering clearly to follow her companion'sreasoning. 

"At least, " she said at last, utterly ignoring his earnest endeavor toshake her resolution, "if you cannot let me have any money, you willwrite a note for me to tell Mr. Herman that I am gone, and to say good-by to the _bambino. _"

"Good God, Ninitta! Are you mad?" Fenton cried, jumping up and comingto confront her. "Why should you mix me up in this business? He knowsmy writing, and think what he might suspect if I wrote such a note. "

His voice insensibly softened as he spoke. He could not but be touchedby the utter helplessness, the anguish, the baffled weakness so evidentin her face and manner. He was cruel only from selfishness and theinstinct of self-defence, and his pity was sharply aroused by Ninitta'ssuffering and her miserable condition. 

"Come, " he said gently, laying his hand on her arm, "you are tired andfrightened. There is no need for you to go away and, besides, you couldnot live without the _bambino. _ Think, you would have no letters; youwould never even hear from him. "

A spasm of pain contracted Ninitta's features. She pressed her handsupon her bosom with interlaced fingers working convulsively. 

"Oh, Mother of God!" she moaned, in a voice of intensest agony, whichthrilled Fenton with a keen pang that yet did not prevent hisremembering how like was the cry to that of a great tragic actress ashe had heard it in _Phedre_. 

"Don't, Ninitta, " he pleaded, unlocking her hands and taking them inhis. "I"--

"You will write me?" she interrupted eagerly. "You will tell me aboutNino? I shall find somebody to read it to me. Oh, you are good. That isthe best kindness you could do me. "

She pressed his hands eagerly, a divine yearning, a gleam of passionatehope shone in her dark eyes. Fenton tried to smile, but despite himselfhis lip trembled. He had hard work to control himself, but he reflectedthat with him lay the responsibility of dissuading Ninitta from her madproject. 

"But it will be better still, " he urged, "to be with him. What can aboy do without his mother?"

She bent her head forward, gazing into his eyes as if she were tryingto read his very soul; then she threw it backward with a sharp moan, shaking his hands from hers with a tragic gesture. 

"He would be ashamed, " she said. "Now he is too young to know that heis better without his mother. "

She looked around the familiar studio with a sweeping, panting glance;then she turned again to Fenton, clasping both his hands with one ofhers. 

"Think of what I have done for you, " she said; "and write me about him. I shall die if you do not. "

And there shot through Fenton's mind a sense of the terrible tragedywhich lay in such an appeal for such an end. 

When she was gone, Fenton consoled himself with the reflection that thelack of money would prevent Ninitta from carrying out her wild whim. He, of course, could not know that soon after Nino's birth Herman hadstarted a fund for him in a savings bank, and to the mother's intensegratification had the deposits made in her name as trustee. He hadtaught Ninitta to sign her name; and great had been her pleasure inwatching the little fund grow. It indicated the desperateness of herresolve, that now she broke into this cherished fund, drawing barelyenough money to take her back to Capri. She was going away for Nino'ssake she argued with herself, and that justified even this. 

All through the day she busied herself with preparations for departure. She would take nothing but the barest necessities; only that the hand-satchel into which she compressed her few belongings held Nino's firstbaby socks, a lock of his hair, his picture, a broken toy, and otherdear trifles, each of which she packed wet with tears and covered withkisses. 

Late in the afternoon she took Nino into her chamber alone to bid himgood-by. Her limbs failed her as the door closed and he stood lookingat her in innocent wonder. She sank into a chair, faint and trembling, soul and body rent with an intolerable anguish so great that for amoment she wondered if she were not dying. 

"What is the matter, mamma?" Nino cried out in his musical Italian, running across the room to stand by her knee. 

He took one of her hands in his, stroking it softly and looking up intoher face with pity and wonder. 

"I am going away, Nino, " she said, speaking with a mighty effort. "Youmust be a good boy and always mind and love papa. And, oh!" she cried, her self-control breaking down, "love me too, Nino; love me, love me. "

She clasped her arms convulsively about his neck, but she choked thefirst sob that rose in her throat. She did not dare give way. Sheinstinctively knew that she needed all her strength to carry herthrough what she had undertaken. She kissed the startled child withburning fervor. She drew him into her lap and held him close to her. Her very lips were white. 

