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A BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 LOVE STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 NORA PERRY 
 
 M 
 AUTHOR OF "after THE BALL," "HER LOVER'S FRIEND," 
 "the TRAGEDY OF THE UNEXPECTED" 
 
 /: 
 
 - } • S' J T 5 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 
 
 1881 
 
•3 i 
 
 9?\ 
 
 Copyright^ /88r, 
 By James R. Osgood and Company. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 II - 3;;^/ 
 
 University Press: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
TO 
 
 Pg 'gthiibt anb Jmnb, 
 JEANIE CURTIS STEVENSON. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dolly 9 
 
 Dick Halliday's Wife 54 
 
 Laura and Her Hero 74 
 
 Christine 115 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Meyer 141 
 
 The Charmer Charmed I64 
 
 After Five Years 188 
 
 John Eccleston's Thanksgiving 223 
 
 An Heiress 242 
 
 Margaret Freyer's Heart 270 
 
A BOOK OF LOVE STORIES. 
 
 DOLLY. 
 I. 
 
 SHE sat by the fire — a little low fire in a little low 
 grate — warming her feet, or pretending to, this 
 heroine of mine, this Dolly, otherwise Dorothea, other- 
 wise Miss Brooks. She had sat thus for an hour 
 already, and an hour ago it was high time to go to 
 bed, according to all respectable and reasonable no- 
 tions ; for an hour ago it was eleven, and now the little 
 black hands on the little yellow-faced old clock were 
 pointing to twelve. But Dolly did n't mind. Pretty 
 soon the little yellow-faced clock would gather up all 
 its energies, and in a perfect whiz and whir of excite- 
 ment would jerk out twelve strokes with its lusty little 
 hammer. Twelve strokes, each one of which would 
 say as plainly as such a hammer could, " Go to bed, 
 Dolly ; go to bed, Dolly ; go to bed, Dolly ! " 
 
 But Dolly would n't mind that either. Dolly would n't 
 go to bed until she was ready ; until she had got her 
 thoughts untied, to use her own expression. And her 
 thoughts were in such a snarl just now. So, spite of 
 the whiz and the whir, and the scolding admonition of 
 
10 DOLLY. 
 
 the little yellow-faced old clock, Dolly still sat on, her 
 hands clasped behind her head, and her tawny locks 
 falling all about her shoulders in a cloudy confusion of 
 loosened crimps and curls. 
 
 Her brow was knitted, and her eyes full of the 
 perplexities of her thought, yet spite of these signs 
 of gravity and seriousness, Dolly looked so young, so 
 girl-like, sitting there in her white dressing-sacque, 
 with her pink and white face, and her great crop of 
 bright hair framing it, that you would have said her 
 perplexities were only of the lightest and most girlish 
 description. 
 
 But you don't know Dolly yet \ and you don't know 
 Dolly's history and her daily life, and her troubles and 
 trials. If you did, you would know that she did n't 
 spend her time sitting up over small perplexities. 
 Dolly had seen too much and known too much of the 
 great perplexities to fool away her time, her *' beauty- 
 sleep " like that. 
 
 Whir, whir, tick, tick, goes the noisy little clock, 
 and whir, whir, tick, tick, go Dolly's thoughts in this 
 wise : — 
 
 " It is hard, spite of all the grand talk about womanly 
 independence, for a little body like me to be indepen- 
 dent. I 've tried it now for a good while, and I must 
 say it 's up-hill work for me. Up-hill work, and the 
 years are going on and on, and by and by I shall lose 
 all these fresh looks and these yellow locks that get so 
 much praise now ; and then I shall lind myself old and 
 alone in the world some day. Oh dear, I wish my 
 composition had something it has n't ! I wish I had 
 
DOLL V. 1 1 
 
 more faith in myself, more courage ; but life frightens 
 me as I look forward and see myself a lonely little old 
 woman. Yes, I am afraid to trust to my genius, though 
 they all say I have it. I 'm afraid tp go on and on 
 with the years, with only my art for companion and 
 support ; for I 'm not a good worker. I get worried 
 and dispirited, and then my inspiration goes, and I feel 
 only the dull labor. I can't make myself into a ma- 
 chine, neither can I keep myself at high-pressure all 
 the time, and that makes me a vagabond, that makes 
 me troubled and worried half the time. And out of 
 this trouble and worry, out of this raging river of uncer- 
 tainties, there is an opportunity for me to step into a 
 safe little boat, and row, or be rowed, safely to shore. 
 And I can't, oh, I can't make up my mind to step in ! 
 It 's such a very safe litde boat, such a trig, trim little 
 craft ; and it would row so carefully and slowly, and in 
 such a narrow channel all the way. And that is what 
 repels me, — all this safety and smoothness and calm- 
 ness, because it 's the safety and smoothness and 
 calmness of something so alien to me. It is the safety 
 of a limit, and not of strength and power ; and such 
 kind of safety I 'm afraid would be very unsafe for me. 
 I'm afraid I should grow rebellious, and feel chafed 
 and fretted like a caged creature. And then this would 
 only bring me into another worry, — ' out of the frying- 
 pan into the fire.' But is there any worry like this 
 worry from day to day about what we shall eat, and 
 what we shall drink, and wherewithal we shall be 
 clothed? Ah me, what had I better do? I 'm a 
 coward to ask the question, I know that ; but there 's 
 
12 DOLLY. 
 
 one thing I '11 conclude upon at once. I '11 see the 
 owner of this trim Httle boat, — this careful oarsman. 
 I '11 see him, as Bab desires, to-morrow night. I '11 see 
 him while she is away, and then I can tell better what 
 manner of man he is. Perhaps, after all, he 's more 
 than I think. I 'm too rapid, maybe, in my judg- 
 ments, — believe too much in my first impressions. 
 Yes, I '11 see him ; , and there the matter shall rest for 
 the present." 
 
 And coming to this conclusion Dolly stretched out 
 her arms, and opened her mouth very wide, showing 
 all her little irregular white teeth in a long-drawn yawn. 
 There was a great cat sleeping on the corner of the 
 rug, who waked up at this yawn, and gave an inquiring 
 inlaw, looking at Dolly with round, staring eyes of 
 amazement. Dolly laughed, and put out her hand. 
 
 " Come here. Major ! " and Major gave a spring and 
 seated himself in Dolly's lap. " Now, Major," pro- 
 ceeded Dolly, " I want to tell you something. I 've 
 made up my mind to see Bab's bachelor to-morrow 
 night. Bab says he wants to marry me, and that it will 
 be a good thing for me. What do you think of that. 
 Major? Do you approve? " 
 
 ^' Miaw^^ went the Major, and then he winked 
 knowingly with one of his straw-colored eyes. 
 
 " Oh, you think it worth consideration ; I thought 
 you would. You know just how lonesome it is living 
 here all alone, don't you? You know just how hard it 
 is to forage for yourself, and then to find only skim- 
 milk in your saucer? " 
 
 Major gave a most energetic miaw here. 
 
DOLL Y. I 3 
 
 "Oh, Major, Major," cried out Dolly at this, 
 " what a worldly old cat you are, to be willing to sell 
 yourself for a pot of cream every day ! Don't you know 
 how that turns out a mess of pottage sometimes ? Oh, 
 Major, Major, you 'd a great deal better keep up your 
 courage, and go mousing about on your own hook, 
 with now and then a chance of skim-milk." 
 
 And scourging herself over Major's shoulders in this 
 fantastic way, Dolly stroked the purring cat and re- 
 garded him with great, sad, introverted eyes, that, spite 
 of the smiling lips, revealed the sadness of her heart. 
 And after a minute spent thus, she rose, put Major 
 softly down upon his corner of the rug, and went off to 
 bed humming that sweetest, mournfulest old song, 
 " Auld Robin Gray." 
 
 II. 
 
 I shall have to tell you a little more about Dolly than 
 she has managed to tell herself, after all. I shall have 
 to tell you who Bab is, and a little about Aunt Jo. Bab 
 was a married friend who was pretty Barbara Slade 
 once, and was now Mrs. Barbara Ingalls. She was 
 very fond of Dolly, and had latterly got an idea into 
 her head that Dolly ought to be married. She knew 
 something of Dolly's life, — not all the ins and outs, for 
 Dolly, frank as she seemed, had those deep reserves 
 which very proud and sensitive people are sure to have. 
 There were straits in Dolly's life which she had never 
 told anybody, not even Major, whom she declared to 
 
14 DOLLY. 
 
 be her most confidential fi-iend. But Bab knew that 
 Dolly lived alone with Aunt Jo, and that when Aunt Jo 
 died the little annuity died with her, and Dolly would 
 have to shirk for herself in the world. 
 
 To Barbara Ingalls, who had a sure home, and a fine 
 one too, who had somebody to look out for her at 
 every turn, this having to shirk for one's self was a 
 matter of terror. So, thinking the matter over and 
 over one day, after finding Dolly wearying about some 
 household tasks that were too much for her, she came 
 to this conclusion, — that Dolly ought to marry. And 
 suddenly coming to this conclusion, she came quite as 
 suddenly to the hero who was to play the principal part 
 in her plan, — to Mr. Herman Morris, whose quiet 
 attentions to Dolly the past winter had been swiftly but 
 shrewdly interpreted by wise Mrs. Barbara. Dolly, 
 preoccupied, had failed to see what Mrs. Barbara saw, 
 until that lady opened her eyes. She laughed at first, 
 but Barbara persisted, and her perplexities increasing, 
 as perplexities will, until everything all at once seems 
 to get into a hard knot, she at last consented to think 
 of the matter. " He is the most gentlemanly man of 
 my acquaintance, quiet, retiring, and modest, — such 
 a man as Aunt Jo will be sure to approve," said Bab 
 diplomatically. 
 
 And Aunt Jo ? 
 
 Well, it is difficult to do justice to Aunt Jo. She 
 and Dolly lived together alone in the smallest possi- 
 ble way on the smallest possible means. And Aunt Jo, 
 who was seventy, and had brought up half a dozen of 
 those rampageous Brooks children, and buried all but 
 
DOLLY. 15 
 
 Dolly, was as bright and sweet and sunny as if life 
 had given her all its roses instead of its thorns. Her 
 thorn now was Dolly's future. She had no great am- 
 bition, no schemes for this child of hers ; she only want- 
 ed to feel sure that Dolly would be taken care of when 
 she was gone, for she did n't feel sure that Dolly would 
 take very good care of herself. She knew better than 
 anybody what a little irresponsible vagabond this Dolly 
 was. And Dolly knew that she knew, and without a 
 word on Aunt Jo's part, Dolly knew by that sharp in- 
 tuition of hers how Aunt Jo worried about her ; and this 
 worried Dolly ; and this brings us up to the time when 
 she had concluded to become better acquainted with 
 Mr. Morris, with a vague view to Barbara's plans, and 
 her own release from the ceaseless worry. 
 
 III. 
 
 The week that Mr. Ingalls always spent in New Or- 
 leans transacting some Southern business that he had, 
 Dolly always spent with Mrs. Ingalls, to " keep her com- 
 pany, " as women say. And one night of this week 
 Mrs. Barbara had Mr. Morris there to tea ; and then, 
 directly after the hospitable meal, this arch plotter and 
 planner announced that she was sent for to go round 
 and see Mrs. Blake's little boy, who was down with the 
 measles, — an errand of neighborly duty which could 
 scarcely be deferred, and which she took upon herself 
 with many apologies and regrets to Mr. Morris for her 
 unavoidable absence during his visit. As she went 
 
1 6 DOLLY. 
 
 out of the room and upstairs after this flourish of trum- 
 pets Dolly followed her. 
 
 "Bab, what do you expect will become of you if you 
 go on like this? You made that all up about Mrs. 
 Blake's little boy, you know you did." 
 
 "Of course I did," returned Mrs. Bab in a little 
 giggle. " I never do things by halves, and I hope I 
 understand truth well enough to know how to romance 
 when great occasions require it without damaging any- 
 body. All stratagem is fair in love and war, you know." 
 
 Dolly tossed her head. " Love ! Don't talk about 
 that, Bab. We 're only considering a possible bar- 
 gain ! " and Dolly's air and tone were full of self-dis- 
 dain. 
 
 Mrs. Barbara was alarmed. " What a goose you are, 
 Dolly, to talk in that way about such a fine, handsome 
 fellow as Herman' Morris ! A bargain ! I think you 
 insult him." 
 
 " So I do, Bab, " spoke up Dolly, with quiet signifi- 
 cance. But Mrs. Barbara was n't going to notice any 
 of Dolly's heroics, so she kept up her fine indignation 
 strain. 
 
 " A much better woman than you are might fall in 
 love with Mr. Morris, I can tell you. Miss Dolly. " 
 
 "Oh, I dare say." 
 
 " And jump at the chance of being his wife. " 
 
 " I hope the better woman may have the chance to 
 jump at, then. 'T would be a pity for me to interfere 
 with such blissful possibilities. " 
 
 And Dolly dropped a saucy little courtesy to Mrs. 
 Barbara, whereat Mrs. Barbara laughed, reheved. 
 
DOLLY. 17 
 
 Dolly had got off her high horse. Dolly had come 
 down from her heroics. She was not alarmed now. 
 When Dolly began to jest she was in one of her safest 
 moods. You could do something with Dolly then. It 
 was only those high flights that took her away from con- 
 trolling hands, from the practical ruts of Hfe. 
 
 So in her jesting mood, thinking of that " better 
 woman," Dolly went back to the parlor and to Mr. Her- 
 man Morris. A fine, handsome fellow, Mrs. Barbara 
 had declared him. One gets an idea of height and 
 breadth from this, and Mr. Morris was neither very 
 tall nor very broad, nor the extreme reverse. He was 
 one of the medium-sized men, with a good figure for 
 his size, an elegant carriage, and a strikingly handsome 
 face, brown-bearded and blue-eyed. He rose as Dolly 
 entered, and came forward with a picture in his hand. 
 It was a photograph of Dolly herself, which he had 
 found upon the table. 
 
 " Do you like this of yourself ? " he asked. 
 
 "That? Oh yes, better than anything I ever had 
 taken. Why, don't you ? " 
 
 " No, Miss Brooks, I can't say that I do. " 
 
 Miss Brooks smiled. " Tell me why you don't like 
 it, " she asked ; " it interests me to know. " 
 
 His eyes went back to the pictute. " The shadows 
 are badly thrown, to begin with; there is too much 
 shadow, and too much light. Then I don't think the 
 position a happy one. I never saw an expression like 
 that upon your face. In short. Miss Brooks, I don't 
 think the picture does you justice, seriously." 
 
 Dolly bowed and smiled again. 
 
1 8 DOLLY. 
 
 " Now, here is what I call a good picture of a per- 
 son. " It was a carte of Mrs. Ingalls, one of those 
 smooth, even pictures which the majority of people 
 admire. 
 
 "You don't like it?" said Mr. Morris, looking up, 
 as Dolly said nothing. 
 
 " I don't dislike it ; I don't care for it — that is all." 
 
 "What is there in it that you criticise?" And Mr. 
 Morris looked hard at the picture and then hard at 
 Dolly, in an evident puzzle. 
 
 " It 's what there is n't in it that I find fault with — 
 there 's the trouble. There 's nothing in it, to my think- 
 ing, — not a bit of soul. Barbara might as well be 
 Bridget Dolan." 
 
 Mr. Morris bowed politely. 
 
 " Intimate friends," he said, " are rarely satisfied with 
 their friends' pictures, I know. Now to me this seems 
 a very satisfactory likeness. I think most people would 
 find it so." • 
 
 " Oh yes, I dare say." 
 
 Mr. Morris said a few words further in the matter, 
 and then, putting the carte down, he leaned forward 
 with an earnest intentness that rather startled his com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Miss Brooks, I 've wanted an opportunity to say 
 something in reference to a Httle conversation we had 
 the last time I saw you. It 's troubled me a good 
 deal." 
 
 Dolly could n't remember a thing that he had said to 
 her the last time she had seen him. So she waited for 
 him to go on. 
 
DOLLY. 19 
 
 " You don't remember. It was about Mr. Thornton. 
 You asked me what I thought of him. I expressed 
 myself very freely ; and I have since thought that I was 
 not charitable enough in my expressions." 
 
 " Oh yes, I recollect now ; and if I recollect rightly, 
 your expressions were very moderate, but quite just." 
 
 " I 'm glad you think so ; but I 've been troubled ever 
 since about it, and I really don't think I ought to have 
 said what I did. " 
 
 " You told me the real state of your mind, I suppose, 
 and you told me facts." 
 
 " Yes, oh yes, " answered Mr. Morris, evidently in a 
 difficulty how to reconcile his sensitive conscience and 
 these facts. " But," resuming, " I don't think I ought 
 to have said so much even if I did believe it to be 
 truth ; for I may be mistaken, you know." 
 
 "You are not afraid of my making mischief, Mr. 
 Morris ? " 
 
 " Oh no, no ; it 's entirely with myself. I dislike to 
 think I 've been uncharitable, that 's all." 
 
 " I beheve you said that you thought Mr. Thornton 
 was rather conceited, and overestimated his abiHties. 
 I coincided with you ; and then we talked of what grew 
 out of these tendencies, and you told me of an incident 
 where he got himself into a- false position with the Her- 
 veys, through his vanity ; and I told you of a little 
 personal experience which corroborated all this. Nei- 
 ther you nor I had been slandering anybody. We had 
 simply stated some facts, and compared notes, that we 
 might come to a candid conclusion about a person of 
 whom it is necessary for us to know something, as we 
 
20 DOLL V. 
 
 are likely to meet him rather frequently in society, and 
 might, if we did n't understand his peculiarities, get into 
 difficulties ourselves, by believing his assertions too im- 
 plicitly, or trusting him inadvertently. Forewarned is 
 forearmed, and I think I shall be on my guard when 
 I 'm in the society of Mr. Charley Thornton hereafter." 
 
 This was a plain statement, certainly ; but Mr. Morris 
 still seemed unsettled. 
 
 " After all, we might be mistaken," he went on. " I 
 hate to think ill or judge hardly. We should, be so 
 careful in our judgments. We cannot always under- 
 stand another's motives ; and what seems very dark to 
 us may have a better meaning." 
 
 " No doubt about that, Mr. Morris ; but there can be 
 scarcely two meanings to a man's conduct who declares 
 that such a girl as Josephine Hervey encouraged his 
 attentions, and that the only reason he did n't go on 
 was because he himself was not sufficiently interested ; 
 and that, when all the time Josephine was engaged to 
 another — to such another as Jim Lawrence." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know, but — " 
 
 A look of impatience crossed Dolly's face. 
 
 " I tell you what, Mr. Morris," she interrupted, " I 
 think you 're a little morbid in your conscience. Charley 
 Thornton is n't worth so much thought and breath, any 
 way. I /;/iow he 's what we declared him to be, and I 've 
 simply got him settled in his proper place now, — put 
 away on a shelf, labelled ' dangerous,' and I don't 
 trouble myself any more about him. Dismiss him 
 from your mind in the same manner, Mr. Morris." 
 
 " And it does n't disturb you to find a person can be 
 really false through his weakness?" 
 
DOLLY. 21 
 
 " Disturb me ! Well, I long ago accepted that fact 
 of human fallibility, and unless the person is very much 
 to me individually I don't allow it to disturb me much. 
 In this case I Ve only opened another of the world's 
 oysters, and found a pebble instead of a pearl. I 've got 
 used to such findings, and I can't afford to go into 
 mourning over every one ; and there are pure pearls 
 somewhere, you know, after all. But come, let us send 
 Charley Thornton to Coventry or any other oblivion, 
 and let me sing you a new song I have, — one new to 
 me." 
 
 It was Story's significant words, " I am weary with 
 rowing," and Boott's perfect music, which expresses 
 what the words fail to express. 
 
 Dolly's voice was a mezzo-soprano, wild and untaught ; 
 but somebody said once of it, " I don't see how that 
 girl manages to put so much into that voice of hers." 
 Well, she sung this song, which has a heart-break in it, 
 and into her voice went all the heart-break which had 
 been written there ; and gay as she seemed, Dolly- felt 
 the heart-break, for Dolly herself was "weary with row- 
 ing." She turned slowly after the singing. The words, 
 the music, were still with her. 
 
 " That is very sweet, but too sad for you, — too sad 
 for anybody, Miss Brooks. We need something to 
 cheer us in our recreations, I think." 
 
 Miss Brooks gave a little movement of her head 
 which might have been of assent ; and by that time 
 Mr. Morris had a song before her of his own choosing. 
 It was "The Merry Zingara." As she concluded this, 
 Mrs. Ingalls came in. 
 
22 DOLL V. 
 
 "How is Mrs. Blake's little boy?" asked Dolly, 
 wheeling round upon the piano-stool, her face express- 
 ing mischief. 
 
 " More comfortable, I thank you," answered Mrs. 
 Bab, her bright eyes twinkling. 
 
 " Did you get there as soon as she expected you ? " 
 
 Dolly was waxing dangerous. There was no knowing 
 how she might have gone on, but that Mr. Morris, find- 
 ing that it was after ten, made his adieux. The hall- 
 door had no sooner closed upon him than Mrs. Barbara 
 turned upon Dolly. 
 
 " Dolly, I '11 pay you for that last. I like to have 
 broken down entirely ; but I '11 postpone my revenge 
 while you tell me about your evening. What do you 
 think of him?" 
 
 " The first question answered will answer your other 
 question. I '11 give you a history of the evening." 
 
 Whereupon Dolly, to begin with, repeated the photo- 
 graph conversation. 
 
 " He did n't like this, eh? " and Barbara lifted Dolly's 
 carfe to view. 
 
 " No, he did n't see it, Bab dear, at all : he saw too 
 much light, too much shadow ; he did n't see that for 
 once the sun had caught the very depths of a human 
 soul. All the best that is in me is brought out there, 
 Bab. He missed the outside sparkle, the color : 
 that 's all he sees, or would ever see. And, Bab, he 
 liked this of yours — thought it the perfection of like- 
 nesses." 
 
 " That thing, that lump of flesh without a soul ! " 
 cried Mrs. Bab. 
 
DOLL V. 23 
 
 Then, with a silent grimace, she tossed it from her, 
 and told Dolly to go on. Dolly went on, and rendered 
 with dramatic fidelity what followed. And at the end 
 she said, " There, it is n't necessary for me to tell you 
 what I think of Mr. Morris now." 
 
 Mrs. Barbara laughed. " Yes, tell me. I like to hear 
 you talk, and you 're full of it, I can see." 
 
 Dolly joined the laugh. Then, suddenly turning 
 grave, — 
 
 " Wpll, I can tell you one thing, to begin with. I 
 thought in the midst of the conversation this evening of 
 something Miss Thackeray says in her story of ' Jack the 
 Giant-Killer.' It is where poor Jack sits and listens to 
 his wife's little tunes, and it came over him that he had 
 got to listen all his life to those little tunes. Well, it 
 came over me just the same as I sat there listening to 
 Mr. Morris : it came over me that if I married this 
 man I should have to listen to little tunes all my life. I 
 don't mean anything harsh or invidious in any way. I 
 think Mr. Morris is an excellent man, and I respect him. 
 He is kind and gende and gentlemanly, but he lacks 
 masculinity. I don't scoff at goodness by any means ; 
 but his goodness is feminine goodness, and not mascu- 
 line. Think of a man harping upon such a quibble of 
 conscientiousness, and making a great matter out of so 
 small a one, when there are so many really great mat- 
 ters in the world to concern one's self about. All this 
 blessed evening spent in such pottering talk. Little 
 tunes ! That is just the expression. Suppose he had 
 — which he had n't — criticised unjustly or severely, it 
 was only necessary for him to retract it briefly ; but to 
 
24 
 
 DOLLY. 
 
 harp on the matter so Jong was making both himself 
 and the matter of too much importance. It is very 
 curious, that habit that some persons have — really mod- 
 est persons too — of bringing the little worries of their 
 consciences before you. They fancy that confession is 
 going to give them some sort of absolution. Confes- 
 sion ! Don't you remember what I was reading the 
 other day from Holbeach : ' The weak — those who 
 must, even if they die for it, have the sympathy of the 
 majority — commonly confess : the strong hold their 
 tongues and hold their own ' ? I wanted to say to Mr. 
 Morris, when he was going over and over this small 
 worry of his, ' Don't fret your immortal soul about the 
 accidents and blunders and trifles of daily life ; but go 
 your ways with a high serenity and faith in yourself, and 
 the accidents and blunders and trifles will by and by 
 adjust themselves to the larger sphere that you create.' 
 There, I read that somewhere, I don't know where." 
 
 " You made it up for the occasion, Dolly ; it 's one 
 of your manufactured quotations, I know." 
 
 " Is it? Well, I 'm glad you think so." A moment's 
 silence, then, with an indescribable, long-drawn into- 
 nation, an indescribable light coming into her eyes : 
 " How different all this was from another man's, ' The 
 heavens are large, I don't notice small clouds ' ! " 
 
 "Eh, what is that?" 
 
 " You know, Bab — you 've heard me speak of it be- 
 fore. It was Roy Dallas's answer to me one evening 
 when I asked him if he noticed Mrs. Stamford's cool- 
 ness to him. I shall never forget that answer, it was so 
 characteristic of the man's nature. * No, I had n't no- 
 
DOLLY. 25 
 
 ticed it,' he replied, half smiling. ' But now you men- 
 tion it, I perceive that there was a difference, perhaps ; 
 but the heavens are large, I don't notice small clouds.' 
 That was just as indicative of his large, self-poised na- 
 ture as Herman Morris's small worries are indicative of 
 his nature." 
 
 " Dolly, I beg your pardon ! " suddenly burst out 
 Mrs. Barbara. 
 
 " For what? " laughed Dolly, looking a Httle amazed. 
 
 " For tr>'ing to make a match between you and Her- 
 man Morris. I see now what a blunderer I was. But, 
 Doll dear, I hate to think of your drudging along alone 
 to the end of your life." 
 
 " Alone ! Bab, I never felt so alone in my life as I 
 did when Herman Morris was talking to me to-night, — 
 good and kind gentleman that he is." 
 
 " Yes, good and kind gentleman ; but he is n't enough 
 of a person for you, that 's it, Doll. You 're more of 
 a man than he is, for all you 're such a soft little duck 
 of a girl, with your pretty hair and your dainty ways." 
 
 " O Bab, don't call me a man-woman ! " 
 
 " I 'm not calling you a man-woman. You don't call 
 Shirley a man-woman, do you — Jane Eyre's Shirley? 
 You 're like her in some ways ; the cool, clear ways you 
 look at things, without pottering, you know. As for the 
 masculine element, somebody — some high light of lit- 
 erature — says that no man is complete in his nature 
 without something of the feminine element, and no 
 woman without the masculine. I think that is true. It 
 means just the tempering of each nature — one, the 
 masculine, by softness; the other, the feminine, by 
 
26 DOLLY. 
 
 strength. Without this element in each, there is hard- 
 ness on the one side and weakness on the other." 
 
 "Yes, I beheve that," said Dolly thoughtfully. "I 
 never knew so gentle a person in some ways as Roy 
 Dallas ; and what a masculine man he was — a man's 
 man ! " 
 
 " Dolly, you measure all men by him ; did you 
 know it? " 
 
 " Yes, I know it," answered Dolly. 
 
 "That is the reason you are single to this day, 
 Dolly." 
 
 " How you speak of that fact, as if it were a great 
 misfortune, Bab ! " 
 
 " Well, it is in some directions, for you, dear. I see 
 it is of no use for you to marry a man that is n't equal 
 to you j but I wish you could marry a man you loved, 
 Dolly dear, you 're such a child after all in that part 
 of your character which must cope with the world's 
 practical forces. It hurts you so to shirk for yourself. 
 As the world stands now, a woman like you has n't an 
 easy time of it. You ought to be taken care of, looked 
 out for, Dolly." 
 
 " Well, once for all, Bab, this cowardly way of trying 
 to do violence to nature, of making a bargain of mar- 
 riage to evade work and loneliness, is something I shall 
 never contemplate again. Aunt Jo says often, ' Those 
 who help themselves the Lord will help.' Now, I 'm 
 going to set myself to my work, and do it as well as I 
 can ; and I trust that the Lord will not leave me deso- 
 late in the years that are to come, even if I miss the 
 companion and the home you want me to have. Why, 
 
DOLLY. 27 
 
 bless your heart, Bab, I may not live to pass the lonely 
 life you dread for me. • Why, a thousand things may 
 happen before that " ; and Dolly rose up as brightly as 
 if she had suddenly seen a very cheerful prospect open 
 before her. 
 
 Mrs. Barbara laughed. " You are such a jolly, odd 
 little thing, Dolly. But — my ! " — looking at her 
 watch — " it 's nearly twelve o'clock ! " and up she 
 sprang and began to put the music away. 
 
 " Oh, this is what you were singing when I came in, 
 — this 'Weary with Rowing.' How did Mr. Morris 
 like it, Dolly?" 
 
 Dolly told her how he liked it. 
 
 " The old woman ! " cried Barbara impatiently. She 
 had more than gone over to Dolly's side, this arch plot- 
 ter and match-maker. 
 
 " No, no, Bab, not that : he is n't what you mean by 
 that, he is n't a travesty upon nature ; he is a kind, 
 true person, only not in our key, or in the key of those 
 men who are very strongly masculine." 
 
 " I say he 's an old woman !" repeated Barbara, now 
 utterly demoralized. "This last imbecility proves it. 
 To think of any one who can tell one tune from another 
 listening to this impassioned heart-break, and then com- 
 mence prosing about the duty of hveliness ! He 's worse 
 than an imbecile old woman ; he has n't any soul. Now 
 I hate those sentimental misses who prate about plain- 
 tive music, and immediately instance ' My heart is 
 dead,' or some such dreary trash. That 's a very dif- 
 ferent thing from that uplifting straight into heaven on 
 some impassioned strains that come from the very 
 depths of human experience." 
 
28 DOLLY. 
 
 " Oh yes, yes it is, indeed ! " cried Dolly, with a sort 
 of ecstatic expression coming into her face. 
 
 Dolly was thinking of a voice that used to sing to 
 her, uplifting her soul straight to heaven on its impas- 
 sioned strains, — a voice that even in comedy vibrated 
 with that deep minor chord which can come only from 
 deep natures. As Mrs. Barbara caught that ecstatic 
 expression on Dolly's face she knew where Dolly's 
 thoughts had gone. 
 
 " Dolly," she began, rather hesitatingly, " I thought 
 you had got over that affair." 
 
 " And forgotten Roy Dallas?" concluded Dolly, with 
 a tinge of bitterness. 
 
 " Well, yes, I hoped you had, Dolly, or, at least, that 
 he had ceased to be of such vital interest to you." 
 
