A BURN E -JONES HEAD CLARA SHERWOOD ROLL1KS m «« CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Cornell University Library PS 3S35.046B9 A Burne-Jones head and other sketches / 3 1924 021 679 984 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021679984 A Burne- Jones Head BY Clara Sherwood Rollins NEW YORK LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 310-318 SIXTH AVENUE 1894 Copyright, 1894, BY UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY nisrp(0 Contents. A Burne-Jones Head, . PAGE • 5 Kismet, .... • 5i Human Sunshine, • 13 Aunt Charlotte, . . . 85 A Chance Shot, . . 129 A Case in Point, • 143 Qt <§utM%onw JEJeab A BURNE-JONES HEAD. MRS. TILLBURY called her a Burne- Jones Head, and Mrs. Tillbury was a woman who possessed a vast knowledge of art in general and the world in par- ticular. She gave dinners for her protege^ to which she invited the indolent dilettante Bohemian New York circle of which she was perhaps the centre. 'And as the Burne- Jones head was attached to a very beautiful body the men raved over her. Women thought her stupid, but she be- came the fashion all the same, for she was a novelty and her voice was wonderfully sweet. Henner would have delighted in her copper hair and warm flesh tints — still 7 (1 53nrne= 3ones fjeab. 8 B MSurnesJones 1beao Ct 23urne= 3ones Ejeab. when she sang and raised her eyes, there was a look of a Madonna about her. Then Otis Peyton would lean back in his chair and gaze at her with half -closed eyes, inwardly delighted at the ecstasies of little Busby the pianist. In reality she was Peyton's discovery. He was a genuine lover of good music, and had met her through old Padronti, her sing- ing-master, with whom she was diligently studying. Peyton liked Padronti and often asked him to dine or went to his rooms when there were no pupils, to listen for hours to "Parsifal" or "Tristan uofl Isolde," which the old man played re- markably well. One rainy afternoon Otis Peyton was driving up-town from the Club. He had promised to take tea with a vivacious lit- tle married woman of his acquaintance who affected the Turkish — and other things. He was a bit early, and remem- bering that Padronti usually reserved that hour of the day for himself, he gave or- ant> ©tbet Sketches. ders to stop at the studio. As he entered he heard voices — Padronti's in a high mimicking falsetto — a musical laugh which was not Padronti's — then a burst of song in a glorious contralto voice, — a joyous little bit of Riese's " Hinaus," which she sang in excellent German. Peyton lis- tened enchanted, and though a heavy por- tiere concealed the musicians he could not resist adding his applause to Padronti's cries of "Brava!" The old man came out delighted to find that it was Peyton, and seizing his arm drew him at once into the next room, where he presented him with much flour- ish and enthusiasm to Mrs. Rogers. Peyton always remembered her as she looked that afternoon — radiant with the joy of singing and her master's praise. She wore a close-fitting black gown and a large black hat which became her vastly. Padronti explained that they were hav- ing some music — not a lesson. " To-day we amuse ourselves. We can- a 23urnc= 3ones fyab. a 3Burne=$one0 Ibeao (I Bume= 3ones £jeab. not always work. But you — why were you not last night at the musicale? How I did wish for you! That man — how he did sing! I have just shown it to Mrs. Rogairs — and that Busby. How did he play? — like this." And he played a few chords from the Pilgrim Chorus of " Tann- hauser," with heavy precision, singing at the same time with a nasal twang, " Ta ta, ta ta, ta ta ta ta. It was horrible. That Busby who looks like a Chinaman. What does he know about music?" Mrs. Rogers laughed again. " But do show Mr. Peyton how the woman sang 'Ich Grolle Nicht. ' " " I think I heard the finale of the imi- tation as I came in, just before your song, " said Peyton. " Ah yes ! Let us have no more imita- tions. We will have the song as it should be sung. Come, Mrs. Rogairs," and Pa- dronti sat down at the piano and began to play the harmonious accompaniment of Schumann's exquisite song. an& ©tber Sftetcbes. After that Peyton thought no more about afternoon tea, and only remembered that his brougham was at the door when Mrs. Rogers said she must go. Where- upon he offered her its protection from the elements. She gave him a number in East 27th Street, which he repeated to the coach- man and then sat down beside her. " Do you know," she said, as they rolled down Fifth Avenue, "this constant roar in New York almost appalls me. It con- fuses my thoughts and wears on my nerves. Sometimes I feel that I must cry out' Stop' at the top of my voice to the invisible power that seems to be eternally lashing on these human animals to a greater speed. Oh, the noise of their living!" And, with a little shudder, she put her hands to her ears. He smiled. " That is music to most of us — the music we dance to." " But you dance too much. You will 0. 23urtte= Zones Ejeab. 12 % asurne=Jones t>ea& d Surtte* 3ottes fyab. kill yourselves. You lash yourselves into a frenzy like howling dervishes. " " You have seen them at their feasts in Tangiers ? Their dancing and all the rest of it?" "I? Oh, no! But I have read of it. I have not travelled — much. " " It is a horrible sight — and yet intensely interesting, if you care for what a friend of mine calls 'the human.' " " Yes, I do care for it, but one need not go to Tangiers to study the human — see there!" " I only see a double line of umbrellas. One line moving up, the inside line mov- ing down the Avenue. " '"An umbrella on the Avenue — A plain umbrella is to you' — And it is nothing more, " she said smiling. " I thank the little god who presided over my nativity for endowing me with the faculty of peering under umbrellas, and seeing something besides primroses." anO ©tber Sfcetcbea. 13 He laughed. " But it's not good enough — if one might see anything so interesting as a primrose by looking under an umbrella. " " Now you are making fun of my mixed metaphor. They are a bad habit of mine — something like planning a spring bon- net that you intend to make yourself. The result is so satisfactory until you carry it into execution." " But really, you know, I never planned a spring bonnet in my life — and, besides, I wasn't chaffing you about your prim- roses. I like the idea. Now, for instance, there is a very yellow one sitting by the gutter's brim with a hand-organ. And, by Jove! if she isn't playing, 'Daddy wouldn't buy me a bow-wow,' though it's raining cats and dogs. " She laughed with childish delight at his nonsense as they turned into 27th Street, though she said with mock severity, " Mr. Peyton, you are frivolous. " " I am, indeed. But I will stop danc- a Surne* 3oties fjeab. 14 a JBurne=3ones 1bea& (X 23ume= 3ones ing now that we are away from the music. How still it seems after the Avenue. I heard a countryman from Iowa say the other day that New York made him feel as though he had cotton in his ears. " "Ah!" she cried, "he was indeed a countryman — of mine. I felt the same thing at first, and my home is in Iowa. " He was conscious of a slight inward shock at this, though he had felt sure from her speech that she was not a New Yorker. For words and phrases are as much a thing of fashion in that city of fashions as are customs and costumes. There were certain expressions she employed which society, for reasons known only to itself, had boycotted, and she had not yet ac- quired the trick of expression' and the set formula of words that decorum per- mitted. But Iowa seemed to him unpar- donable. How could she have come from Iowa? "You have always lived there?" he asked. an& ©tber Sftetcbea. 15 " For the last ten years — before that we lived in Kansas City. Our farm is about thirty miles from Keokuk — Ah! your man is driving past the house. No — he is stopping." As they walked up the steps he won- dered whether she would ask him in — if she were stopping with friends from Keo- kuk, or if it were only a boarding-house — and would he meet Mr. Rogers? She had not mentioned him. And he looked at her black gown. No, it was evidently not mourning. The door opened. She gave him her hand. " I thank you very much for bringing me here so comfortably. I shall write to my husband of the charming afternoon I have spent." " He is not here — Mr. Rogers?" "Oh, no. He couldn't possibly leave. I am quite alone — at least, I am boarding - with some old friends of Mr. Rogers — very musical people and" (with a glance over nes 28 a 358urne*3one0 1bea& a 8unte= 3ones clared she had seen as a piece of drapery in Mr. Peyton's rooms. If it were true, Peyton should have known better. She was a child in such matters, and took a keen delight in his in- terest in her gowns. Indeed, they often planned them together with a disregard for conventionality that was almost pas- toral in its innocence and truly enchanting. On the night of Mrs. Tillbury's first din- ner for the Burne- Jones, he gave her a beautiful plumed fan which he called her sceptre, and overcame her hesitation about accepting it by assuring her that he had given her hostess a far handsomer one the week before. So she took it and wielded it like a queen. There was a basis of truth in Peyton's joking remark to Padronti about women being born, not made. Now and then we see the phenomenon. A woman will step from obscurity into the social world with all its novelties and complexities as though anD ©tbcr Sfcetcbes. 29 she had been born in it. She seems to possess what Kant would have called a cognition a priori, and nothing would con- vince Mr. Galton that she hadn't a grand- mother. But sometimes they haven't any — to speak of. Otis Peyton was proving the old French proverb, Qui s' 'amuse, amuse, to the queen's taste — the queen who wielded his fan — and to his own. If she spoke less frequently of " Dick, " he didn't notice it, for " Dick" was a bore, he thought, and he had much rather hear her mimic the man who sat on her other hand at dinner. She was clever at this and had a keen sense of humor. Then, she had read and still found time to read a great deal, and sometimes they read to- gether. She wrote of all this to her husband. At least, she thought she did. She cer- tainly chronicled conscientiously all her doings, though, perhaps, "Mr. Peyton" dropped out of her letters as " Dick" had d 33ume» 3ones fyab. 3° 21 3Bume«5one0 1bea& Q. 23urne= 3ones fyat>. dropped out of their conversations. And so the days passed until April, when Mr. Busby wrote an operetta in one act, which was very clever in spite of his resemblance to a Chinaman which so distressed Pa- dronti. The Burne-Jones was to sing the leading part. The piece was witten for her, and the affair was to be an event given in the ball-room of the great Mrs. A. The Burne-Jones was almost too much of a success to please Mrs. Tillbury. She liked to have her taste approved, but Pey- ton had always been at her elbow more or less. Now it was decidedly less. Besides, she had not been consulted in the manage- ment and arrangement of the operetta. However, she concealed all feeling of dis- content beneath her most fascinating smile, and in the most obliging manner arranged to call for her ex-proteg6 with her brougham on the night of the occa- sion. That afternoon came a letter from Mr. Rogers, — a jubilant letter, bursting anO ©tber SRctcbee. 