"Nino, " she said, "can you remember something to say to papa?"

"Oh, yes, " he answered. "I am quite old enough for that. Don't youremember how I repeated", --

 _"'Questo domanda del pan; Questo dise, no ghe n'e; Questo dise come faremo; Quell' altro dise; rubaremo; Il mignolo dise; chi ruba 'mpicca, 'mpicca!_'"

It was a folk rhyme she had taught him to say, telling off his chubbyfingers one by one; and she remembered how proud the boy had been whenhe had repeated it to his father. Her mouth twitched convulsively, butshe went on steadily. 

"You remembered it beautifully, Nino, " she said, "and you are to say topapa, 'Mamma has gone away to Italy for my sake, and she leaves you herlove. ' Say it over, Nino. "

"'Mamma has gone away to Italy for my sake, '" repeated the child. "But, mamma, " he broke in, "I don't want you to go. "

She embraced him as if in her death struggle the waters of the sea wereclosing over her. 

"Say it, Nino, " she repeated. "Say it all. "

The child did as she bade him. She knew she could not prolong thisinterview, and still have strength to carry out her resolution. Sheembraced and kissed her child so frantically that he became frightenedand began to cry. Then she soothed him and led him to the chamber door. She put her hand on the latch. She looked at him, her Nino, her baby. She tottered as she stood. But the force of character which had givenher strength to fight her way for ten years and across half the worldto seek Nino's father gave her power now. She opened the door and putthe boy out gently. She could not trust herself to kiss him again, oreven again to say good-by. 

But when the door was closed, she rolled upon the floor in agony, stifling her moans lest they should be heard outside, beating herbreast and biting her arms like a mad creature. 

When Herman came home to dinner that night his wife was gone, and Ninogave him her message. 

XXXVI

 FAREWELL AT ONCE, FOR ONCE, FOR ALL AND EVER. Richard II. ; ii. --2. 

Fenton's reflections as he sat in the train that evening, bound for NewYork, were varied rather than pleasing. There are crises in a man'slife when it is perhaps quite as wise that he should not attempt toreason; he cannot do better than to keep his attention occupied withindifferent subjects, trusting to that instinct or higher self, orwhatever it may be within us which works independently of our outerconsciousness, to settle all perplexities. Some idea of this sort wasin Arthur's mind as he sped along towards the Sound steamer. He couldnot prevent himself from thinking more or less of the situation of hisaffairs, but he made no attempt to consider them reasonably or inorder. 

"It would have saved me an awkward interview, " he reflected, "if Mrs. Glendower could have taken herself opportunely out of the world. If wemay trust the usual form of mortuary resolutions, Divine Providence ishabitually pleased with the removal of mortals from this sublunarysphere; and in this case I should share the sentiment. "

His musings took on a darker tone as time went on. He thought withbitterness of the failure of his past, and he loathed himself for whathe was. The hateful mystery of life tormented him with its poisonousuncertainty. He groaned inwardly at the curse that one day should stillfollow another. Then the phrasing of his thought pleased him, and withveering fancy he went on stringing epigrams in his brain. 

"After all, " he thought, "what we call a fool in this world is a manwho has his own way at the expense of the wise. There's Candish, now; Icall him a fool and he goes ahead and is damned virtuous and stupid andexasperating, and gets through life beautifully; while I, who wouldn'tbe such an idiot for any money, am always in some confounded scrape orother. I wonder, by the way, what's the connection between sanctity anda waistcoat put on hind side before. Candish and Edith wouldn't make abad pair. She wouldn't mind his ugly mug in the least, and his idiociesof temperament would be rather pleasing to her. Heaven knows it was anill day for her when she fell into my clutches. I can't say that itseems to have been any great advantage to any woman to be fond of me. Helen was awfully cut up when I went back on the Pagans, and as forNinitta, I've played the very dickens with her. Upon my word I have mydoubts if I could be really respectable without cutting my ownacquaintance. "

Fenton retired to his stateroom almost as soon as he went on board thesteamer. He was tired with the strain of the last weeks, he hated thevulgar crowd one met in travelling, so that to sleep and avoid hiscompanions seemed the only course desirable under the circumstances. 