 " Roy Dallas is n't such an easy person to forget or 
 to dismiss from one's mind as a vital interest," returned 
 Dolly, gazing wistfully before her, with eyes that showed 
 plainly that they were recalling the past. 
 
 " But I thought — " 
 
 " Yes ; I don't wonder you thought that was all for- 
 gotten, if I could enter into your plans, and contem- 
 plate even for a moment replacing Roy Dallas with 
 Herman Morris. Oh, I don't wonder, Barbara, at you ! 
 I only wonder at myself. But let me tell you now just 
 how I feel about that. Long ago I gave Roy Dallas 
 up. It was a great wrench then, as you know, and for 
 a long time the wound it made in my life was fresh, and 
 bleeding at every touch. But gradually time, and all 
 the duties and cares and various conditions it brings in 
 its train, began to overlay very mercifully this past, un- 
 
DOLLY. 29 
 
 til I can really feel now that the wound is healed, and 
 that Roy Dallas is only a memory, and not a hurt to 
 me, — a blessed memory, which has enriched me, Bar- 
 bara. I thought at first that I should never feel like 
 this, that he could never be far away in my mind ; 
 but God does not mean us to give up life and die if we 
 cannot have the one thing that we have set our hearts 
 upon. So I Hved on, and found at last, as I say, that 
 my wound had become, instead of a fever and a pain, 
 a blessed memory, and that there might be other inter- 
 ests left for me yet. Latterly, too, I 've felt lonely, and 
 a little afraid of a lonelier future, and so I fell in with 
 your plan. I thought, you see," — a little faint smile 
 came here, — " that I might ' drive liking to the name 
 of love,' but, having known love, I found I could not 
 do it. I. don't mean by this that I think I can never 
 love again ; none of us can tell what may come to us, 
 or what fresh springs yet lie untouched within us, but I 
 will never contemplate marrying for any other consider- 
 ation again. Having known such a love, how can I, 
 Barbara?" 
 
 " I see how it is, Dolly dear ; but it is just as I said, 
 is n't it? You measure all men by him? " 
 
 " I suppose I do ; but how can I help it ? We must 
 always make comparisons by what is foregone in our 
 experiences in every matter." 
 
 " O Dolly, there are few men whom you could 
 compare with Roy Dallas, if you wait for that," burst 
 out Mrs. Ingalls unguardedly. 
 
 The blood leaped to Dolly's cheek. "Ah, you know 
 that too, Barbara ! Then I must still wait, as you call 
 it." 
 
30 
 
 DOLLY. 
 
 Mrs. Barbara could have bitten her tongue out for 
 her outburst. 
 
 " But, Dolly/' she began again, " I only meant — " 
 
 " Yes, I know, Barbara, all you would say \ you have 
 done me no harm. I 'm aware of what he was ; but 
 we will not do others injustice. There are others, no 
 doubt, who will bear the comparison, who are more 
 than he. I simply say this for justice. I have no idea 
 of waiting, as you say. I 'm going to work in good 
 earnest, and leave the end to God." 
 
 " Dolly, it 's 'nearly one o'clock ; but before we go 
 to bed, and now we 're on this topic, I want to ask a 
 question or two. I want you to tell me first how it 
 came about that Roy Dallas acted so suddenly at the 
 last. When the affair was fresh I never liked to ask 
 you anything, and later I thought I had better not, you 
 know." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Dolly lifted her dark eyes, darker now than their 
 wont, and full of the shadows of the past. The gay 
 little girl who sat winking and blinking on a certain 
 midnight a week ago — winking and blinking and talk- 
 ing nonsense to Major — was lost now in this pale- 
 cheeked, serious maiden. 
 
 " You knew the beginning, Barbara, did n't you, 
 all about that foolish, foolish quarrel with Major Lams- 
 den?" 
 
 " No, not all." 
 
DOLLY. 31 
 
 " Poor silly thing, I was vain and elated because I 
 thought that Roy Dallas was jealous. He had been so 
 free from it before, — so like a king, like his name 
 Royal, amidst the rest of the men who were fluttering 
 about that winter. I did n't know enough then to 
 know that it was because he was a king in his nature, 
 so large and self-poised that he felt sure of his own. 
 So when he warned me of Major Lamsden, told me 
 that he did n't like for me to dance with him or be 
 upon friendly terms with him, I was mean enough to 
 think it was jealousy, and was flattered and elate, and 
 would not heed even when he told me what an unsuit- 
 able person Major Lamsden was for any woman's com- 
 panion ; how he had no respect for, and no beUef in, 
 any woman, and how he entertained his boon com- 
 panions with his conquests and his criticisms. No, I 
 put this all down to the mad passion of jealousy on 
 Roy's part, and so kept on my way. I wonder now he 
 bore with me as long as he did. I wonder he had any 
 faith in me when he saw me night after night whirling 
 round in that man's arms. Of course he misunder- 
 stood me too, but his misunderstanding was not so 
 unworthy as mine ; he could not see that I was simply 
 a foolish, ignorant child ; that Major Lamsden was 
 only an instrument in my hands to prove my power 
 over another and another's love. And so he came to 
 think at length that I was gratified by the attentions 
 themselves ; that Major Lamsden himself was pleasing 
 to me ; that I was actually so light-natured as to like 
 this man's attentions for vanity's sake, and Heaven 
 knows what other unworthy reason ; and I don't won- 
 
32 DOLLY. 
 
 der, I don't wonder ! Men know so much and women 
 so little of other men's lives that it is never easy for 
 them to reahze how a woman may through ignorance 
 accept attentions and admiration that they know to be 
 insults. Well, things came at last to a crisis. I had 
 been more reckless than usual one evening, and at 
 the end Roy approached me with a set, stern face of 
 anger. He said very little, but his words were stinging 
 and bitter. They told me with terrible distinctness in 
 what light he regarded my conduct. I was so horribly 
 stung I thought I hated him for that moment, and 
 flung back his words with interest. In a few minutes 
 more it was all over between us, and I was going down 
 the room with a dizzy sense of miserable triumph. 
 Then followed more blunders. I held on my way, and 
 before the winter was out I had the satisfaction of see- 
 ing Roy entrapped by EUinor Marsh. O Barbara, 
 if women do not know men, neither do men know 
 women ! Here was I, ignorant, deceived, and wilful, 
 but honest and true and pure-hearted, spite of all ; and 
 there was Ellinor Marsh, whom all women knew to be 
 deceitful and ambitious and crafty, and neither honest, 
 true, nor pure-hearted; and see how she won and I 
 lost. Oh, how bitter I grew ! He did well to talk to 
 me of Major Lamsden, I said savagely. 
 
 " Well, in June they were married ; and it was in 
 June — I shall never forget it, not a week after this mar- 
 riage — that my eyes were opened, and I saw the mean- 
 ing and the truth of everything. It was Harry Jerauld 
 who did this kindness for me. I had kept on in the 
 same manner with Major Lamsden ; he was like Elli- 
 
DOLLY. 33 
 
 nor Marsh in one thing : he could seem anything he 
 chose, and he seemed to me a gentleman. But Harry 
 came to me one day, and said he had something to tell 
 me — something he thought he ought to tell me. And, 
 Barbara, he told me, with the color rising in his fresh 
 young face, how Major Lamsden had spoken of me the 
 night before at a gentleman's party, in that light and 
 sneering way that Roy had warned me of. He had 
 taken up, Barbara, the simplest and most innocent 
 jesting that had passed between us, and spoken of it, 
 and of me, in that idle, insinuating manner which had 
 turned me and my words into a hateful travesty of the 
 reality ; made me out ' fast,' Barbara, when I was only 
 striving to be gay, and to cover the trouble that I 
 thought sometimes would kill me. And you know what 
 my gayety is, dear, even at its most reckless height ; 
 you know I never could deserve that wretched un- 
 womanly reputation." 
 
 "Oh!" Barbara gave this ejaculation fiercely, and 
 then gathering herself up, girding herself, went on : " I 
 know one thing, Dolly, that there are men, yes, and 
 women, who deserve some punishment which has 
 never yet been conceived. I don't believe in hell, 
 you know, as a general thing ; but I do believe that 
 there is a place where these evil-minded, slimy- 
 mouthed wretches will get their deserts, and perhaps 
 get their redemption and purification at the same 
 time." 
 
 At any other moment Dolly would have laughed at 
 this characteristic Barbarism, which did n't believe in 
 hell as a general thing, but only on special occasions. 
 
 3 
 
34 DOLL Y. 
 
 Now, however, the past held her ; and, scarcely notic- 
 ing the interruption, she went on with her story. 
 
 " Before Harry left me he laid bare this man's char- 
 acter, and, unblinded by passion, I could beheve of 
 Harry what I would not of Roy. Then how awfully 
 clear everything became to me ! I could see now how 
 Roy, knowing the truth as Harry did, must have been 
 no less amazed than angered at my disregard of his 
 words. Don't you see how he must have misunder- 
 stood me ; and not only that, but how humiliated and 
 embittered he must have been? Oh, I can see now, 
 Barbara, how utterly mad I drove him ; and in this 
 madness he married Ellinor Marsh. It is five years 
 ago, Barbara, but it seems three times that ; I feel so 
 changed and old when I think of it." 
 
 " But, Dolly, did he never know how he had misun- 
 derstood you? " 
 
 " Ah, Barbara, there is the sting to this day. I can- 
 not tell j I have never seen him from that time. He 
 lives abroad, you know ; he is the Paris partner of the 
 firm." 
 
 " I would have written him ; I would have sent him 
 word, and told him all ! " cried out impulsive Barbara. 
 
 " Oh no, you would n't, Barbara ; you would n't have 
 written to Ellinor Marsh's husband." 
 
 And impulsive Barbara cried out again, " O Dolly, 
 it was weak of him to rush off in that reckless way into 
 a marriage with Ellinor Marsh ! " 
 
 " Yes, it was a masculine weakness, — one of those 
 rash acts that strong men now and then curse their 
 lives with. I think when a strong man like Roy Dallas 
 
DOLLY, 35 
 
 loses himself for a moment, the result is ten times as 
 disastrous as the mistakes of a lesser man." 
 
 " Well, I 'm glad of it," cried Barbara spitefully. 
 " I 'm glad the great blundering creatures do get them- 
 selves into trouble. They worry us enough to deserve 
 almost anything ! " 
 
 And here Dolly's sense of humor came back to her 
 at this irrelevant turn of Barbara's sympathy, and she 
 laughed outright. 
 
 " O Barbara," she cried, " you are so deliciously in- 
 consequent sometimes." 
 
 "Well, I 'm glad I am," laughed Barbara back again. 
 " Now we shall go to bed in smiles instead of tears. 
 You look like my dear little yellow-haired DoHy now. 
 A minute ago your face was so pinched and your eyes 
 so hollow I did n't know you." 
 
 " One laugh, like a bucket of water, washes away all 
 the past. How deep you must think me, Bab ! " 
 satirically. 
 
 " I know how much your laugh goes for. I 've seen 
 you and your kind before. You don't make much 
 fuss, and you can see the funny side always ; but while 
 you see it your skeleton is rattling his bones somewhere 
 out of sight. I should have some hopes of your marry- 
 ing one of the five hundred good Mr. Morrises, and 
 ending your life fat and comfortable, if you were n't of 
 this kind, — if you cried your eyes out once in a while, 
 like any other rational girl. But there ! it 's two 
 o'clock. Go to bed ; find the stairs now before 1 turn 
 the gas down. The bedrooms are lighted ; you '11 
 see." 
 
36 . DOLLY. 
 
 V. 
 
 It will show how wise Mrs. Barbara was in her esti- 
 mates when I state that for the rest of Dolly's visit that 
 young woman said no more about Roy Dallas. Down, 
 down, into that deep well of hers she dropped the dead 
 past and the dead lover. The waters above reflected 
 all the bright things that passed, and people said, 
 *' What a gay creature Dolly Brooks is ! How I wish I 
 had her spirits ! " etc. They never suspected the dead 
 past and the dead lover lying out of sight under all that 
 brightness. They never suspected that while Dolly 
 laughed and jested, and made herself generally agree- 
 able to all the Mr. Morrises, and the rest of his sex^ 
 with that natural vivacity of hers, that she was compar- 
 ing every one of them with that dead lover, — a com- 
 parison by which the Mr. Morrises and the rest of his 
 sex invariably lost in her view. 
 
 She had said truly, however, when she declared that 
 her wound was no longer a stinging pain, but a blessed 
 memory. So Roy Dallas himself was no longer a liv- 
 ing reality, but a memory. He was set in the frame of 
 her mind like a jDortrait. Looking back upon this por- 
 trait, this Saul among men, with his strong, masculine 
 traits, it was not strange if she should involuntarily 
 measure all new-comers by this standard. Her tastes 
 had been educated, you see. Having looked upon the 
 king, it was difficult to find excellence beneath him. 
 Having hstened to David's harp, how could she have 
 patience with " Httle tunes " ? 
 
DOLLY. 37 
 
 But after her week's holiday with Barbara, Dolly 
 resolutely put her dreams and her memories away, and 
 went back to her painting in good earnest, losing her- 
 self, or trying diligently to lose herself, in her -work. 
 She had at last set up a little studio, as some of her 
 believing and admiring friends had long entreated her 
 to do. Here she brought forth the studies of summer 
 days, — hints of sea, and sky, and shore ; of fishermen 
 in swart groups mending their nets in the shadow of 
 rocks, or scudding out in shallow boats across the lap- 
 ping tide with all sails set ; of field and meadow, and 
 open farm-doors, glimpsing ruddy hearth-fires within, and 
 sunburned lads and lassies clustered without ; of moun- 
 tain-gaps with lakes hke gems, or sun-kissed, radiant 
 heights bathed in royal raiment of purple mist. These 
 were some of the suggestions that she had brought 
 with her from time to time from her summer haunts. 
 They had been lying idly in her portfolio, waiting for 
 the days when inclination spurred her to the task of 
 elaboration. Those days had come, it seemed ; for 
 gradually, as the spring advanced, her room began to 
 show evidence of her industry. Here and there the sea 
 flashed and foamed in refreshing mimicry of reality, 
 and the swart fishermen laughed up at you from under 
 bent brims while they mended their nets ; or tanned 
 sweet faces of lad and lassie glimmered beneath low- 
 spreading branches ; or the purple, misty mountains 
 seemed to beckon you to their cool heights. 
 
 One of these well hung at an artist's reception, 
 another placed in a popular picture-dealer's window, 
 got much talked about, and presently, as the best result 
 
38 DOLLY. 
 
 of such talking, were sold at good prices. Then came 
 the long summer days again, when the little studio 
 was closed and the litde artist was away again in sum- 
 mer haunts, gathering other hints of sea and shore, of 
 meadow, mountain, and lake. She went back to the 
 city this time with great hopes of herself. 
 
 " I '11 do better yet this autumn," she said cheerily. 
 
 But even when we have laid down our idleness and 
 put our shoulders to the wheel, everything does not 
 move forward at the pace we planned. 
 
 So now, while Dolly planned, and was so sure of her 
 planning, her plans were all delayed, and other work was 
 given her to do. Instead of painting out those hints 
 of summer, she was bending over Aunt Jo's sick-bed ; 
 her only companion in this sorrowful time the great 
 gray cat. Major. It was n't the delay of her work that 
 tried Dolly : it was the anxiety, the lonesome, uncom- 
 forted fear, that nobody could appreciate but herself, 
 for nobody quite knew what Aunt Jo and Dolly were 
 to each other. She had no intimate friend but Barbara, 
 and Barbara was away. Acquaintances she had plenty, 
 — what the world calls friends : but we have yet to 
 make that word synonymous with its real meaning, — 
 service ; we have yet to develop that capacity for human 
 brotherhood and sisterhood which Christ came on earth 
 to show us the beauty of. 
 
 So, all alone, then, as most of us are in our great 
 trials, Dolly went about her daily tasks. But one day, 
 when a sort of bitter despair seized upon her, one day 
 when she had said to herself, ^' Has the Lord, too, for- 
 saken me ? " a friend suddenly appeared to her. It was 
 
DOLLY. 39 
 
 Herman Morris. He had but just come back to the city, 
 he told her, and had just heard of her aunt's illness, and 
 he came at once to see if he could be of any service 
 to her j for he knew how lonely she must be, with her 
 friend, Mrs. Ingalls, away. His kind, frank sincerity, 
 his goodness, was so apparent to Dolly, that she had 
 much ado to keep the tears from coming, — to keep from 
 making a fool of herself, she told Mrs. Barbara afterward. 
 Certainly Herman Morris had never appeared to such 
 advantage as now, and justly so. He was kind, and 
 sincere in his kindness, — one of the people who appear 
 so at home in household life with its small but impor- 
 tant details. He seemed to anticipate Dolly's wants. 
 There were letters to mail, the doctor's prescriptions to 
 carry to the druggist's, — a thousand and one items 
 for performance of which Dolly had been obliged to rely 
 upon various unreliable errand-boys. Besides the neces- 
 sary details there were thoughtful, gracious offices of 
 courtesy. Flowers, when flowers were late and rare; 
 fruits in their early freshness and lustre, — great golden 
 grapes, with the dew white upon them ; and peaches, 
 yet warm from the sun's kisses. Aunt Jo's pale face 
 began to brighten, and her eyes to lose something of 
 that weary, worried look. Dolly knew why ; she knew 
 that it was not for these personal luxuries that Aunt 
 Jo was mending, but for the suggestion of future care- 
 taking and protection for her darling. This was what 
 was Ufting the load from Aunt Jo's shoulders, was 
 taking the worry and the weariness from her eyes, and 
 helping her to get well. Dolly thought of what Barbara 
 had said : '' Aunt Jo will be sure to like Mr. Morris." 
 
40 DOLL V. 
 
 And Mr. Morris was worthy of any one's liking — of 
 loving, indeed ; for how kind, how good, how tender 
 he was ! All very well to talk in health of relying upon 
 one's self, — in high moments, when trial and trouble is 
 out of sight, to hold forth in that self-confident manner 
 she had used with Barbara. No person could combine 
 everything ;■ and what could be more needful, more 
 lovable, in the long-run of actual life, than the qualities 
 that Mr. Morris had disclosed? 
 
 This was the way Dolly talked to herself now. Dolly 
 had been through various dangers, — had had her great 
 and small temptations ; but I don't think she had ever 
 been in such deadly peril as at present. It was the old 
 peril whereon so many women have been shipwrecked, 
 — that peril of endeavoring to " drive liking to the name 
 of love," of endeavoring to persuade one's self that 
 love is a persuadable emotion ; that gratitude and the 
 recognition and approval of fine moral qualities are the 
 safest foundations for union ; that this gratitude and 
 these qualities will beget love indeed. Henry Holbeach, 
 the English essayist, says : " Now, what in Heaven's 
 name has the • bloom of young desire and the purple 
 light of love' to do with gratitude?" What, indeed? 
 High moral qualities are certainly desirable and neces- 
 sary in a marriage union ; but without that natural, inde- 
 finable drawing together, that subtile attraction which is 
 the forerunner of -the "purple light," if not the light 
 itself, all the high moral qualities in the world will not 
 avail to make a marriage the divine covenant of soul 
 and body which it is meant to be. There are different 
 chemical properties, equally pure and fine in themselves, 
 
DOLLY. 41 
 
 which will never combine ; so two opposite souls, cast 
 in different moulds, will not — because they are not 
 meant to — harmonize. 
 
 Dolly, who was philosopher enough to have solved 
 all this problem long ago, was yet at this crisis so thrown 
 off her usual healthy mental balance by the depressing 
 circumstances which encompassed her that she could 
 scarcely be called in a normal condition. But it is in 
 these abnormal conditions that persons oftenest wreck 
 their lives. So Dolly now was going in a headlong 
 manner to wreck hers. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is a dark, soft, still, rainy evening, — one of those 
 evenings when one feels the need of human companion- 
 ship, if ever; and Dolly sits in the little parlor and 
 listens to Aunt Jo's light breathing in the room beyond, 
 and waits for Mr. Morris's expected step. She has 
 made up her mind, and tries to think that the flutter 
 she is in is the glad flutter of eager expectation. So 
 Dolly befools herself. Drip, drip, goes the rain with- 
 out, and tick, tick, the little yellow-faced clock within. 
 Major upon the hearth by the October wood-fire is fur- 
 bishing himself up for company. Dolly has n't thought 
 of that ! Does she remember when she used to stand 
 before the glass half an hour, trying to decide whether 
 blue or apple-green breast-knots were the most becom- 
 ing when Roy Dallas was to be her guest ? But Dolly 
 has nothing to do with the past now. She has done 
 
42 DOLL Y. 
 
 with everything but the present, — the present and 
 Herman Morris. And there he comes now down the 
 pavement. He looks up and sees Dolly at the dimly 
 lighted window, and raises his hat to her. As he en- 
 ters her presence he feels, without knowing why, the 
 atmosphere of her thought.- He feels that she is nearer 
 to him, and his hand lingers over hers, and he then 
 and there makes up his mind to speak that very night, 
 as Dolly has made up her mind to Hsten. What can 
 save Dolly now? Nothing but a miracle. But are the 
 thousand and one apparently small circumstances 
 which come between us and any decisive action, which 
 avert action indeed, miracles? One of these small cir- 
 cumstances delays our projected pleasure : then we 
 inveigh against it as accident, unkind fate. Again the 
 circumstance stands in the way of a plan that would 
 have destroyed us : then we thank Heaven, and speak 
 of the interposition of Providence. 
 
 But to go back to Dolly. 
 
 The flutter she is in does not seem to abate with Mr. 
 Morris's arrival. She takes up her little pocket sketch- 
 book, and turns over the leaves to steady herself, to get 
 rehef from a growing embarrassment and trepidation. 
 All the time Mr. Morris's eyes are following her move- 
 ments; As her trepidation increases he seems to gain 
 coolness and self-poise. As she turns and re-turns the 
 leaves of the little book, he bends forward with a smile 
 upon his face. 
 
 " Dolly ! " 
 
 Dolly starts as if somebody had struck her at the new 
 tone in his voice. It is the tone of a claim, of posses- 
 
DOLLY. 43 
 
 sion already. And he had never called her Dolly be- 
 fore ! As she starts her book drops. A litde thing, but 
 the brass clamps and clasps give it weight, and produce 
 an explosive noise in falling. And at this noise Aunt 
 Jo wakes from her slumber, and calls out in a quick, 
 frightened voice from the room beyond. 
 
 "Dolly! Dolly!" 
 
 And Dolly springs up and obeys that call with the 
 most lively alacrity. Aunt Jo had been dreaming, and 
 the sudden awakening by the sudden noise had set her 
 heart beating. If Dolly would hand her her bottle of 
 smelling-salts from the window-seat, she should be all 
 right in a moment. Dolly fumbles for the smelling-salts 
 in the semi-darkness, and tips them out of the window, 
 which is standing slightly open for air. 
 
 " But never mind, Aunt Jo ! " she cries out gayly. 
 " I '11 run and get mine. I Ve got a gorgeous one I 
 never use, you know." 
 
 While Aunt Jo laments the destruction of her little 
 old bottle, and wonders at Dolly's clumsiness, Dolly 
 flies to her room. She turns over boxes and baskets 
 and drawers in a vain search. Dolly's things have a 
 way of getting lost, and Dolly has a very foolish way 
 of losing them still more by her rummaging manner of 
 hunting for them. Well, she gets things into an awful 
 muss, and then she bethinks her of one more place ; it 
 is the " catch-all," one of those pretty worsted-worked 
 gimcracks which ladies potter over for weeks and weeks, 
 and then hang up as a receptacle for dust mostly, and 
 any other odds and ends that lie about. Dolly thrusts 
 her hand in, and pulls out a quantity of rubbish, — 
 
44 DOLLY. 
 
 papers, bills, hair-pins, empty spools, and what not, — 
 but no vinaigrette. Impatient, she unhooks the thing 
 from the wall, and shakes it violently upside down upon 
 the bed. Out rolls the bottle at last. But what else 
 comes with it? 
 
 Somebody's picture. Whose can it be ? Whose in- 
 deed? Whose eyes are those gazing straight back into 
 hers? Whose strong, firm mouth is that, curving away 
 like the Athenian Jove's above the square-cut chin? 
 A look half of fright passes over Dolly's face. She for- 
 gets all about the vinaigrette as she lifts the photograph 
 to nearer view, the photograph which she tliought 
 she had sent back five years ago with all other me- 
 mentos and keepsakes. And how came it here, this 
 photograph of Royal Dallas? By what strange over- 
 sight had she missed it five years since to find it 
 now? 
 
 A look half of fright upon her face, for it seems to 
 Dolly almost like a presence, — a presence which re- 
 calls her to herself, to that real self she has been try- 
 ing to overcome, to put away, like a garment which 
 hard times have made too costly for use. But now 
 Dolly sees that the garment of her real nature, costly 
 though it be in the wear and tear of the struggle of her 
 present life, cannot be put away so easily. She sees 
 that, by nature, and in the education of this nature by 
 associations, Herman Morris and she are very far apart, 
 and that to attempt to assimilate herself to him is to 
 make a moral and a mental suicide. All this Dolly 
 feels with a new sensation of freshness, a sudden rush 
 of emotion and conviction, as she meets those photo- 
 
DOLLY. 45 
 
 graphed eyes, as she reviews that strong face once 
 more. She sees with certainty now that it is only a 
 man of this type that can at once strike soul and sense, 
 blood and brain. " Not this man, not you, Roy Dal- 
 las," she says to herself, then and there, " for I have 
 given you up ; you are dead and buried to me — but 
 of your kind." 
 
 A minute more and she goes back to Aunt Jo, to 
 Mr. Morris, the same Dolly to all outward appear- 
 ance that left them. But when she sits down before 
 her guest again in the little parlor, all her embarrass- 
 ment gone, all her old natural ease come back, kind, 
 but with a little absent look in her eyes, — eyes that 
 now meet his with a straight, unmoved steadiness, — 
 Mr. Morris finds that he cannot speak just now, that 
 the good minute has gone. He is disappointed, but 
 he is not fanciful, so he does n't think anything is 
 amiss. " Next time it will all come right," he says to 
 himself. Dolly turns from the door as he bids her 
 good-night, and draws a long breath of relief, as one 
 does after a danger has passed by. 
 
 Whatever another may think, Dolly looked upon 
 what had just occurred as a miracle, from Aunt Jo's 
 call to the necessity which had sent her on that errand 
 that had resulted in bringing her face to face with the 
 most vital reality of her life, face to face with a truth 
 that was to save her from lifelong falsehood. Is this 
 what that pictured semblance of Roy Dallas had been 
 in hiding all these years for ? She had an odd feehng 
 as if she had been haunted as she asked herself this 
 ■question. It was a miracle from end to end, a mys- 
 
46 DOLL V. 
 
 terious interposition of Providence, was Dolly's wind- 
 ing up of the whole matter. " Not this man, not Roy- 
 Dallas," she had said then and there as she looked at his 
 picture. Yet it is very certain that " this man," that 
 Roy Dallas, was a central figure in her mind just now, 
 that for the next few days his image, his very presence, 
 seemed to be continually before her and with her. 
 Under this tenacious spell a new possibility occurred 
 to her as explanation. He might be dead or dying, 
 and this was one of those singular impressions of mem- 
 ory that seem to have something clairvoyant in it. A 
 cold fear clutched her heart at this. She had said that 
 he was dead to her long ago ; but the actual possibility 
 affected her as actual things are apt to affect such tem- 
 peraments. " Dead, dead, dead ! " She said it over 
 and over till the word tolled like a funeral bell in her ear. 
 In this time Aunt Jo was mending rapidly, and Mr. 
 Morris still continued his visits. But he had found no 
 opportunity to speak as he desired. Dolly was very 
 far from him now. You might almost say that she 
 had forgotten him, so occupied was her mind with 
 one persistent thought. 
 
 VII. 
 
 At length there comes a day when she feels that she 
 can endure the uncertainty of this thought no longer. 
 If Harry Jerauld were in town he might be able to give 
 her some definite intelligence, to tell her whether she 
 was haunted by the dead or the living. She had lost 
 
DOLL V. 47 
 
 sight of Harry a good deal in these last few years ; but 
 she knew his office address, and it would be an easy 
 matter to ^^Tite and ask him to come and see her. 
 She acted, upon the impulse, and wrote at once. If 
 it reached him she knew she might expect to see 
 him at any moment. A fluttering pulse of expectation 
 throbbed all day. At sunset she looked out upon the 
 blue October sky, at the bluer glimpse of river and 
 bay, at the reddening, yellowing maples in the square, 
 and thought with a thrill that it was just such a night 
 as this that she had waited for Roy Dallas for the last 
 time. Perhaps it was this thought that increased that 
 strained sense of expectancy that shook her with a 
 nervous dread which seemed to her a presage of im- 
 pending fate. " He is dead, Roy Dallas is dead ; this 
 is what is coming to me," she said aloud. And as she 
 spoke the door-bell rang a quick, imperative summons. 
 Ah, here was Harry Jerauld ; now she would know the 
 truth. Her heart beat and a mist swam before her eyes 
 as she went for\vard to admit him. She opened the 
 door with a welcome upon her lips, spite of her agita- 
 tion, for it was very kind in him to be so prompt. She 
 opened the door for Harry Jerauld. It was Roy Dallas 
 who stood before her ! Roy Dallas, or was it his ghost 
 come from that world whence he had gone ? A mo- 
 ment she stood, dazed and speechless, a thousand wild, 
 confusing fancies whirling through her brain. A mo- 
 ment, and then a firm, manly voice was breaking the 
 silence in the most ordinary of commonplaces. A mo- 
 ment more, and they two, with five years of mistake 
 and misdoing, of bitter regret and anguish, between 
 
48 DOLLY. 
 
 them, were sitting before each other, exchanging civili- 
 ties like the merest acquaintances. This was no ghostly 
 visitor; but Dolly pinched herself to see if she were 
 awake. 
 
 To meet Roy Dallas, the hero of the great tragedy 
 of her life, in this manner seemed false and unnatural. 
 But it was, after all, natural. The external forms of 
 daily life obtain in the most critical moments ; and 
 interviews that we have planned in the heat of emo- 
 tion would be impossible in first moments of meeting 
 after estrangement and long absence. Besides, think 
 of the gulf between them ! Dolly thought of it, and 
 asked coldly but gently for his wife. Then the ice of 
 the gulf broke up. 
 
 " My wife — you don't know? Dolly, do you think 
 I would come here if I had not come to ask your par- 
 don for the wrong I did you in the past ? And do you 
 think I would come if I had not come free? " 
 
 "' Your wife is dead? " she asked, trembling. 
 