31 with happiness, because at the last moment he had succeeded in arranging his affairs so that he could leave home and go with her to the " entertainment, " as he called it. The Burne-Jones eyebrows contracted slightly at this, and it was with conflicting emotions that she wrote a few lines of re- gret to Mrs. Tillbury explaining that she expected her husband, whom she hoped to have the pleasure of presenting after the play. Half-an-hour before the time to start, a telegram announced that a freight wreck on the road west of Philadelphia had de- layed him so hopelessly that he would stop in that city over-night. It appeared he had some business there, and would come over to New York some time the next day. She was too hurried and nervous to be sorry, but as her cab rattled up Fifth Ave- nue, she was conscious of a distinct feeling of relief, which she hated to acknowledge. She knew in her innermost soul that she a 2Surne= 3ones 32 a 3Burne*3one8 t>ea& a 33ume= 3ones Ejeab. had wondered with misgivings how " Dick" would appear in her new world, and how he would be thought of by her new friends. In innocence or in ignorance she called them friends. Of all the ill-used words in the English language, the word " friend" has greatest cause for complaint. Sometimes one won- ders why such a word was ever made. There is so small a demand for it in its real meaning. It should be recoined — the original stamp is almost obliterated. She knew that there was a record of these traitor doubts in that remote corner of the brain which one reserves for thoughts that one is rather ashamed of; and to drive away the memory of them she opened a little case, which until then she had held tightly clasped in her hands. It was a necklace of topaz set in small diamonds, of a rich Oriental design, which Peyton had drawn himself. Of course, she could not keep it. She an& ©tber Sftetcbcs. 33 had reproved him for bringing it that af- ternoon even before she had opened her husband's letter. But it was very beauti- ful. She had clasped and unclasped it about her throat a dozen times since he left. He had begged her at least to wear it that night — that one night. Surely there was no harm in wearing it once. It was just the touch that her simple gown needed — and she promised. Then, when she had read her husband's letter, she took the necklace off and put it away, feeling that it would be impossible to wear it or even show it to him. He would not understand — and for the first time she saw how fatally Peyton's motive was subject to miscon- struction. She wondered at her foolish- ness in consenting to wear it. So she had taken the case, resolving to return it to him before the curtain went up. He was sure to be behind the scenes. How it sparkled in the electric light that flashed in at the cab windows. It was warm and her cloak had fallen open at the Ct 33ume= Zones f?eab. 34 a JBurne=3onea 1beao (X 23ume= 3ones £jeab. throat. She could see herself dimly in the narrow little mirror. A sudden thought came to her — she had not seen it with her gown. Yielding to the impulse she fast- ened it about her neck, and as she leaned forward to see better the cab stopped. She was there. It was late. Little Busby was wild with excitement. She had no time to think, and only slipped the empty case into the pocket of her cloak as the maid took it away. After that, all thought of the necklace was driven from her mind by an incident that occurred behind the scenes. A group of young men and girls who formed the chorus were laughing and chattering there before the curtain rose. Peyton, though very near, was completely hidden from them by a bit of landscape while he waited for Mrs. Rogers, who un- fortunately was looking for him in that vicinity at the same moment. He heard some one say, " By the way, where is the Burne-Jones?" anO ©tber Sketches. 35 " She must be here, for I saw Peyton a moment ago." At this witty sally all laughed. " But I understand that we are to have an occult exhibition to-night — something hitherto unseen and unknown. Mrs. Till- bury tells me that Mr. Rogers is actually to appear to-night. " More suppressed laughter. " Surely you are not so credulous as to believe in that myth," a woman remarked. " I am thoroughly agnostic on the subject of Rogers, but she was a sweet woman, and I am sorry to see her lose caste." " Caste ! She never had any caste until she took part in this affair. She simply was cast — upon us." "Oh, come, Teddy, " said another, "none of your bad jokes when everybody knows that she snubbed you for Peyton." "Oh, well!" said the first, "it is all summed up in the statement that the Burne-Jones head is turned." a 23urne= 3<>nes 36 21 3Burne=3ones 1beaJ> 0. 8urne= 3ones £jea&. Then the first bell sounded and there was a general scattering and confusion. Peyton's heart smote him. He knew that he was to blame, and the convenient and usually unobtrusive thing he called his conscience gave him a sharp stab. He had no opportunity of speaking to Mrs. Rogers, as the curtain went up almost im- mediately. So he tried to shake off the unpleasant effects of what he had over- heard, and went back to his seat well tothe front in the audience. She was so beautiful that Peyton had hardly noticed her singing (he had heard the rehearsal so often), until Mrs. Tillbury touched his arm and leaning over whis- pered, " What a pity she isn't in voice to- night." He resented this, though he did observe then that she sang with less expression than usual. He thought she was fright- ened perhaps, but as the piece progressed he saw that this could not be. Her voice was clear, sweet, and true, but lacked that anb ©tber Sfcetcbee. 37 exquisite sympathy which was its greatest charm. Just before the love-song, which Busby considered his chef-d'ceuvre and which she had sung so marvellously at the rehearsals, she put her hand to her throat and sud- denly grew so disconcerted that Peyton feared she could not sing. She recovered almost instantly, however, and sang well, though Padronti, who had heard her sing it before, shook his head regretfully. The operetta ended with a song of re- nunciation, in which the heroine, having found her lover faithless, gave up the world and determined to enter a convent. Into this Mrs. Rogers threw her whole soul. For the first time that evening she forgot herself — forgot everything except the woes of this woman whom she imper- sonated. She was giving up the world — the cruel, heartless world, where she had made so many mistakes. The Madonna- look came into her face, and as the cur- tain fell Padronti's cries of "Brava" a 23urtte= 3ottes Ejeab 38 21 3!8urne«3one6 t>cat> a 8utne= 3ones Ejeab. rang above the applause that filled the room. Then for the first time Peyton under- stood. She had heard. Afterward she was surrounded by men and congratulated, but she seemed anxious to get away from it all. The women held aloof, and when she asked Peyton to take her to Mrs. Tillbury, that lady greeted her with elevated eyebrows and a quizzical voice — also elevated — that asked for Mr. Rogers. The face of the Burne-Jones flushed, but she replied quietly: " There was a freight wreck on the road which delayed him, and I came to ask if you would take me home, since you were good enough to ask me to come with you." " So sorry, my dear, but I go home with the Bleeckers. However, Mr. Peyton's brougham is at your service, I am sure — eh, Otis?" — and she laughed disagreeably. " What a beautiful necklace, Mrs. Rogers!" she added. anO ©tber Sftetcbcs. 39 Again the blood mounted to the roots of the copper-colored hair. " It is not mine," she said, and added with a forced laugh, "It is borrowed finery;" then she turned to Peyton and said implor- ingly in a low voice, " Oh, take me home!" His answering look of sympathy com- forted her, and she ran the gantlet of compliments and pretty speeches to the door of the cloak-room without faltering. They drove for some distance in silence. Then with something like a sob she put her hand out to him. " You are my only friend," she said. He took the hand and kissed it gently where the glove was unbuttoned at the wrist. He was very remorseful. He felt that he had brought her all this pain. " Not a very good friend, I am afraid — dear." He had meant to say it so calmly , but all the tenderness in his being, all the love that he thought himself incapable of, all d Same* 3ottes fjeab. 40 & ffiurnesSoneg f)ea& a 23urtte= tjtab. the yearning that he thought killed out long ago, rushed into his heart — to his brain — to his lips. After all he was only a man — and he added : " Not a friend at all — if I could only tell you how I care for you — how I " " Don't!" she cried, and burst into tears. He never could remember what he said then. It all seemed so impossible the next day, but he knew that he had kissed her, and cherished the memory, though he thought himself contemptible at the same time. We often soothe our consciences by tell- ing ourselves that we are contemptible. After that we feel more at liberty to con- template the pleasant side of our offences. Peyton thought himself contemptible and wondered how it would all end. He also recalled every detail of that drive home. Early the next afternoon he walked around to 27th street, having left orders an& ©tber Sfcetcbes. 41 for his groom to meet him there in half- an-hour with the spider. The day was one of those forerunners of summer that come to brighten the chill weeks of early spring. There was a deli- cious languor in the air that made driv- ing more pleasant than the exertion of walking, and he was glad when he reached the house. The door was open, and after ringing the bell he walked in, expecting to find her as he often did in the drawing-room. No one was there, and the house was very still. A book lay open upon a chair, with a tortoise-shell hairpin between the leaves. He smiled as he recognized the little volume of " Marcus Aurelius" that he had given her. Then his eye wandered over the marked paragraph : "But perhaps the desire for the thing called fame will torment thee. See how soon everything is forgotten and look at the chaos of infinite time on each side of 0. 