He was dimly conscious of the progress of the boat, the bustle in thesaloon, which gradually subsided as the evening wore on; and then hisslumber grew deeper. Even the frequent whistling which the ever-increasing fog made necessary only caused him, now and then, to turnuneasily in his berth. His stateroom was well aft, and in his drowsy, half-waking moments, he was conscious that the sea was running heavily. He remembered that the wind had been east all day, and that he had seenthe danger-signal floating that afternoon. 

Toward morning he grew more wakeful. The whistling of the fog-signal, which had now become almost constant, vanquished at length hisinclination toward slumber. He found his watch, but it was too dark totell the time. He raised himself up in his berth, and, pulling open thewindow blind, was able with difficulty to make out that it was almostfour o'clock. Outside, he saw a bank of fog, as impenetrable to the eyeas a wall. He pulled the blind to, with an impatient sigh. 

"This confounded fog, " he thought, "will make us late, and I sha'n'thave time to see those pictures at the Academy. "

He lay back in his berth, broad awake, with an objurgation at thewhistle, which was shrieking furiously, and which, he suddenly becameaware, was being answered by the dull bellow of a fog horn blown nearat hand. At that moment the engines of the boat stopped, with thatcessation of the quivering jar which is so terrifying. Fenton couldfeel the steamer losing its headway, and being more heavily tossedabout by the waves as it did so. He sat up in his berth with a startledconsciousness of danger, and at the same instant something struck thesteamer with a terrific crash which seemed powerful enough to rendevery timber apart. A tumult of sound broke forth, amid which apiercing human shriek rang out with awful sharpness. Fenton was thrownfrom his berth by the shock, and landed on the floor, bruised and half-stunned, but otherwise unhurt. His valise was dashed against him, butafter the first concussion there was no further violent movement, and, as soon as he was able to recover himself, he had no difficulty ingetting to his feet. The terrible cries which continued, reinforced bya babel of screams and confused noises, seemed to him to come from somestateroom near at hand. It was evident that some one had been seriouslyhurt in the collision which must have occurred. The trampling of feet, the voices of men and women and children, the sound of the wind and ofthe water, and those formless noises which are the more terrifyingbecause it is impossible to tell whence they arise, filled the air onevery side, and told Fenton that some serious calamity had befallen thesteamer. 

He felt about in the darkness for his clothing, then pulled open theshutter hastily, and dressed himself in the dim light as well as he wasable. He was excited but not panic-stricken, yet the time seemed long, although in reality it was but a few moments before he was ready toopen his door into the saloon. As he came out he had a startledimpression of finding himself in an unexpected place, and then herealized that the side of the boat had been broken in clean through therange of staterooms, and that he was looking out into the heavy wall offog through a hole made by the collision. He could see dimly the shapeof a ship's prow, and the broken end of a bowsprit was not yet whollydisentangled from the rent in the side of the steamer. The two vessels, locked together like a pair of sea-monsters that had perished in thedeath grapple of a desperate encounter, tossed up and down on the longswell, swayed by the wind which seemed to be increasing in fury everymoment. 

On the floor of the saloon just before him, Fenton saw a wounded man, ghastly with blood, and moaning terribly. Half-dressed people hoveredabout him in utter bewilderment, while others continually hurried upsimply to hasten away again in frantic confusion. The wounded man wasin his night clothes, and a half-dressed old woman, her gray hairstraggling about her face, seemed to be attempting to stanch the bloodwhich was flowing freely. She was evidently a stranger, since from timeto time she appealed to those around to take her place, and let her goand look after her own folk, but the kindly old creature plainly couldnot bring herself, even in that hour of peril, to desert one hurt andhelpless. 