 " No, not dead," with bitterness and shame and 
 shrinking in his tone, "not dead. I thought you 
 must have known. It 's a year-old story, worn and 
 threadbare in some circles. Dolly, five years ago I 
 misunderstood a woman whose heart and mind were 
 pure gold. It was but consistent, on the other hand, 
 that I should take the counterfeit for the real metal, 
 in my mascuHne ignorance and blindness. I took the 
 counterfeit, and I took with it my humiliation and my 
 punishment ; and I took it silently, and held my peace 
 until I could hold it no longer, — until she who had 
 borne my name and lived under my roof left both for 
 
DOLL Y. 
 
 49 
 
 another. No, I have no wife," he suddenly concluded, 
 with that swift abruptness which characterizes strong 
 men sometimes in bitter moments. 
 
 There came a pause here which Dolly could not 
 break. Her heart was in a great tumult ; but she sat 
 before him cold and white and still, like a marble image 
 of the Dolly he had known. As he looked at her a 
 heavy sigh tore up from his heart, and was smothered 
 at his lips. His voice had changed a little from its 
 strong tones when he spoke again. 
 
 " Dolly," he said, " I had no right to hope that you 
 could forgive the insult I cast upon you by my misun- 
 derstanding. I insulted you by that, and by my mar- 
 riage with Ellinor Marsh. But I very soon saw how 
 I had blundered, — my madness was short-lived ; for 
 it was madness — sheer, unreasoning madness — that 
 drove me out of myself." 
 
 " And I, too, Roy, — I blundered, too. I misjudged 
 you as well," Dolly broke in eagerly. " I was so vain 
 and foolish, you don't know ; I put such a low motive 
 for your feeling against Major Lamsden." 
 
 He shook his head, half smiling. " Yes, I know all 
 that ; but that was your very innocence, your igno- 
 rance of ill. I don't lay that up against you, Dolly." 
 
 The half smile was a quick, low laugh here, and 
 Dolly caught her breath to hear it ; it was so like the 
 old-time Dallas, and so like the old time itself. 
 
 " But how did you find out the truth, Roy ? How 
 did you discover that I was ignorant and foolish, in- 
 stead of wild and wicked?" 
 
 He laughed again. " How did I find out that you 
 
 4 
 
50 DOLLY. 
 
 were ignorant and foolish?" Then his face changed 
 as he went on. " I had a long time to think, Dolly, — 
 a long, miserable time, and a terrible opportunity to 
 draw contrasts. It did not take me long to see how 
 things were, however ; and then Harry Jerauld told me 
 of his conversation with you, which only confirmed my 
 own conclusion." 
 
 " Ah, I 'm glad you had a true instinct of me before 
 Harry Jerauld told you ! " cried Dolly, with a brisk 
 emphasis that was so like Dolly. 
 
 Roy Dallas brightened as he caught it. Perhaps he 
 thought, as Dolly had thought, that it was so like the 
 old-time Dolly, and so like the old time itself; for, 
 with the work and worry of the past few weeks upon 
 her, Dolly seemed a very subdued and saddened Dolly, 
 like, yet unlike, the Dolly he had known, yet like no- 
 body else in all the wide world. 
 
 " Did I kill her love for me five years ago, when I 
 acted so Hke an outrageous brute toward her?" he 
 questioned himself, looking at her wistfully. 
 
 " Did he come here to-night to absolve himself of a 
 sin merely? " Dolly thought at the same time. 
 
 She was soon to find out what he came for. There 
 was a little pause, a little space of silence, wherein Roy 
 Dallas felt that he had come over the seas on a fruitless 
 errand, wherein Dolly felt all sure foundations were 
 slipping from beneath her feet, and then Dallas was 
 breaking the silence, was telling her what had brought 
 him to her door. 
 
 ''It is just a fortnight to-night — it was the 15th of 
 October, I remember, for I made a note of it — that, as 
 
DOLLY. 51 
 
 I sat writing letters in my room, my mind was suddenly 
 withdrawn from my work, and reverted to you in the 
 most inexplicable manner. I tell you frankly that I 
 tried resolutely to banish all such thoughts, and turn to 
 my letters. But it was of no use. At last, like St. 
 John Rivers, I gave myself up for a brief time to what 
 I could not resist. Pushing back my papers, I dropped 
 my head into my hand, and yielded to my fancies. In 
 a moment I had dropped asleep. And here you ap- 
 peared to me more vividly than in waking. Dolly, I 
 saw a room like this, and I saw you in it, but not 
 alone. There was some one else present, some man 
 whose face was turned from me ; but I shuddered as I 
 watched his bending head ; for in his presence there 
 seemed to be some fatal danger to you, — some threat- 
 ened doom, which each moment made more imminent. 
 I tried to call out to you, but my lips were dumb. 
 And then I lost sight of you, to find you again else- 
 where, — in some other apartment. You were moving 
 about restlessly, in some hurried search, and you were 
 now alone ; but I felt that the danger still waited for 
 you, — that it was only a matter of time, unless I could 
 in some manner avert it. Again I tried to call, but 
 with no success. I could make no sound, and the 
 moments flew by ; they seemed to me hurrying you to 
 your destruction, and I was impotent to save. In the 
 agony which this conviction brought to me I did what 
 many a wretched man has done in extreme moments, 
 when his own impotency has been made manifest to 
 him, — I cried to God to save my darling, whom I 
 could not save. Dolly, I never knew what it was to 
 
52 DOLLY. 
 
 feel the swaying and lifting of the soul by prayer be- 
 fore ; but there in my dream I seemed to feel the arm 
 of the Almighty, and to be lifted up out of myself and 
 my fears. I woke with a strange sense of rest and re- 
 lief, yet with an imperative need. I must come to 
 America. I must see my darling, — my darhng, whom 
 I felt sure the Lord had saved from some deadly peril, 
 — my darling, as this proves, in whose welfare my own 
 is inextricably involved, even though she turn away 
 from me." 
 
 He rose as he said these words, and came forward 
 with the old flush across his cheeks, the old light in 
 his eyes. And Dolly did not turn away from him. 
 His darhng indeed ! Better than he she knew how in- 
 volved their lives must be, — she who held the counter- 
 part of this strange experience, which proved it a truth 
 beyond human doubting as beyond human solving. 
 Better than he she knew in that moment ; but a mo- 
 ment later, listening to her story, he too knew how 
 close the bond between them, and that he had come 
 over the seas not upon a fruitless errand, but to claim 
 his own, — his darling whom the Lord had saved. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 *' But it 's uncanny — it makes me creep," com- 
 mented Mrs. Barbara when she came home to hear the 
 story. " It reminds me of the old Douglas couplet, — - 
 
 * Through field and flood, by dyke and stone, 
 The Douglas comes to clahn his own.' 
 
DOLLY. 53 
 
 Roy Dallas belongs to the old Douglas clan, it is cer- 
 tain. But, Dolly, this Douglas of yours is not nearly 
 so pleasant-tempered a person as Mr. Morris. Herman 
 Morris would have smoothed out every wrinkle and 
 brushed every pebble from your daily path. Roy 
 Dallas will go straight over them, and never see them 
 unless you cry out." 
 
 Dolly laughed exultantly. 
 
 " That 's the best of it, Barbara. * The heavens are 
 large,* you know ; he does n't see small clouds. Ah, 
 Bab, don't you see that 's part of the whole which I like 
 so much ? It 's a large nature, the real masculine na- 
 ture, which does n't potter over details. If he stops to 
 help me when I cry out over the wrinkles and the peb- 
 bles, what can I ask more? " 
 
 " You 're sure he '11 stop ? " 
 
 " I 'm sure he '11 stop. It is the manliest men who 
 are the tenderest always." 
 
 " So it is, you dear, wise little thing ! Ah, Dolly, 
 so wise to know yourself, and be brave enough to stand 
 alone rather than take anything less than your very 
 own ! It 's a sermon, Dolly, the whole thing, — a ser- 
 mon for all women, and " — here Mrs. Barbara's bright 
 eyes twinkled — "a lesson to match-makers ! " 
 
54 DICK HALLIDA Y'S WIFE. 
 
 DICK HALLIDAY'S WIFE. 
 
 " (~\ RICHARD, I 'm so glad you 've come ! Where 
 ^^ have you been? " 
 
 Richard laughs, a small laugh, not of pleasure, as 
 one might suppose, at these warm words of greeting 
 from an uncommonly pretty woman, but a queer little 
 laugh, perfectly good-natured, — Richard Halliday is 
 seldom moved from this easy good-nature of his, — 
 perfectly good-natured, but the kind of laugh that falls 
 from a person's lips in involuntary recognition of a 
 peculiarity. 
 
 " Well, you need n't laugh, Richard, for I 've been so 
 nervous about you ! " 
 
 " I only laughed at your question, Lizzie, ' Where 
 have you been ? ' It reminded me of a similar ques- 
 tion in Dow's Flat, 'Where hev you been? ' " 
 
 But if Mr. Richard Halliday thinks to turn his wife's 
 attention from the point — her point — by this very 
 flimsy remark, he is mistaken. 
 
 " I did n't say, ' Where hev you been,' Richard ; 
 I 'm not so careless of my pronunciation as that, I 
 hope"; and Mrs. Richard tosses her head a little, 
 entirely oblivious of her husband's humor. " But where 
 have you been, Richard? " she still persists. 
 
DICK HALLIDAY'S WIFE. 55 
 
 *' I 've been to the Mountains of the Moon, my dear ; 
 and, as I made a call at each of the smaller planets on 
 my way home, I am a little late." 
 
 As Mr. Halliday delivers himself of this nonsense 
 with great gravity, he stoops for a moment to unbuckle 
 his overshoe, that movement bringing his head on a 
 nearer level with Mrs. Halliday, who is of rather dimin- 
 utive stature. 
 
 " Richard ! " — sniff, sniff— " I smell " — sniff, sniff 
 — "I smell brandy or whiskey, or some dreadful stuff ! 
 O Richard, you Ve been with those horrid Ra3anonds 
 at that hateful club ! " 
 
 " I told you, my dear, I 'd been to the Mountains of 
 the Moon. They 're always extremely hospitable and 
 social up there, specially on cold nights ; and it 's 
 uncommonly nasty out to-night." 
 
 Mrs. Halliday remembers the story of the husband 
 who returned one night somewhere in the small hours 
 sufficiently sensible of his libations to endeavor to con- 
 ceal his breath-betrayal by a generous use of cloves, 
 but who betrayed his wandering wits at the last by 
 replying to his wife's question concerning such an ex- 
 traordinary pungency of odor, that he had bee7i to the 
 Spice Islands. Remembering this, Mrs. Halliday, 
 who is quicker to take a suspicion than a joke, imme- 
 diately fits the case of wandering wits to Mr. Halliday, 
 whose wits never wandered under any conditions. As 
 this new suspicion enters her mind, she starts back 
 with the peach-bloom fast fading from her cheeks, and 
 utters one exclamation : " O Richard ! " 
 
 There is such a depth of pam in this exclamation 
 
56 ' DICK H ALU DA Y'S WIFE. 
 
 that her husband, for the first time since he has entered 
 the room, looks at her seriously. His first impulse is 
 to laugh, but he checks the impulse, and for a moment 
 is silent ; then, as he seats himself before the fire, he 
 puts out his hand. 
 
 " Lizzie, come here." Lizzie obeys, and allows her- 
 self to be drawn, with a httle, half-resentful protest, to 
 her husband's knee. " My dear child, did you ever 
 see a man in his cups — I mean a little drunk — before 
 to-night V 
 
 " No, never — that is, not near enough to tell." 
 
 The laugh that Richard Halliday has restrained now 
 breaks out. Mrs. HalHday reddens with a conscious- 
 ness of being ridiculed. She has n't the faintest sense 
 of " the situation." 
 
 " Never near enough to tell, eh ? I thought so, my 
 dear, else you would have known that you had yet to 
 make acquaintance with that interesting phenomenon, 
 — a man a little drunk." The clear eyes that look 
 into her eyes, the cool hand that holds her hand, and, 
 more than all, a certain dry tone of the usually pleasant 
 voice, — a caustic note which is not pain or anger, but 
 a tone of assertion, quiet but derisive, — all these 
 indications suddenly disclose to Mrs. Halliday the very 
 foolish blunder she has made. Perhaps she never 
 admires her easy-going husband so much as when he 
 rouses himself sufficiently to assert himself in this mas- 
 culine fashion. In a moment, then, she droops her 
 small, bristhng wings and is at his feet, in spirit ; in 
 reahty, she hides her ashamed face against his waist- 
 coat. Presently the waistcoat- wearer says : — 
 
DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 57 
 
 " Where 's the evening paper, Lizzie ? I '11 look at it 
 a moment, and then we '11 have a game of chess ; it 's 
 early yet, only half-past nine." 
 
 Only half-past nine ! Mrs. Halliday reddens again, 
 but this time out of shame-facedness ; and this shame- 
 facedness keeps her silent. The question of '' Where 
 have you been, Richard? " is not put again. The little 
 lady sees she has made a foolish mess of it ; that is, 
 she sees that Richard thinks so, and, half angry, not 
 exactly at herself, but at the world in general, and with 
 a great sense of self-pity, she longs to weep a Httle weep 
 upon her husband's shoulder, to say her small say of 
 sorrow at her mistake, to promise all manner of lovely 
 things for the future, while she wedges in a plaintive 
 excuse for herself. 
 
 But Mr. Halliday has had so many " little weeps " on 
 his shoulder, has heard so many promises of lovely things 
 for the future which the future never fulfilled, that it is 
 not strange, I suppose, that he should fail to encourage 
 further demonstrations of this kind. 
 
 So the " little weep " goes off in a few long-drawn 
 sighs against the waistcoat, and then the waistcoat-wearer 
 is left to read his paper, which is never a very long op- 
 eration with him, and then the game of chess follows. 
 In the midst of this, Mr. Halliday suddenly says : " I 
 met Kate to-day, and she wanted to know why we 
 had n't been round lately. I told her we 'd drop in to- 
 morrow night, perhaps." 
 
 If Dick Halliday had been looking at his wife's face 
 he would have seen a ripple on its smooth surface. For 
 ten days Mrs. Richard has been in the undisturbed, the 
 
58 DICK HALLIDAY'S WIFE. 
 
 unshared possession of her husband's society. The rip- 
 ple which passes over her face says very plainly : — 
 
 " Why should Dick want other society than mine ? I 
 don't want other society than his." But after a minute 
 she repHes : — 
 
 " Of course, Dick dear, if you would like to go, we '11 
 go." 
 
 It is, doubtless, impossible for Mrs. Richard to con- 
 ceal the fact that she is simply acquiescing in her hus- 
 band's request from a sense of duty merely ; but Mr. 
 Richard, either wise or unobservant, makes no com- 
 ment, and the subject drops without any of that danger- 
 ous discussion which might have taken place if Mr. 
 Richard had been of the same manner of mind as Mrs. 
 Richard. To explain a little : the Kate of whom Dick 
 speaks so famiharly is the wife of his Cousin Tom — Tom 
 Halliday. Before there was any Mrs. Dick or Mrs. 
 Tom — when it was Lizzie Harrison and Kate Lane — 
 there had been a good deal of girHsh intimacy ; but 
 since the two had become united a little closer by mar- 
 riage the .intimacy, instead of becoming closer, had 
 rather subsided. People said that Mrs. Dick was very 
 " domestic," and that Mrs. Tom was more given to the 
 gayeties of life. Perhaps this was the reason of" their 
 seeing less of each other. Mrs. Dick had been heard 
 to say several times since her marriage that she was 
 afraid Kate was beginning wrong, that her ideas of a 
 home were not the right ideas ; which goes to show 
 that, doubtless, there were very decided reasons on one 
 side at least for the gradual decline of the intimacy. 
 Going in the next evening to Mrs. Tom's parlor, Mrs. 
 
DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 59 
 
 Dick's " domestic " sense received a fresli shock. 
 Instead of tlie gas being turned on to a bead in an 
 upper burner and only tlie drop-light in operation, as 
 was her own economical plan, two or three upper 
 burners were in full blast in both back and front parlor, 
 and Kate and Tom were enjoying themselves in their 
 different ways : Kate at the piano practising one of 
 Robert Franz's songs with a young gentleman who was 
 not her husband, and the young gentleman who was 
 her husband smoking his pipe over his newspaper. This 
 was not Mrs. Dick's "way." Her way was to devote 
 herself to Dick, to sit near him with some light evening 
 work, while he read the news — to her as well as to him- 
 self. And, afterward, it was generally her plan to play 
 two or three pieces on the piano ; Kate Halliday, who 
 was a genius at music, denominated them " little tunes," 
 like those of Jack's wife in Miss Thackeray's story. 
 And strict truth compels me to say that Dick usually 
 went to sleep during this domestic music. They had 
 been married now about five years. In the first year 
 or two this little domestic programme was quite closely 
 adhered to, but since that time Dick's business-calls 
 had become so much more absorbing that the evenings 
 had been very often intrenched upon to such an extent 
 that both the newspaper reading and the music had 
 become very hurried matters. But to return to Mrs. 
 Tom and her different ways. She springs up, as she 
 sees Mrs. Dick, with an outstretched hand and a cordial 
 "How-de-do?" and the young man who is not her 
 husband turns about and discloses the face of one of 
 those Raymonds of Lizzie's detestation. Tom rises a 
 
60 DICK HALL/DA Y'S WIFE. 
 
 little less alertly than Kate, great fellow that he is, and 
 comes forward, pipe in hand. His wife slips behind 
 her visitors, and goes to making frantic and mysterious 
 signs to her husband. But Tom is notoriously the dull- 
 est fellow in the world to take hints, however broad, 
 and therefore overwhelms his wife with confusion pres- 
 ently by saying : — 
 
 " What are you winking at me so for, Kate ? Is any- 
 thing the matter with my clothes? " 
 
 " Stupid ! " cries Kate at this, red and laughing and 
 exasperated, as she runs up to him and seizes the great 
 pipe that is smoking like a chimney. 
 
 And Tom, suddenly remembering, shouts out : — 
 
 " Bless my soul, it 's the pipe ! — I always forget you 
 don't like a pipe, Lizzie. And Kate read me a lecture 
 not two hours ago on the subject. ' Mind,' she said, 
 * you put your pipe out when Lizzie comes.' And, I 
 declare, I forgot all about it ! " 
 
 Lizzie, of course, begs him not to put himself or his 
 pipe out for her, and other civil speeches follow — polite 
 lies de societe^ which end, of course, in the pipe's ban- 
 ishment. 
 
 " Does tobacco make you sick, Mrs. Halliday? " asks 
 Jack Raymond, in his pleasant, interested way, at this 
 crisis. 
 
 " Oh, no, not at all ; it is disagreeable to me, I sup- 
 pose, because I don't approve of it," Lizzie answers, 
 with the air of a missionary enlightening the heathen. 
 
 Raymond looks at her a moment with a puzzled ex- 
 pression, as if a conundrum had been proposed, and, a 
 moment after, he moved over to Mrs. Tom, as if he 
 gave it up. 
 
DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 6 1 
 
 After this, the talk gets into divided channels, the 
 gentlemen falling into politics, and the ladies soaring 
 into the region of feminine high art — dress — which is 
 the only region, Kate has been heard to declare, where 
 Mrs. Dick does n't carry her principles, though Mrs. 
 Dick, without doubt, would stoutly deny this charge, 
 and perhaps be able to prove that careless Mrs, Tom 
 entirely mistaken. But, however it may be, the talk 
 goes on with animation until Jack Raymond breaks up 
 the political discussion by taking his departure. Mrs. 
 Tom laments this going greatly, and launches forth 
 into voluble praises of the departed as the door closes. 
 
 " Nicest fellows in the world, those Raymond boys, 
 both of 'em," declares Tom heartily. 
 
 " Are n't they rather — fast ? " asks Mrs. Dick. 
 
 "I don't know. Are they, Tom?" responds Kate, 
 — a response that shows a hardened indifference to 
 morality, which is appaUing to Mrs. Dick. 
 
 And then Tom : — 
 
 " Fast ! No, not what I call fast. They 're bright 
 boys, invited everywhere, and spend a good deal of 
 money ; but they 're honorable, upright fellows, gentle- 
 men always, and with a good deal of judgment to keep 
 the balance, I should say." 
 
 " They 're very nice, anyway," remarks Mrs. Tom 
 here, with that careless optimism which distinguishes 
 her. 
 
 " Mr. Marsh used to speak of them as fast," Mrs. 
 Dick returns, with an air of one playing a trump card. 
 
 " Marsh ! " ejaculates Tom Halliday, with great con- 
 tempt. " Marsh is a prig, continually setting up his 
 notions of propriety or morality as a standard." 
 
62 DICK HALLIDA Y'S WIFE. 
 
 "You don't know the Raymonds/' interposes Mrs. 
 Tom pleasantly ; '^ if you did, you 'd be sure to like 
 them." The scale of Mrs. Tom's judgment is gener- 
 ally a scale of more or less agreeability. Then, as if 
 suddenly struck by a very bright thought, a suggestion 
 which in the following out will settle the whole vexed 
 question : " I '11 invite you all round to dinner together 
 some day ; there 's nothing like a social dinner for mak- 
 ing people better acquainted." 
 
 " Thank you, I don't care to be better acquainted. 
 I don't like men who belong to clubs," retorts Mrs. 
 Richard, with calm decision. A very queer look passes 
 over Tom Halliday's face. 
 
 Kate is beginning hastily : " Why, Lizzie, how can 
 you say so when — " but is suddenly arrested from fur- 
 ther speech by a warning glance from her husband. 
 All this time Dick Halliday sits imperturbable, with the 
 blandest expression of indifference to the whole subject 
 upon his impassive countenance. And Mrs. Dick, who 
 has caught neither the queer look nor the warning 
 glance, pleases herself with the thought that her last re- 
 mark has told. It has, indeed, but in a different direc- 
 tion from that which she so complacently suspects. 
 Conversation flags after this, and, in the lull, the two 
 visitors depart. Alone with her husband, Kate Halli- 
 day flings up her hands in expressive pantomime. Tom 
 laughs. 
 
 " Well, Kate, that was what I call a pretty close 
 shave. I never knew you blunder like that before." 
 
 " And I never knew myself blunder like that before ; 
 but the idea of her not knowing that Dick is a club- 
 
DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 63 
 
 man. It did not occur to me that she was ignorant ; 
 I thought her little speech was a snap at Dick. I 
 should think Dick would be the last person to conceal 
 anything. I must say, Tom, it looks rather cowardly in 
 him." 
 
 " I think any man would be just such a coward, 
 then. He doesn't want to be preached at all the 
 time." 
 
 " How she does nag him ! " cried Kate, half laughing. 
 
 " Nag him ! I should think so. Kate, if you were 
 like that woman, I 'd get a divorce." 
 
 " I 've no doubt you would, sir ; you have n't the 
 easy temper of your Cousin Dick. How you did fly at 
 her about the Raymonds ! " 
 
 " Fly at her ! The little canting pussy-cat quoting 
 that fool of a Marsh." 
 
 " But Lizzie is very good — really, Tom, Don't you 
 remember how kind she was to me when I was sick, 
 and how she nursed Dick through the varioloid last 
 winter? " 
 
 " Yes, I remember ; and I 'm very much obliged to 
 her, but if I were in Dick's place I shouldn't be. I 
 should a great deal rather trust my chances in the next 
 world than be nursed back to pass my life with her^ 
 
 " But you 're not Dick, sir." 
 
 " No, thank Heaven ! " 
 
 While this talk is going on, Lizzie HalKday is quietly 
 congratulating herself on the stand she has taken. And, 
 as the season progresses, and she hears of dance-parties, 
 euchre-clubs, and music-matinees, at the town-hall, 
 with such men as the Raymonds for the principal figures. 
 
64 DICK H ALU DA Y'S WIFE. 
 
 she congratulates herself still more upon her " stand." 
 And this stand is that of avoiding all this emptiness and 
 folly, as she calls it, and the substitution of something 
 solid and substantial, something that is intelligent and 
 elevating, — pleasure and profit combined. In i:)ursuance 
 of this plan, she organizes a Shakespeare Society and a 
 reading society. At the latter, the subject for discus- 
 sion was given out at each meeting for the coming 
 meeting, so that each person might be prepared. Tom 
 Halliday hears of these elevating enjoyments, when the 
 winter is nearly over, from one of the "members," — a 
 young girl rather of his wife's proclivities, but who has 
 been pressed into Mrs. Dick Halliday's " evenings " by 
 an aunt who is of Mrs. Dick Halliday's mental and 
 moral kith and kin. 
 
 " And is Dick a regular attendant at these intellect- 
 ual treats? " asks Tom. 
 
 " He comes in at the latter part of the evening. His 
 business, he says, does not allow him the pleasure of 
 coming earlier." 
 
 ^' His business?" 
 
 " Yes ; Mrs. Halliday says he is very much devoted 
 to his business " ; and little Sally McClane turns up to 
 Tom Halliday's face a very bright pair of eyes with a 
 very keen expression in them. 
 
 "What does he do when he is there? " asks Tom. 
 
 " Do ! Why, what do you suppose he does ? He 
 behaves himself like a gentleman, as he is." 
 
 " Oh ! Does he read in the plays — Shakespeare, 
 you know? " persists Tom. 
 
 "I 've never heard him." 
 
DICK HALLIDA Y'S WIFE. 65 
 
 " Does he talk in that conversation-bout? " 
 
 " Well, yes, he talks a little." 
 
 " Oh, he does ! What are some of the subjects, Sally ? " 
 
 "'The Pre-Adamite World' and 'The Mission of 
 Man ' are all I remember now." 
 
 "Sally, do you mean to' tell me that Dick Halliday 
 talks to those people about ' The Pre-Adamite World ' 
 and ' The Mission of Man ' ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not. I never said he talked to those 
 people." 
 
 "Whom does he talk to, then?" 
 
 "Well, he talks — to me." 
 
 " Oh, he talks to you ! " And Tom laughs so loud 
 (he is on the street, walking with Sally) that the passers 
 turn and look at him. " And what are my Cousin Dick's 
 views on those abstruse subjects. Miss McClane?" 
 
 Sally laughs now, and then repeats certain witty and 
 humorous remarks of Dick's in such good imitation of 
 Dick Halliday's quiet manner that Tom laughs another 
 loud laugh ; and, going home, he tells Kate the whole 
 story. 
 
 "The little cat!" cries Kate. "All the while she 
 has been refusing our invitations, she has been engineer- 
 ing these headachy talks and things, and never gave us 
 a chance at 'em ! Why, Tom, she must consider us 
 hopeless cases. But only to think of Dick there ! Do 
 you suppose, Tom, she is bringing him round to hke 
 such things ? " 
 
 " Well, I should say, my dear, that there was about 
 as much chance of bringing me round ; but, lord ! you 
 never can tell what a woman will do with a man," Tom 
 winds up, in a disgusted manner. 
 
 5 
 
66 DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 
 
 " And about the business, Tom, which absorbs him 
 so?" 
 
 " I should say that was one of Dick's ways, one of 
 his white lies. Dick, though, may enjoy himself more 
 than we think. He has an enormous amount of humor, 
 and the way he goes on to that little McClan'e girl shows 
 that he is getting what he can out of it." 
 
 " But I wonder if that 's all he has ? Where do they 
 go? We scarcely ever see them at the theatre, and 
 never in our old set at parties." 
 
 " He 's with men a good deal, I fancy. Oh, Dick '11 
 manage to amuse himself somehow, never fear," answers 
 Tom carelessly. 
 
 And all the time Mrs. Dick is congratulating herself 
 on the success of her plans. She is curing Dick of his 
 idle, frivolous tastes by offering him something better. 
 His business habits, too, are improving so much. She 
 does feel a good deal disappointed that he cannot have 
 the benefit of her " evenings " ; but " business before 
 pleasure ; that is as it should be with a rising man," is 
 her sage little conclusion. And so in this apparently 
 satisfactory state things go on for the rest of the winter. 
 Mrs. Tom Halhday, coming home one day from her 
 spring shopping, speaks her mind about this state of 
 satisfaction : — 
 
 "■ You never saw anything like it, Tom ! That small 
 woman thinks, I verily beheve, that she has succeeded in 
 plucking Dick like a brand from the burning, and has 
 inducted him into the straight and narrow paths of vir- 
 tue, — to wit, the company of that fossil old set where 
 the discussion of the pre-Adamite world is considered 
 
DICK HALLIDA Y'S WIFE. 6/ 
 
 a great deal safer occupation than the society of the 
 nineteenth-century man, who has to do with the world 
 and the flesh, to say nothing of the devil. Just fancy 
 Dick being led into such very narrow ways? " 
 
 " Some other woman ought to pay her out some- 
 how ! " exclaims Tom viciously, as he wrestles with a 
 new tie before the mirror. 
 
 " Had n't I better get up a smart little flirtation with 
 Dick for that laudable purpose ? " cries Kate, laughing 
 lightly. 
 
 And Tom responding in his careless, jovial way, they 
 make merry over the matter after their fashion. Only 
 a few months later with what different emotions do they 
 both recall these jesting words ! 
 
 This is March. At the end of May, as Lizzie Halli- 
 day is riding down-town in a horse-car, one of those gar- 
 rulous women, who make all the mischief in the world 
 pretty much, accosts her. 
 
 "How do you do, Mrs. Halhday? Haven't seen 
 you for an age to speak with you, though I 've seen 
 you driving with Mrs. Claymer lately several times, and 
 I thought then that you might get time to return my 
 call." 
 
 " Driving with Mrs. Claymer ! You are mistaken, 
 Mrs. Deane." 
 
 " Well, now, I declare ! Do you mean to tell me 
 tliat I did n't meet you last night — and, let 's see, 
 Wednesday night, too ? You did n't see me, but Mr. 
 Halliday did, and raised his hat to me." 
 
 "What! Dick?" 
 
 " Why, of course ; and you had on that very peculiar 
 
6S DICK HALLIDA Y'S WIFE. 
 
 gray-and-white shawl. Oh, I knew it was you, my dear, 
 by your light hair, though you are so vain as to cover 
 your complexion from these east winds by a blue veil. 
 I told Louisa that I did n't know whether you meant to 
 cut me or not." 
 
 " I 'm sure I did n't see you, Mrs. Deane," answers 
 Lizzie, with great presence of mind, though the floor of 
 the car seems to rise before her. Fortunately, Mrs. 
 Deane arrives at this crisis at her destination, and Lizzie 
 is left alone to face the situation. Dick — her husband 
 — driving with Mrs. Claymer, and another lady, who is 
 not his wife, despite the gray-and-white- striped shawl ! 
 
 Mrs. Claymer is a fashionable woman, with a back- 
 ground of family and a prestige of wealth. She was one 
 of Dick Halliday's bachelor acquaintances, and had ex- 
 changed calls once with his wife. Lizzie always speaks 
 of her as " that very worldly Mrs. Claymer." 
 