8u«te= 3cmes £jeab. 42 % 3Burne=3one6 1bea& ©tbcc Sketches, 55 man being afraid of dogs," and her lip curled scornfully. " Oh, I am not sure that it is so prepos- terous. Why shouldn't a man have an aversion for dogs just as women have for mice." " How absurd ! A mouse is a — a beast. A — a wretched beast. One never knows which way it is going to run. " "And one may always be reasonably sure which way a malevolent dog will run," He said quizzically. "But the idea of comparing dogs and mice ! Now Burns compares mice and men — but dogs! Who was it that said 'The more I see of men the better I like dogs' ?" He laughed. "Some Englishman, I suppose. Our love for animals is copied from the Eng- lish. You women care for dogs because it is the fashion in London. We men " " What heresy !" She exclaimed. " The American Eagle will swoop down and fly away with you." Kismet. 56 % 3Burnc«3oneg f>ea& Kismet. "I wouldn't mind flying away with a certain variety of eagles," He replied. " Nevertheless, it is true. Englishmen are much fonder of their dogs and horses than we are. We haven't time to study them. We only have a bowing acquaint- ance with animals, except this particu- lar eagle I speak of, which every man wants to carry in his pocket." " Oh, we have time to love dogs and horses " " We are • beginning to — a few of us. But as it takes three generations to make a gentleman, so it takes generations of dog-fanciers to make a genuine dog-lover. Real love and appreciation of animals is a cultivated taste." " Perhaps you may be right, " She mused, "in saying that the average American hasn't time to really care for dogs, just as he hasn't time to really care for his family or anything but his business. He looks forward to the day when he can give up working — when he will be rich enough to and ©tber Sfeetcbes. 57 stop and allow himself a taste of the luxu- ries of life that his wealth can buy. But when that time comes (if it does come) he is like a poor car-horse I saw on Broadway once that was being turned into the stables for rest, but got away from the hostler and jogged along the car-track from sheer force of habit. A man cannot throw off the habits of a life-time like an old coat. He can only throw them off with his body. And even then I sometimes think his sotil goes on speculating in the same routine. " He could not help thinking how charm- ing She was with the flush of argument in her cheeks and earnestness burning in her blue eyes. " Yes," She went on, " I suppose you are right. We haven't time — most of us. No time to show it, but still don't you think the love of animals is there latent? It isn't that England has set the fashion, but that we are beginning to take breathing time — some of us. " "Perhaps," He suggested, "there are Kismet. 58 % JBurnesJones fjeao Kismet, some whose breathing is all the more la- bored because of our rest." She frowned in silence, and He went on: " However, the question of love for ani- mals is, I think, more one of race. Re- member the infusion of Celtic blood in our veins. It was the good old Saxon who loved his horse and dog. The French? Well, they make use of horses and cry 'Canaille ' to the vilest of their vile." "That is true," She began, "but " The Man on Her Left asked a question which drew her into a conversation in that quarter, and again He was obliged to con- tent himself with the curve of her shoul- der and an entree. As his hunger was appeased he took little interest in the lat- ter while the former seemed to have grown in beauty. A vague desire to choke the Man on Her Left was beginning to take possession of him, when She turned with a half-smile and took up the thread of the conversation with the same grace that She ano ©tber Sfcetcbes. 59 lifted her fork and toyed with the entr6e before her. " I was going to tell you of a little inci- dent that happened to me in the moun- tains last summer," She said. "It made me think of the very subject we were speaking about. I was riding Kismet — my horse. A love of a horse. We under- stand one another thoroughly. I tell her she is Fate and I am Chance. Sometimes I let her take her own way at her own speed, and once in this wild way " She paused and blushed vividly — then added with a smile which He found charm- ing, "But, as Mr. Kipling says, 'That's an- other story. ' Am I too garrulous?" " No — no. Go on," he said eagerly. " Well, I was riding Kismet. It was a hot day and the road was steep. We had come fast and far. So as I was not in the least tired and we were only half a mile from my brother's mine, where we were going all alone, I jumped down and walked Kismet. 6o a JButne=3ones 1beao Kismet, so that I might talk into her face. Dear old Kismet! We were plodding along in this fashion when a miner met us. He pulled his forelock and said curiously, 'No offence, Miss, but ben't you English?' ' No, ' I replied, thinking it a compliment to the cut of my habit, 'I am American! Why do you ask?' 'Waal,' he answered, ' I never see no American git off to ease up a horse before. It's them English that thinks such a powerful sight of crit- turs. ' " He laughed at her perfect mimicry. "There is a world of wisdom in those old miners. They seem to dig their phil- osophy from Mother Earth. And didn't that convince you of the truth of my theory?" "No," She shook her head, "for I am thoroughly American, and yet I love Kis- met and Spartan — my bull-dog." " There is a little story — a relic of my own Western experience — which might in- terest you, even though as a stanch Amer- an& ©tber Sftetcbes. 61 ican you were unwilling to yield the palm of animal-loving to England." "Tell it," She said simply. "I went West for some shooting, and met him out there. I know his name per- fectly, but just now it evades me. He was the finest specimen of manhood that I ever saw. Pure Saxon — with that fluffy gold hair that didn't make him the least effem- inate — blue eyes that looked straight through you, and a body like a young Ro- man gladiator. Perfectly fearless — light- hearted — ready for anything from a free fight to a ball at the club. He was amus- ing himself at Colorado Springs when I met him. The crack player on the Polo team — he had learned in India — great man at racquets, good dancer — rattling good shot and " He stopped abruptly. Something in Her face made Him conscious of his own enthusiasm. "Go on. This is wildly interesting," She cried. " We have talked of animals Kismet. 62 21 3Butne=5onc0 1beaD Kismet, all through dinner — we will finish with this 'Paragon of animals.' " " I am boring you. " " Oh, please !" she begged, " you are not, indeed. I love to hear one man praise another. " "Well, you couldn't have helped liking him. But I will spare you my enthusiasm as much as possible. " He joined our little party. We went over the range for ten days' shooting. They were heavenly — those days — Jove! I can almost see those forests of flam- ing red and yellow! It was September and the nights were cold, but the days — crisp and clear! There I go again into rhapsodies. Please stop the next fit when you see it coming. "Chetwynde and I — that's his name — Chetwynde — Regy Chetwynde. A regu- lar English name that. We were together for three days in a way that is sure to make men friends or enemies. We became friends. I found him even more attrac- anO ©tbec Sftetcbes. 63 tive in camp than in civilization. He never jarred on one's mood. He seemed to know just when to sing a jolly good song (and jolly well he always sang it too) and when to sit smoking his pipe in the warm sun at noon, dreaming away an hour without a word. " Sometimes he turned chef, and tossed pancakes for us over the fire in the cook's long-handled pan till we were tired of eat- ing. At night we would roll up in our blankets beside the blazing pine boughs, and watch the sparks go up until the in- tense darkness seemed to extinguish them. Then we would talk, and he would tell little sketchy stories about India, and his life there. There was something about him that made one interested in all he said. He put a personality — an individu- ality — into every dog or horse that he mentioned. " "And was that all he cared for?" She interrupted. " Was there no woman whom he held 'a little better than his dog, a little Kismet. 6 4 a J3urne=Jonca "Ibeao Kismet, dearer than his horse' ? Was there no lov- ing maid at home for this beautiful Saxon of yours? Didn't he tell you of his con- quests? He must have made many. " " I never heard him mention a woman's name. In fact, I remember the only time your sex was the topic of conversation — a very racy little story was told by one of the party, to which he hardly seemed to listen. He sat staring into the fire, and looked bored, I thought. No — I do not think he was a man to care for women " " You speak of him in the past. Was — you say. Surely he is living — your hero?" " Are you so anxious for the end of the story? Well, it is nearly finished. I al- most forgot it in the memories of those delicious days But I will keep myself in hand now and tell you the incident. " When we broke camp, Chetwynde and I started down together in advance of the others. I had a wretched mount, but his horse — Kitty or Kissy, he called her — was a superb creature. He was always strok- and ©tbec Sfeetcbes. 65 ing her neck or patting her flank or whis- pering in her ear. I liked to watch him. It was almost like the devotion of a lover. " When we came to the river which we had so easily forded a few days before, we found it so swollen and angry that riding across or even swimming would be impos- sible. Just above the ford there was an old ferry constructed by miners the previous spring. A most primitive affair — a raft with an endless rope attached, and brought around a tree on either side. Even with the aid of poles it was no easy task to pull across in this fashion. The raft was too small for the horses, and, besides, too un- steady ; so we unsaddled them and fastened them securely in the rear. Then with our united strength we pulled until the veins stood out on our foreheads. Just as we reached the middle of the stream I heard a strange cry. We both turned. It was Chetwynde's horse. She had broken loose from the raft and was being carried down- Kismet. 66 a aBurnesjoncs tf>eai> Kismet, stream, unable to swim in the current. The poor beast turned her head toward us and whinnied. One pathetic little cry, asking plainly for help — like a child or a woman. Before I could speak Chetwynde dashed off his coat. I saw what he was about to do, and tried to hold him. I knew the water was like ice — that he couldn't live in such a torrent. I tried to reason with him, but he tossed me aside just as he had his coat, and sprang into the. river. I saw him disappear and rise a few yards away — shake the water from his hair, and strike out for the horse. I groaned aloud — powerless to do anything. In my anxiety to be nearer I managed (I scarcely know how) to pull the raft to the other side — release my poor shivering beast — snatch the coil of rope from my saddle and run down stream. When I came up with them they were together — horse and man. Chet- wynde's cries of encouragement came ring- ing above the roar of the waters. For a while the horse seemed to regain strength, anO ©tber Sketches. 