On every side were the evidences of panic. Stateroom doors were open, people in all stages of disarray were hurrying wildly along, orclinging frantically to each other. The hysterical sobs of women, piercing cries from the thin voices of children, deep-toned curses andwild ejaculations from men sounded on every hand. People were donninglife-preservers, some putting on two or three in their eagerness andfear; and here and there fighting for the possession of an extra one ina mad fury. The whole saloon was filled with a wild and terrifyingtumult. It was a frenzied scene of fear and awful bewilderment. 

However great his mental pluck, Fenton was physically a coward, and heknew it. The New England climate and life have given to most of herchildren, of any degree of cultivation, a nervous organization tooacutely sensitive to pain for them to be physically brave; but to thisdisposition the New England training, the inherited manliness of sturdyancestors, has added a splendid moral energy to overcome this weakness. 

In the first terrible shock of fear which followed his discovery thatthe steamer had been run down, Fenton's body trembled with terror. Hefelt a wild and dizzy impulse to rush somewhere madly; but in a momenthis will reasserted itself. He was intensely frightened, but he beatdown his fear with the lash of self-scorn, as he would have whipped ahound that refused to do his bidding. He steadied himself for a momentagainst the doorway with tense muscles, setting his teeth together. Hedrew a deep breath, turned back into his stateroom, and put on a corkjacket. He was cool enough. Before he buckled it he transferred hiswallet and papers from the pocket of his coat to that on the inside ofhis waistcoat. Then he hurried out through the saloon on to theafterdeck. The place was crowded, and the confusion was indescribable. Fenton's first impulse was to put his hands over his ears, to shut outthe horrible din. The officers were shouting orders and getting theboats manned, for even in this short time the steamer was settling. Thehissing swash of the waves beating into the breach, the prayers, theimprecations, the hysterical sobs, the agonized cries of the strugglingpassengers, the darkness, the terror, the yawning abyss of deathbeneath them, --combined to sweep away all human feelings save theinstinct of self-preservation. The brute side of human nature revealeditself with a hideousness more horrible than the terror of the nightand the sea. Unprotected women were crushed and trampled, and as theboats were lowered a fierce hand-to-hand conflict ensued, men fightinglike wild cats to force their way into them. The officers beat themback, and made way for the women as well as they could, struggling atthe same time with the difficult task of maintaining discipline amongthe crew. 

Shrill amid the uproar, a child's cry smote Fenton's ear as he came outupon the deck. Directly before him a man was trying to pull a life-preserver off from a boy, while a woman fought with him in a desperateendeavor to shield her child. The lad was about the size of Caldwelland in the confused light not wholly unlike him. With a sob and acurse, Fenton struck the man full in the face with all his force, sending the brute reeling backward into the crowd which was too denseto allow of his falling. The mother hurriedly pulled the child into thedense stream of people crowding toward the boats, and Fenton saw thepair disappear over the side of the steamer, helped by one of theofficers. 

There ran through his mind a momentary speculation of their chances ofescape, and the thought brought him back to the consideration of hisown situation. A sudden unreasonable disgust of the conditions whichmade his salvation so improbable seized upon him. He reflected that hemight still baffle fate by taking his own life, and for an instant theidea of thus escaping from all the vexations which surrounded himpresented itself to his mind in alluring colors. The idea of self-destruction was one with which he had played so often that heentertained it without a shock; and he realized now, almost with aconviction that the fact forced him to suicide for the sake ofconsistency, that his death under these circumstances would surely beattributed to accident. He even began to fumble with the buckles of hislife-preserver; then with a smile of bitter scorn he looked down at hishands, of which the fingers were trembling with nervous fear. 