 But the other person in the gray-and-white-striped 
 shawl ? 
 
 Going on and on in the car, Lizzie puzzles over this 
 enigma in a little fire and fury of jealousy and mortifi- 
 cation. 
 
 " What can it mean? Who can it be ? " she queries. 
 
 All at once her mind clears. Kate Halliday has the 
 duplicate to her gfay-and-white-striped shawl ; has, too, 
 light curling hair like her 07vn I That Kate, a few 
 months back, did not know Mrs. Claymer, was nothing ; 
 Kate was always making new acquaintances. With this 
 conclusion, which to Lizzie is a revelation, everything 
 in the past seems to come back to her with a new 
 meaning. She recalls all Dick's admiration of Kate. 
 
DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 69 
 
 She recalls, too, the business engagements which this 
 recreant has pleaded for the last six months. And, as 
 hour by hour goes by, as in the solitude of her own 
 room she goes into every detail of the case, the dumb 
 pain and confusion that at first assailed her give place 
 to indignation and a desire to take swift reprisals. 
 
 While this turbulent caldron of trouble is brewing at 
 the Dick Hallidays, at the Tom Hallidays the state of 
 the atmosphere seems to be in its usual serene condi- 
 tion. Mrs. Tom, tired of her new novel, has dropped 
 it in her accustomed careless fashion upon the floor, 
 and stands at the window singing a little air, and wait- 
 ing for Tom to come in to dinner; and, waiting for 
 Tom, she sees Cousin Dick going by. It is a warm 
 night in the latter part of May, and the window at 
 which she stands is wide open. Dick stops a .moment 
 to chat. 
 
 "You'd better come in," urges Kate. "We- shall 
 dine in two minutes — and sicch a salad ! I made it 
 myself." 
 
 Dick laughs, confesses the salad is a great tempta- 
 tion, but declines. At that point Tom comes swinging 
 round the comer. 
 
 " Ah, there you are ! " cries Mrs. Kate ; " and here is 
 Dick dying to taste my salad. Make him come in, 
 Tom ; he has n't been here for an age." 
 
 Dick, beginning to yield, says something about going 
 home. 
 
 " But it is n't your dinner-hour, and half an hour later 
 will do as well," urges Tom, who also vows it is an age 
 since Dick has crossed their threshold. 
 
70 DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 
 
 The result is foreseen. Dick weakly yields, and en- 
 ters the house, while his host innocently and trustingly 
 gives him over to Mrs. Kate, and limps upstairs to re- 
 lieve himself of a pair of tight boots. 
 
 It is at this moment that the servant ushers in another 
 visitor. 
 
 " Such a bother ! " begins Kate ; " the soup will be 
 spoiled." But the next moment she recognizes this 
 visitor. 
 
 " Lizzie ! How fortunate ! Here we have just be- 
 guiled Dick in to eat a most wonderful salad of my 
 making, and you 're just in time to join us. It 's an 
 age since either of you have been here. Now, you 
 need n't say a word. You 're going to take off your 
 bonnet and stay"; and, on hospitable thought intent, 
 Mrs. Tom steps forward to assist in the removal of the 
 bonnet. But Lizzie HalHday's hand, Lizzie Halliday's 
 voice, arrest this hospitality at once. 
 
 Kate looks at her with an expression of puzzled aston- 
 ishment. What is that she is saying about Mrs. Clay- 
 mer and a striped shawl? And who is it that has been 
 a treacherous friend ? From the wife Kate glances to 
 the husband. She is startled at the change in Dick 
 Halliday's placid face. The eyes that naturally droop 
 a little on ordinary occasions are wide open enough now, 
 and the pleasant-tempered, handsome mouth has got a 
 straight, hard line in lieu of its usual smiling curves ; 
 and on his cheeks there is a spot of red that seems to 
 concentrate and make more vivid the fire of the eye, 
 and to emphasize the compression of the mouth. There 
 is a little pause as Lizzie Halliday concludes her rash 
 
DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 7 1 
 
 speech ; and then, in a particularly quiet, low-toned 
 voice, Dick Halliday makes answer : — 
 
 "You are laboring under a mistake, Mrs. Halliday. 
 The lady with whom I have been seen driving recently 
 was not Kate, whatever may have been the resemblances. 
 It was Mrs. Draysel, Mrs. Claymer's sister." 
 
 " Dick ! " A tone of horror is in Lizzie Halliday's 
 voice, a white dismay in her face. 
 
 "We will not discuss the matter here, if you please," 
 he continues. " We have already to beg Kate's pardon 
 for what has occurred, and after that I think we had 
 better go." 
 
 When Tom comes down, a moment later, he finds to 
 his amazement his wife alone and in hysterical tears. 
 The salad waits, the soup gets stone-cold, while Kate 
 recounts what has just taken place. At first Tom is 
 furious at the insult to his wife ; but, when Kate comes 
 to the end, when she says, " Who is Mrs. Draysel, Tom ? 
 and why did Lizzie look so horror-struck at the mention 
 of her name? " his brow relents, and he exclaims : — 
 
 " Good Heaven ! she has got paid out. Do you re- 
 member Lizzie's brother George? " 
 
 " What 1 ' handsome George,' as we used to call him ? 
 Of course I do." 
 
 " Well, it was Mrs. Draysel and her husband who led 
 him to his ruin. Jordan Draysel, after ruining himself, 
 took to ruining other men for a living. His wife acts 
 the part of the alluring spider — ' Will you walk into my 
 parlor,' etc. And, as she is the original siren, there is 
 generally no lack of victims at the little four-in-hand 
 games in her drawing-room, — games which she would 
 
72 DICK HALLIDA Y'S WIFE. 
 
 innocently tell you were ' Jordan's euchre parties.' The 
 only woman who believes in her is her sister, Mrs. Clay- 
 mer ; and it is the Claymer respectability that keeps the 
 Draysels on the surface of society. They have been 
 abroad for several years, and now are back, I suppose, 
 at their old business." 
 
 " And, in trying to keep Dick from our mild dissipa- 
 tions, which have always come under the most rigid law 
 of respectability, Lizzie has driven him into that trap ! " 
 cries Kate, a little spitefully. And presently, after a 
 little pause : " Tom, I want to apologize to somebody 
 for my injustice to Dick. I called him a coward once. 
 I take it all back. I think his courage is positively 
 chivalrous. Most men would have Hed it out ; vowed 
 it was some Mrs. Smith or Jones or other, and left me 
 to suffer from the lie ; for Lizzie would have believed 
 nothing less than this. She knew that this was truth." 
 
 "Yes, she knew that, from such an ease-loving fel- 
 low as Dick. But it 's pretty hard on Lizzie. She 's 
 to be pitied, I must say." 
 
 " She ! " Kate cries, with sudden, angry heat. " Well, 
 I don't know. / pity Dick ; for Lizzie, I beheve it 
 serves her right ! " 
 
 Tom looks into the flushed face and laughs. 
 
 " Oh, you women, you women ! " is his bantering 
 comment. 
 
 " But to insult me, Tom, with such suspicions ! " 
 
 " I know, Kate, but she is such a little fool ; and 
 she 's awfully hard hit now." 
 
 Kate muses a moment ; and then, with renewed 
 energy : " Tom, she '11 get the best of it yet. She '11 
 
DICK HALLWAY'S WIFE. 73 
 
 come off in flying colors somehow before the year is 
 out. You '11 see ! " 
 
 Before the year is out, it is no secret in society that 
 Mrs. Dick Halliday is an injured and long-suffering 
 woman. She is generally spoken of as " that poor little 
 Mrs. Halliday." ^'Did everything, you know, for that 
 worthless fellow, — tried to reform him and elevate him 
 in all possible ways, and now sacrifices herself to him, 
 bears everything with such patience, is such a devoted 
 wife," etc., etc., etc. 
 
 There is a handful of people, Dick's few special friends, 
 who make a different judgment. But what are these to 
 the great multitude who applaud Lizzie Halliday as she 
 goes about with that resigned face "which tells its own 
 story, you know," who crown her as a model wife, while 
 they turn their backs upon " that worthless fellow " who 
 has bhghted her life ? 
 
74 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 HARRY MILLS, as he went leaping along the 
 rocky shore that day, apparently in such a 
 loose, hap-hazard manner, had a definite object in 
 view. He had marked it, and steadily pursued it since 
 he had first come out in this direction ; so he went on, 
 leaping lightly fi'om rock to rock, always keeping in 
 view a flutter of something, — a flutter of something 
 scarlet and gold, like a gay barbaric flag, flung out in 
 defiance. What was it? He knew well. What need 
 for anybody else to know that it was Laura Wingate's 
 shawl ? Laura herself had n't the faintest idea of hang- 
 ing out a lure as she sat there talking fitfully with Sue 
 Mills. They had been there half the afternoon, shut 
 in by the rocks from any sight or sound but the sea's, 
 and perhaps that was the reason that gay Laura's usual 
 brightness had tempered down into that wistful ab- 
 straction which she so rarely shows. Perhaps the rest- 
 less voices of the ocean suggested her thoughts. 
 
 " Ah me ! " she said, with a faint sigh, " I am lone- 
 some under this monotonous life. Sue. I want to go 
 away somewhere and see the world. I wish something 
 would happen, not actually tragic, you know. Heigh- 
 ho ! " and she yawned wearily, stretching her hands 
 toward the sea, with a yearning motion. Then a change 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 75 
 
 passed over her face as she caught sight of a new sail 
 just beyond the Point. " Sue, I walked with a merman 
 last night, in a blue jacket. He wanted somebody to 
 run away with him. What do you say to my going? 
 A handsome fellow he was, Sue, tall and dark, and 
 with such beautiful eyes, with a scar just under the left 
 one." 
 
 " Laura, you don't mean that Tom Wilson has come 
 back?" And Sue Mills, at the mention of her old 
 lover, turned pale. 
 
 " Yes ; Captain Tom has come back. Sue, handsomer 
 and taller than ever. What do you say to my running 
 away with him, eh? " 
 
 "Does he want you to? " asks Susan, really incredu- 
 lous, but with a look of anxiety and fright upon her face. 
 
 " Does he want me to ! " and Laura mimicked her 
 companion's voice. But in a moment her tone changed, 
 a soft expression came into her eyes. She bent over 
 and touched Susan's cold hand with her own warm 
 one, while she said, " No, Susy, he wants you ; and he 
 thinks that now, perhaps, your father may be more re- 
 lenting. This last voyage has been very prosperous, 
 and he already owns half of the ship, which shows, you 
 know, very substantially, that he has been entirely de- 
 voted to his duty." 
 
 " And he told you — " 
 
 " Yes, he told me he wanted you, Susy ; that he had 
 never wanted anybody else ; that all through your fa- 
 ther's opposition, and your submission to it, he had 
 never ceased to love you, though for a time he was 
 angry." There was a little pause, then she went on : 
 
^6 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 " And you fancied it was me. You were jealous, Sue, 
 all last fall, when he was here. Me ! jealous of me, 
 you small simpleton." 
 
 There had come a warm glow into Susan's cheeks, 
 and her eyes had a happy light in them as she said, — 
 
 "But you flirted with him, Laura." 
 
 " I flirted with Cap'n Tom ? Well, I did n't know it." 
 
 Laura's face, as she uttered this, was full of some 
 cold disdain. It faded in a moment, and she added 
 more kindly, but with a sort of weary impatience, — 
 
 " That 's the way people must interpret, I suppose. 
 Well, well, let them ; who cares? " 
 
 " But, Laura ! " 
 
 "Well." 
 
 " Why did n't you tell me before ? " 
 
 " Why did n't I ? Because I have kept my word 
 and a tryst for you, my pretty black-eyed Susan " ; and 
 Laura laughed with all her old mischief. 
 
 Susan looked bewildered. 
 
 " What do you mean, Laura? " 
 
 " Only that I promised that wily and wicked Captain 
 Tom that I would not betray him until I saw a white 
 sail coming round the Point, with a blue flag for signal. 
 Prepare yourself. Miss Susan ; he '11 be here at your 
 feet in fifteen minutes." 
 
 Susan sprang up, startled and confused; but that 
 firm little hand, and the firmer will of Laura Wlngate, 
 pulled her back. 
 
 " Stay where you are, Susan ; don't make a goose of 
 yourself. After a year of faithfulness and well-doing, 
 Captain Wilson certainly deserves a hearing. If you 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. J^ 
 
 are still afraid to trust him, tell him so ; don't run 
 away. I am the one to do that, you know. Catch 
 me playing Mrs. Malaprop " ; and, laughing, Laura 
 snatched up her shawl and started out of her nook. 
 
 One, t\vo, three steps, and she swung round a nar- 
 row ledge to meet — what ? no, not Captain Wilson, 
 but Harry Mills. 
 
 It was not she who blushed. It was for Harry Mills, 
 the tender-skinned fellow, to hang out his colors at this 
 sudden meeting. There he was, going on quietly, the 
 signal of gold and red no longer perceivable in the 
 bend of the shore ; but clearly seen by inward vision 
 was that well-known eyrie of the cliffs, where he thought 
 to find her. And suddenly the gleam of the gold and 
 red, the old barbaric pattern, flashes into his eyes, and 
 he meets that startled gaze, the very coolness of which 
 half vexes him. So he thought it quite enough to 
 blush for. Then she exclaimed : — 
 
 " Where did you come from ? I declare you appear 
 like a ghost, Harry ! " 
 
 " I was down at the inlet, and ^ sighted ' you by your 
 red flag," he answered, putting a finger on the gay silk 
 fringe that floated over her arm. 
 
 " Oh ! my shawl. And you were coming down upon 
 me unawares. There I should have sat in the sun, in- 
 nocent of danger, when pounce ! you would have come 
 down from the top cliff, like a cat upon a mouse. I 
 know your tricks." 
 
 And she nodded and sparkled at the young man in 
 her gay, insouciante manner, which he appreciated, per- 
 haps, too keenly. 
 
yS LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 "But come," she broke out, after a breath of pause, 
 " I 'm not going to stand here ; are you? " And she 
 dipped past him Hke a swallow on the wing, flinging 
 back a little chain of sweet-linked laughter, and a glance 
 that invited and defied. 
 
 He did not wait, but down sharp crag and ledge 
 dashed on in pursuit. Again that saucy glance shot 
 over her shoulder, and fleeing with sure but reckless 
 foothold over rough ways of rock and loosened stones, 
 she sang ; — 
 
 " ' Oh, follow, follow round the world. 
 Green earth and sunny sea — ' " 
 
 " * So love is with thy lover's heart, 
 Wherever he may be,' " 
 
 responded her pursuer's voice, finishing the quotation 
 which she had n't given him credit for knowing. 
 
 A little disconcerted, a false step was made, and she 
 caught, breathless, at a projecting boulder, leaning her 
 cheek against it, and facing him so, gazing wearily, but 
 with mischievous smile, at him as he came up, and say- 
 ing saucily, — 
 
 " What did you trip me up for, with your sentimental 
 half of the string ? 'T was n't fair." 
 
 " But 't was true, Laura." 
 
 " Oh, Harry, don't ! I 've only this moment escaped 
 from just such a scene, and then I 'm tired, and I 've 
 hurt my foot or my ankle." 
 
 There was a hot glow in Harry Mills's cheek as he 
 listened. 
 
 "You have just escaped, Laura? Then you were 
 not pleased ; you — " 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. yg 
 
 " Oh, yes, I was pleased. I made the appointment 
 myself. Oh, I was very much pleased ; but I ran away 
 just in time." 
 
 "In time for what, Laura?" broke out the young 
 man, in exasperated tones. 
 
 She was standing still in that very attitude, her cheek 
 against the gray old rock, and eying him with that con- 
 cealed glimmer of fun. But here she drew up her slen- 
 der figure, and put on a proper mask of pride as she 
 exclaime d : — 
 
 " I really cannot see what right you have, Harry 
 Mills, to ask me that question." 
 
 " Laura, I have no right ; but — " 
 
 But here Laura broke in with her tinkling laugh, 
 and cried, — 
 
 " Oh, Harry, what a dunce you are ! I could n't 
 play the disinterested friend, could I, and make ap- 
 pointments for those who were too timid to make them 
 for themselves ? " 
 
 Harry's face lightened. 
 
 "What have you been up to, Laura?" he asked. 
 Then his eyes suddenly spanned the coast. He saw, 
 just beyond, a little craft, with a blue flag flying above 
 the white sail. There it lay, rocking with the tide, close 
 in-shore. And there above, — who was that climbing 
 the cliffs so alertly? 
 
 " What — no — yes, it is. Laura, you ^ave « V thrown 
 Sue into that man's path? " 
 
 " Harry, come and help me down, if you expect me 
 to say anything. My foot is aching dreadfully, and I 
 know I shall faint away if I 'm not taken care of." 
 
80 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 He might have thought that this was one of her arch 
 tricks, too, if he had not seen her face, really white and 
 pinched with pain. 
 
 At this sight he bounded to her side and put out his 
 arm. 
 
 " Lean on me, Laura; tell me what to do for you," 
 he said, in the gentlest tones. 
 
 She clung to him a moment for rest, then, — 
 
 " Help me down into the hollow there, Harry." 
 
 He lifted her without further words, and placed 
 her where she directed, — a natural cleft between the 
 rocks. 
 
 " There, I shall be better in a minute. No, 't is n't 
 a sprain ; it 's my lame foot, — the one I hurt last win- 
 ter on the ice. Once in a while I give it a twist, as I 
 did when you made me slip on those stones." 
 
 " Laura, how can you? " he interposed. 
 
 " Then I had to stand parleying with you till I was 
 like to faint," she went on, "because your curiosity was 
 rampant to pry into affairs which did n't concern you. 
 And even now, after causing all this mischief, you are 
 dying to leave me, to rush off to that poor, abused 
 Captain Tom, and make more mischief." 
 
 While she rattled on this reckless nonsense, Harry, 
 never quite following her tricksy spirit, was vainly en- 
 deavoring to discover how much was in earnest, how 
 much in frolic, and she enjoying his perplexity as usual. 
 Presently she broke the silence with, — 
 
 " There, I 'm better now, and I '11 tell you all about 
 it." 
 
 So she told of walking on the beach last night, and 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 8 1 
 
 meeting the unfortunate Captain Tom, who pleaded his 
 cause to her for intercession. When she had ended he 
 said, looking at her gravely, — 
 
 '' I should n't have thought you 'd have dared the 
 responsibility, Laura, of doing anything to further an 
 affair of this kind." 
 
 She raised herself upon her elbow and exclaimed, 
 with some vehemence, — 
 
 " Why not ? Why not ? Dare ! Do you suppose 
 I am such a weakling that I can't make up my mind 
 which is the right side, and follow it? If Sue had 
 had a mind of her own she would n't have been veered 
 round by other people's wills, but she would have seen 
 that Tom Wilson had the stuff in him for a real man, 
 which you had n't one of you the sense to see, let me 
 tell you. Wild ! reckless ! Well, what of that, when 
 he had a good heart and a firm will beneath ? I knew 
 he 'd come out right, and he has ; owns half the ship, 
 and has been complimented by the Boston firm there, 
 — what do you call them ? " 
 
 '' Did he tell you this, Laura? " 
 
 " My father told me last night, and Deacon Scofield 
 confirmed it." 
 
 " Well, I am very glad, I 'm sure." 
 
 " You ain't, you little rue-faced old fellow ! you 're 
 sorry. You 'd like to keep Sue on tenter-hooks anoth- 
 er six months ; and the goose would let you, if there 
 was a reason to hang a cobweb of suspicion on." 
 
 "And how do you know but there is? What 
 makes you believe in Captain Wilson so enthusiasti- 
 cally, Laura? " 
 
 6 
 
82 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 *' Because I believe in my instincts, and they from 
 the first have told me that Captain Tom was better 
 than his enemies. But you Millses never did appre- 
 ciate him. I wish I had taken him off your hands 
 long ago." 
 
 Harry's brow clouded. "You seem to appreciate 
 him enough for that," he retorted. 
 
 Her eyes sparkled. 
 
 " Good ! I like this. ^ Stand fair and fight, my 
 lord of Aix.' " 
 
 " No, Laura, there shall be no fighting. I should 
 never quarrel with you," the young man answered, in 
 a different tone. Then vehemently : " Laura, you must 
 listen to me. You know what I have meant ; you 
 know what my feelings have been all along, — that I 
 love you, that I want you, Laura, for mine. Will you 
 come? " 
 
 He was standing on a lower ledge than where she 
 rested ; and as he spoke, leaning involuntarily nearer, 
 he put out his arms to her. 
 
 She caught his hands as he ceased speaking, and 
 dropped her face against them, crying in a httle pas- 
 sion of regret, — 
 
 " Oh no, no, Harry ! I love you — yes, yes, I love 
 you dearly, but not that way. I love you partly as 
 Susan loves you, perhaps, for I have known you all my 
 life." 
 
 The young man bent over lier, much moved in some 
 manner by her soft passion ; and he asked : " Why, 
 Laura, why can't you love me that way, — because you 
 have known me all your life? " 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 83 
 
 " No, not that. Because — O Harry, don't you feel 
 it? — you are not mine, nor I yours." 
 
 " But I will make you mine, and you shall make me 
 yours. That is what I ask, Laura." 
 
 The look upon her face would have been a smile if 
 it had not been so full of disturbance. But she pres- 
 ently said gently, — 
 
 "Don't you see, Harry, that we are not naturally 
 sympathetic? See now. You have no patience with 
 what you call my recklessness — my wild moods. I 
 puzzle you ; half the time you don't know whether 
 I am in jest or earnest. You are amazed at the things 
 I enjoy. And, on the other hand, you seem to me 
 almost insensible to enthusiasm. If I were not so 
 audacious, or if I did n't really regard you so truly, I 
 should be chilled ; but I get angry with you instead, 
 and half your pursuits I can understand and relish as 
 little as you mine. You think we may assimilate? 
 That is a fatal mistake ! We are neither of us wax ; 
 we could not be moulded into anything else than our- 
 selves. As we are now, we make capital friends ; but 
 bring us nearer, and it would be like bringing two 
 chords in different keys together — there would be dis- 
 cord. What is that you say about opposite tempera- 
 ments forming better combinations ? Well, it may be 
 to a certain extent ; but there must be likeness, and we 
 have n't it, Harry : I do not belong to you." 
 
 The young fellow struck his foot impatiently against 
 the rock as -she finished, and exclaimed, — 
 
 "Where have you got these ideas, Laura? What 
 books have you been reading? " 
 
84 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 All the softness vanished from her face as he said 
 this ; and she answered sharply, and with a curling lip 
 that suggested a sneer, " I have read the books that 
 the rest of the world reads. What I have left or what 
 I have taken from them is what the qualities of my 
 own mind demanded. But why should I get angry 
 with you?" and here she relented a little of her cold- 
 ness. " Half the world think as you do, that books 
 make the reader's ideas instead of merely meeting 
 them as inevitable conclusions, or — But what is the 
 use of talking, Harry > We can never agree on such 
 subjects, which plainly proves my previous words, — 
 we have no natural likeness." 
 
 " And yet you allow that we can be capital friends," 
 he put in, with an unbelieving look. 
 
 ^' Friends ? Yes ; friends may differ essentially, and 
 yet be very good friends, but lovers — no. If I mar- 
 ried you, Harry Mills," she cried, with a sudden gust of 
 passion, " I should be eternally alone on this earth ! " 
 
 " Don't talk so, Laura. You don't know yourself," 
 he answered, with provoking gentleness. 
 
 " I will talk so ! And I know myself much better 
 than you '11 ever know me. Don't know myself ! " and 
 she laughed aloud in derision. " Find me a woman 
 who knows herself better at this point of her Hfe. If 
 you knew me a tenth part as well, you would think 
 yourself lucky to have escaped me. Harry Mills, 
 yoii like me now because I am something different 
 from others that you meet, — because I amuse you, 
 and because I am young and handsome. But I should 
 make the torment of your Hfe if I married you. 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 85 
 
 You 'd want to control me, and I would n't be con- 
 trolled ; and I should shock every fixed principle you 
 possessed, in rebelling. Yes," eying him with irritation, 
 " I dare say you think you know me better than I 
 know myself. You know the Laura who is your friend, 
 the gay, laughing Laura who teases Sue and makes a 
 seeming jest of life. But there's another Laura you 
 know nothing about — the real Laura, too — the Laura 
 who lives, and loves, and hates with a passion and 
 intensity which would startle you ; which I have no 
 doubt you would call morbid. But this Laura is a 
 stranger to most, as to you. I have had the sense to 
 conceal it here, for she is alien and wild." 
 
 Harry stood regarding her, with a gloomy look of 
 conviction steaHng over his face, — the conviction of 
 the hopelessness of his suit, not of her beliefs. But 
 after a while the gloom lifted a little, as he thought, — 
 
 " I '11 wait — this will pass." 
 
 How Laura would have laughed him to scorn could 
 she have overheard this inward resolve ! 
 
 When she raised her head, however, she saw nothing 
 in his expression but perplexity and pain ; and with 
 some compunction for the sorrow she had wTOught, 
 and perhaps aggravated for the moment by her out- 
 spoken irritation, she said quite gently, — 
 
 " I am sorry to have hurt you, Harry." 
 
 He returned as gently, though somewhat ambigu- 
 ously, — 
 
 "You couldn't help it, Laura." 
 
 They walked home almost in silence ; and both 
 noticed without comment now that the little boat still 
 
86 LAURA AND HER HERO, 
 
 rocked at the shore, the blue flag fluttering to the wind. 
 Mrs. Wingate stood in the front yard, talking to the 
 Captain about "cuttin' that wilier down " as they came 
 up the road ; and she broke ofl", as she stood, the dry 
 branches from a withering shrub and thriftily gathered 
 them into her apron. 
 
 " Why, where on earth have you been, Laura? " she 
 said, rather impatiendy, as the girl sauntered up the 
 path. " Lucy and Hannah Scofleld 's been here, and 
 waited and waited, till I told 'em 't wan't no use. You 
 would n 't come home till the cows did, maybe." 
 
 "Sue and I went down to the south shore," Laura 
 answered, absently and almost indifferently. 
 
 Harry, contrary to his usual custom, did n't stop to 
 chat with the Captain, but hurried away, with hasty 
 good-nights. He took the picture of that parting 
 group, however, with an awakened sense of its incon- 
 gruity, — awakened perhaps by those passionate words, 
 " She is aHen and wild." 
 
 Ahen and wild she indeed looked beside the burly 
 old Captain, with his brown knobby face, and Dame 
 Wingate's spare angularities. True types were they of 
 primitive New England ; but for her, who stood so 
 near and yet so far, what fitting type was there ? 
 
 What resemblance is there in all that rugged sim- 
 plicity, that Puritan plainness of exterior, and that 
 flowering of nature which hovers near them? Could 
 they have once combed out 
 
 "That fawn-skin colored hair of hers," 
 
 in lieu of those locks of dusty gray ? Could they have 
 ever flung out such intrepid glances from eyes of flame 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 8/ 
 
 and fire ? Could either of those gaunt figures ever have 
 boasted such smoothly rounded outlines ? Harry Mills 
 might have asked himself all these questions as he 
 pondered upon her words and the scene he had left, 
 for they were plainly perceivable enough. But did he 
 note as well the strange dissimilarity of character, — the 
 kind and generous, but utterly prosaic natures, in con- 
 trast with this kindling imagination, this winged spirit 
 of ardor and daring ? 
 
 Ahen and wild indeed did she seem in every particu- 
 lar, with her youth, her personal attractions, and her 
 visible culture of books and thought, in contact with 
 these old and simply-bred people and their way of life. 
 
 Long ago had the village gossips said to each other : 
 " Miss Winget '11 spile that girl, humoring her in all her 
 notions ; and the Cap'n 's worse 'n she is. I do believe 
 they think there never was such a child." 
 
 Then when Laura was sent away to Boston for 
 four successive years, only returning in rare school 
 vacations, the gossips twittered on their perches still 
 louder : — 
 
 "That girl just turns the Cap'n and Miss Winget 
 round her little finger. Well, well, they '11 set her up 
 so there won't be no living with her by and by. You'll 
 see, you '11 see ! " 
 
 But Laura had now been home t^vo years, and the 
 gossips didn't see, though they looked sharply, the ful- 
 filment of their prediction. She was as fond of the 
 burly old Captain, and as willing to do her mother's 
 behests as before. Perhaps a trifle quieter ; the wild 
 spirit shaded and toned down, and sometimes \\Tapt in 
 
88 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 some cloud of abstraction that gained for her that title 
 by which people give a name to their own want of 
 comprehension, — odd. " Laura was such an odd girl." 
 
 But that night, as she sat on the floor before the 
 wood-fire blazing on the hearth, she didn't seem so 
 very odd. Her mood of abstraction had blown away 
 like a vapor as she turned from the garden-gate and fol- 
 lowed her mother into the house. And there she sat all 
 the evening, quite molhfying Mrs. Wingate by her flying 
 needles, and pleasing the merry old captain by drawing 
 him on to tell his " wonderful tales of the sea." 
 
 Rhody, passing in and out of the room — P.hody 
 had been Mrs. Wingate 's help for a score of years — 
 Rhody, passing in and out on household care, thought 
 as she had thought a hundred times at similar scenes : — 
 
 " Well, if they don't set their eyes by that child 
 more 'n more every day ! " 
 
 But Rhody herself, grim spinster as she was, partook 
 a good deal of this glamour, as many a sharp word of 
 defence from her lips could have testified, when the 
 gossips came prying with invidious suggestions. More 
 than once she had been heard to declare that '^ there 
 was n't such a girl anywhere round as Laura Wingate ; 
 that she 'd beat them Scofields and Susan Mills all 
 holler." 
 
 And still the gossips could n't forgive Laura for being 
 so "odd," — which meant, simply, that they couldn't 
 forgive her dissimilarity to themselves — could n't for- 
 give her independent will, her power of fascination, 
 her gay disregard of irksome conventionalities, and, 
 most of all, those four years of Boston school-life. 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 89 
 
 " Exham Academy was good enough for Sue Mills 
 and Deacon Scofield's girls, but 't wan't good enough 
 for that little wild thing of the Wingates. Squire Mills 
 did n't do any more for Harry than they 'd done for 
 that slip of a girl, and Squire Mills could buy and 
 sell Cap'n Wingate any day." 
 
 They didn't know there was one treasure that all 
 Squire Mills's money could n't buy from the Wingates. 
 
 And so the four years cast a shadow for them to 
 glower and gossip in. It was a topic that never lost 
 interest, for every now and then fresh material was 
 added by the arrival of some fine guests, who brought 
 an atmosphere of the great world into this quiet coast 
 country, — an atmosphere wherein Laura moved as in 
 her native element. They seemed to belong to her 
 and she to them. 
 