67 and together they struggled a few strokes nearer the shore. I kept parallel to them, and flung my rope again and again with- out success. All their efforts seemed only to keep them out of the swiftest current, where they were likely to be dashed against rocks, which were numerous farther down stream. Chetwynde knew this and worked desperately for the shore — but all his strength and all the horse's strength only retarded their course downward — they did not advance an inch. Chetwynde 's cries grew fainter and fainter. All his might was centred in that right arm. With his left he held the horse's bridle. It seemed that death was inevitable. I shouted and begged him to let the horse go. He might still save himself if he could only catch the rope. But he did not hear or would not. Hours seemed to pass. The rest of the party had crossed and were adding their shouts and prayers to mine — all un- availingly. At last by some miracle the noose went over Chetwynde's head. He Kismet. 68 a 3S8urne=5one0 ibeafc Kismet. caught hold of it — put himself through it and, heaven knows how, fastened the ani- mal which he still held with his left hand — keeping his head above water with the right. " We pulled them in with an effort that made it evident what their fight for life had been. " He was in that icy water thirty min- utes. It would have been immediate death to a man in less perfect condition. As it was, Death had laid a finger on him. "'Look out for Kissy,' he gasped as we pulled him ashore. 'She isn't — my — horse!' Then he fainted. " He had given his life for a horse — and a borrowed horse — this splendid English- man." He paused in his narrative and noticed how pale She had grown. Her eyes looked into his with a deep earnestness showing how thoroughly She had forgotten Herself and her surroundings in the absorbing in- an& ©tbec Sfcetcbee. 6 9 terest of his story. His story. He felt that He must have told it well, and a sense of self-satisfaction warmed his blood more than the champagne which he had almost neglected. "And then?" She whispered. He sighed. " Then he had pneumonia. We took him at once to Glenwood Springs. There I found a telegram calling me to New York. I thought I should never see Chetwynde again and I hated to leave him, but he had friends there — older friends than I — and besides I had to go. How- ever I did see him — here, two months later. What a wreck! He had just recovered. Recovered — from pneumonia, I mean. But his lungs were seriously affected, and I doubt if he will ever be well again. Heavens! When I saw the poor chap it was all I could do to keep from crying like a baby. He was very cheerful though. Consumptives are all like that. He wrote me once or twice — the most sanguine sort of letters — but it has been a long time Kismet. 70 a ffiutnesjones 1bea5 Kismet, since I heard. I hope he isn't much worse, poor fellow." The women were about leaving the room. She said hurriedly : " I thank you for your story. It has in- terested me more than anything I have heard in New York. But what became of the horse?" " The horse was returned to the owner in good condition, you may be sure. " " And the owner?" " I never knew who owned her — but she was a beautiful animal. " The hostess had risen. As She left the table She turned to Him (and again He became conscious of the beautiful curve of her shoulder). "It was my horse," She said in a low voice — and then with a dazzling smile — "My Kismet," Talk of politics, of silver, of Reading stock, rose with the smoke above the coffee and liqueurs, but, though He chatted affa- anD ©tbet Sketches. 71 bly enough, the words, " It was my horse — my Kismet" soared through it all in his brain. Gradually the sense of self-gratifi- cation gave place to chagrin and dull dis- appointment. He felt that in some way he had been cheated. He was hardly surprised, therefore, when later in the drawing-room his chatty little hostess greeted him with, " Now, don't tell me you've fallen in love with Miss Randolph, for she's to be married next month — to an Englishman." "A consumptive?" He ventured dryly. "A consumptive!" she echoed in deris- ion, "Regy Chetwynde consumptive? What an idea ! To be sure he was rather seedy last autumn after having pneumonia, but if you could have seen him at polo in February " She broke off to speed a parting guest, ' and He only heard " Kismet — my Kismet. " "Miss Randolph," He said, bowing be- fore her as he took his leave, " I wish to acknowledge myself worsted in our dis- Kismet. 72 % assutnesjones 1beaD. Kismet, cussion of animal-lovers at dinner. I am quite sure that under the circumstances a Frenchman or even an American would willingly have risked his life for Kismet — and such a fate." She laughed and blushed as She thanked Him. " If you come to Colorado this summer you shall ride Kismet." He bowed over her hand and said, "Goodnight." As the man in the hall helped Him into his coat, a figure in mauve and violets came into his range of vision through the parted portiere. She was saying good night. He looked regretfully at the small ear and the long curve to the lace flounce on her shoulder. Then with a short laugh He went out. "Kismet," He said to himself as the door closed behind him. 3E)uman §&M8§im HUMAN SUNSHINE. " I F I could just paint that. " 1 He rubbed the canvas with his thumb — .then threw back his head and gazed at her with half-closed eyes, as ar- tists love to do. The sunshine fell upon the white porch, upon the white sweet honeysuckle that climbed over it, and upon her white gown, where she sat on a rustic bench and leaned laughing against a pillar. The breeze just stirred her brown hair — burnished gold in the sun — and swayed the honeysuckle bells to and fro, gently shaking out their fragrance on the warm air. "If I could just paint that laugh," he repeated. " Some one has called laughter 75 ^uman Sunshine. 76 a 3Burne*3ones 1>ea& tjnmatt Sunshine. human sunshine. That laugh of yours ought to be in the picture. It belongs " She laughed again. " Paint it!" she cried. " I can pose my laugh if you keep on being ridiculous. shall be in the picture." It Around on the other side of the house, in the shade, a group of men and women sat chatting idly. Some one was nar- rating the plot of a French novel. The others listened, or pretended to listen, while gazing out across the river at the foot of the hill, dreamily occupied with their own thoughts. When the story was finished a general discussion followed, which drifted into that old worn subject, ever new — ever sweet to human hearts — Love. There was not one in the party who was younger than five-and-forty, and who had not talked on this subject a thousand times, and yet it aroused new interest. The old man, who had been planning that ana ©tber Sftetcbes. 77 an English syndicate should buy out his corporate company, took the cigar from his lips and listened. A married woman looked over at her husband and sighed gently. The husband gazed at the deep blue that seemed concentrated about the topmost tufts of the pine trees — but he was attentive. It is strange what a hold it has upon us — how we like to believe in it — how we love to watch it spring up in young hearts, however bitter its lesson to us may have been. The human heart never loses faith in Love. What is it? Does it mean the same thing to every one? Does Love, die Liebe, V Amour, stir the hearts of three nations in the same way? Is it a real thing? We often hear that it is a dream — an halluci- nation. Yet, here were eight people whom it still charmed. Eight people, the stories of whose lives were told. They had lived, loved, and been loved — perhaps some still loved — who knows? If they £juman Sunshine. 78 21 3SSurnc»Jones 1bea» Ejumatt Sunshine. could have stripped their souls of vanity, falsehood and pride, and one could have seen what love really meant to them ! One by one they joined in the conversa- tion, and each added a remark which stood for an opinion, even if it were not one. " There is no such thing as the love of poets and novelists," said one. "Love is really only a period in physical growth. All this talk about the heart " " The Greeks said that the liver was the seat of the affections. Call it the liver if you prefer. I have even had it in my knees so that I could not stand up," inter- rupted another. "If you fell on your knees, that answered the purpose, I suppose. " " No, it didn't, and she answered " He broke off with a shrug. " That goes to prove the old French say- ing in which I so firmly believe, that in love there is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek." " Oh, what a miserable theory!" cried a an5 ©tber Sftetcbes. 79 woman who possessed three marriageable daughters. " Then the question arises, which is the happier — the one who kisses, or the one who offers the cheek?" " Oh, the one who offers the cheek, by all means," cried an unmarried woman im- pulsively, " for he never knows the pain of unrequited love — as they call it," she added with a forced laugh, and looked down at the river. " And I say he who kisses is the happier because he knows the joy of loving — the greatest gift on earth. You know Tenny- son says: ' 'Tis better to have loved and lost * " "Oh, I am sick of that quotation!" said the married man, removing his gaze from the pine trees for the first time. " And what a lot of old fools we are to sit here talking about such nonsense!" Then they all laughed sheepishly and agreed that it was nonsense. At least they said so. But in their hearts did they £juman Sunshine. 8o a 3Bume=3ones Deao Quman Sunshine. think it the sweetest nonsense in the world, — or had they forgotten, — or is it only a disease of youth? Around in the sun the painter still painted. The young girl still sat on the rustic bench, filling the air now and then with the human sunshine of her laughter. " And then — and then, " he said, looking at her in a preoccupied way, as he took out another brush. "Goon." "The princess always wore white, you know, and her hair was gold " " But you said it was brown just now," she pouted. "Gold in the sun," he continued, touch- ing the hair in the picture with his brush. " She was the most beautiful princess in the country. In fact, there was no other princess " "Oh!" "To compare with her, of course." and ©tber Sftetcbes. 