"Bah, " he said to himself, "why should I pose to myself? Fate is toomuch for me; if a gentle and beneficent Providence intends to make awaywith me, so be it. I haven't the nerve to anticipate it. "

He started toward the boats, and at that instant he caught sight of theface of Ninitta. She was standing perfectly quiet, with her arm aroundone of the small pillars supporting the covering to the deck. She wasfully dressed, though her head was uncovered and the rings of hairclung about her face. Fenton forgot everything else at sight of her. Ina moment of supreme egotism there flashed through his mind theconsequences of Ninitta's being here. The consciousness of all that laybetween them made him keenly alive to the evil construction which mightbe placed upon her having fled from home on the same boat which carriedhim. He realized, with a profound feeling of impotence, that if theywere lost together he should be forever unable to explain or to dispelthe suspicion to which her presence might give rise; he felt with keenbitterness how useless would be all his cleverness, and his heartswelled with rage at the thought that his adroitness would be wastedfor lack of opportunity. 

He forgot the danger, the terror of the wreck, the shrieking of thewomen, the brutality of the men, and, for the moment, felt with thekeen desperation of enormous vanity the danger to his reputation. Heforced his way madly across the deck and confronted her in the ghastlylight of the swinging lantern and the gray foregleams of the comingdawn. 

"You followed me!" he cried with bitter harshness. 

She looked at him in a calm, stunned way, as if she were past sufferingand almost past feeling. The recognition in her eyes came slowly, as ifshe were dazed or as if some powerful mental stress held her attention. 

"Now, " he began, "your boy"--He was going to add, "will grow up tobelieve you ran away with me;" but his manliness asserted itself and hecould not continue. It was like striking a woman, and the brutal wordsdied on his lip. 

At the mention of her boy a sudden passion flamed in her eyes. Sheloosed her hold upon the pillar and a sudden lurch of the sinking shipthrew her into Fenton's arms. She clung to him frantically. 

"My boy!" she moaned. "My boy!"

Like quickly shifting pictures, there ran through Fenton's mind theimages of Nino, of the boy whose life-preserver he had saved, and ofhis own son, asleep in safety in his nursery at home. With a quickrevulsion of feeling came the desire to save Ninitta, and withinstinctive quickness he hit upon a possible means of escape. As hecame through the saloon he had seen a man, a dim shape in the fog, clambering through the shattered staterooms to climb over the brokenbowsprit into the vessel that had run them down. Hastily drawingNinitta along, he forced his way back into the saloon. The body of theman who had been hurt in the collision lay dead and deserted on thefloor. He lifted his companion over it and made his way to the side ofthe steamer. Others had discovered this road to safety and he had tofight for his foothold amid the waves that now washed over his feet. The men on the stranger vessel were sawing off the broken spar whichwas entangled under the steamer's upper deck, lest their craft shouldbe dragged down by the sinking boat. He urged Ninitta forward, swingingher by main force up into the tangled rigging. 

"No, no, " she cried, endeavoring to throw herself back. "I do not wantto go. It will be better for Nino. "

The sublimity of her self-sacrifice smote him like a lash. He could notstop to argue, but he forced her forward, and one of the men above, feeling himself in safety, caught her by the arm to drag her up. But atthat instant the spar, cut nearly through, broke with a sharp cracklike the sound of a gun. The end fell, and with it the wretched womanwas carried down. She shrieked as she went, the water cutting short hercry of mortal anguish. Fenton saw her face an instant, and then in thefog and the darkness the lapping water closed over her. 

An awful sickening shudder ran through him, a fear too great to beresisted. There rose from his heart a despairing prayer; and theunbeliever has sounded the depth of agony when he calls upon God. 

At that instant a beam loosened from the upper deck, dragged downwardby the ropes of the falling bowsprit, fell with a crash, dashing himdownward into the gulf below. He felt the awful stinging pain of theblow, like the thrust of a spear; a mighty wave seemed to mount upwardto meet and to engulf him. Then he lost all perception of what he wasdoing or of what happened to him; and it might to his consciousnesshave been either moments or hours before he found himself struggling inthe icy water. He swam instinctively, and he even remembered to try toincrease his distance from the steamer, that he might not be caught inthe eddy when it went down. He heard still the cries and shrieks, butthe noise of the sea at his ears was like a mighty uproar confusingall. He could not tell in which direction lay the vessel; a mightypressure crushed his chest, and innumerable lights twinkling against abackground of intensest black seemed to shine before his eyes. He waspast thinking clearly. His memory was like a broken mirror whoseshattered fragments reflected a thousand bits from his past life, confused, detached, and meaningless. 