 That very night, as she sat there plying her needles 
 and her tongue with equal- alacrity, she was giving 
 many a thought to the contents of a letter her father 
 had handed to her. It apprised her of the coming of 
 one of these same guests, — an old school-friend of 
 those four years. 
 
 " I shall be ^vith you, I hope, Laura, on the ist of 
 July." 
 
 That was the intelligence that brightened Laura's 
 cheeks, and dispersed her clouds as they gathered. 
 She would see Emily Mayhew in a week. It was the 
 last of June now ; but on these Eastern shores summer 
 lingered in its arrival, and sharp winds blowing round 
 the Cape made the cheery blaze that brightened the 
 broad hearths not unwelcome. In a week, however, 
 
90 
 
 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 whether southern breezes blew or northern gales struck 
 their icy spears against the rugged rocks, there would 
 be tropic sunshine for Laura Wingate ; for one to whom 
 she was neither alien nor wild would bring her com- 
 panionship and sympathy, — would bring her, too, news 
 from the brilliant world of men and women and books, 
 for which she secretly stretched forth her arms, to 
 which she secretly knew herself belonging. 
 
 Two years ago she had bidden adieu to such a life. 
 Who may estimate the effects of that life upon this vivid 
 temperament, this acute intelligence ? What ardors, what 
 enthusiasms, what subtile knowledge it must have 
 brought to light; what thoughts and beliefs it must 
 have set ablaze ; what emotions kindled ! 
 
 Two years of seclusion and banishment. The girl of 
 eighteen was twenty. Two years of seclusion had not 
 quenched the fire ; though suppressed, it burned on 
 steadily, shining through dark eyes, or flashing muti- 
 nously through quivering lips at rare times when put at 
 bay, as it shone and flashed when Harry Mills strove 
 vainly for the mastery of her heart. But now how far 
 away was Harry Mills or his suit, — how far the love- 
 perplexitieS of her "black-eyed Susan," whose weak- 
 ness and timidity she had overborne with her ardent 
 strength ! 
 
 During this week of expectation, busied over a hun- 
 dred household matters of preparation, she thought little 
 and saw nothing of Sue, until the night before her guest 
 arrived. She had gone down to the ledge of rocks just 
 behind the hill, and, lying there half a-dream beneath 
 the purple sky of sunset, she was suddenly roused by 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 9 1 
 
 her name spoken, and the words, " You have n't been 
 near me all the week." 
 
 She came out of her dream. " Oh, Sue ! " 
 
 " So Emily May hew 's coming ! " proceeded Sue, in a 
 little tone of pique. " You '11 forget us entirely when 
 once she gets here." 
 
 A faint smile went out behind the hand Laura was 
 leaning her chin against. Perhaps she recognized at 
 that moment how little she had thought of the Millses 
 for the last few days. She only said, however, — 
 
 " I think you have been forgetting me, Sue ; though 
 I don't question your right to, under the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 Sue colored, and a flutter of pleasure stirred her 
 mouth before she replied, rather irrelevantly, — 
 
 '' Father and mother are quite satisfied about him 
 now." 
 
 '' I knew they ought to be, and I congratulate you. 
 Sue," Laura answered cordially, leaning forward, and 
 stroking Susan's hand a moment caressingly. Then the 
 two fell into silence for a while, Susan breaking it with 
 the startling question, — 
 
 " Laura, do you ever expect to marry? " 
 
 "Expect? I hope I shall," answered Laura, coolly 
 yet earnestly. 
 
 Susan laughed. " What other girl would have dared 
 that answer?" she said. 
 
 " Why did you ask me in that tone ? Why did you 
 say expect to marry ? Do you think my chance doubt- 
 ful, Susan?" Laura broke in, unheeding Susan's com- 
 ment. 
 
92 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 *' Doubtful ? Oh no j not in that way. But you are 
 so different from other people, I could n't help wonder- 
 ing if you ever expected to meet any one that you would 
 hke to marry." 
 
 " Expect ! " And as Laura spoke the word again it 
 was with an absent thrill in her tone ; and, still looking 
 toward the setting sun, where all the purple was fusing 
 into deep crimson dyes, she repeated, smiling and flush- 
 ing like the sun's tints, " Expect ! Yes, I am expecting 
 him, — my Sir Launcelot, — from day to day, perhaps 
 from hour to hour. Somewhere I know he waits, as I 
 for him. Somewhere I know that hfe is going on in 
 which my own may find itself fulfilled ; in which I may 
 live and be expressed before I die. I have never looked 
 upon his face, but I shall know him when he comes. 
 When he comes ! " 
 
 Suddenly she ceased ; and out toward the crimson 
 west, across the sea, she stretched her arms, with the 
 smile deepened into dreamy depths. 
 
 Susan, strangely moved by surprise and some deeper 
 emotions, did not break the silence. But a shadow 
 crossed their feet. She looked up. 
 
 " How long have you been there, Harry ? What ! 
 and Captain Tom, too? " 
 
 Captain Tom answered, swinging himself down from 
 his eyrie with lithe movements, — 
 
 '' How long? Oh, only long enough to catch a silence 
 after talk." But the glance he flashed across at Laura's 
 lighted face, in the moment that his back was toward 
 the rest, as he alighted on the rock where they rested, 
 gave her sure conviction that he had lost no word that 
 she had spoken in the last few moments. 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 93 
 
 Well, it did n't hurt her. Captain Tom was one of 
 the few persons who never thought Laura '' odd " ; so 
 she was quite willing to trust him with her words. But 
 she fully appreciated his cool implying of ignorance, to 
 preserve the outward unity of circumstance. But Harry 
 Mills, — had he too? Yes, he too. She knew it by 
 the startled surprise that showed in his face, — a mixed 
 look of perplexity and amazement. And more than 
 ever she thanked the tact of Captain Tom, who kept 
 the outward peace so coolly. He tried to keep as well 
 — this good-natured Captain Tom — the peaceful uni- 
 ties of ordinary conversation ; but it was not in the 
 destiny of that day to die so easily. 
 
 A little sentence, commonplace enough in itself, was 
 the torch which lighted this unsuspected magazine. 
 
 " So Alice Gale is going to be married." 
 
 "Yes, at last," returned Sue, with that queer tinge of 
 womanish spite. 
 
 "Why do you say so? " asked Laura, frowning at the 
 thoughtless sneer. She, who could love and hate with 
 equal intensity, hated likewise all useless expenditures 
 of expression. 
 
 "Why? Because it is only the fourth lover Alice 
 Gale has had." 
 
 Captain Tom laughed. " Ah, well, Susy, she does n't 
 beheve in first love as implicitly as you do." 
 
 And here Laura flamed : — 
 
 " First love ! neither do I believe in it when it holds 
 insanely to mere clay images built up by imagination, un- 
 worthy idols that only degrade love. But that 's the un- 
 just way you men and women, half of you, talk. A girl is 
 
94 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 full of attraction : not her eyes, or her hair, or her color, 
 or the beauty of her form is it simply, but a vitality that 
 electrically informs the whole with a magnetism of which 
 she only is conscious as she is conscious of life. So she 
 wins what she never seeks. And do you suppose that 
 any woman with heart and soul can find herself so near 
 the heart and soul of another without some fluctuations 
 of the spirit? Is it strange that, having moved such 
 depths of emotion, she should be moved herself ? So 
 it happens, perhaps, that she loves partially, — nay, it 
 is almost inevitable that she does ; or she may love 
 Love in the person, and mistake the lover. Haply if 
 she discovers her mistake before it is irrevocably sealed. 
 And it is such women, — yes, I say it, because it is 
 truth, — women who have both deep and dehcate na- 
 tures, whom you oftenest denounce as fickle, as co- 
 quettes, whom the mass of men speak of as robbed of 
 her freshness. Freshness ! What is this freshness which 
 they laud ? It is the crudeness which comes from inex- 
 perience, or from poverty of nature. ' What we want,' 
 said a beautiful person whom I met once, Svhat we 
 want is not simply innocence, but nobility, — nobility 
 that understands the good and the evil, yet whose gar- 
 ment's hem passes by all evil unassoiled.' " 
 
 Here she ceased suddenly, leaving her auditors 
 stunned into silence. They had heard Laura talk 
 much heresy, but never anything quite so startling as 
 this outburst. At length Harry IMills's even tones broke 
 the silence : — 
 
 " This all seems fine in theory, Laura ; and to one 
 who has never proved it, specially to one who by im- 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 95 
 
 pulsiveness of nature naturally adopts the ultraisms of 
 the day, I can well understand it is fascinating." 
 
 Laura Wingate's face was a study just then. It had 
 'been glowing before ; but now, as Harry Mills spoke, 
 something it had not worn previously dawned or flashed 
 into it. A gleam of defiance, of scorn, and open mu- 
 tiny. She hardly waited for him to finish ere her words 
 leaped forth : — 
 
 " Theory ! You talk of theory as if, being a woman 
 and young, I must perforce be a mere theorist. Yes, I 
 am a woman and young ; but I4iave proved enough of 
 what I assert to know its truth." 
 
 Harry Mills at this turned his gaze from the sea with 
 a swift movement, and fronted the daring speaker. She 
 went on : — 
 
 " Four years I lived in the midst of a family where I 
 met constantly some of the best and most varied soci- 
 ety. Four years to a person of any quickness of per- 
 ception is something ; one can see and learn much of 
 life in that time. Besides, the Mayhews were not peo- 
 ple who beheved in keeping young girls in the back- 
 ground. They believed in society — society such as 
 they had — as a means of education. So in those four 
 years I met more men and women than I should meet 
 in a century here. And as I learned to know them, I 
 learned to know myself too. What I learned was suffi- 
 cient to prove my theory." She concluded abruptly, 
 with a little shake of her shoulders, such as a person 
 might give who feels impatiently that they may have 
 said too much on sacred things. 
 
 But Sue Mills roused her again. 
 
96 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 " You don't mean to say, Laura, that you have ever 
 hked anybody," she stammered, in that shamefaced 
 way which some girls always assume when they allude to 
 affairs of the heart. 
 
 " Liked anybody /" flung out Laura in scornful mim- 
 icry, half veiled in her derisive laugh. " I 've liked a 
 dozen, — imagined them severally, perhaps, heroes, be- 
 cause they turned their heroic side to me ; perhaps they 
 suggested my hero to me ; perhaps I supposed for a 
 time my hero had come as I looked upon them, and 
 was consequently disappointed when I found myself 
 mistaken." 
 
 Harry Mills brought his brows together, and drew a 
 deep, inaudible sigh. Sue laughed faintly, not quite 
 comprehending, thinking Laura such an odd girl. Cap- 
 tain Tom alone approved. He turned his bronzed face 
 toward her, and said, — 
 
 " How unlike American girls you are, Laura ! You 
 remind me of Frenchwomen, with perhaps a dash of 
 the Celtic blood. I was once shipwrecked on the coast 
 of Ireland, and for two months was detained in a wild 
 shore country where the only habitable place was the 
 great house of the neighborhood, — Glengarry Hall. 
 With true Irish hospitality they insisted upon entertain- 
 ing me ; and entertainment it indeed was. The father, 
 the head of the family, was a true Celt ; but his wife was 
 a French lady. The sons and daughters partook of 
 both natures ; and such a combination ! Frank, enthu- 
 siastic, and full of all sorts of arch perception, they kept 
 you literally alive in every faculty. But the girls were 
 so honest ; that was the peculiarity. They would talk 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 97 
 
 SO heartily and earnestly about things our girls blush 
 over, just as you have now, Laura." 
 
 Little Sue looked uneasy at this outright praise in 
 which she had no share, and Harry glanced quickly, 
 with his old suspicion, from the bronze face to the fair 
 one opposite ; but Laura heeded nothing of this obser- 
 vation. The sympathetic sense of her, so cordially ex- 
 pressed, warmed her heart like wine, and made her for 
 the moment unconscious of the others' want of sympa- 
 thy. But Sue brought her back in another moment. 
 
 " You see how you have made Tom appreciate you, 
 Laura ! " she said, with an uneasy attempt at fun. 
 
 Laura elevated her eyebrows. " I don't make any- 
 body do anything, Sue," she answered ; and then she 
 rose up, pulled her shawl about her, shivered a little, 
 and said in quite another voice : " The wind has 
 changed ; I am getting cold." Whereat they all rose, 
 and, by tacit consent, turned homeward. 
 
 This was the last time Laura ever sat upon the rocks 
 there with Harry and his sister and Captain Tom. The 
 next day brought Emily Mayhew, and Emily Mayhew 
 brought with her the grand project which changed 
 everything so before another summer. This project 
 was that Laura should spend the winter with her at 
 Washington. It was the year Mr. Mayhew was in 
 Congress. 
 
 " Father and mother both said I must not come back 
 without you, Laura." 
 
 '' But, Emily, I have n't a thing suitable to wear ; and 
 I will not go unless — " 
 
 " Unless you are as fine as anybody, eh ? " 
 
 7 
 
98 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 " Just that, Em. You know I must be well-dressed 
 to feel contented." 
 
 " But your mother will let you do anything." 
 
 " Ye-s, perhaps ; but I don't feel as if it were just 
 right for me to spend so much. And this would seem 
 so very much to mother, merely for clothes. I know 
 how it would be. She would think she must economize 
 in some way. So she would make herself uncomforta- 
 ble, I know." 
 
 But Emily Mayhew had a fertile brain. She fell into 
 silence and thought. At last, — 
 
 " Look here, Laura, I can manage it. You need n't 
 buy a thing, scarcely, and yet you can be better dressed 
 than any girl there." 
 
 " What? " and Laura's eyes were large with surprise. 
 
 " No, not a thing. You have forgotten, but I re- 
 member, the loads of lovely things your father brought 
 home from Marseilles and Canton and India. Your 
 mother showed them to me, you know, that summer I 
 visited here. She said : ' Some day Laura will have 
 these.' Why not have them now, Laura? " 
 
 And the girl-planner sparkled with her new idea. 
 Laura, too, caught it like flame. 
 
 Thus, full-armed, they broached the subject to Mrs. 
 Wingate. She looked grave. She hesitated. She 
 brought up all the obstacles in the world, which these 
 two overruled with the readiness of youth. Finally the 
 Captain said, — 
 
 "Oh, let her go, let her go. Mis' Wingate. She 
 can't be young but once." 
 
 And so at last it was decided. She was to go. Then 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 99 
 
 Emily Mayhew had a revel over those " loads of lovely 
 things." 
 
 There was a blue crepe from Canton, sprinkled all 
 over with little white silk stars. Emily held it up 
 against the bright complexion of Laura, and shrieked 
 with delight at the effect. A white India mushn made 
 her rave. Then there was pink and white coral ; queer 
 ornaments of strange woods, spicy and foreign, with set- 
 tings of gold ; and chains of lovely Venetian shells, fit 
 for a mermaid to wear at her wedding. 
 
 "Oh, I never, never did f' sighed Emily, fresh from 
 her city ennui^ in a rapture over these treasures. " And 
 how came the Captain to get them? " 
 
 " Oh, sailors are always bringing things from over 
 seas ; and he said he knew I 'd grow up to want them." 
 
 " The old darHng ! " And Emily still unfolded. 
 
 She found shawls fit for a princess, two or three 
 silks that would " stand alone," and odd, out-of-the-way 
 finery that would transform Laura, as she had said, into 
 the best-dressed girl in Washington. Then Emily May- 
 hew did for Laura what she wouldn't do for herself, 
 and thought there never was such a frolic. It was as 
 good as getting up theatricals. She cut, fitted, and 
 helped Laura and Abigail Beamus, the country seam- 
 stress, to get up that unique wardrobe in a style of fash- 
 ion and taste that did credit to her memory and imita- 
 tion. And this was the way that Laura came to be, — 
 yes, actually not only the best- dressed, but the most 
 lovely girl in Washington that winter. 
 
 Everybody who knows anything about our " society " 
 at all, knows something what Washington society is. 
 
100 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 knows how life runs rapidly on in rout and revel and 
 reunion. How the new faces, the new characters, varied 
 and strange, flash before us in quick succession ! How 
 one gets glimpses of life and human nature in a few 
 months here one might wait for a century elsewhere ! 
 All this " tells." Upon those who have not strength, 
 will, purpose, it wreaks ruin. They become besotted 
 with the outward glare and gloss and glitter. They lose 
 individuality and become submerged ; lost, finally, with 
 the thousand brilliant particles that float down the bril- 
 liant stream. Others it educates merely; gives them 
 insight, penetration, experience, which enriches and 
 matures. Laura belonged to this latter class. In three 
 months she felt as if she had lived three years. In this 
 swift knowledge there was much that was saddening. 
 She had seen a great deal of social and political in- 
 trigue, had tested a good deal of apparent sincerity, 
 had learned a good deal more of the intense selfish- 
 ness of the great world. The beginning of the three 
 months had found her a bright, ardent, enthusiastic 
 girl, with much natural perception, and a wide fund of 
 belief. The end left her as you see her. Look ! There 
 she stands, talking with Judge Wilmington. She has on 
 that very blue crepe, sewn all over with little white silk 
 stars ; and on her head there are those very shells of 
 Venice, shining and silvering their pearl opaline lustre 
 into the light of the chandeliers. And the face — that is 
 no longer full of fresh expectation, no longer bright 
 with behef. If there is expectation there in the deep 
 dark eyes, it is vague and remote. The gay plans of 
 youth have given way to the subtile knowledge of 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 1 01 
 
 womanhood ; and for her beliefs, she still believes in 
 God and humanity. There are times when we take 
 long leaps in life, and others where for years we seem 
 to float on in the same current. This long leap had 
 come to Laura, when months stand for years. 
 
 Judge Wilmington, who had been an old friend all 
 these three months, had been watching her face. Once 
 she gave a little low sigh. 
 
 " What is it, Miss Laura? " he asked. 
 
 She laughed then. " I don't know, I am sure." 
 
 " Then I know better than you do " ; and he told 
 her just the conclusions we have told. 
 
 " And you find it so hollow, you are a little tired of 
 it all ; and more than that, you are saddened and sur- 
 prised at such a view of the world. By and by you 
 will get used to it, my child, and then you will see more 
 clearly the simple, unostentatious goodness that lies at 
 the depths of some hearts. Miss Laura, do you remem- 
 ber a story you were reading the other evening ? — it 
 was one of Thackeray's — I read it myself not long ago, 
 and I remember a few words in it very well. ^ Do we 
 know anybody ? Ah ! dear me, we are most of us very 
 lonely in the world. You who have any who love you, 
 cling to them and thank God.' " 
 
 Laura's face softened. She did not speak, but she 
 thought of a great kitchen, miles and miles away, where 
 everything was in contrast to the splendor before her 
 now, but where she knew that those who sat before the 
 blazing fire upon the hearth were thinking of her with 
 constant love. "You who have any who love you, 
 cling to them and thank God." 
 
102 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 Perhaps Laura in her heart thanked Him as she 
 thought ; perhaps, too, she felt a little sad and ashamed 
 that for so many, many weeks she had looked upon 
 this hollow splendor with a feverish delight that made 
 her think regretfully of the time when she must ex- 
 change it for the dull quiet of her country home. 
 
 Judge Wilmington, who had taken a great fancy to 
 this honest little girl from the first, and had watched her 
 career these three months, was now watching and read- 
 ing her expression. Presently he said to her, — 
 
 " Miss Laura, you have tried all these gay people : 
 you have seen all the splendid youths who appeared to 
 carry every virtue and grace of character behind those 
 fascinating exteriors of broadcloth and fine linen. 
 Now I want you to see and to know a friend of mine. 
 He is not very handsome, he is not at all fashionable, 
 nothing like those young princes in wonderful cra- 
 vats and diamond shirt-studs opposite us. There, one 
 of them is eying me now, as if he thought I had no 
 business to this place beside you. Shall I go over and 
 tell him I will give it up to him, or shall I bring this 
 friend of mine, Miss Laura?" 
 
 "You will bring your friend before anybody," an- 
 swered Laura, laughing at the old judge's quaint fun, 
 but quite in earnest to see this friend. 
 
 So the " friend " was brought. Laura saw him leave 
 off talking to the gentleman he was standing with as 
 the judge said something to him ; and she fancied it 
 was more to please the judge than from any desire of 
 his own. This was quite natural for a man no longer in 
 his first youth, but the young girl was nevertheless a lit- 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. IO3 
 
 tie piqued while she o^vned its justice. As he stood be- 
 fore her she saw a man certainly not very handsome, 
 not at all fashionable ; but he looked the gentleman, 
 and there was power in the quiet face with its slightly 
 weary expression. His manner was kind, and full of the 
 simple ease of a man who had met the world ; but 
 Laura felt the lack of interest, perhaps the ejnpressement 
 which had characterized the manners of the men she 
 had seen in this Washington society, men who had 
 possibly formed their miodel upon the character of him 
 who, years before, dazzled the heads and carried captive 
 the hearts of a great portion of this society, and whose 
 secret of popularity with women was said to be that 
 every woman with whom he talked seemed to be for 
 that time the only woman in the world to him. But 
 the grave gentleman wlfo stood talking now with Laura 
 Wingate had taken for his model in no particular the 
 character of this American courtier. His words were 
 pleasant, but his air was a little abstracted, which piqued 
 Laura and made her feel uncomfortable and at disad- 
 vantage. In short, they did n't get on comfortably to- 
 gether at all, and when there came sauntering by one 
 of those princes in diamond shirt-studs Laura, wel- 
 comed him with relief, and Mr. Shafton rejoined his 
 friends across the room, probably wondering what Judge 
 Wilmington had carried him away to bore this little girl 
 for. The judge had watched the whole scene with a 
 mixture of vexation and amusement ; and he said to 
 himself, half laughing, as he saw the end of his plan, — 
 " Well, well, that comes of an old fellow like me med- 
 dling with such things. I 've been a bungler." 
 
I04 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 However, he managed in his disappointment to bun- 
 gle a little more before he was through with it. He 
 could n't abide the fine-gentleman species, and as 
 soon as possible he found time to draw Laura aside, 
 and say to her reproachfully, — 
 
 " How could you send Shafton off for that pink 
 and white fellow. Miss Laura? " 
 
 And Laura answered, with a good deal of spirit, — 
 
 " Mr. Shafton did not w^ait to be sent off. He con- 
 descended to me just as long as his politeness could en- 
 dure it ; and I am not sure that he did n't at last, 
 by some freemasonry, summon Tommy Peyton to the 
 rescue." 
 
 " There 's no freemasonry between such men as 
 James Shafton and Tommy Peyton, Miss Laura," re- 
 torted the judge, with grim humor. And Laura, vexed 
 and mortified and weary, felt ill-used and " out of 
 sorts " with everybody. She went home with a new dis- 
 trust of herself. Humiliated and abashed, she sat in 
 judgment on herself. I dare say it was good for her. 
 
 " Here have I been," she thought, "very scornful of 
 the froth and foam of society, but when the solids are 
 placed before me I don't know anything what to do 
 with them. I believe I have been vain and arrogant, 
 and over-rated myself." And then a little twinge of 
 girlish pique would rise again, and — " But I don't like 
 that Mr. Shafton any way ; he was self-absorbed and stu- 
 pid, and it was all his fault," she would declare. And 
 she really thought she did n't like him. So the time 
 went by, and this sensitive little girl, from that one hu- 
 miliation of finding herself awkward and ill at ease, and 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. 105 
 
 with not a thing to say, became shy of the " solid " peo- 
 ple, and let herself drift down the gayer current, with all 
 her aspirations for a higher and nobler life aching out of 
 sight. This kind of excitement now had lost its fresh- 
 ness for her, therefore it had lost zest. It was all very 
 wearisome and unsatisfying ; but with a kind of despair 
 of anything better in the midst of this vortex she yielded 
 to it, from day to day, from night to night, when sud- 
 denly the merest accident helped her to a change. 
 
 It was at a crowded reception somewhere, and there 
 was such a jam in the cloak-room at the time of their 
 departure that she stepped into an ante-room outside, 
 to wait for the May hews, who were still in the 7nelee of 
 shawls and wraps. She had waited a long time, she 
 thought, and wondered they did not appear. It was 
 getting rather annoying, too ; for the crowd was thin- 
 ning, and one or two young men had passed her more 
 than once with impertinent stares of admiration. All 
 in a moment it occurred to her that there was another 
 door opening from the dressing-room into the hall oppo- 
 site ; and in dismay she realized her situation. The 
 Mayhews had gone out on that side, and supposed that 
 she was safely in charge of the Wilmingtons, who had 
 frequently taken her home. 
 
 What should she do? How extricate herself from 
 this painful position ? Oh, if some familiar face would 
 appear in the throng ! — even Tommy Peyton's, of 
 which she had been so weary not an hour ago. Every 
 moment it was growing worse ; for most of the ladies 
 had gone, and the crowd was rapidly thinning. She 
 drew her hood closer, and looked about her in despair. 
 
I06 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! there was a familiar face. It seemed 
 to her like her best friend's, then. Everything was for- 
 gotten but this feeling of relief. She started forward 
 with outstretched hands, and a smile upon her lips. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Shafton ! Mr. Shafton ! " 
 
 He came toward her with some surprise ; but a few 
 words made him comprehend her situation. In the 
 most simple, cordial manner he manifested his care for 
 her. The night was cold, and there was a storm coming 
 on. Already the ground was white with snow, and the 
 wind blew the fine, icy particles in their faces as they 
 emerged from the doorway. Not a carriage was to be 
 obtained, and the distance was more than a mile. Her 
 companion stopped for a moment at this view of things, 
 and looked disturbed. He glanced down at her feet. 
 " Have you overshoes on? " he asked. She put out a 
 white slipper, shining with satin ribbon and pearl shells, 
 and laughed 
 
 " And no covering but this?" touching the silk cloak. 
 
 " We came in the landau, you know, and made no 
 allowance for accidents. But I am not delicate, Mr. 
 Shafton ; I have been drenched through often down on^ 
 our shores at Derry." 
 
 " But you are not at Derry now. The atmosphere 
 here at Washington is a blight for those unaccustomed 
 to it," he answered quickly. " But I can do something 
 for you ; you must wear this " ; and he removed the cape 
 from his cloak and put it over her shoulders. " Now," 
 he said, " I shall make you walk very briskly ; that is 
 the best safeguard there is for you." 
 
 He was true to his word. So swiftly did he urge her 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. loy 
 
 along that she had some ado to keep up with him. 
 Once he remarked, — 
 
 " I dare say this is a difficult pace for you, but it may 
 keep you from a chill." Then several times he spoke 
 to ask her if she suffered from cold. There was little 
 else said ; for their rapid motion and the driving snow 
 were not favorable to talk. But Laura did not find 
 fault with him now. 
 
 Arrived at last at the Mayhews', she found them, as 
 she conjectured, quite easy about her, supposing that 
 she had gone home with the Wilmingtons. Mr. Shaf- 
 ton followed her in, and astonished them, first by his 
 presence, and then by his explanation of it. ''And 
 you walked home, Laura, in those slippers ! " ejaculated 
 Emily, in dismay. Laura put forth two little dingy, 
 drenched feet, that were so spotless a few hours before, 
 and laughed gayly at Emily's fears. 
 
 " You '11 catch your death, child," sighed Emily. 
 
 " Oh no, Em, I 'm all in a glow. Mr. Shafton made 
 me run every bit of the way." Even Mr. Shafton 
 laughed here, but the next thing he said, quite per- 
 emptorily and gravely, — 
 
 '^ The only thing to be done now is to take the strong- 
 est precautions. She should have " — turning to Mrs. 
 Mayhew — "a warm bath and something hot to take 
 before she goes to bed ; and even with this, I am sadly 
 afraid, my dear young lady, that you won't escape an 
 influenza." 
 
 In another moment he had made his adieux and de- 
 parted ; and over her hot punch, after her bath, Laura 
 merrily related her adventure, and laughed gayly at 
 
I08 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 Emily, who predicted that Mr. Shafton was to be her 
 " hero," in consideration, as she termed it, of this roman- 
 tic event. 
 
 " Romantic ! do you call it romantic, Em ? I protest 
 I can't see the romance of racing home over a mile of 
 wet pavement beside a gentleman who never opens his 
 lips but to ask some necessary question. It was kind, 
 I allow, but not romantic." 
 
 " I suppose you would have been better pleased to 
 have made a pretty stroll of it, oblivious of coughs 
 and colds and cramps. To have had your cavalier 
 perfectly indifferent to the inclemency of the night, 
 while he devoted himself to the happy chance of making 
 your acquaintance, which he should proceed to accom- 
 plish by leisurely bringing up all the sentimental sub- 
 jects, comparing notes on favorite authors, discussing 
 elective affinities, etc. He might have varied it occa- 
 sionally by admiring the feet that — 
 
 ' beneath her petticoat, 
 Like little mice stole in and out.' 
 
 Very wet feet they must have been too ; but you would 
 both of you have been sublimely disregardful of that." 
 
 Laura laughed. "Em, go to bed. You are too 
 funny. I sha' n't sleep to-night ; but for the last word I 
 declare that Mr. Shafton is n't my ' hero.' Why, Em, 
 he 's middle-aged, he talks to himself, and he treats me 
 like a granddaughter." 
 
 Emily elevated her eyebrows, and answered, out of 
 pure fun, — 
 
 " Well, you see if this middle-aged man does n't rush 
 round to-morrow to inquire how you are." 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. IO9 
 
 But she was mistaken. 
 
 Mr. Shafton did not nish round on the morrow. He 
 met Mr. Mayhew on the street, however, and inquired 
 how " that little girl " was after her wet feet. And two 
 or three days following, Laura was out walking, and he 
 crossed over to meet her, smiling down upon her, and 
 saying, " So the wetting did no harm ? The air of Derry 
 must make fine constitutions." 
 
 A word or two more and he went on, bowing pleas- 
 antly, but with that half-abstracted manner which Laura 
 had noticed at first. She no longer blamed him as 
 self-absorbed and stupid; yet he was still "middle- 
 aged," and treated her "like a granddaughter," she 
 thought. But that evening at a levee he came to her 
 and began asking her about Derry. He had spent a 
 summer there, years ago, and was full of interest. By 
 and by Laura discovered that she was talking in the 
 most unreserved manner of her home and home pur- 
 suits, and that he was listening earnestly, or replying 
 with warmth and respect, as if her opinions and expe- 
 riences were of value to him. 
 
 "Well," said Judge Wilmington, as she passed him 
 at the latter part of the evening, "you don't dislike 
 my friend on longer acquaintance so much, do you? " 
 
 " Oh, no, I like him." 
 
 " What do you say, then, to coming to my house to- 
 morrow, to dine with him and three or four more old 
 fogies like him. Miss Laura ? Mind, now, there '11 not 
 be one of your fine gentlemen among them." 
 