81 She laughed softly. "And did I mention that when she laughed her teeth were like pearls, her mouth like What are you screwing your mouth up like that for? Do you want me to paint it that way? There — that is better. But the saddest thing about the princess was this. She was in love with an artist — and a. poor artist." " What?" "Yes, desperately in love with him." " Why, what a story! " "Yes, a sad story. To be sure, she couldn't help it. He was born fascinating — and handsome." She reached up for a handful of honey- suckle and flung it at him, laughing. " Stop," she cried. " It isn't true." "Now whose story is this, yours or mine?" he said, fastening the flowers to the lapel of his coat. "Well, it isn't at all a nice story." " But wait until it is finished. So this handsome and fascinating artist, when he Ejuman Sunshine. 82 % 3Bucne*Sone8 1beao Ejuman Sunshine. saw that the princess was really in love with him " " She was only pretending all the time, you know, " she interrupted. He made two or three swift strokes with his brush. " Didn't she really love him?" he asked. " No — no — no," she cried. " Not even when she found his heart was breaking for her?" "No— no!" He worked in silence for a minute. " Well, when the painter discovered that, he took his hat and — — " "Jumped into 'the river," she sug- gested. " No — painted the town. " Again she laughed, and he put in the last touches. " Come and look at the princess, " he said. She came and put her hand on his shoul- der while she looked. He laid it against his lips. an& ©tbcr Sftetcbea. 83 " Is that the lady who loved the hand- some and fascinating artist?" " I think he would really throw himself into the river if she didn't, " he said gently. "Well, she looks very silly laughing there — silly enough to love you. " " She is very beautiful. " " That is nice, " and she gave his head a little pat. "But you haven't put your name in." He began to make letters in the corner. " I— 1-o-v— " she read. " Oh, how silly, Horace!" and she laughed so merrily that he laughed too as he caught her in his arms and Yes, it is nonsense. But such delicious nonsense! The nonsense of youth, and health, and happiness. How sweet it is ! Let us hold it while we may. There are so many shadows in life — let us cherish this human sunshine. Sunshine. ($mt (tyaxMk AUNT CHARLOTTE. HE called her "Aunt Charlotte" be- cause Jean was his adopted cousin, and she called him "Connie" because Jean did. "You shall be my cousin and I shall call you Connie," Jean had said in a fit of gratitude for the polo pony which be had broken for her use. And only he and the pony knew how hardly earned was the gratitude. So although he had been christened Charles Arthur Conleigh, "Connie" he became to Jean, to Mrs. Farnham, and even to The Lamb, when he was there. The Lamb was a good-natured, rather ceremonious individual of fifty-five, — stoutly important, thoroughly engrossed in business, and Mrs. Farnham 's husband. 87 aunt Charlotte. 88 % 3S3urne=jonca ibeao aunt <£tjarlotte. It was in this order that the characteris- tics of Dexter Farnham, Esq., impressed themselves upon his wife's friends — among whom he was commonly known as The Lamb. He was fond of his wife — treated her as he did Jean, and appeared to like her patronizing though affectionate manner toward him. He was proud of her as he had been proud of his favorite race-horse twenty years earlier. She was his property, and he liked to have her ad- mired. Consequently, though he seldom went out of his New York house except to the Clubs, he encouraged her to indulge in society. She needed little encourage- ment, and indulged to an extent that was beginning to be wearisome, when Jean be- came ill. "We are a trio," she said to Conleigh that first afternoon on the polo field, " who have come to Colorado in quest of health, wealth, and reputation. Little Jean has been out of sorts ever since that attack of pneumonia, The Lamb is about to retrieve ano ©tber Shetcbes. 8 9 his impoverished fortune, and I am culti- vating a character. It goes so well with wrinkles, you know, and I assure you one's character needs patching up after — shall I say how many New York seasons?" And she looked at Conleigh from the corners of narrow gray eyes that knew their own fascination. She was past thirty, though she might have been two-and- twenty. She possessed a slender, grace- ful figure and a detailed knowledge of the world. She once said, " The world winked at me when I was born, and we have un- derstood each other ever since. " She also owned a clear, olive skin and dark hair, which was brushed straight back from the forehead. Conleigh was particularly good-looking in his polo clothes. It was quite eight- and-twenty years after his christening day when his new title was bestowed upon him ; and, though he had seen something of life in that time, he had never been in love according to his standard (all men have aunt Qarlotte. go a 3Burncs5ones f>ea& Ctunt Ctjarlottc. their standards for loving), and still took the world with an enthusiasm that was quite serious and unaffected. He had a happy disposition, — no very lofty ambi- tions, and enough money to live upon, as he said, " comfortably. " There is almost as much difference in people's ideas of comfort as there is in their ideas of God. Conleigh's thoughts about the former were very pleasant. His real opinions of the latter he kept folded in an inside pocket of his brain. He firmly believed in religion for ser- vants and women, and would have been shocked had any one told him that he classed the two together. He preferred Catholicism for them, but also approved of the Church of England, to which he himself went oftener than most men. He once told a friend that a woman without religion was a rose without per- fume. Whereupon she (it was Aunt Charlotte) almost fell under his dis- and ©tbec SRetcbes. 91 approval for saying that it was something just to be a rose. Then she laughed and put one in the but- tonhole of his coat, and they talked about the pigeon-shoot, and he told himself that she was the most attractive woman he had seen. To Conleigh living in Colorado was originally the result of a fever contracted in Rome, shortly after his Harvard days, clinched by a New York winter. So he took Horace Greeley's advice, and his valet, and went West. He preferred living in Colorado Springs to dying anywhere else. Afterward he preferred it to living anywhere else. So he built a stable for his polo ponies, and what he called a " little box" on Cascade Avenue, which he caused to be the envy and admiration of all good housekeepers. When his sister wrote that her old friend Charlotte Rodney Farnham (one of "the Rodneys") was going to Colorado, she only said, " You will be nice to her at first for aunt <£t)arfotte. 9 2 % 3Burne=3one0 fbeao aunt Charlotte. my sake, Charlie dear, et aprls. No, I shall not predict, for I am really too un- canny that way. But don't forget me entirely in your friendship — if she is fasci- nating. " He went to see her, but she was not at home, and he met her for the first time with the Hodges after a polo game. He gave the ponies to his groom, got into a fur overcoat and walked home with her. " But I saw you, " she said when he spoke of his vain attempt to see her. " I was behind the door on a step-ladder in an agony of terror lest the Agnostic who pre- vails in our kitchen should let you come in. I had sent Julie on an errand. " "On a step-ladder!" " Yes, setting up a household divinity. Oh! Mr. Conleigh, Bessie said I might make use of you. Do you mind being made use of?" " On the contrary it would be a delicious novelty. One grows so indolent here. " an& ©tber Sketches, 93 " How odd ! I have been feeling partic- ularly energetic since I came. The air is enchanting." " Yes, it is enchanting. That is exactly it. One grows to love it — and to long for a breath of it. A friend of mine calls it the 'Colorado Air Habit,' and declares that there is a gold cure for it. That is, that the only thing to keep a fellow from becoming good-for-nothing out here is to go in for mining. " "Do you?" " Oh, no. I prefer being good-for-noth- ing. You will see how easy it is presently. It is like the land the Lotos-Eaters came to, where it 'seemed always afternoon. ' " Ctunt Charlotte. "Why are we weighed upon with heaviness And utterly consumed with sharp distress, When all things else have rest from weariness?" She murmured. "That is our code— mental and physi- cal." "And moral?" 94 a aBurnesSonee ibeao Ctunt (Efyirlotte. He laughed. " Oh, we are very moral ! We look out for each others' faults. " " And gossip?" " Of course. " " Then it is no better than New York." " Oh, yes ; we gossip much better. It is our one fine art. In New York you have no idea to what an extent gossiping may be carried. You only have scandals, while we — we gossip about the bonnets and boots of our neighbors — and last year there was quite a talk because the stripe in Bolton's trousers was a shade too wide. " "Then this is not a particularly good place to come to for a character?" " No — but it is a splendid place for wrinkles. " "Oh, I shall go home at once." " Please don't, Mrs. Farnham. You have a mission here — to make me useful. Per- haps you can lead me back to the paths of righteousness. I never read — I never even think any more. None of us do. and ©tbec Sftetcbes. 95 We get into a rut — and then we get satisfied with the rut, and there we stay — even forgetting ever)'thing we ever did know." " Uncle Esek says: "Tain't wot a man don't learn, it's wot he forgits makes him so ignorant' — and I am forgetting that I must see about a cook. The aforesaid Agnostic departed this morning on a mys- terious errand of her own, and I feel as though 'all the world were water, and all the water were ink. ' " Conleigh laughed. " Let me send in some 'bread and cheese and drink' then." Did you know I lived next door?" " No, in that dear little house?" " I am glad its exterior pleases you, and hope you will like its contents. They are at your disposal." She looked at him and laughed curiously. "Thank you, I think I shall like it. Houses are a good deal like people. You can generally tell whether they are fur- aunt dfjarlotte. aunt Charlotte. 9 6 % 3Burne=3one0 1Beao nished throughout by an upholsterer, or whether there are original, interesting bits." He smiled. " You will find a great many people here whose brains are job-lots as it were. They think in sets. Two arm-chairs, a sofa and centre-table. They never have any unique or beautiful thoiights. " They were walking home and had reached his gate. She looked at the house and then at him. " I am glad that the nearest house is not furnished throughout by an upholsterer. Will you let me come in and rest my eyes now and then until our worldly goods arrive, and I can banish some of the atroc- ities of my ready-furnished house?" " Please do. And may I come in now and then and relieve my mind after seeing some of the atrocities of the ready-fur- nished brains hereabouts?" She laughed. "Please do." anO ©tbct Sftetcbes. 