 Then with a last supreme effort his strong will asserted itself in acommand upon his consciousness. For one intense instant, briefer thanthe flash of the tiniest spark, he realized everything, save that theblow or the nearness of death seemed to have dulled all sense of fear. The most vivid thought of all was the reflection that he might havebeen saved but for his efforts to help Ninitta. The grim humor of thesituation tickled his fancy, and in the very flood of death he faintlysmiled at the irony of fate which thus balanced accounts. And thisflash of cynical amusement was the last gleam of his earthlyconsciousness. 

XXXVII

 A SYMPATHY OF WOE. Titus Andronicus; iii. --1. 

Fortunately Ninitta had made no secret of her departure except toconceal it from her husband. She had been to see some Italian friendsof former days to ask about people she had known in Italy, and fromthem her husband learned pretty nearly what her plans had been. Fentonmight have spared himself his fears lest she be suspected of going withhim. Such a thought did not for an instant enter into Herman's mind. The sculptor found himself appreciating better than ever before thestrength of his wife's character. The knowledge of Ninitta's faultsdied with her, and her memory was transmitted to her son enriched withthe halo of a martyr who has died in the path of supreme self-sacrifice. Nine's father understood fairly well the train of reasoningwhich had led his wife to the tragic resolve to leave their boy. Ignorant of her fault, he blamed himself for the reproach by which hefeared he had forced her to believe that it were better for her son tobe freed from her presence. 

His generous nature forgot, too, all anger against Fenton. To the noblesoul, death, by a reasoning which is above logic, seems to settle allaccounts. He remembered the artist's brightness, his quick sympathy, his keen imagination, and his ready adaptability. The flippancy thathad often shocked him, the treachery to principles which he held sacredthat had wounded him, his kind memory put out of sight, as one wipesthe stains from a crystal; and in the mind of the man he had wronged, the remembrance of Arthur Fenton remained fair and gracious, and noblerthan the nature whose monument it was. 

He went to see Mrs. Fenton, but when he met her he at first could saynothing. He stammered brokenly, tears choking his voice, holding herhand in his, and vainly striving to put into words the sympathy hefelt. Then he stooped suddenly and kissed her hand. 

"Our boys, "--he said, with awkward phrasing, but with an instinct whichreached to the ground of their deepest sympathy. "It might comfort thema little to play together. "

The widow clung with both her small hands to the large strong one whichhad clasped hers; and bending down over it she burst into convulsivesobs. He stood silent a moment, his lip trembling then with gravekindness, he said, --

"I know how hard it is; but you have the comfort of being able to tellthe boy that his father was a genius and a noble man. Do you know thata woman who was rescued says that your husband saved her boy, a littlelad like Caldwell. Arthur knocked down the man that was trying to robhim of his life-preserver. The Captain told her afterward who it was. "

He was perfectly sincere in what he said. It was difficult for him tothink evil of the living; of the dead it was impossible. 

After he had gone, Edith took Caldwell on her knee and told him thestory. It was the brightest ray of comfort in all that sad time to beable thus to glorify his father in the eyes of her son. The incidentdwelt in her mind, and her loving fancy added to it a hundred detailsand drew from it numberless deductions with which to enrich the memoryof her dead. It came in time to be the most prominent thing in herremembrance of her husband. It was the fact which she could recall withthe most unmixed satisfaction, which needed no evasions, no mentalreservations, no warpings of belief, to appear wholly noble. In thelight of this deed, the impulse of a moment, Fenton stood in her memoryas a hero; and in viewing him thus, she was able to lose sight ofeverything which she must forgive, of everything which she wished toforget. 

Edith was happily spared the harassing complications of financialdifficulty which it had seemed must inevitably result from thecondition in which her husband's affairs were left. 