 She nodded, laughing, — 
 
 " I '11 come, I '11 come." 
 
no LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 She went, and found herself in the choicest society. 
 Men of letters and travel, chance visitors most of them, 
 full of wit and overflowing with mellow experience. 
 Mr. Shafton was clearly at home in this society ; and 
 Laura listened with amazement at his gayety and exuber- 
 ance of fine spirits ; but it was the gayety of a man, and 
 not a boy. Later, she could not help being gratified 
 as he left brilliant and mature women to talk with 
 her. 
 
 She met him a good deal after this, and he became 
 a visitor at the Mayhews. A friend of the family's, he 
 was her friend too. Kind, thoughtful, and sympathetic, 
 though twenty years apart from her, she found that he 
 understood every least shade of feeling that she ever 
 half expressed. She forgot the ^'granddaughter" treat- 
 ment, forgot her past annoyance, and began to regard 
 him as such a " splendid friend." 
 
 There was about Mr. Shafton nothing of that air of 
 conscious mascuhnity which always carries with it the 
 possibility of a suitor. He had that simple, manly sin- 
 cerity of nature and action which is devoid of vanity, 
 and which invites confidence. Acquaintance, then, 
 with him was so freely natural, so earnest and unem- 
 barrassed, that it must have been a much vainer girl 
 than Laura to have speculated upon his preferences. 
 And if he had this effect, it was not strange that it 
 should go still deeper and make her unconscious of 
 herself. 
 
 A month passed in this way. Occasionally Judge 
 Wilmington would say to her, — 
 
 " I 'm glad you appreciate Mr. Shafton, Miss Laura." 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. Ill 
 
 And Laura would answer honestly, — 
 
 " Oh, I like him very, very much." 
 
 So occupied was she by this " splendid friend " she 
 forgot her "hero"; but there came a day when she 
 found him. It was at one of those choice dinner-par- 
 ties which Judge Wilmington — who knew everybody 
 worth knowing who came and went — had the happy 
 faculty of getting up. 
 
 Laura, in the drawing-room after dinner, made one of 
 a group of three, partly by chance, partly by choice, 
 as such groupings come. 
 
 There was Mr. Shafton, a Mr. Hunter, and herself to 
 form the group. At first the talk included her ; and 
 though these two were so much beyond her in years 
 and experience, she felt at ease, and expressed her 
 thought readily. But, as was natural, she became a 
 listener at last. It was one of those rare bits of con- 
 versation that sometimes flow out to the one or two in 
 the corners of festive rooms, while all around and about 
 there is the gay bustle of the occasion. The subject 
 happened to be now some point of philosophy, involv- 
 ing a point of humanity, upon which the two gentlemen 
 differed. Mr. Shafton at last, with an earnestness that 
 had in it a noble tenderness, — for he was urging the 
 protection of the weak against the strong, — presented 
 his views at length. His voice grew soft and persuasive, 
 with a melancholy cadence in it, as if the injustice of 
 the world oppressed him and made him despairing; 
 and his manner, though decided and believing, was 
 tinged with the sadness which the knowledge of another's 
 unbelief upon a vital question is sure to bring to one 
 
112 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 whose nature and whose habit it is to look deeply and 
 closely into life. 
 
 And Laura listened to this earnest plea, into which 
 all the fervor of the speaker's heart was flowing, with a 
 rapt attention that made her face eloquent of all her 
 admiration and appreciation, both for the speaker and 
 his words. She had quite forgotten herself; she was 
 lost in the tender and heroic atmosphere that her fancy 
 had evolved from what she heard, when, as if the in- 
 tensity of her gaze had something magnetic in it, Mr. 
 Shafton suddenly turned, in the midst of a sentence, 
 and met her eyes. He started, paused a moment, — 
 just a breathing-space while his glance held hers, — 
 then went swiftly on to the end- And in that moment 
 the truth flashed upon Laura. This was her " hero." 
 
 " I have never looked upon his face, but I shall know 
 him when he comes ! " 
 
 Did she remember these sure words she had once 
 spoken ; and that she had looked upon his face many, 
 many times, and never known it untfl now? There 
 was not chance for much thought, for the end came 
 swiftly. There were a fcAv more words of the conversa- 
 tion ; then Mr. Hunter rose, dropping the discussion. 
 He had seen the look, he had marked the break in his 
 companion's voice, and knew that something more was 
 pending than the matter in hand. 
 
 And Laura was alone with her " hero," though in the 
 midst of a festive company ; for the gay hum of voices, 
 and the sweet clangor of music, the movement and 
 murmur, filled the room with sound and stir, and 
 left them the magic seclusion that lurks in the 
 
LAURA AND HER HERO. II3 
 
 midst of a multitude. He bent do^vn as Mr. Hunter 
 left them, and picked up the little glove she had 
 dropped. When he lifted his head his glance again 
 sought hers. Holding the Httle glove as gently as he 
 might have held the little hand, he said lowly, — 
 
 " In my youth I read an old German story of a man 
 who, for years, had been hunting for a certain precious 
 pearl, whose magic should end his wanderings and 
 crown his life with joy. Once or twice he fancied he 
 had found it, but time proved him mistaken. At last, 
 when he had relinquished the hope and the search, 
 and resigned himself to his fate, he saw shining before 
 him, one dark and stormy night, the treasure for which 
 he had searched so long. But youth was gone, and 
 with it youth's fresh and gallant bearing. How, then, 
 could he hope that so fresh and lovely a thing would 
 consent to shine upon his bosom ? — Laura, I cannot 
 tell the end of the story, can you? " 
 
 "The end is what you care to have it," answered 
 Laura softly. 
 
 The tender clangor of the music around, about, and 
 above them burst forth in fuller measures here, — tri- 
 umphal strains, that drowned the clamor and hum of 
 the gay voices, and bore upon its resistless tide the 
 burden of a blissful tale, old as the world, yet forever 
 new. 
 
 ''I told you he was to be your ' hero,' Laura," 
 laughed Emily Mayhew, jubilant over her congratula- 
 tions. 
 
 And Judge Wilmington, after saying hearty words of 
 
 8 
 
114 LAURA AND HER HERO. 
 
 approval, said, at last : " This is better than one of 
 your ' fine gentlemen ' Laura, is n't it? " 
 
 And, better than all, the old couple down on the 
 shores of Derry were well pleased with this "hero." 
 They recognized him to be what he was, — one of the 
 world's true men: and they knew that Laura's heart 
 would never grow astray from them under his influ- 
 ence. 
 
 Sue Mills, looking at her young and handsome lover, 
 could n't understand how Laura could make a hero of 
 that quiet, grave man, who was no longer young. 
 
 Her brother understood it better. Harry Mills was 
 candid enough to confess to himself, as he looked at 
 this quiet, grave man, that Laura had been clearer- 
 minded than he thought. 
 
 Rhody enjoyed the affair after her fashion. 
 
 " To think," she said, with mock humility, to the 
 gossips, — and her voice, in spite of her demure ef- 
 forts, had a savor of triumph, — "to think that our 
 Laury should a' married one o' them high-headed 
 city lawyers; and she ain't a bit sot up, nuther. I 
 tell yew;.g\m me a raal downright sensible Yankee 
 girl, with a good eddication, and nothin' can spile 
 'em." 
 
 With which sensible conclusion of Rhody's let us 
 leave Laura and her " hero." 
 
CHRISTINE. 115 
 
 CHRISTINE. 
 
 IT was certainly one of the most disagreeable days of 
 the season. Rain and sleet and snow and a dense, 
 driving fog vied with each other for ascendency. 
 
 The three girls sitting together in Mrs. Weymouth's 
 room in Mrs. Haig's boarding-house would lift their 
 crimped and curled and banded heads every five 
 minutes or so, to proclaim that they never saw such 
 weather. 
 
 " Was there ever anything like it ? Is n't it horrid ? " 
 asked Alice Weymouth, by way of variety. 
 
 " Yes, very horrid ; but I know another day just like 
 it. Don't you remember that last matinee on Saturday, 
 Alice?" said Christine Vanderlyn. 
 
 " Sure enough, Chris. And don't you remember the 
 little libretto boy?" Whereupon Alice Weymouth 
 went off in a gust of gay laughter at her own recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 " What was it about the libretto boy? Tell us, Al ! " 
 cried Milly Davis, the third of the party. 
 
 " Tell ics. Well, I don't think Chris needs to be 
 told. Ask Chris to tell you. I believe he addressed 
 his remarks to her." 
 
 Christine laughed. " There is n't much to be told, 
 
Il6 CHRISTINE. 
 
 Milly," she said. " It is n't much of a story. It was 
 funny to us ; perhaps it won't be funny to you. It 
 was the way we took it. We went down to the music- 
 hall that afternoon in our waterproofs, you must know, 
 and the hoods over our bonnets. Underneath I had a 
 pretty little hat and a very presentable sack. But we 
 stopped in the vestibule, enveloped in our cloaks, and 
 were just about removing them, when AHce spied a 
 libretto boy and beckoned him. While she was buying 
 the libretto I happened to think we had no opera-glass, 
 and so asked the youngster where we should go to hire 
 one. He looked at us both from head to foot, as if he 
 were measuring us ; then, with the most patronizing 
 air, he answered, nodding his head at us confiden- 
 tially, — 
 
 " ' In the lobby, mum ; and ye '11 have to pay ten 
 dollars security,' with another glance at our forlorn old 
 waterproofs, as much as to say, ' Guess that 's beyond 
 your means.' 
 
 " And it was ; Alice and I did n't have three dollars 
 between us. But we were n't such forlorn things as our 
 waterproofs indicated ; and after we had shed them 
 we concluded the boy, if he could have seen us, would 
 have supposed it possible that we might have been 
 worth ten dollars. Think, Milly, of not looking ten 
 dollars' worth ! " And Christine laughed again as the 
 humor of the whole thing struck her. 
 
 But Milly didn't laugh. She could see no fun in 
 the story, as Christine thought she might not. The 
 only remark it evoked from her was : — 
 
 " I should have thought you would have felt so 
 mean, girls, /should have felt humiliated." 
 
CHRISTINE, 117 
 
 " Should you ? Well, I must say it did n't strike me 
 in that light." And Christine laughed with more zest 
 than before. 
 
 " Humiliated ! What a dunce you are, Milly ! " 
 cried AHce Weymouth. " Can't you see that it was 
 just as funny as it could be? The idea of that young- 
 ster's — why, he wasn't more than a dozen years old — 
 taking such a shrewd outside estimate of us. We did 
 look forlorn, you know. And then — but it's of no 
 use ; you never did see the humor of anything." 
 
 This was very true. Milly Davis was one of those 
 persons who never see such humor as this, — never see 
 the fun of anything. She was one of those countless 
 people whose amour propre is wounded by occurrences 
 like these. Christine Vanderlyn, on the contrary, had 
 so keen a sense of humor that she could see the ludi- 
 crous side even of her own defeats 'and discomforts, 
 and she sometimes dramatized her own woes in so 
 arch a manner that many persons half suspected her of 
 lack of feeling. And this little scene that I have de- 
 picted gives a true indication of her, and this side of her 
 character, — this gay and humorous side which was so 
 often misunderstood, or at least supposed to be the 
 whole of her. But underneath this, far out of sight to 
 those who did not know her well, there was another 
 Christine Vanderlyn whose story I propose to tell. 
 Another Christine Vanderlyn, whose heart was aching 
 and hungry and sorrowful, mourning over the past and 
 the present, and the possible future, which she thought 
 had been marred by this very misunderstanding of her 
 double nature. 
 
1 1 8 CHRISTINE. 
 
 As Milly Davis went up to her room for a knot of 
 worsted she had left behind her, Christine said in a low 
 voice to her friend Alice, — 
 
 " Ah, I wish sometimes I was like Milly ! She never 
 gets into such scrapes as I do ; never laughs when she 
 ought to be sentimental or serious, and gets generally 
 mistaken, and blamed, and called names." 
 
 " My gracious, don't wish to be like Milly Davis, 
 Christine ! She never can hold but one idea at a time, 
 and that 's a mighty limited one." 
 
 *' Well, I don't know but your one-idea people turn 
 out the happiest. I believe I have too many ideas. If 
 I had had but one idea, perhaps my story might have 
 been a different one, Alice." 
 
 " Yes, if you had been Polly Jones your story would 
 have been Polly Jones's story, that 's the only conclu- 
 sion. If you had been somebody else, of course your 
 story would have been different. But as it is, you are 
 Christine Vanderlyn, and as for your story, I don't con- 
 sider that all told by any means yet." 
 
 " One chapter is finished', at any rate, Al." 
 
 " Nonsense, Chris, the chapter is only begun. Why, 
 there never was anything more palpably ^///finished. 
 Nothing ever ends like that, — in silence and mystery." 
 
 " Hush, there comes Milly." 
 
 And when Milly entered Christine was gayly hum- 
 ming the Jewel Song of Marguerite's in Faust. 
 
 ''That recalls the matinee," said Alice. ''What a 
 good time we had that afternoon, though we did make 
 guys of ourselves with those waterproofs, and sat in the 
 family circle, and altogether did n't look worth ten dol- 
 lars ! " 
 
CHRISTINE. 119 
 
 "You did 11' t sit in the family circle ! " cried the little 
 aristocratic — no, the snobbish — Milly. 
 
 "We did ; and better people than we are sat there, 
 Miss Milly," Alice retorted spiritedly. 
 
 " Well, you and Christine are the queerest girls ! 
 Now, I never have a good time unless I go in as good 
 style as anybody, and have as good a seat." 
 
 " By that you mean the costliest, Milly," broke in 
 Christine, stopping her Jewel Song. " That 's your 
 way, Milly; and you are not very singular in it. A 
 great many persons here in America have that way, — 
 the costliest, but not always the most comfortable, take 
 it all round. The seat may be the most fashionable 
 and the most expensive, but it may pinch the purse so, 
 you are very uncomfortable in another direction ; and 
 then you are a slave to follow such a lead. Foreigners 
 laugh at us for this. They say we don't dare do as we 
 would like to do, — as is most convenient for us, — 
 because our richer neighbor may possibly laugh at us. 
 Alice and I could n't afford to pay two dollars for a 
 seat, so we paid our one dollar, and found ourselves in 
 the best of company." 
 
 Milly tossed her head a little ; but she was more 
 than a little impressed by Christine's unwonted gravity 
 in handling her subject ; for Christine was usually so 
 fond of her joke, so funnily satirical, that such auditors 
 as Milly Davis could never quite understand her. Conse- 
 quently, though she succeeded in making them some 
 way uncomfortable, she did not impress them with her 
 truth. This afternoon, however, that other Christine, 
 that earnest and tender Christine she kept shyly under 
 
120 CHRISTINE. 
 
 lock and key most of the time, had crept up to the 
 surface, and tempered her tones and her words. Milly 
 thought she had never hked Christine so well as this 
 afternoon, specially when she sang in a soft, low voice 
 those lovely songs of Marguerite's, and went into -rap- 
 tures, in a girlish manner Milly could quite understand, 
 over the way Miss Kellogg gave it. 
 
 " Oh ! do you remember, Alice, how exquisitely she 
 sang there in the duo ? Do you remember that 
 
 * Ti voglio amar idolatrer 
 Parlar ancora ! 
 lo tua saro si t'adoro 
 Per te vogl'io morir ! ' " 
 
 In her enthusiasm of recollection, Christine had 
 arisen from her chair, and dramatically rendered the 
 scene in look and gesture as she sang. 
 
 Milly was very much surprised to find that Christine, 
 who had always laughed a little at sentiment before in 
 her presence, could be so impassioned. But for once 
 Christine was revealing her deepest and most earnest 
 self before her, because she was forgetful for the time 
 of Milly's shallower nature. 
 
 *' Why, Christine ! " exclaimed Milly, as she ended, 
 " you sang that last '■ Per te vogl'io morir ! ' as if you 
 were really dying for somebody ! " 
 
 A bright color sprang into Christine's cheek, and for 
 a moment there was a gleam of conviction in her eyes. 
 Then it all faded, and the old, gay, laughing, deriding 
 Christine, whom Milly knew much better, had come 
 back. And while she laughed there in this fashion 
 
CHRISTINE. 121 
 
 there was a ring at the door-bell, which perked their 
 girl-ears into silent attention for some possible caller. 
 Only Christine was careless. She had no interest in 
 any possible caller. That had gone by — that hope 
 and that interest — with the dead year, and one who 
 had dropped out of her life as utterly as the year 
 itself. 
 
 But it was no caller. " Only a little girl with holders, 
 — flat-iron holders, or to take off the blower, miss," 
 communicated Katrine, the good-natured German maid. 
 " A little speck of a girl ; and she seemed so anxious to 
 sell, and was so poor-looking, I told her I 'd ask the 
 ladies for her."' And Katrine looked round quite anx- 
 iously herself upon the three girls, remembering her 
 p7'otegee with the anxious face outside. " They are 
 very cheap, too, — only ten cents apiece, and nicely 
 made " ; and Katrine held out a specimen she had 
 brought up with her. 
 
 Christine came forward and took it in her hand. 
 
 " How can you, Chris? " cried Milly, in a disgusted 
 tone. " / would n't touch the things ; just as likely 
 as not they are full of small-pox." 
 
 " Oh, miss, the child is as tidy a child as you could 
 find anywheres," protested the servant-girl. 
 
 " Bring her up here," said Christine suddenly. 
 
 " Now, Christine — " began Milly ; which plaint 
 Christine cut short with : '' Have you any objections, 
 Alice?" 
 
 And Alice Weymouth, who had faced worse diseases 
 than the small-pox in that ten months' service of hers 
 in a Baltimore hospital, answered readily, " Not the 
 
1 22 CHRISTINE. 
 
 slightest objection." So up she came, this " speck of a 
 girl," with her basket filled with holders. Red, blue, 
 green, and yellow, — all the colors of the rainbow, in 
 patch and piece, and every odd bit one sees in a scrap- 
 bag, were displayed in that basket. And the owner 
 thereof was, as Katrine had said, " as tidy a child as 
 you could find anywheres." 
 
 *'Ten cents apiece, did you say? Well, I'm sure 
 that 's cheap enough," said Christine, taking up first 
 one and then another, to Milly's evident disgust. 
 "And did your mother make them?" Christine went 
 on ; and hearing a little hoarse affirmative, she dropped 
 the holders to pounce upon the small blue hand ; and, 
 declaring it was like a lump of ice, to lead the rest of 
 the small, blue bit of humanity to the great blazing fire 
 in the grate. 
 
 " There, my dear, you just thaw out those icicles in 
 your throat, and I '11 sell your holders for you. Here, 
 Milly, here is one for you, — pink and blue, your favor- 
 ite combination." And before Milly could protest, 
 whiff went the pink and blue combination through the 
 air, and lodged on Milly's carefully arranged braids. 
 
 " Christine, I don't want a holder, I have no earthly 
 use for it. How can you?" and Milly shook off the 
 little article as if it had been a reptile. 
 
 *' No use for it ? Well, give it away then. Buy it for 
 Katrine. But /want one for myself. I 'm not so grand 
 as you are, Miss Milly. I do up all my laces and nice 
 pocket-handkerchiefs, and so does Alice ; so Alice wants 
 one. There 's three already, and now if — oh ! " and 
 with this exclamation, and with her eyes fixed upon 
 
CHRISTINE, 123 
 
 something or somebody on the street, Christine jumped 
 up and ran to the window. There, it was very evident 
 it was a " Somebody," for with a smiling face she was 
 giving her head sundry httle beckoning nods, which 
 were answered by a returning nod from this *' Some- 
 body," and a laughing lift of a masculine hat. 
 
 ^'Wliat are you doing, Chris? Who is it?" asked 
 Alice. 
 
 "Wait and see. Katrine, go down and open the 
 door, please, and send the gentleman up to Mrs. Wey- 
 mouth's parlor." 
 
 " My goodness, Chris, push that table back, and pick 
 up those papers — do, before anybody comes in. And 
 there are my boots, and those hair-pins ! " 
 
 '' Oh, fiddlesticks ! Don't fuss, Alice ! The room 
 looks well enough. Besides — " 
 
 But there was no time for further words. Katrine 
 had opened the door, and there stood the " Somebody " 
 Christine had invoked. 
 
 " O Major Alison, how do you do ? I could n't 
 think who it was that Chris was inviting in so vehe- 
 mently," exclaimed Alice, with a new color in her 
 cheeks, and a welcome in her eyes. 
 
 " Dick, I invited you in to increase the list of my cus- 
 tomers. I am selling holders, — flat-iron holders, grate- 
 blower holders. I know you need. one, perhaps two. I 
 dare say you burn all your newspapers up handling your 
 office stove." And Christine, with a funny air of gravity, 
 brought forward the little basket with its parti-colored 
 contents, and set it before Major Alison that he might 
 make his choice. 
 
124 CHRISTINE. 
 
 The gentleman laughed. He was an old acquain- 
 tance, an old friend of Christine's, and he knew her 
 ways. Sitting down upon the sofa with the basket be- 
 tween them, he entered into a gay discussion of the 
 various colors and textures of the holders. 
 
 " Oh no, don't take that pink-and-blue, Dick. Milly 
 has chosen that. Those are her colors," cried Christine 
 mischievously, as he hfted the pink-and-blue combina- 
 tion. 
 
 " Christine ! " exclaimed Milly warningly. But Chris- 
 tine was off in another strain, — a light, mocking strain, 
 that drowned Milly's attempt at denial. 
 
 " There, buy this, Dick," she was urging, " and this, 
 and this, — nice dark colors that won't show dirt." 
 
 Ahce looked across at Christine, and remembered the 
 impassioned voice that had sung 
 
 " Per te vogl'io morir ! " 
 
 Could this be the same Christine ? 
 
 " No, none of your dirt-colors for me, Christine," said 
 Major Alison. " Here, what 's this? 
 
 '■ Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled.' 
 
 Here we have the M'Pherson plaid., the real article, 
 too. Why, this reminds me of the Colonel. He had 
 Scotch blood in his veins, and, by Jove ! it was the 
 M'Pherson line, and he used to wear just such a plaid 
 as this. Well, this is rather jolly. I '11 take this one 
 sure, Christine." 
 
 Christine couldn't speak. It was so seldom she 
 heard even this allusion to one who was so involved in 
 her Hfe that for a moment or so she was spellbound, 
 
CHRISTINE. 125 
 
 and all her pulses seemed beating an audible tune, and 
 her very breath seemed dying within her. But Alice, 
 quick as a flash, took in the situation, and covered her 
 unwonted stillness with a voluble chatter. 
 
 Major Alison, keen-eyed and intuitive, felt that he 
 had struck a minor key somewhere in Christine's gay 
 chords, but he made no sign. Only Milly Davis saw 
 nothing, felt nothing, so there was no harm done, and 
 no danger ; for Milly was the only one of the party who 
 neither knew how to respect or keep a secret. 
 
 And presently Christine had got her breath back again 
 and her speech, and was recommending one and an- 
 other of her wares in apparently the same spirit as be- 
 fore. But Major Alison could n't forget that sudden 
 minor note he had struck, though he kept up his exter- 
 nal gayety, and followed her suit and her desires by 
 becoming quite an extensive purchaser of the parti- 
 colored holders, and thus sending the " speck of a 
 girl " away with a lighter basket as well as a lighter 
 heart. 
 
 "Thank you, miss," said the little hoarse voice in 
 grateful tones as she went out. And Christine patted 
 the small red hand, and smiled out of her sad heart a 
 cheery smile into the upturned face, and remembered 
 in the hall that her own hand was not so very large, 
 and that the mittens she happened to have in her 
 pocket might not be very far from fitting this " speck 
 of a girl." So it happened that there was another 
 ''Thank you" from the hoarse little voice, and some- 
 how Christine went back into the parlor after it with a 
 softer sense of her pain. 
 
126 CHRISTINE. 
 
 There she heard Milly just saying, " I believe Chris- 
 tine is really fond of that low class." 
 
 "Yes, I am. I appreciate low society better than 
 high," Christine remarked demurely ; and then she 
 sparkled away again, a little frothy foam of talk about 
 the kind of people she liked, until Major Alison won- 
 dered if he had n't been fanciful a little while ago when 
 he thought he had struck a minor note. And thinking 
 thus he rose to go. Christine followed him out with 
 a request : Would he take a book back to the library 
 for her? and would he please just step into their par- 
 lor while she brought it? He went across into the 
 parlor, while Christine ran up to her bedroom upon the 
 next floor to bring the book. In a moment she came 
 back with the volume in her hand, and with a new ex- 
 pression on her face, — an expression of proud resolu- 
 tion. She came straight up to him, and in an instant 
 he knew she had something to say that was hard, very 
 hard, for her to say. He involuntarily helped her by 
 asking, — 
 
 "What is it, Christine? Don't hesitate." 
 
 She drew in her breath quickly. " Dick, I want the 
 little holder of Scotch plaid. Give it me, please.'* 
 
 A great light broke over Major Alison. It could n't 
 help shining in his face and through the eyes with 
 which he looked into hers. And Christine, meeting it, 
 saw that her secret was discovered to him. He had 
 known Christine for the last six years. He had known 
 Colonel Anstruther for twice six years. He had seen 
 them daily together for the long summer when he and 
 Anstruther were on sick-furlough at Bretton Beach, and 
 
CHRISTINE. 127 
 
 had never suspected what was now revealed to him in 
 this one sentence ; for in this one sentence there was 
 all the love and despair, the bitter heart-break of Chris- 
 tine's deep, impassioned nature. His sympathy was 
 wonderfully stirred. 
 
 '' What can I do for you, Christine? " he asked. 
 
 " Give me the little Scotch-plaid holder, Dick," she 
 answered, with a faint smile. 
 
 "Yes; but is that all? Can I do nothing else?" 
 The tender kindness of his tone broke through her de- 
 fences. The color rushed to her cheek, a light came 
 into her eyes " that never was on sea or land." 
 
 " Yes, give me news of him ; tell me where he is, 
 what he is doing, and what he is thinking. Tell him, 
 too, I was never anything but true and earnest ! Tell 
 him to end this dreadful silence, to write to me, to come 
 to me, for I am breaking my heart for him ! Oh, Dick ! 
 Dick ! " and her voice ended in a Httle gasping cry, 
 with this impotent, despairing call upon his name. 
 
 Dick Alison was a good fellow. And that this proud, 
 reserved Christine could so trust him with such un- 
 wonted impulse was proof of his mental and moral 
 fibre. As she cried out to him at the last, he laid his 
 hand over hers in a tender, pitiful way, as if he would 
 show her how gladly he would serve her if he could. 
 
 " I wish I could tell you what you want to know, 
 Christine," he said. " But I lost sight of Anstruther 
 when we went to Europe ; that was a year ago." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know " ; and Christine shivered at this 
 " year." There was a moment's pause ; then, — 
 
 "Dick, you knew Colonel Anstruther well? " 
 
128 CHRISTINE. 
 
 " Well ? Yes, I had known him for years ; but 
 Anstruther was a very reserved fellow, and he was some 
 years my senior." 
 
 "You liked him?" 
 
 " '■ Liked him ' is a weak phrase. Anstruther was 
 always my admiration. I think in some sort I loved 
 Anstruther, Christine, he had such a charm for me. 
 Most men felt this way toward him." 
 
 Christine's face glowed. "Yes, I can well believe 
 that. But, Dick, did you ever think he was hard, or 
 hasty, or unforgiving ? Tell me truly." 
 
 " I never did, Christine. He might have possessed 
 these qualities ; but I was never brought into any rela- 
 tion with him where they were discovered to me. But 
 let me say this : he had so strong a nature in all ways 
 that I can well conceive that if his will became fixed 
 through his opinions for the time, he might seem, and 
 actually be, hard, or hasty, or unforgiving." 
 
 "He has been all these to me, Dick. O Dick, 
 Dick, it 's all so strange and unexplained ; and I loved 
 him so, I loved him so ! " 
 
 " Tell me about it, Christine." And Christine, moved 
 more and more by that kind interest, that gentle, sym- 
 pathetic tone, told the story of that summer. It was a 
 brief story. She said in relation to the first chapter of it 
 but litde more than " we loved each other " ; but Major 
 Alison felt what depth had been in this love, what life 
 and reality and vigor, at least on the part of Christine. 
 " We loved each other" : she said it in a low, hushed 
 voice, with a far look in her eyes, and a sort of remem- 
 bered rapture on her face. And then came a relation 
 
CHRISTINE. 1 29 
 
 of misunderstandings, and an accusation of coquetry. 
 And then an account of a reconciliation, an apparent 
 renewal of confidence, and a parting kind and tender 
 whose fond hopes were dashed to the earth in a few 
 days by the receipt of a letter containing such grave 
 and yet mysterious charges of deceit and treachery that 
 even the great love of Christine could not so far over- 
 look, in that bitter hour, the wound to her pride as to 
 return one word of denial. But the " long, long weary 
 days " of a twelve-month had burned out the bitterness 
 and left only the love, — a love ready to extenuate, to 
 overlook, to apologize for every injustice. 
 
 " I am sure that he had his mind poisoned by an- 
 other," she said to Major Alison. " He never quite 
 understood my gay way with everybody, and I don't 
 doubt but some foolish nonsense of mine was somehow 
 misrepresented to him." 
 
 " I dare say, Christine ; and I wish I could set it all 
 right for you. And I will, if ever I have the opportu- 
 nity. Trust me for that," Alison answered earnestly. 
 
 Christine did not realize how much was meant by this 
 assurance. She did not imagine that Dick Alison 
 would seek this opportunity with untiring activity. But 
 such was his intention when he listened to her story ; 
 and that he carried this intention out to the extent of 
 his power any one need not be told who knew Major 
 Alison. It was very quiet action. Christine never 
 knew that to the repeated letters of inquiry, containing 
 that invariable query, "Where's Anstruther now?" 
 there never came any satisfactory answer. Why should 
 there? for while Major Alison sought North, South, East 
 
 9 
 
130 CHRISTINE. 
 
 and West, where do you suppose Colonel Anstruther was ? 
 Where people always are when you look in far places for 
 them. And that was so near that the wonder was they 
 did not meet every day of their lives. But there is a fate 
 in these things ; and our owti great metropolis can some- 
 times hide people from each other in the most singular 
 manner. It was not destined that Major AHson should 
 bring these two together. While he planned and 
 sought, the threads of their lives were held in a hand 
 they little thought of, — a small hand Christine Vander- 
 lyn had once taken pityingly in hers, and sent away pro- 
 tected from further frosts by her charity. Christine per- 
 haps forgot the object of this charity in a week's time. 
 But not so soon was she forgotten herself. Never any 
 day went by that the child did not think of that gay, 
 laughing lady as she drew on the pretty white mittens that 
 had been given to her. At the wrists of these mittens 
 there was knitted in a blue thread forming the initials? 
 C. V. The little wearer remembered the often-called 
 Christine, but she wondered many a time over that V. 
 You see the circumstance was an event in this poor, 
 starved young life. It was a whole romance to speculate 
 about and dream over. They were magic mittens to Janey 
 Wilson ; for at sight of them there came trooping before 
 her a beautiful bright room, gay faces, and soft voices, 
 and altogether a scene that was hke fairy-land to her pov- 
 erty-stricken eyes. But one day Janey met with a great 
 misfortune, she thought. She had lost one of these 
 mittens. It was a sunny day in March, the air so warm 
 that the little fingers were not pinched into remem- 
 brance of a covering. 
 