97 And so they were friends from the first hour. Conleigh made himself very useful dur- ing the following weeks. As Mrs. Farn- ham said : " For anything from a cook to a corner I go to my next neighbor. " He made friends with little Jean, and put The Lamb up at the Club whenever he was in town. Ctunt Charlotte. If Mrs. Farnham came to Colorado Springs for a character, she sought it in Conleigh 's society. The bubble reputation is far more easily found in the cannon's mouth than in the mouths of idle women— particularly if the seeker be a woman — and a beautiful wo- man with a man in polo clothes at her heels. Mrs. Farnham ignored these facts. She once told Conleigh that all facts were disagreeable except the Colorado weather, and sometimes even that was bad — and went on her way rejoicing. a JBurnesJones f>eaD aunt Charlotte. Her way soon became Conleigh's way, and he also rejoiced. The Lamb was in Arizona, and Little Jean, whom Mrs. Farnham called the chaperon, hardly in- terfered with their conversation, though she invariably accompanied them. They called her " Little Jean," for she bore her thirteen years timidly, and was a slender girl. Mrs. Farnham declared that Jean had never quite approved of her. " And Heaven only knows what I would have been without her. Why, the very day she was born I said a swear-word about some medicine the doctor was trying to make me take, and Jean looked at me so reproachfully with those big blue eyes that I positively blushed. And I have never sworn since — except mentally. " But Jean really adored her mother, and her air of protecting affection was very pretty to behold. One afternoon Conleigh found Mrs. Farnham kneeling before Jean, who had evidently been crying. and ©tber Sftetcbes. 99 "Come and scold me too, Connie. Or no, I think you had better take my part. I am very penitent, and Jean is to put me on bread-and-water for a week, if she will only forgive me. " "There is nothing to forgive, if you were only in fun." " But I was not in fun. Connie, Jean has been corrupting her morals with the 'Elsie Books;' I am sure of it." " What has Aunt Charlotte been doing, little girl?" " It was only something she said to Mrs. Barton." "I told Mrs. Barton that Jean's mar- riage was to retrieve the family fortunes. Nothing less than a duke will completely satisfy me. Here we are recuperating in purse, body, and mind, and when Jean is old enough I shall take her away and marry her to a nice rich old lord, or earl, or duke. Isn't that sensible? And Jean didn't like it." Jean's face flushed. aunt Cfjarlotte. 100 » 3Burne=5ones ibeaa Cunt Charlotte. "You could never make me marry a man I did not love, mother," she said. "Great heavens, child, what have you been reading? What do you know about love?" Jean lifted her great serious eyes to Conleigh's. " Connie, I believe she is in love with you ! " "Oh, mother!" the child cried, and ran out of the room. "Why did you say that, Aunt Charlotte? — you have hurt the baby!" Mrs. Farnham looked steadily into the fire. " I don't know. I wish I understood Jean. I feel like Frankenstein. Here she is — mine — my daughter with my mother's eyes — and yet a perfect monster of incom- prehensibility to me. Sometimes I feel guilty for having brought her into the world. If she were at all like me I should hate her at times. But she is so different that I feel irresponsible — and yet what a responsibility a soul is! Where do you ane &tber Sftetcbes. suppose her soul would be if her body had never been?" He liked her dream-moods and let her go on uninterrupted— only sitting down be- side her on the bear-rug before the fire. " Perhaps in some poor, ragged, ill-fed little body. Do you believe so, Connie?" "Perhaps," he said. "And besides," she went on, " I suppose it is one's right, — but sometimes it seems rather a selfish pleasure to have children. To bring an innocent being into the world with all your own faults and all the faults of your great-grandparents stamped into them. And we look at them as though they were toys, or interesting puzzles, and wonder how they will come out — as we watch them struggling with the very diffi- culties we encountered. I suppose the Creator gets the same amusement out of us, only he has not had the fun of experi- encing life himself." She smiled quizzically. "But they warm our hearts, Connie — Clunt Charlotte. 1 02 21 3Burne=3ones Ibeaa aunt ttjarlotte. these little ones. Mother-love is the only consolation I have for not having been born a man. You can never know the joy of it — the beauty of it," and she looked at him with shining eyes. Then she went to console Jean, and presently the three charged down the Avenue like the Light Brigade, and " all the world wondered. " Aunt Charlotte rather liked to make the world wonder. She said it was one of her few innocent amusements, and she liked to encourage harmless pleasure. She con- tended that it was one's duty to give people something to talk about if their lives were stupid, just as one should give bread to those who have none. So she gave Colo- rado Springs a constant topic of conversa- tion for two years — a topic that sprang eternal in the human mind long after the hope of an open scandal had ceased to spring. Aunt Charlotte and Connie seemed to be the exception proving the rule against ano ©tber Sftetcbcs. 103 Platonic friendship — and nothing hap- pened. The three rode, drove, and walked to- gether, hunted, fished, and dined together — often with others, but except in the Club, where Conleigh was occasionally to be found late at night, Mrs. Farnham, Jean, and he were almost always seen together. During The Lamb's little visits the regime was quite unchanged, except that he sometimes rode with them on a meek- looking horse which Aunt Charlotte called "Mary." And nothing happened. People talked and waited with bated breath in vain. Aunt Charlotte never did or said anything that could be criticised beyond the facts that they knew each other very well ; that she called him Connie and treated him as a boy, and he called her Aunt Charlotte and treated her with admiring deference. Besides Aunt Charlotte understood wo- men. And so few women really under- aunt Charlotte. 104 % 3Burne«5onc0 1bea^ aunt Qarlotte. stand each other. They interested her and she studied them. She exerted her- self quite as much for them as for men, and they liked her in spite of themselves. Moreover Conleigh had never been a wo- man's man, and as she was indifferent to general admiration, she robbed no one. So in the midst of all the gossip she planted a few strong friends about her. During these days Conleigh tried not to think at all. He had never been so happy before. The spirit of content seemed to have settled upon him together with the old Lotos-Eater feeling. And he lived on from day to day, from month to month, from year to year, satisfied with the joy of mere living. Twice in two years he went East, but only for a flying visit. Then came a heavenly day in spring. A day that reminded Conleigh of Egypt. A day that thrilled though all living fibres like wine. Ah! how dare we talk lightly of the and ©tber Sbctcbee. 105 weather ! How dare we use it to support our broken-backed conversations ! "You make me young again, Connie," she said. " I feel as though I had turned back in the book of my life to read over pages that had been skipped by mistake in the beginning. Please, Connie, this is Chapter Three, and I am just eighteen to-day." It was her birthday. They were stand- ing together on the porch of her cottage waiting for the horses to be brought around. Before them the intense blue of the sky was pricked by the white-topped mountains, — and on the other side plains, stretching away and away as though they knew no ending. She was in one of her joyous moods, which was almost as becoming as her habit, Conleigh thought, and he had fallen into the way of telling her his thoughts. "Thank you, Connie. You are doing very nicely. Eighteen likes compliments. Oh, can you realize that I am thirty-three aunt Charlotte. io6 % 3Burne=5ones 1beaJ> aunt <£ljarlotte. to-day? I tried them both this morning and decided that thirty-three sounded younger than three-and-thirty. Thirty- three is final, while there are possibilities of infinite additions to three-and-thirty, and I tell you there are to be no additions. However, I must be a little sobered before we go, " — and she dashed into the house, returning with a volume of Matthew Ar- nold— " Read that. " So he read in his deep, magnetic voice, " What is it to grow old?" "A grewsome thing," he pronounced it, and she looked at him with a smile. " I read that every birthday to give me a realizing sense of what I am coming to ; but there is evidently something wrong to-day. For the first time it hasn't a par- ticle of effect. I didn't hear anything but your voice. You really have quite a nice voice, Connie." Then Jean came, and they rode to the Garden of the Gods, because it was Aunt Charlotte's Sunday. anO Otber Sketches. 107 Mrs. Farnham generously divided the Sundays of the year by two, taking half for herself, and half for Jean. "When she was a baby, " she told Conleigh, " I didn't quite know what to do. I had gone through all the stages of religious senti- ment until I arrived where I am now. I can't say what I do believe. I fear it is very little. You know Arthur Clough said, 'They are most hopeless who had once most hope, and most beliefless who had once believed.' But I didn't want to bias Jean, so I took her to church every other Sunday. Now she loves it, and takes me. The other Sundays are mine. " When they reached the Garden they tied their horses and went into a sheltered place they knew, which they called theirs by right of discovery. Conleigh lighted a cigarette, Jean went off with the dogs, and Aunt Charlotte took her Matthew Arnold from the pocket of Conleigh's coat and began to read. " We are too frivolous. You must have aunt Charlotte. io8 % 3fiurne»Jonea 1bea& aunt (Otarlotte. a Sunday poem," and she read aloud: "The Buried Life." " Only — but this is rare— When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafened ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed — A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea where it goes.'' She leaned back against the red rock and looked up at the dazzling sky until her eyes filled with tears. Neither spoke. The sudden reaction from her gay mood was too much for her. At last he took the book from her fingers gently. He dared not trust himself to the silence or to his own words, so he read aloud at random : and ©tber Sfeetcbes. 