On Mr. Irons's return from New York, he had been astounded and enragedto find that he had been outwitted by the combined cleverness of Mrs. Sampson and the stupidity of his clerk, and that he was in possessionof eleven thousand shares of Princeton Platinum stock. For seventhousand shares he had paid at the rate of three dollars, and the stockwas now quoted at one and three eighths asked, with no particularreason for supposing that the putting of even half his shares on themarket would not reduce it to zero. Irons blasphemed prodigiously andemphatically, discharged his clerk, and went to call on Mrs. Sampson, whom he threatened with all sorts of condign punishments if she did notdisgorge her ill-gotten gains. The widow received him affably, andlaughed in his face at this proposal, a course of action which won hisrespect more fully than any other which she could have chosen. Therewas evidently nothing left but to do what he could with the market, andby methods best known to himself he succeeded in bulling the stock sothat he was able to unload at three dollars and a half. 

The brokers in whose hands Fenton had left his stock had been watchingtheir opportunity, and closed it out at the top of the market, aconsummation for which Fenton had so devoutly longed that it seemedcruel he could not have lived to see it. The returns from this and fromher husband's life insurance secured to Edith and her son a smallincome, which was considerably increased by the sale of Fenton'spictures which was soon after organized by the artists of the St. Filipe Club. 

It was about a month after Ninitta's death that Grant Herman went tovisit Helen. He had chosen to see her at her studio rather than at herhome. Poignant memories of the past were less likely to be aroused bythe unfamiliar appearance of this room which he had never beforeentered. It was late in the afternoon, and Helen was standing by thefigure of a child upon which she had been working. She gave him herhand impulsively, forgetting that the fingers were stained with clay. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said. 

"It is no matter, " he returned, and the commonplace phrases bridged theawkwardness which belongs to the meeting of two people whose minds arefull of intense feeling which they are not prepared to speak. Helen ledhim toward another modelling stand. 

"I want you to see this bust, " she remarked. "It's quite in the mannerwhich you used to say was my best. "

He stood watching her with a swelling heart as she removed the dampwrappings which kept the clay moist. Keen in the minds of both was theknowledge that now there were no barriers between them; that the timehad come at last when they were free to love each other and to unitetheir lives. The closeness of Ninitta's death kept this wholly fromtheir words, but it could not banish the exultation, so sharp as to bealmost pain, which would arise from the mere fact of their beingtogether. Both understood that however great the sorrow at her deathwhich he was too noble-hearted not to feel, he must rejoice in theright to follow the dictates of his love at last. 

He forced himself to examine the bust critically, and to speak of itcalmly; but he soon turned away from it, and stood looking at her amoment, as if trying to find speech in which to phrase what he had cometo say. She waited for him to speak, meeting his glance frankly. Herhead was thrown backward a little, and he noted with pitying eagernessthat she was paler than of old, and that there were dark circlesbeneath her eyes. He thought of the years in which their lives had beenseparated, and sorrow for her suffering made his heart swell. 

"Helen, " he said, "I have come to ask a favor. I want you to look afterNino a little. He has been given up to servants too much, and I amperfectly helpless when it comes to managing his nurse. Is there anyway in which you can do anything for him?"

"Of course there is, " she answered. "I will come in and see him everyday and find out how things go with him; then, if anything is wrong, Ican let you know. "

"Thank you, " he returned simply. "I was sure you would help me. But doyou think, " he added, hesitating, "that it will be in any way awkwardfor you?"

She smiled on him and she could not keep out of her eyes the joy shefelt at being able to serve him. 

"Do you think, " was her reply, "that I am likely to let thatconsideration stand in my way? It is rather late in life for me tobegin to let conventionality interfere with what I think it right todo. Besides, " she continued, dropping her eyes, though without a shadeof self-consciousness, "I shall go when you are at the studio. "

"And it will not be too much trouble?"

"I shall love to do what I can for Nino. "

"I thank you, " he said again. 

Then without more words he held out his hand. 

"Good-night, " he said. 

"Good-night, " she repeated.