CHRISTINE, 131 
 
 "Perhaps you left it somewhere," her mother said 
 comfortingly, to Janey's bewailing. 
 
 Then Janey began to count over where she had 
 been ; and she was sure that she had entered no door 
 but one, and that was the gentleman's at No. 10. This 
 was a gentleman for whom her mother washed. He 
 lived in a great boarding-house on the next street, 
 and Janey only knew him as the gentleman at 
 
 No. TO. 
 
 Straightway then she sped back for her lost treasure. 
 
 The door of No. 10 was standing open, and Janey 
 paused shyly on the threshold. What did she see ? A 
 man in the prime of his days, with a haughty, hand- 
 some face, and an abstracted air, humming in a fine 
 baritone voice an old Scottish melody, while he sorted 
 and filed a desk of papers. It was a difficult presence 
 to break in upon uninvited, as older persons than Janey 
 might have testified. But suddenly he became aware 
 of her somehow, and raised his head. As his eyes 
 rested upon the shy, hesitating figure he smiled. There 
 was never a kinder smile than this. It dispelled all 
 the hauteur at once, and invited entrance and confi- 
 dence. Such persons rarely smile often. They have 
 that facial control which may convey friendliness by an 
 expression of serious tranquillity, without breaking on 
 every occasion into a smile. They are always persons 
 of powerful natures, and resolute, decisive wills. Their 
 seldom smiles, then, have a peculiar charm. Janey 
 did not stop to analyze this one ; she only obeyed it, 
 smiling in return, and going fearlessly forward. 
 
 " Did I leave my mitten here, sir?" she asked. 
 
132 CHRISTINE, 
 
 " I really don't know, my little girl. There are the 
 clothes as you left them. Look over them and see for 
 yourself." And then the voice went on mechanically 
 back to its old Scottish melody, and the eyes and the 
 hands to their work. He was recalled again to his 
 little guest by a small sigh. Janey had failed to dis- 
 cover her mitten. 
 
 "What, can't you find it?" he inquired, in kind 
 tones. " Well, never mind ; go buy some new ones 
 with this." And he held out to her the price of two 
 pairs of mittens, in his masculine ignorance. " Well, 
 what is it? Is n't that enough? " he went on, as Janey 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Oh yes, sir ; but — but I want my mitten the lady 
 gave me." 
 
 " Oh, that 's it. But as you don't seem to find that, 
 hadn't you better take this and buy another pair? " 
 
 " And if you find it, sir, after I 'm gone, will you 
 keep it for me?" Janey asked, with sudden, eager 
 thought. 
 
 The seldom smile broke into an amused laugh as he 
 assured her that he would. 
 
 " It had two letters on it in blue, — C. V.," commu- 
 nicated Janey, as she turned to the door. 
 
 He looked up quickly. " C. V. ? Are those the 
 letters of your name, child? " 
 
 Janey started at the sharp tone of inquiry. 
 
 '' No, sir ; they were the lady's." 
 
 " What lady's ? What was her name ? " 
 
 There was that in his voice which the child did not 
 understand. She thought it was sternness, displeasure, 
 
CHRISTINE. 
 
 133 
 
 wKen it was only intense earnestness. And, frightened 
 she forgot the "Christine," and stammered out, — 
 
 '' I don't know, sir." 
 
 A shade passed over the gentleman's face. "Tell 
 me, then, how she looked. Was she light or dark? 
 Had she hair like yours or like mine ? " he questioned. 
 
 "Like mine, sir." Janey's hair was a reddish 
 brown ; the gentleman's was nearly, if not quite, black. 
 " And she was not very big, sir ; her mittens just fitted 
 me." 
 
 "Well?" The softer tone of this syllable encour- 
 aged Janey to go on. 
 
 " And she had blue eyes, and was pale ; and — " 
 
 "Pale?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; like mother is, with a little red spot com- 
 ing into her cheeks when she talked." 
 
 The shade deepened on the gentleman's face. 
 
 " Do you see her often? " 
 
 " Oh no, sir ; never but the once." And then Janey 
 told the story of the holders. She was only eight years 
 old, this little girl; but she had in her way a fluent 
 tongue, and really described that morning with more 
 pith and accuracy than many an older person. Her 
 listener's gravity relaxed as she spoke, and a soft glim- 
 mer of a smile crept round his lips ; and into his eyes 
 a tender light shone, as if memory had lit her smoulder- 
 ing fires anew. Long after Janey had left him he sat 
 there, with this look in his eyes. Then he rose up, 
 shaking his great shoulders impatiently. " I 'm the 
 veriest fool alive ! " he said to himself " I am feeding 
 a dream that will never be more than a dream, and out 
 
134 CHRISTINE. 
 
 of the shallowest material. C. V. There are, no doubt, 
 a hundred names whose initials are like these. And if 
 it were she, what then? I gave her up deliberately 
 a year ago. If she deceived me and was false to me 
 then, she is no less so to-day." But as he said this, as 
 he allowed his will to bend even to this thought of her, 
 a suggestion of a possibility of doubt crossed his mind. 
 What if he had been too hasty, too hard? Somebody 
 has written : " Invisible truth is stronger than indispu- 
 table appearances." Perhaps this invisible truth was 
 now forcing its way to his recognition. Perhaps, as 
 in Christine's case, the bitterness had burned out in 
 a measure. At all events, his mind could not dismiss 
 the images this child had called up. And further than 
 this, it led him on to follow a more active impulse, — 
 an impulse which he pronounced upon at the same 
 time, out of his severe self-judgment, as a weakness. 
 This was nothing less than wending his footsteps that 
 very day past that corner-house Janey had described 
 to him as where her lady lived. But not that day, nor 
 the next, nor for many days, would he see Janey's lady 
 issuing from that door. Upstairs in a south room, 
 where the sunshine came, Janey's lady was lying ill. 
 A cold, and then a cough, and then a wearing weak- 
 ness, which sent those red spots Janey had spoken of 
 into the thin cheeks, had brought the gay little lady to 
 a sorry pass. But she had not ceased to be a gay 
 little lady for all this. There in the sunny south room 
 she lay upon her couch, and made merry with Alice 
 Weymouth and Milly Davis and Dick Alison. One 
 day, out of this merriment, she suddenly spoke sadly 
 and softly to Alice, who knew her pitiful story. 
 
CHRISTINE. 135 
 
 " Alice, do you suppose I must die without seeing 
 him?" 
 
 " Oh, Christine ! " was all that Alice could answer. 
 Then at another time she said, — 
 
 " AKce, I shall see him, — I shall see him. I feel 
 it ! " After this she seemed to rally, and, as the milder 
 days came, she went out again. But all the time she 
 appeared to be waiting for something. Was it a clair- 
 voyant sense that possessed her? What else could it 
 have been that one morning sent her out when fever 
 was wasting her, when a sleepless night had left her 
 feebler than usual? 
 
 " I would n't go this morning, Christine," her mother 
 urged. 
 
 " I am so restless, mother, I can't stay in. I don't 
 know what ails me ; but when I he down and try to 
 rest, my pulses beat like mad. It will do me less harm 
 to go out than to stay in, with this feeling." 
 
 So she went out. It was a soft, serene day. The 
 sky was veiled with a golden mist, and the sun shone 
 hazily through this veil. Christine sighed as she looked 
 up at the beautiful sky, as she heard the birds twitter- 
 ing in the squares. " Life is at its fulness of youth 
 with them, and with me, — only I have lost what they 
 are finding," she said to herself. And with this thought 
 for company, she sauntered slowly down the quiet 
 street. Very slowly it was, for Christine's strength was 
 at a low ebb ; down the street and through a little ^ 
 park, where she stopped to watch the play of a group 
 of children. 
 
 " Fling it higher, Jimmy, — fling it higher ! " cried 
 
13^ CHRISTINE. 
 
 out one of the group to his feUow, as he caught the 
 ball they were tossing. Jimmy flung it higher, and it 
 lodged at Christine's feet. She laughed and flung it 
 back to them, and back it came again, and this time 
 beyond her. But it did not fall to the ground; a 
 stronger hand received it, and sent it whirring through 
 the air with a will. Christine had not heeded the pass- 
 ing footsteps, had not seen the owner of this stronger 
 hand, for she stood facing the green, her back to the 
 path. She had seen and heard nothing until a deep- 
 toned voice called out, "Aim higher, boys, and don't 
 hit the lady ! " 
 
 She turned like one in a dream. Was it all a dream, 
 or had she met him face to face, as she had prayed 
 and prayed she might every night and every day for a 
 twelvemonth ? 
 
 " Ralph ! Ralph ! " she cried eagerly. 
 
 It must have been a harder man than Ralph An- 
 struther to have answered otherwise than warmly to 
 that call. 
 
 "Christine!" Only her name, but there was a 
 warmth to his voice, and in the involuntary movement 
 that took her two outstretched hands in both of his. 
 He never thought of judging or condemning then. I 
 think in that moment he had forgotten that he had 
 disbelieved her. The invisible truth was making itself 
 triumphant. The suddenness of this meeting, the 
 great surprise, made them both natural, and thus they 
 stood for the time confessed to each other. 
 
 Christine was the first to speak again. It was n't 
 much she said, — a half-inarticulate question, in a weary, 
 
CHRISTINE. 137 
 
 wistful voice. Colonel Anstruther's face changed as he 
 heard her, as he looked at her. 
 
 " Christine, you are ill ; you ought not to be here. 
 Come, let me take you home ; " and the next moment 
 he had drawn her hand over his arm. 
 
 And in that walk there was little said but of Chris- 
 tine's health. It was so simple and serious a subject 
 that it saved them both from any sense of awkwardness. 
 But once home, alone together in that sunny south 
 parlor, Christine could contain herself no longer. 
 
 " What is it, — Ralph, what is it that has kept us apart ? 
 What did you mean by that dreadful letter? " 
 
 Colonel Anstruther's face paled j the old shadow 
 had come back. 
 
 " Christine, do you remember the night we parted? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ; I have remembered little else in these 
 long months," she answered, in a tearful, tender voice. 
 
 The man's cheek flushed and his pulses quickened. 
 He looked away from her a moment, and then went 
 on, — 
 
 " Do you remember after we parted a conversation 
 you had with Major Alison ? " 
 
 " No, I do not now, I am sure." Her face was as 
 open as the day as she answered this. 
 
 " I was an unintentional listener to part of that con- 
 versation. I had come back to find Alison. Somebody 
 said he was in the drawing-room. I stepped in over 
 the greensward upon the piazza ; there I heard you 
 say,— 
 
 " ' I do not — I do not — I never loved him, Dick ! 
 If you only knew, if I could only tell you everything. 
 
138 CHRISTINE. 
 
 you would know what I meant ! ' As you said this your 
 hands were clasped over Major Alison's, and you were 
 leaning against his arm. I did not stop to hear, to see 
 more. I thought I had heard, had seen, enough. I 
 thought I had heard enough to never hear any more ! 
 And that was why I sent that letter." 
 
 " O Ralph, Ralph, if you had stopped to hear 
 more you would not have made this dreadful mistake ! 
 It was not you — oh, how could you think it was ? It 
 was not you of whom I spoke. Ralph, I never 
 told you : but Chauncey Ashton fancied he was in 
 love with me once ; and, worse than that, he fancied a 
 great deal more that he had no right to, — that I had 
 given him encouragement, that I had led him on, and all 
 that. But I never had; ic was all my gay, careless 
 manner of laughing and jesting, that is so misunder- 
 stood one way and another. He was bright and pleas- 
 ant, and fond of music, and so I sang with him, and 
 laughed and talked with him, without the slightest idea 
 of how his mind was going until he told me. And then, 
 when I confessed to him how innocent, how ignorant I 
 had been, and how I felt toward him, he was very un- 
 reasonable, very unkind. I should never have spoken 
 of the matter to any one if he had not. But he went to 
 Dick AHson, and poured his weak, one-sided story into 
 his ears. Dick had known me for years ; he had al- 
 ways been like a brother to me, and so he came to me 
 with this. I was explaining how it was to him when 
 you overheard me there ; and when I said, ' If I could 
 tell you everything you would know what I meant,' it 
 was of my love for you that I was thinking. You know 
 
CHRISTINE. 139 
 
 you thought it best that we should not speak of our en- 
 gagement until you came back. That was the ' every- 
 thing ' that was in my mind. And if I seemed to treat 
 Dick too — too much like a brother, you must remem- 
 ber that he was almost my brother once ; for he was 
 engaged to my sister Mary who died, and — " 
 
 " Christine, there is no need of anything more. I see 
 I have been a — " 
 
 " No, no ! " She sprang forward with that quick mo- 
 tion of hers, and laid her hand over his lips. " No, no, 
 Ralph ! don't call yourself names. It was only nat- 
 ural that you should feel as you did, hearing what you 
 did." 
 
 Again Colonel Anstruther's cheek flushed, and his 
 pulse quickened as he caught a glimpse of this unexact- 
 ing, generous love ; and he marvelled at himself now 
 that his intuitions had not served him better a year 
 ago. 
 
 He put the little hand away from his lips, and took 
 her in his arms. 
 
 " Christine, I 've been a fool ! " 
 
 " Oh no, no, Ralph ! " And this time a seal was set 
 upon his lips he did not care to put away. 
 
 Later he told her of the link that had led him to her, 
 — Janey's lost mitten, — and of his daily walk through 
 the little park and past the house she had described. 
 
 " She shall have the prettiest pair of mittens that I 
 can knit for her, for she has been our good angel," said 
 Christine, smiling; "and I mean this more seriously 
 than I say it. I believe there is a meaning in every- 
 thing and that this little child was not only sent to help 
 
140 CHRISTINE. 
 
 US, but for us to help her ; for see, Ralph, how singularly 
 involved she is with us ! " And Christine produced the 
 bit of plaid she had so carefully treasured. 
 
 Colonel Anstruther examined it curiously. 
 
 " It is like what you used to wear, Ralph." 
 
 " Yes, I know, Christine. It is not only like what I 
 used to wear, it is the very plaid itself. It is an old 
 scarf I gave to the child one night last winter. She 
 wore it until there was little left of it, I suppose, and 
 then the mother transforms the remnants into these 
 holders. And so the web weaves a link for us at last, 
 Christine." 
 
 '■' At last, Ralph. How little I thought that day I told 
 Katrine to send the child up that her hand would lead 
 me to you ! I ' cast bread upon the waters ' truly, and 
 it has returned to me after many days." 
 
 "After many days," repeated Colonel Anstruther, 
 thinking of the year that had parted them. 
 
 But Christine thought only of the present now. The 
 year of pain had gone by. Through dark ways she had 
 been led to this light ; but, flower-like, she turned only 
 to the sunshine. Life was new and fresh again, and 
 health and strength would spring up to greet it beneath 
 the touch of the great enchanter, Happiness. 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 14 1 
 
 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 ^^ T^HEY are playing Le Desir ! Turn, turn, turn, 
 
 -■- turn ti-tum ! " waving an imaginary baton with 
 a white glove in the air, to perfect time with the 
 hummed words and the band in the hall. " Tum, tum, 
 tum ! " and the owner of the white glove put out his 
 hand to the lady beside him. 
 
 " Can you resist those strains? " She let him draw 
 her arm within his own, and went in. 
 
 " Tum, tum, tum ! " and down the elastic floor they 
 joined the waltzers. And the soft lace floated out its 
 mazy clouds, and the soft hair fluttered its pennon of 
 curls, and the soft hand lay lightly in the larger hand. 
 
 ''Tum, tum, tum ! — one more turn ! " and away to 
 " the flute, violin, bassoon," unwinding those Beet- 
 hoven links of sound, with twinkhng feet and . airy 
 motion. 
 
 " One more turn ! " and the countless skirts of tulle 
 and tarlatan and lace had settled into stillness, drifting 
 away like mountain mist over the arm of the fauteuil 
 and the chalked dance-space of the floor. 
 
 " Pretty creature, is n't she ? " 
 
 " Leeds thinks so " ; and two gentlemen moved off 
 through the rooms. 
 
142 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 Another gentleman, — a quiet, well-bred, common- 
 place looking person, — hearing this colloquy, glanced 
 up from his iete-a-tete with a sort of Flora M'lvor girl, 
 and regarded the " pretty creature " and her compan- 
 ions with some earnestness. The companion, Mr. 
 Leeds, is fanning her with a glittering trifle of pearl and 
 sandalwood ; but it is a July night, there is only a land 
 breeze, and the room feels stifling after the waltz. 
 
 "Will you go out on the veranda again?" he pro- 
 poses. She accepts the proposal, rising and smoothing 
 out the white -foam drapery. Just then the common- 
 place gentleman turns as she passes and says, — 
 
 " I would n't, Kate ; you '11 take cold now.'* 
 
 "There 's very little air, Mr. Meyer," Mr. Leeds in; 
 terposes. 
 
 " But she is so heated, Mr. Leeds." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I had better not," the lady amiabl) 
 acquiesces. "We will walk in the hall; that will 
 do." And they leave the saloon, nodding pleasantly 
 to Mr. Meyer, and turn into the long entrance-hall 
 where the band plays and the light comes softer 
 through rose shades. And Mr. Meyer goes back , to his 
 talk with the M'lvor ; but all the time he is talking he 
 is thinking, "I wonder if she likes Leeds?" Likes 
 means a good deal in Mr. Meyer's calm phraseology. 
 
 " He is a handsome fellow and a gentleman ! " and 
 thinking thus, he looked up, and saw the " hand- 
 some fellow " stopping to fasten his companion's 
 bracelet. 
 
 You are thinking Mr. Meyer is a rival — or brother, 
 perhaps ? Mr. Meyer is the lovely waltzer's husband. 
 
MR. AND MRS'. MEYER. 143 
 
 That is Mrs. Robertson Meyer who stands under the 
 pale rose-lights of the hall chandelier while Mr. Leeds 
 fastens her bracelet. And in consequence of just such 
 little amicable scenes as the above Mr. and Mrs. Meyer 
 are called a model couple, a pair of turtle-doves. 
 
 Four years ago in June, Robertson Meyer led Anna 
 Catherine Gates to the altar. It was the briefest wooing 
 that ever sped. Three months before marriage they 
 had never seen each other. The whole thing was 
 ordained by family powers, like the wooing and wed- 
 ding of their royal transatlantic cousins. And this was 
 the way : — 
 
 One day Anna Catherine found herself an orphan 
 with not money enough to buy herself another pair of 
 gloves, — she who had bought them by the dozen and 
 by the box all her lifetime. Before she reahzed the 
 inconvenience fully, however, the junior partner of the 
 firm of Gates, Geer, & Co., Robertson Meyer, was sent 
 out from the East India house to see to her, which 
 meant, by the cool reasoning of Joshua Geer, to marry 
 her. " No father, no mother or brother, and the daugh- 
 ter of our unfortunate partner," — John Gates risked 
 his whole fortune in a private speculation, and then died 
 penniless, — " we must do something for her. The best 
 thing to do is to marry her. I can't marry her, for I 'm 
 already married ; but you can, Robertson." 
 
 Living amidst the heathen nearly all his life, this 
 advice did not strike young Meyer as odd or irregular. 
 So he packed his portmanteau and started for the Uni- 
 ted States to see to Anna Catherine Gates, that is, to 
 marry her. It was only a part of the firm's business. 
 
144 ^^- ^^^ ^^^^' MEYER. 
 
 Arrived in New York, he made himself presentable, and 
 then presented himself to Anna Catherine. The house- 
 hold was not yet broken up, though dreadfully uncom- 
 fortable, from the new rule of a fortieth cousin's wife 
 who was to purchase the estate. And so he met Anna 
 Catherine in the prettiest little boudoir in the world, 
 and she the prettiest thing in it, — a litde, fair piece of 
 loveliness, clad in deep mourning for her father. He 
 had not expected to see such a fairy, and began to pity 
 her as he would have done a stray kitten. And Anna 
 Catherine ? The dark-brown, sensible young man, who 
 talked so sympathizingly of her dead father, and gave 
 her Mr. Geer's condolences, wakened all her respect 
 and confidence. 
 
 And when on the third interview he modestly placed 
 his hand and fortune at her disposal, she accepted him 
 with a feeling of escape from some dreadful nightmare, 
 — the nightmare of loneliness and poverty. So he 
 took her father's place at the head of the New York 
 house, and with a patent of ease — for he was a gentle- 
 man born and bred — adapted himself to New York 
 life. Meyer was a gentleman, I have said ; I mean 
 that in all its length, and breadth, and depth. He was 
 a gentleman in generosity, in temper, in modesty. 
 Mrs. Meyer was a lady just the same. And so the 
 world they knew said they were a model couple, a 
 pair of turtle-doves. 
 
 That night, after the waltz, and after the guests were 
 all gone, and the pretty mistress of the house was pick- 
 ing up her fan and flowers preparatory to going to her 
 room, her husband turned from the memorandum-book 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 45 
 
 over which he had been absorbed for the last few 
 moments, — turned, and called " Mrs. Meyer ! " 
 
 Her foot was on the stair. 
 
 " Did you want me, Robert? " 
 
 The sweet face with its waiting look, the sweet voice 
 with its kindly tone — did he see and recognize it all ? 
 He only said, — 
 
 " Yes, I wanted you a moment, Kate." 
 
 So she came back, gathering her dress up to hold the 
 flowers, and dropped down upon the fauteuil opposite 
 him. 
 
 " I only wished to tell you, Kate, that I am going to 
 take the early boat for New York. Ray brought me 
 letters to-night which require my presence there, and I 
 may have to take the steamer for Europe." 
 
 He watched her closely as he said his, — closely but 
 very kindly. She received the news with some sur- 
 prise ; wanted to know if there was any business trouble ; 
 was glad there was not ; asked if somebody else 
 could n't go as well, and altogether was gently sorry and 
 interested for him. 
 
 " I am troubled for the care that will come upon you, 
 Kate, — the breaking up here in Newport, and going 
 back to New York again ; but Ray will transact all bus- 
 iness for you." 
 
 " Oh ! don't think of that, Robert. I shall do nicely. 
 Yes, Ray will attend to all my wants as well as you. 
 You know when you were in New Orleans last winter 
 how prompt he was. It hardly seemed as though you 
 were away." 
 
 He bent over his memorandum-book with a con- 
 
 10 
 
146 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 tracted brow, running his finger down the page in 
 great apparent earnestness, while she pulled out the 
 falling flowers from her falling hair, and shook out 
 the soft hght tresses till she was enveloped in a yellow 
 mist. 
 
 Her husband looked up, and thought of what he 
 had overheard: "Pretty creature, isn't she?" and 
 " Leeds thinks so ! " 
 
 Perhaps that was why he said, — 
 
 " Are those the flowers Mr. Leeds sent, Kate ? " 
 
 She roused to animation : — 
 
 " Yes, are n't they beautiful, and so rare ! See, here 
 is a spray of Cape jasmine, and these Spanish lilies and 
 English ferns. But I forgot, you don't take an interest 
 in flower varieties." 
 
 *' Leeds has quite a passion for these things, has n't 
 he?" 
 
 " Oh yes, and fine taste. He promises to help me 
 rearrange the conservatory this winter, and it will be 
 such a thing for me." A little weary sigh came from 
 behind the memorandum-book. Then Mrs. Meyer 
 started, saying kindly, " But how stupid I am, Robert ! 
 Tell me if you want anything attended to that I can 
 do before you go." 
 
 " No, dear. I shall lie here on the lounge, it is so 
 late now, and Wilson has packed my things, and given 
 orders for coffee at five. No, there 's nothing to be 
 done, and you are tired and had better go up to your 
 room. I '11 write from New York. So good-night and 
 good-by ! " 
 
 He put out his hand, and she came and placed her 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 47 
 
 little warm palm in it, and bent her head down to 
 receive his kiss, all her lovely cloud of hair falling 
 round him. Slipping his other arm around her, he 
 held her gently a moment longer, but did not speak. 
 She looked at him more earnestly as he released her, 
 and said, — 
 
 "You are fretted about leaving affairs at home, 
 Robert. I assure you I can manage very well ; but I 
 don't believe you '11 have to go, — I hope not ; but 
 take good care of yourself if you do, and don't fret 
 about us here, and give my love to old Mr. Geer." 
 She had got half-way up the stairs, when she ran back. 
 " Robert, I was afraid you 'd be cold lying here if you 
 slept." And she spread an Afghan lightly over him, 
 and with another good-night tripped away, uncon- 
 sciously humming a bar of Le Desir. 
 
 Among the callers that lounged in Mrs. Meyer's 
 drawing-room the day following the party, Harrison 
 Leeds shone, as usual, the most brilliantly. He dis- 
 cussed art, religion, and politics ; talked of the " rare 
 specimens " he would add to the newly arranged con- 
 servatory ; and went through all the botanical lists with 
 the facility of a student. Then, speaking of music, he 
 accompanied Mrs. Meyer in a little French song, with 
 admirable taste and skill; and they talked of Patti, 
 Brignoli, and others ; and next of poets and poetry ; 
 and Mrs. Meyer, who was enchanting in recitations, 
 was prevailed upon to recite portions of Tennyson's 
 " Maud " ; and every one thought she was a fit repre- 
 sentative of the 
 
 *' Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls." 
 
148 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 And going away, the two gentlemen who commented 
 upon her attractions, and Mr. Leeds's admiration the 
 night before, again renewed the topic. 
 
 " How queerly people are married ! Meyer, now, is 
 a good, gentlemanly fellow, but no more taste ! — com- 
 pletely absorbed in his ledger and the East India trade ! 
 I don't beheve he knows the Mater Dolorosa from the 
 Cenci. And what an accomplished little thing that 
 wife of his is ! How she sings, how she reads, and how 
 she talks ! Bah ! Leeds ought to have had her, don't 
 you see ! " 
 
 " Tut, you can't arrange the world to your fastidious 
 liking, Drake. Mr. and Mrs. Meyer seem to me the 
 happiest couple alive." 
 
 " Yes, negatively happy, — the calm of a dead sea. 
 Did you perceive how coolly she took the possibiHty of 
 his going out to India? " 
 
 " Bosh — negatively happy ! Let her thank God 
 for negative happiness, as you call it, and the calm of 
 dead seas." 
 
 " Well, if that is to be the way, what sense in culti- 
 vating the higher needs? I do not say I want Mrs. 
 Meyer to awaken 7iow to a conception of her capabili- 
 ties in loving ; but I do say that I deplofe the circum- 
 stances, or blind destiny, that consigned this woman to 
 such a partial existence." 
 
 " Drake, you know what Dunn says, — queer, quaint 
 Matt Dunn?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "^Be good, and you '11 be happy.' A school-boyish 
 sounding phrase enough, but with quizzical gravity he '11 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 49 
 
 end his letters to that dandy prig, Hofland, with the 
 simple little sentence ; and last night, when Deane and 
 Aylesworth were lamenting the state of finances, he 
 quietly took leave of them with that adjuration. Deane 
 looked for a minute as if somebody had said, ' Let us 
 pray ! ' So I '11 end this teasing topic for you in the 
 same manner. Let Mrs. Meyer be good, and she '11 be 
 happy." 
 
 They both laughed and turned down the avenue 
 toward the Ocean House. 
 
 But this opinion of Mr. Drake's was only one of his 
 "notions," as his friend would have said. The general 
 idea waL that Mr. and Mrs. Meyer were the happiest 
 couple alive. If Mrs. Meyer took her husband's pro- 
 ject of a trip to India very coolly, she took it very 
 sensibly too ; for in a few days Mr. Meyer's uncle and 
 aunt, nice elderly people, were domiciled at the New- 
 port villa to play propriety in the absence of the master : 
 so whenever the " dear five hundred " called, one by 
 one, or two by two, they invariably encountered a very 
 respectable dragon in the shape of a charming old 
 lady, with one of those rose-in-the-snow complexions, 
 and a mien of stately ease, guarding the princess. And 
 when a recherche little dinner or breakfast brought Mr. 
 Leeds and Drake, and the rest of the agreeable men 
 into the elegant young princess's presence, in place of 
 the prince they were welcomed by a stalwart old gen- 
 tleman somewhere in the sixties, whom Mrs. Meyer 
 called "Uncle Warde." And the world, seeing all this 
 discretion on the part of such a pretty princess, clapped 
 its hands applaudingly. And so the summer went. 
 
150 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 It will be thus seen that Mr. Meyer found it neces- 
 sary to go out to India ; but contrary to her expecta- 
 tions, Mrs. Meyer failed to receive the letter from New 
 York which he promised to write. 
 
 " I am sure he wrote," Ray, the confidential clerk, 
 told her ; "for he asked me to hurry Wilson off with a 
 pile of letters before the mail closed, as he wanted 
 Mrs. Meyer to receive hers on Sunday; so it must 
 have miscarried." 
 
 "Very likely," Mrs. Meyer thought and answered. 
 The next time brought better luck. He had arrived 
 safely at Bombay. A brief business letter, — that was 
 all ; and in answering, Mrs. Meyer, always mindful of 
 annoying others by errors and mistakes, said nothing 
 of the missing letter that she had failed to receive. 
 " Perhaps it will come yet," she told Mr. Ray. 
 
 And so, as I said, the summer went ; and in the fall 
 of the year, the princess and her two dear dragons, 
 and all her brilliant train of admirers, were back in 
 New York. And then the much-talked-of conserva- 
 tory revolution was begun, and day after day Harrison 
 Leeds would gallop down from his hotel with a " rare 
 specimen," or instructions about a bulb, sometimes 
 bringing Rosemere, the great horticulturist, with him, 
 and sometimes Matt Dunn, who knew all about exotics. 
 And one day when this last-mentioned individual was 
 there, Drake dropped in, and brought a piece of news 
 which startled them. Somebody had married some- 
 body, and the whole May Fair circle was up in arms, 
 because it was the most unheard-of, absurd, ill-advised 
 thing, — a foolish love-match, and not a cent to keep 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 151 
 
 the flame agoing. And Drake went on in his romantic 
 way, calling it "splendid," and "an example every 
 man and woman ought to follow." 
 
 " Why don't you follow, then? " Dunn asked him. 
 