109 " Each on his own strict line we move, And some find, death ere they find love ; So far apart their lives are thrown From the twin soul which halves their own. "And sometimes, by still harder fate, The lovers meet, but meet too late. — Thy heart is mine ! — True, true! Ah! true, —Then, love, thy hand!" His emotion suffocated him. He could not go on. Their eyes met. " Charlotte, " he whispered, and covered her hand with kisses. When the heart once commands, the lips speak words Which sometimes surprise their owner. In the next ten minutes Conleigh told Aunt Charlotte many, many things which he had never thought consciously before. "Wait a minute," she said, "don't speak," and she closed her eyes. There was a half-smile on her lips, and her fin- gers tightened on his for an instant. Then she pressed them to her temples. "After all, Connie dear," she said at Glint Charlotte. a 3Bume=3one0 f)ea» aunt (EEiarlotte. last, " it is of no use — I am not eighteen. Think of living to be three-and-thirty and feeling this. Ah ! I felt so safe — so safe. If I were eighteen — Oh, if I were. Then I used to look my life in the eyes, and ask it what it meant to do. Its eyes were wild and restless — and sometimes I was frightened. A loveless life is not possible for a woman. To be a woman is to love — if it is only one's self or ex- citement, and I was afraid — but Little Jean came and filled my heart and life. Oh, Connie, think of Little Jean !" She rose to her feet and leaned against the rock. " I am a very wicked woman to care for you, and to have allowed you to care for me. I am old enough to know better. I am so much older than you — whole life- times, Connie." He rebelled at this, but she went on. " There are moments in life when a veil seems to fall and we see things as they really are. Only moments, 'and then he an& ©tbec SKetcbea. thinks he knows the hills where his life rose, and the sea where it goes.' Then comes the old puzzle and jumble of com- plexities again. This is one of those mo- ments, Connie. There can be no doubt about the right and wrong of it. But it has been sweet, Connie, our friendship has been so sweet. Can't we go back to it? Can't we be just the same?" All things are possible to him who loveth. So he assured her that they could be just the same, and kissed the hem of her riding-skirt in a way that was very attractive — conveying as it did unspoken volumes of respect, love, and tender- ness. There are as many tricks in love as there are in trade, and they are such pretty tricks. It is hard to keep back words of love, but from one spoken word that might have been suppressed springs an army of emo- tions that cannot be conquered. And there were moments when the feeling of aunt <£f;atIotte. a JBurnesJones TbeaO aunt (Lljarlotte. constraint between these two was so pain- ful that she could have screamed. However, there were also days when peace and good-fellowship were restored. Such happy days, when they rode all over the country together, and told each other their trifling thoughts, and delighted to- gether in the liquid notes of the meadow lark, so common in Colorado, and so ex- quisite. They called it their bird. In fact everything beautiful belonged to them. They shared all nature generously with each other, and were divinely happy. There was not a fraction of a mountain — not a ray of sunshine — not a breath of fresh air left for the other people at the Springs that year. But then they did not know it, poor dears, and were quite reasonably happy for ordinary mortals. But the moments of constraint came oftener, and Aunt Charlotte saw that it was the beginning of the end. It was a year after the episode in the Garden of the Gods (Aunt Charlotte once and ©tber Sftetcbes. "3 told herself that there was something un- canny about its happening there — "and Matthew Arnold was the apple," she added with a sigh). The Lamb had taken what Aunt Charlotte called a furlough, and Conleigh went with them to California. California was burning with flowers, and heavy with the perfume of orange-blos- soms. (Sunt Charlotte. "I can feel my soul going to sleep," Aunt Charlotte wrote to a friend ; " I pinch it now and then, but it is quite intoxicated with these heavenly smells. You will never appreciate your nose until you come here." But her soul did not quite go to sleep, and suddenly one day what she had ex- pected happened. He said that he would go to Japan. "After this you will be dead to me, Charlotte,'' he said; "I am going away to forget. You must forget. I told you we could be the same friends again, but that 114 S 3Burne*Joncs fjeao aunt Charlotte. was madness. I never really knew what I felt for you until I told you that day. The words can never be taken back, and the feelings themselves were so nourished by those words that they are strong — stronger than I. You are right, I suppose — I think so in my sane moments. But a day will come when I cannot resist, and you — Ah ! I am afraid " "I hoped I could keep you, Connie," she said, " but it isn't possible. No, you are right. Good-by." So he kissed her once gently upon the forehead as though she were indeed dead. Then once fiercely upon the lips — and went away. It was nearly two years before he re- turned. Every mail brought a book or letter for Aunt Charlotte or Jean. The two were more devoted and more de- pendent upon each other than ever. Mrs. Farnham was surprised at Jean's develop- ment. She was wonderfully mature for her years. " Actually, Jean, " she said one and ©tber Shctcbcs. "5 day, " you are quite old enough to be my mother, and you look like her. She was a great beauty in her day. Ah me ! but beauty is an expensive luxury. " A year is not a long time. But if at the close of one day we multiply the emotions we have felt by three hundred and sixty- five it seems an eternity, and we wonder that there is a trace of the old self left for the new year. Jean was the first to greet Conleigh upon his return. He kissed her as a matter of course, and then grew rather embarrassed by her embarrassment, and the sudden realization that she was a woman — and a beautiful one. Then Aunt Charlotte came in. " Is it the same old Connie?" she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked at her steadily, and then said with a tinge of reproach in his voice, "I hope not — altogether. " When a man has succeeded in conquer- ing an unlawful love, it leaves him with aunt Charlotte. n6 B 3Burnes5oncs l&eaD Ctunt Charlotte. an unacknowledged feeling of reproach toward the woman who inspired it. There is something in the height of his new- ly acquired and unwonted righteousness which makes him feel that he would not have fallen in the first place had not some one pushed him. Men cannot help this. It is an inexorable law of their being. Adam furnishes our first illustration — but there were surely countless generations of monkeys who experienced it before him. During the following week Aunt Char- lotte was quite occupied with young Stuy- vesant, a remote cousin of hers, who was stopping with them for a few days on his way to California. "A dear boy," she said to Conleigh, " who would be very nice for Jean in time if she would only fancy him." But Jean did not fancy him, and Aunt Charlotte found that she was obliged to take charge of the " dear boy" herself. A most satisfactory arrangement for the boy, ant> ©tber Sketches. 117 who worshipped her with an adoration that was very melodramatic and young. In the mean time Conleigh and Jean rode and walked together. Conleigh did most of the talking, but she was a sympa- thetic and appreciative listener. She was not clever, but she possessed what men call tact and value more highly. Then she was very religious — honestly religious, and her soul was beautiful. Sometimes she instituted a mild reform, and Conleigh found himself delighted. Is there anything, I wonder, that men of a certain age love better than to be re- formed by a beautiful young girl? aunt Charlotte. The morning that Stuyvesant left, Aunt Charlotte went with them to their game of tennis, taking up her racket to help Jean. They played for some time, and then Con- leigh declared that Jean must stop. " You are not strong, child, " he said, "and must not tire yourself . " Then he wrapped his striped coat about her because Ii8 a JBurne=3one6 IbeaD Ctmtt Charlotte. the air was cool. " Come on, Aunt Char- lotte," he cried. " You're not tired." Aunt Charlotte was tired, but the indif- ference of his tone lashed her pride, and she played until he acknowledged himself beaten in body and spirit. Then she locked herself in her room and cried " with exhaustion, " she told herself. But after a while she went to the mirror and studied her face carefully. "Women are like prize-fighters," she said at last. "They never know when they are too old for the ring,"— and she laughed with a tear in her eye. That night Conleigh began the discus- sion of a book from the bear's head where he sat and poked the burning logs of frag- rant pifion. The fire-light flashed upon an interesting room, and half a dozen more or less inter- esting faces whose owners were taking coffee or smoking in comfortable easy- chairs. He addressed Aunt Charlotte, who looked particularly handsome in black and ©tbcc Sfcctcbea. 119 evening dress, as she leaned among the cushions of a low divan in the light of a yellow-shaded lamp. " But after all, Connie," she replied, lazi- ly looking at him without turning her head, " do you think you could count the 'Dodos' you have known upon your two hands?" "I hope I have never known one. I hate to think that there are women like that. 'Dodo' is a stupid book," he said, with a vicious poke at a refractory log. "Oh, Mr. Conleigh!" cried a woman, " how can you say that? — the book is full of clever speeches." "Clever speeches are not what a man wants in women. " " Oh, Connie is just like the rest of his sex, only more honest. Marriage is one thing and amusement is another — like the man to whom business was business, and religion, religion. Men want to marry their pink-and-white Ideals, and then when they are bored (which, alas! hap- <3unt Charlotte. a 3Burne=$one0 1bea& aunt Cljarlottc. pens soon) go out and call upon Brains for amusement. The Ideals stay at home and weep or perhaps pray, and that delights the Lords of the Manor for a while until it grows tiresome. " " But men are dropping all that sort of nonsense now," some one said. "Not at all. Only very young men. They all have this Ideal. They are born with it, just as they are born with eyes. It is handed down from Adam. Why, even he complained of Eve's originality in suggesting the apple. As they grow older, the old Ideal, which has been sort of a veiled Isis in their bosom, suddenly drops her drapery, and there she stands pretty, pink, and pious." " Ah ! the lady grows alliterative in her enthusiasm." Aunt Charlotte laughed softly. " Oh !" she continued, " Connie will have to cure his imaginary lung in a hurry, and get out of Colorado before women take full possession of the ballot." ana ©tber Sftetcbes. " But this Dodo was not clever, " some one said. " She was amusing, and it is clever to be amusing. Can't you forgive a person anything if he or she is amusing? She was amusing and liked to be amused. Are any of us very different under the well- dressed brains, or under the pretty pink piety?" Suddenly she sat erect and lifted her hand. " I wonder — If there be any lady or gentleman present who has any distinct, tangible aim in his or her life, let him speak now or else forever after hold his peace." There was a moment's silence, then her musical laugh. " And yet we all believe that we have an aim beyond a pair of healthy lungs, a bag of gold, or mere amusement. I wonder if any of us really have." " Oh, please, Aunt Charlotte, let's not be introspective, " cried Conleigh. " I always imagine my soul as a sort of a cherub ar- Clunt (Ltjarlotte. % Burnesjones "bead Ctunt Qctriotte. rangement, with a face like a photograph of me when I was a baby, and white wings, — flying about on errands of mercy and goodness." He dropped the poker and skipped about the room, flapping his arms, amid shouts of laughter. " How would the cherub like a whiskey and Manitou?" suggested Aunt Charlotte. The cherub capered madly. "Come then, " she said, rising. " We will eat, drink and be merry, and forget our aims. No, Jean, " she said in an entirely different voice, as the young girl rose from her seat in the shadow, "you are too young for Connie's drinks. Stay here with your books." Jean looked rather disappointed, but turned obediently and sat down upon the bear's head before the fire. She could hear the sound of voices, the clink of glasses, and peals of laughter from the dining-room. She wondered vaguely if this were life — if she could ever under- stand it. Just as she used to wonder as a and ©tber SRetcbes. 123 child at school in New York, when she heard the older girls recite their lessons. Would she ever be clever enough to un- derstand and enjoy it — or did they under- stand and enjoy it — or was it all a puzzle and tangle to them as it was to her? Did they only pretend? Did Connie only pre- tend? Then she heard a step — his step, and her heart beat faster as Conleigh came into the room. " Tell me what you are thinking, little girl, " he said, throwing himself down on the rug at her feet. " Was I very frivo- lous, and are you shocked? What were you thinking of?" "Of you, — I think," she said simply. There was a pause. Then he said, " Do you remember the story I used to tell you, when you were very little, about Beauty and the Beast?" " And how you used to dress up in this very bear rug to show me how the poor Prince looked," she said. Ctnnt (Liiatloite. 124 a M3urne=3one0 f>ea& Ctnnt Charlotte. " Yes, and you were always so sorry for him. You know she had to say that she loved him in all his hideousness. " "And then he became a beautiful prince, " Jean said dreamily. " That was because she loved him, you know. Love will do a great deal, Jean. If you loved me I believe I could be very good." " I do love you, Connie. " He kissed her hand. He felt that he was gambling for happi- ness with stakes that were not quite his own, but he played them to win — and wildly. He would be happy. Why should he not be? Even then vague visions of a home and children of his own floated be- fore his eyes. For there is a time in the lives of men when they desire these things. " Do you love me enough to make me young again — and take away all the scars — all the scars, Jean?" and he laid her hand on his forehead. and ©tbcr Slictcbea. 125 " I always have loved you, Connie dear, and I would die for your happiness. " Then he told her to live for his happi- ness, and she did not know (and he for- got) how very hackneyed the old phrases were. The cynical old world turned wearily on its side and winked at the stars. Surely the universe has a sense of humor to keep it going. "You make me young again," he mur- mured, and kissed the edge of her skirt. Aunt Charlotte heard those words and saw that gesture as she came into the room, and she thought her heart had turned to stone. "Jean loves me, Aunt Charlotte," Con- leigh said. " God knows I am unworthy of her, but will you trust her to me?" Aunt Charlotte grasped the portiere. " This is very sudden — Jean is such a baby — and you — are you sure " "I love her with all the love there is left to me. I am not without scars, and aunt (Ojarlotte. 126 a 3Bume=Jone8 1beaD aunt eaD d Case in point. dest words of tongue or pen' kept coming before my mind in different forms. "'The Express is stopping,' Charley said. "The track of the Western Express crossed ours just before we reached our destination. Our train had halted as usual at the junction; but I had never known the Express to stop before. It generally rushed past like a cyclone, casting cinders in all curious eyes. " I put my head out of the window. Yes, it paused long enough to drop a passenger and then whirled on again. " A vague fear took possession of me. As soon as our car pulled into the station, I hurried Charley out, that we might arrive at the house before the other guests. "As we approached the gate I saw a man hastening across the field. " The path led from the junction. " The man carried a valise. He shuffled rather than walked, with head bent for- ward and eyes upon the ground. His and ©tber Sfeetcbee. 159 clothes, threadbare and shining, were cov- ered with dust. He was quite stout and it was a warm day. A gray slouch hat partly concealed his coarsened features. " 'Great heavens!' I exclaimed. "'What is the matter?' asked my com- panion. '"There is Haskwell. The Express stopped to let him off. ' '"What! That Haskwell? That beg- gar ' " He paused, for as we drew nearer he saw that 'the beggar' really was John Haskwell. " 'Stay here, Charley. Keep the people talking as long as you can; but don't tell them, ' and I ran up the path. " Haskwell was on the steps leading to the piazza. " The door opened. "There she stood on the threshold, all in white. She looked at him. An ex- pression of horror crossed her face and with a startled cry she drew back. He (X Case in point. i6o U JButnesjones DeaO 0. (Ease in point. didn't seem to notice, but putting down his valise advanced toward her with outstretched hands. She shrank away. Then for the first time her eyes fell on me. In an instant she was herself again. Perhaps the sorrowful pity in my face called pride to her rescue. " Was not this man her fate? Had he not been faithful? Had she not promised? " She threw on me a glance of indigna- tion as though I had cast a reproach upon her betrothed, — then with a slight effort she placed her little hands in his great red ones, and let him kiss her full upon the lips. With the air of a protector and champion, she drew him into the house. " I stood like one in a dream. Surely she would not marry him. " The guests began to arrive and soon the little parlor was filled. " Charley Hays came and spoke to me, but I didn't hear him. I was waiting — vaguely expecting something to happen. " And something did happen. and ©tber Sfcetcbes. 161 " She entered the room leaning on Hask- well's arm. He tried to look up, but his eye wavered and fell. His clothes were in better repair. The dust and travel- stains were all removed ; but there was an air of slovenliness about his shambling figure. The stamp of the backwoods was upon him. " There was a death-like silence. " Every one present was stunned by the change three years had wrought in the man. " How loud and startling the minister's voice seemed as he pronounced the first words of the marriage service ! "She was very pale. I thought once she would faint, but no, — she remained firm to the end. " Presently I went up to congratulate Mrs. John Haskwell. As her eyes met mine she knew that I had seen and under- stood. A painful blush mounted to her forehead, and her hand trembled violently. I could not speak. At length I muttered (X £ase in point. l62 % 3Burne»3ones "IbcaO (X (Ease in point. something about being her friend always — hoping she would be happy and — 'Good- by.' "That is all. " The next year I went abroad. I have never heard of her — of them since. "It was only one of those incidents — that occur sometimes. " A curious story — very curious. " There was a pause. Then a woman spoke. "It is a most interesting story, and proves, I think, the very point I made : — that man is much more easily influenced by his surroundings than woman. The character of this promising man was en- tirely changed by three years of hardship." "But was his character changed? He had elements of weakness to start with. " "We all have elements of weakness. The question is, Did she fall to his level, when given the same surroundings, or did she raise him to hers?" and ©tber Sftetcbes. 163 "If, according to Mrs. B- 's theory, he was so easily influenced by his sur- roundings, then when she surrounded him why should he not rise again; learn to brush his hair and clothes — keep his hands clean — wear a necktie — and wipe his feet on the mat as nicely as he did before he fell?" " That is in direct contradiction to your theory that a wife loses her individuality ; that her husband's opinions are hers. / believe that these two people loved each other, that they were as well suited as people usually are, and that they had the happiness which marriage usually brings. Each influenced the other, and they resided in a blissful state of mediocrity. That is the practical solution of the idea. " "Nonsense! The marriage was alto- gether a mistake. Within a day she re- gretted her foolish pride ; within a week she was miserable; within a month she loathed him ; and within a year she got a divorce. " (3 (Ease in point. 1 64 a 3Burnc=Jones 1beao. CI Case ******* in point. The deep voice of the sea penetrated the silence that followed — the melodious voice of the sea which speaks a different language to every listener. It was high tide. The waves, gently lapping at the base of the piazza, pro- claimed midnight. Mrs. Warburton looked toward her daughter, who had grown very pale. She rose and said it was time to go in. As Edith assented, the wrap she wore slipped from her shoulders. Her lover quickly replaced it. " Have you nothing to say to me?" he pleaded. Her lips were slightly compressed, and her eyes rested upon him half-sadly, half- regretfully for a moment. Then she said : "Only, 'Good-by.'" He watched her enter the hotel and his heart ached. For he knew that he had received his answer.