 "I?" twisting a maize-colored glove round a white 
 finger, sending out a diamond sparkle. " I 'm not a 
 marrying man." 
 
 "You are a theorist, Drake; that's what you 
 
 are." 
 
 Drake grew vehement; declared himself willing to 
 act upon his theories if the occasion required. 
 
 " Only give you a chance, eh ? " Dunn resumed, — 
 " the chance of an affaire du cmir. I 'd like to see 
 you do it, Drake ; I wish you could have the chance. 
 Imagine him! Imagine Egerton Drake living on a 
 bachelor's income with his Clorinda, my friend " ; and 
 Matt Dunn picked up the maize-colored glove, and 
 gently stroked its mellow softness. 
 
 Drake was getting annoyed, and Mr. Leeds, who 
 had been an interested Hstener, now said, — 
 
 " I don't see why it is so difficult a thing for a man to 
 decide between a few personal luxuries, more or less, 
 and his affections. Surely we are not so effeminate as 
 all that, Mr. Dunn." 
 
 Mr. Dunn gayly applauded. " Good ! good ! Mr. 
 Leeds joins your ranks, Drake. Give him a chance, 
 too, and he 'd run away from all the world for love of 
 •his Clorinda." 
 
 " I would, — I would, indeed, — and count the world 
 well lost ! " 
 
 What was it that threw that sudden spell of silence 
 
152 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 over the group ? Was it the sudden passion that rang 
 through the young man's tones, or the vivid flush that 
 rose to his cheek, or the swift glance that fell upon the 
 fair hostess, or all three together ? A door had opened, 
 as it were, into some unguessed tragedy. And over its 
 threshold they saw 
 
 " A speck of fire that lit the place." 
 
 Mrs. Meyer alone seemed unstirred from her repose. 
 She sat there, with the little hands locked loosely to- 
 gether in her lap, her eyes down, and a certain hush 
 about her that was like a guard from evil. 
 
 Mr. Dunn, recovering himself first, tossed the maize- 
 colored glove back to its owner with a quaint jest that 
 broke the momentary pause, and sent the conversation 
 on again. And they stayed long enough to change the 
 tone into another channel. But as they were saying 
 their adieux, Mr. Dunn, coming last, lingered a moment 
 over the pretty fair hand ; and then, in his curious, 
 grave, sweet manner, gave his favorite charge, mixed 
 with a little merry speech that clothed it gracefully, — 
 *'Be good, and you '11 be happy." 
 
 For a moment, soft, wistful eyes looked into his with 
 a shy expression of doubt, that was half pain ; but 
 something she met there brought only the sweetness to 
 the surface, and her gentle voice replied, " I will try, 
 Mr. Dunn." And Mr. Dunn — queer, quaint Matt 
 Dunn, who was always half-laughing, half-serious — 
 dropped all his banter, and remarked, as if thinking 
 aloud, when they walked down the street, — 
 
 "That woman is a little saint." 
 
 Leeds's eyes flashed and his lip trembled while Dunn 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 53 
 
 went on, — " And the man that could hurt her with a- 
 word or thought deserves a halter." ■ 
 
 After this ripple upon the smooth social stream, the 
 winter passed with no further evidence of emotion. 
 
 In the mean time letters from India were seldom and 
 brief, and spring came with no mention of a return. 
 It was almost a year since Mr. Meyer went away. In 
 the mean time, too, Mr. Leeds had not only rearranged 
 the conservatory, and established an aquarium for his 
 friend Mrs. Meyer, but he had established for himself a 
 reputation at once enviable and honorable in the scien- 
 tific world of letters. Added to his horticultural taste 
 and knowledge, there was a deeper passion underneath. 
 While he was making himself agreeable and useful 
 over English ferns and Cape jasmines, he was also in 
 the interim making for himself a name by certain 
 geological researches, and an eloquent treatise thereon. 
 Then came the crowning triumph, when he delivered 
 his eloquent lecture upon the subject before the Scien- 
 tific Association. 
 
 Such a success ! So modest, too, and so wise, and 
 the most perfect gentleman, — kind, courteous, and 
 cultivated ! This was the way society went on, and 
 Mr. Leeds was made a lion forthwith. Straight from 
 his crowning triumph that evening he came to that 
 usual ending of all glories, — a feast. This was a 
 choice collection of choice spirits, however, over the 
 daintiest viands. And Mrs. Meyer was there. A year 
 had only made her more beautiful, — a clearer moon- 
 light beauty. Looking at her, you would never think 
 of gold ornaments and diamonds in her adomings, and 
 
154 ^R' ^^^ ^^^^- MEYER. 
 
 you never saw them. So on this night she wore white 
 laces with her sea-colored silks, and dewy pearls here 
 and there, like flecks of foam. 
 
 ^' A new Undine," Mr. Dunn observed, as she stood 
 complimenting the hero of the evening gracefully and 
 earnestly. The hero was eager and watchful and rest- 
 less when he came in, as if he expected somebody or 
 something ; but after Mrs. Meyer put out her hand 
 to him, and said her two or three words of congratu- 
 lation and approval, he seemed to grow quiet and in- 
 different of praise, as if her cool presence had proved a 
 sedative. And from science and philosophy with his 
 host, he ghded off to music and waltzes with the young 
 daughters. 
 
 " Was there ever such a complete man? " they said 
 to Mrs. Meyer ; and Mrs. Meyer thought it doubtful if 
 there ever was ; and when, that very evening, he told 
 her of his young sister with such tender affection, and 
 begged Mrs. Meyer to call upon her during her stay in 
 the city, he spoke of her so warmly and eagerly that 
 Mrs. Meyer, out of her admiration for his brotherly de- 
 votion, remarked, — 
 
 " It must be a pleasant thing to be your sister, Mr. 
 Leeds " ; and then she sighed, and spoke of her own 
 lonely orphanage, while the face of her listener reflected 
 more than her owti pain and sadness. 
 
 " Yes, a pleasant thing to be his sister," she mused, 
 long after, in the silence of her room. This discovery 
 of his brotherly devotion was more eloquent to her 
 than all his new glory. Afterward, in her contempla- 
 tion of the tender relation which existed between this 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 55 
 
 brother and sister, her sense of lonely orphanage grew, 
 while the East India letters were rarer and briefer than 
 ever. 
 
 One night — a fearful night of wind and shower — 
 she walked her splendid drawing-room, full of this 
 dreary sense , of desolation. Upstairs Uncle Warde 
 and his wife were absorbed in the reminiscences of 
 other days, and from the servants' hall came the sound 
 of their mingled voices in story and laughter. But all 
 alone, in her lonely rooms below, the lonely mistress of 
 the house held sad communion with only herself. 
 
 In the tumult of the wind and rain she did not hear 
 the opening and shutting of the hall door, nor see the 
 figure that entered the room, until — 
 
 " Mrs. Meyer ! " in a gentle, earnest voice. She had 
 lifted her head with a scared face, and there were tears 
 upon it, and pale pain, and lonesome sorrow. Mr. 
 Leeds saw it all, and seating himself near her, strove, 
 by some kindly talk, to restore her serenity. In a few 
 moments she was apologizing for her state. " The 
 lonely night, the lonely house," — but he understood 
 everything ; and by and by, falling into a little CDnver- 
 sation, she mentioned Mr. Meyer. " He stays another 
 year, then," Mr. Leeds observed. 
 
 "Another year? " 
 
 " Mr. Ray was saying so." 
 
 A faint color stole into her pale cheek. Another 
 year, and his wife uninformed ! Then a look came 
 into her eyes that no one ever saw there before, — a 
 bitter, brooding look of desolate pride. To him who 
 sat there before her it was more touching than her 
 
156 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 tears a moment before. He essayed again to comfort, 
 but his heart was in a wild tumult, and wild thoughts 
 were in his mind. And at this crisis, turning, she 
 said, as if thinking aloud, — 
 
 " I wish you were my brother, Harrison." 
 
 The dreary tone, the dreary face, and the utterance 
 of his baptismal name, was like a breath of flame to 
 him. 
 
 Rising, he came beside her, and in a moment was 
 pouring out the repressed emotions of the last year, — 
 was forgetting everything but this one passion, — and 
 with wild eagerness was urging her to forget every- 
 thing as well. He had taken her hand in his vehe- 
 mence, mistaking her stillness for acquiescence, and 
 with tremulous, tearful tenderness worthy a better 
 cause, was saying that his whole life should be devoted 
 to her, when an awful hush seemed to gather about 
 the room ; the hand he had held withdrew itself, the 
 slight figure, wafted away from him, as it were, and a 
 voice sadder than sorrow made answer, — 
 
 " Oh, what have I done that you should humiliate 
 me with words like these ? God forgive you, Harrison 
 Leeds ! My cup is now full ! " 
 
 What passionate prayers for her forgiveness, what 
 immediate agony of contrition followed, it is needless 
 to detail ; and even then, though stung to the soul, 
 she stayed to drop a word of pardon from her gentle 
 heart ere she left him. 
 
 Doubly alone now, with that corroding memory of 
 his avowal of passion to bear her company, she kept a 
 solemn vigil through the night. A certain feeling of 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 57 
 
 shuddering recoil from herself overcame her, — a feel- 
 ing as if she were some way touched with some visible 
 wrong. Every innocent attention and gallant word rose 
 up, exaggerated into sins by her morbid imagination. 
 Days were spent in this fearful self-examination, till 
 nature at last gave way, and a long and dangerous ill- 
 ness ensued. 
 
 Acting upon the advice of the physician, Mr. Ray, 
 now for some time tlie junior partner of the firm, wrote 
 at once to Mr. Meyer. 
 
 It was early in the summer when this illness first be- 
 gan ; it was late in September when she roused to 
 outward life again. During the long days of dream 
 and pain, she was sometimes conscious of a tenderer 
 touch than others upon her fevered brow and burning 
 hands, and the fancy would seize her that her father 
 was with her ; then visions of her mother, lost in child- 
 hood, would come, at a gentle, soothing tone. 
 
 One day the dull, aching dream dissolved. Who 
 was it that sat by her bedside, his dark hair streaked 
 with gray? Who was it? He Hfted his head. A face 
 burned and browned by Indian suns, and with a weight 
 as of years upon the brow and hollowed cheeks ; but 
 she knew it. As he met her glance of recognition, an 
 expression of almost painful anxiety passed into the 
 dark face ; but she was in that quiescent state of child- 
 like repose which follows severe prostration, and in a 
 faint, low voice she only said, — 
 
 " You were so long away, Robert ! " 
 
 For a moment a soft light came into his eyes, and 
 he just touched her little thin hand gently for reply. 
 
158 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 As she gradually returned to life, he gradually retired 
 from her presence, though always ready, if needed, — 
 always ministering to her in some invisible manner. 
 
 One morning, when she was so far convalescent as 
 to be able to walk about her room, to amuse herself, 
 or to while the hours away, she took up the embroidery 
 her maid had left upon a chair. But a color was want- 
 ing, and remembering a certain work-box, containing 
 such materials, she pulled it out from its corner and 
 lifted the lid. A crowd of recollections beset her. As 
 it often happens, this box had not been opened for 
 more than a year. She well remembered where she 
 had used it last, — on a summer's day at Newport, 
 and Mr. Leeds sat near, reading to her from Shelley. 
 For an instant her hand paused, and an expression of 
 pain clouded her face ; then, with a look of disdain 
 for her weakness, she went diligently searching for the 
 needed color. 
 
 But what was this ? One of her husband's letters ? 
 And how came it here? Thinking thus, she took it 
 up. What ! the seal unbroken ! Suddenly a forgotten 
 circumstance rushes to her mind. It is the missing 
 letter of a year ago ; and she breaks the seal. A little 
 surprise is in her mind as her eye runs over the page, 
 for it is longer than those she usually receives from 
 him. Mr. Meyer's letters are ordinarily brief, and of 
 the most matter-of-fact description. But this one proved 
 of a different order ; and no poem of Shelley's, no re- 
 membrance of past days, ever called such an expres- 
 sion to her face as it wore now while she read the 
 following : — 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 59 
 
 " My dear Wife, — I have decided that a trip to In- 
 dia is advisable, and on Wednesday shall sail in the 
 Persia for Liverpool, — from thence onward. In part- 
 ing, there was something I wanted to say to you, but the 
 opportunity did not seem favorable, and I deferred it to 
 writing, which is the better way, perhaps. It is only that 
 if I delay my return, you will understand that I do it for 
 your well-being. For a long time I have seen that my 
 presence cannot make you happy, Kate, — it never has. 
 You, of course, are in no manner answerable for this ; it 
 is only a natural result. Circumstances of business and 
 education have made me in some measure what I am ; 
 and I find too late that I am not a fit companion for you. 
 I cannot utterly repair this evil now, but I can remedy it 
 partially by leaving you your freedom as far as possible. 
 
 " This is no hasty resolve. I have long considered it ; 
 though recently, perhaps, I have awakened more fully to 
 its necessity. 
 
 " Again, do not think I reproach you in any manner 
 for this state of things. I do not believe that, even to 
 itself, your gentle heart ever acknowledged its want ; but 
 it is there, Kate, and I cannot satisfy it. And one more 
 word. You are young, and too delicately pure ever to 
 suspect the suspicion of evil. For your own sake, then, 
 let me say that the world is always ready to mistake the 
 purest ; therefore let me caution you to be guarded in 
 your friendly associations. If at any time you need me, 
 send for me and I will return. In the mean time, God 
 bless you ! Robertson Meyer." 
 
 She covered her face with her hands. It was too 
 true, — too true ! She had been indifferent to him ! 
 And looking into her own heart, she knew the want he 
 thought so unacknowledged stood oftener confessed to 
 
l6o MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 her own soul. She knew, too, how it had grown and 
 grown, and how sudden comparisons had sometimes 
 sprung up. Now the comparisons were reversed. Who 
 was it she had thought a more finished gentleman, a 
 completer man, than her husband ? Who but the man 
 whose passion had led him to violate all rules of chiv- 
 alry and honor in his mad professions and madder 
 hopes ? And the other — the one whose right by ev- 
 ery law of the land and church was by her side — had 
 for love of her condemned himself to a life of sacrifice 
 and exile. It needed but this to complete the revolu- 
 tion which had been going on in her mind since she 
 had first become conscious of that gentle presence in 
 her sick-room, — a presence that had drawn her through 
 all the mists of fever into its loving atmosphere. With 
 her appreciation of greatness, how eloquently did this 
 renunciation, given with the humility and simplicity of 
 a rarely generous nature, speak to her heart ! Filled 
 with these emotions, just as she was, in her dressing- 
 gown and slippers, she stole out of the room and down 
 the stairs to the library, where a few minutes since she 
 had heard footsteps. 
 
 To her light knock his voice — her husband's voice 
 — answered, '* Come in " ; but what was his surprise, 
 nay, almost consternation, as he saw his visitor. He 
 sprang to her assistance, for the lovely face was white 
 with agitation and unusual exertion ; but his letter was 
 in her hand, and in a few broken sentences she told 
 him its story. 
 
 His eyes lighted with a look of relief. Her long 
 silence then was explained. This was almost joy ; but 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. l6l 
 
 greater joy was yet to come. She had put out her 
 hand. 
 
 " You will not leave me again, Robert? " 
 
 He hesitated, not comprehending yet her meaning 
 fully, laying it all to gentle pity. 
 
 '' Not if you need me," he answered at length. 
 
 '' Dear Robert, " she cried, " I shall need you all 
 my life ! I — I — " But the rose upon her cheek, 
 the soft, shy gladness in her appeahng eyes, were more 
 eloquent than words. He knew she loved him ! Oh, 
 blessed knowledge, that was worth long years of loneli- 
 ness and sorrow, he knew she loved him ! Ay, fold 
 her to your heart, O noble and generous soul ! She 
 is yours thenceforward through time and eternity. 
 
 The band is playing that very waltz, — Le Desir^ 
 — and the rose-lights stream the same pink radiance 
 through the hall, and the great rooms within are all 
 abloom like a flower-garden with the brightest blossoms 
 of womanhood. 
 
 Under a window-awning two or three talkers stand, 
 looking in upon the brilHant scene. 
 
 " Who 's that with Mrs. Meyer? " one asks. 
 
 Drake, who knows everybody, answers, — 
 
 " That? Oh, that 's Professor E . Thought you 
 
 knew hiinP 
 
 " What ! Leeds's great gun? " 
 
 " Anybody's great gun. Professor E is one of 
 
 the somebodies.''^ 
 
 " What 's become of Leeds ? He ought to be here 
 to-night." 
 
 II 
 
1 62 MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 
 
 *' Oh, Leeds is off to Paris on some scientific mission. 
 Don't you read the papers ? " 
 
 " Not very carefully, I must confess. But you know 
 I Ve been away out of the reach of papers. So Leeds 
 is as popular as ever. How he did admire Mrs. Meyer ! 
 Seems to me he ought to have had her instead of Meyer. 
 Meyer's a good fellow, but you never hear anything 
 from him, — a commonplace sort of a person, while Mrs. 
 Meyer is really uncommon, the finest conversationalist 
 I know." 
 
 " Yes, of course Leeds ought to have had her. I 
 always said so. Leeds is just the man for her — con- 
 genial tastes, and all that sort of thing," Drake returned 
 triumphantly. 
 
 *' There you go, Drake, with your congenial tastes, 
 etc., and you are half wrong, as usual. Sometimes, 
 when both parties are similarly endowed, there is too 
 much of ' all that sort of thing ' ; and if they don't bore 
 each other they are sure to quarrel. That 's the way. 
 What a woman like Mrs. Meyer needs is appreciation, 
 and she 's got it. You don't know anything about 
 Meyer. Meyer is a man ! and that 's what not half 
 of us can say." And Matt Dunn, after relieving his 
 mind in this energetic manner, went in and joined 
 the dancers, while Drake went on with his theories, un- 
 convinced. So the world goes. 
 
 But still the band plays Ze Desir^ and a sweet voice 
 says to a gentleman, — 
 
 "Why don't you dance, Robert?" 
 
 " Because I am waiting for Mrs. Meyer, Kate. Will 
 she favor me?" and he put out his hand. And down 
 
MR. AND MRS. MEYER. 1 63 
 
 the elastic floor they joined the waltzers, and the soft 
 lace floated out its mazy clouds, and the sofl; hair flut- 
 tered its pennon of curls, and the sofl; hand lay closely 
 clasped in the larger hand. Almost the picture of 
 two years ago ; but the meaning changes with one of the 
 waltzers, — not one of the world's changes, but the heart's. 
 And still the band plays Le Desir. 
 
l64 THE CHARMER CHARMED, 
 
 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 I. 
 
 EMILY M'LEAN stepped from the coach to the 
 piazza of the Ocean House with a sigh. She 
 was tired, heated, and worn from her journey. This 
 was her own reasoning to account to herself for the 
 depressed feeling that assailed her. 
 
 Her veil hfted by the wind as she passed in, and dis- 
 closed to the three or four young men who sat three 
 feet away down the piazza a pale face, neither youthful 
 nor old, with pale-brown hair and exhausted-looking 
 brown eyes, from which all lustre seemed to have de- 
 parted. The hps, too, were pale, — just the faintest 
 pink to suggest a sometime color. 
 
 " Well, that is n't a very brilliant face, I must say," 
 observed one of the three. 
 
 " Not one to — " 
 
 *' To make a cavalier sigh, swear, or pray," remarked 
 another indifferently. 
 
 " I have seen plainer faces than that," wound up the 
 third thoughtfully. 
 
 " Oh, I dare say ! " replied the second speaker, smil- 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. 1 65 
 
 ing ; " but you did n't fall in love with it at first sight I 
 presume?" with a pleasant, conclusive air. 
 
 " I did, though." 
 
 The two listeners wheeled nearer. 
 
 "What, you mean it, Alayne? " 
 
 " Yes, I mean it." 
 
 " * All for love, and the world well lost,' " 
 
 hummed Lawrence King for comment. 
 
 " How did you gild the face ? Was it real gold-leaf? " 
 sneered Marchmont, knocking the ashes out of his meer- 
 schaum. 
 
 Alayne's honest, sweet eyes looked grave, reproachful. 
 
 " What 's the use of talking in that style to me, March ? 
 I might call it unkind if I chose ; for, cynical as you are, 
 you know I am not hypocritical or self-deceived. Did 
 you mean to make sport of me ? " 
 
 Marchmont's sallow cheek tinged with red a moment. 
 A moment more, and he reached over and handed his 
 pipe to Alayne. 
 
 " Alayne, you are a faithful dog," he said, '^ the only 
 true, unworldly, simple soul I know. You might have 
 lived in Arcadia. I spoke from habit, old fellow, so let 
 us smoke the pipe of peace. W^e '11 not quarrel over 
 the feminine. I like you better than any woman, Rob- 
 ert Alayne. There goes the Httle Queen Mab, King 
 Lawrence. Away with you, and see if you can't finish 
 up last night's flirtation before we have that game of 
 billiards. You were in too much of a hurry yesterday, 
 — no eyes or ears for anything but a hat v^^ith a blue 
 feather and a girl's giggle." 
 
1 66 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 " King Lawrence " rose, laughing, lifting his hat to a 
 small sylph in a white morning muslin, wearing on a 
 golden head a hat with a blue feather. 
 
 There came a swift smile and a blush into little Queen 
 Mab's face. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Lawrence, have you seen my sister ? Have 
 there been any arrivals? " in a breathless way. 
 
 Mr. Lawrence looked down with an tpris air into the 
 upturned face, and answered, all for effect, " There has 
 been an arrival, but I fancy not your sister." 
 
 " Oh, but you don't know Em ; we are not in the 
 least alike." 
 
 Lawrence bit his lip : was this innocence or affecta- 
 tion ? " Then why did you ask me, if I am not sup- 
 posed to know your sister, Miss Mabel?" laughing a 
 little. 
 
 " I asked you if there had been any arrivals. I for- 
 got at first you did n't know," pouting in a childish way, 
 which amused her companion still more. 
 
 " And I told you there had been one, and that I could 
 not fancy the lady your sister," impressively, watching 
 this girl's face curiously. 
 
 "Why, why?" impatiently. 
 
 He bent down a httle nearer to the girl-face, and 
 murmured a soft, subtile compliment of comparison with 
 as reverent an air as if he were approaching a patron 
 saint. 
 
 His hearer flushed a tender rose. If Lawrence King 
 had been less overlaid by the false, worldly estimates he 
 prided himself upon he would have known what that 
 blush meant. As it was, he did her injustice, as such 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED, 16/ 
 
 men will. But a moment again, and she said, "It 
 could not have been Em ; Em is lovely." 
 
 They walked up and down the piazza, he bending 
 toward her with that air of reverent emotion in which 
 he excelled, and which made his name famous among 
 women as a preux chevalier ; she listening, with down- 
 cast eyes and changing color, or replying with a pretty 
 air of mock assurance. 
 
 " Look at Lawrence now, will you ? " growled March- 
 mont. " Was there ever such a hypocrite ? That girl 
 thinks he is in earnest. So did Miss Eliza Ripley last 
 month ; and so did Caroline Smythe last night. Look 
 at him ! Why don't that little thing's rightful guardians, 
 if she 's got any, come and carry her off ? That 's the 
 way these people go on, — trusting a girl to such noo- 
 dles as the Windlows ! " 
 
 " You don't think King in earnest? " 
 
 " Alayne, you are a simple sort of a fellow, but you 
 have got common sense. You don't believe Lawrence 
 King's airs, do you? " 
 
 Alayne laughed. " Well, I don't." 
 
 But here he stopped. A lady wished to pass out. 
 He had somehow, in his talk, swung his chair from its 
 first limit an angle aside. He barred the doorway. He 
 rose, bowing and begging " your pardon," — not like 
 Lawrence King, who made even " your pardon " sound 
 a grace, but with a modest reality of concern and a half- 
 shy manner. The lady — the very one whose pale face 
 just now called out their comment, the new arrival — 
 bent her head for acknowledgment and smiled. Then 
 a voice said, " Thank you ! " and she stepped out. 
 
168 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 " Em, it is you." 
 
 And Mabel M'Lean left Lawrence King to run to her 
 sister. Mr. King was for running off too, chagrined at 
 his blunder; but Mabel called him, and introduced 
 him with an air that plainly and quite triumphantly 
 said, — 
 
 "There, you see, you were mistaken. She is lovely." 
 
 A fresh toilet and a smile had changed Miss M'Lean. 
 But she was n't yet a beauty. The strange eyes observ- 
 ing her now did not see any loveliness. " A delicate per- 
 son," that was all even Alayne thought, who liked plain 
 women well enough to fall in love with them at first 
 sight. 
 
 Mabel stood before her, holding the skirt of her dress 
 as if she feared her escaping, looking as if she would 
 like to .hold by the skirt of Mr. King's coat, too, in the 
 quick, nervous way in which she continually addressed 
 him. But Mr. King had no intention of escaping. He 
 liked the quick, appealing glance. He liked the beau- 
 tiful, peach-bloom blush. He liked the eager, excited 
 manner, because it was all for him, because he knew 
 that he evoked it just as a skilful player evokes new 
 strains and chords upon his instrument. 
 
 Farther down Alayne and Marchmont observed this 
 triad. They saw at first the utter absorption of the 
 elder in the younger. Her face bloomed, her eyes 
 grew bright, her smile came frequent and sweet. They 
 thought her not so plain after all. But presendy they 
 saw a change. The bloom and sweetness, the light and 
 life, in some unseen moment had died away. Some- 
 thing in their stead, cold and pale as a snow-wreath. 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED, 1 69 
 
 had come, and the eyes that just now were tender with 
 expression were chill with hauteur. 
 
 Whatever it was, the influence was as subtile as the 
 change. King, five minutes since, basked in sunshine, 
 seeing only the brilliant beauty of Mabel M'Lean 
 blooming for his pleasure, observant only of the sister 
 as a naturally courteous man would be of any woman, 
 and she, the background of his picture. Suddenly he 
 felt uncomfortable, distrait. The bright face of Mabel 
 was still bright, still hanging out its most alluring col- 
 ors. Still she wanted him. What was it then ? Sud- 
 denly he had forgotten his trick of speech, of smile, his 
 devoted air. A feehng of self-consciousness was stealing 
 over him, a little sense of shame, as if he were making 
 himself ridiculous. He drew himself up, and bent again 
 to make adieux, when a clear voice addressed him in 
 some social form of commonplace, a voice clear and 
 distant in its tone of reserve. For the first time he 
 felt the presence of Emily M'Lean. 
 
 He stopped, lifted his hat from his head, and looked 
 at her as she went down the piazza beside her sister. 
 
 Marchmont, seeing all, laughed in triumph. 
 
 " Good ! " he muttered. " The sheep-dog has come. 
 She 's a match for even you, King Lawrence." 
 
 This was not addressed to the young man in ques- 
 tion, for he had joined already a cluster of ladies, and 
 was now the centre of their regard. 
 
 That night the Windlows, No. 3 or 4, one of the 
 many branches who did not stay at the Ocean, but had 
 their cottage down the avenue, gave a small party. The 
 Ocean Windlows and their friends were bidden. March- 
 
170 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 mont, King, and Alayne were three of the friends. They 
 went in together, and together were presented to Miss 
 M'Lean. 
 
 " I have had the honor of meeting Miss M'Lean 
 before." And Lawrence King smiled, with something 
 defying and audacious in his eye. It leaped forth when 
 he said directly, "And your sister? I do not see her. 
 I hope she is to be here. We should miss too much 
 without her." 
 
 A flush rose to Miss McLean's temples. A sense of 
 wounded pride, of invaded dignity, gleamed in her 
 expression. In a second she saw his ground. She saw 
 herself regarded as the " sheep-dog," a duenna to be 
 defied. What was to be her ground? She knew she 
 had read this man correctly. She knew what he was 
 doing as well as Wilkie Marchmont ; and she knew her 
 sister better than either. But now she let the flush die 
 away, and answered quietly, — 
 
 " Mabel is in the garden with her cousin. She will 
 be with us directly." 
 
 And directly she came, while King quoted, — 
 
 " The red rose cries, ' She is near, she is near ; ' 
 And the white rose weeps, * She is late.' " 
 
 His face, dark, handsome, and exultant in some 
 strangely defiant way unusual to his accustomed mood, 
 seemed to express still more. He looked as if he 
 thought exultantly, — 
 
 " She is coming, my dove, my dear." 
 She came straight to her sister, blushing vehemently 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. 171 
 
 as she saw her companion, and deeper yet as he bent 
 and murmured, " What did you go into the garden for ? 
 to shine out 
 
 " * To the flowers and be their sun ' ? " 
 
 And a moment later, Emily M'Lean had the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing this gallant gay Lothario moving down 
 the room beside her young sister, more epris than ever 
 in his manner. 
 
 She was sitting alone a while later, and they passed, 
 too closely occupied with each other to notice her ob- 
 servation. Some one else was observant too, — some 
 one who did not know of Miss M/Lean's proximity. 
 And as they passed, King drooping gracefully to the 
 little figure chnging to his side, this some one half-sung, 
 half-said, with deep significance, 
 
 " ' Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung.' " 
 
 Some one else said, " What are you humming that 
 lovely child-song here for?" 
 
 *' For ? For Lawrence King. Don't you think it fits ? 
 Look at him." 
 
 " Oh, you think that of him ? The young lady seems 
 to understand it, however." 
 
 " She ? She is seventeen. He is thirty. That is 
 his pastime." 
 
 They talked of other things, but Emily M'Lean heard 
 no more. Only that line, so significantly applied, — 
 
 *' Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung," 
 
 haunted her. 
 
 She was sitting by some tall tropical plants, and as she 
 
172 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 fell into thought she drew back behind the leafy covert, 
 looking out, and making conclusion, conviction doubly 
 sure, as she still saw those two sauntering past, ' the 
 dark, exultant face bending above the younger and 
 fairer. 
 
 At last she rose from her observation, came out of 
 her brown study, speaking unconsciously to herself 
 aloud, — 
 
 " I have the power, and I will use it." 
 
 And there is one thing to be said just here. Emily 
 M'Lean was one of those persons, rare in this world, 
 who knew herself, her power, and her weakness ; conse- 
 quently she never made arrogant estimates. Coming 
 out of her brown study, there was color on her cheek, 
 and a sparkle in her eyes ; the power she had invoked 
 from some inner depths of that quiet, controlled nature 
 breathed subtly out. Half-way across the room the 
 cynic Marchmont met and joined her. They walked 
 through the rooms, or in the softly lighted hall, engaged 
 in never-flagging conversation. They sat down together 
 and Alayne joined them. The talk became more dif- 
 fusive, but animated. By and by, Eastman, the sculp- 
 tor, formed one of the group, and then that finest talker 
 of all, Landler. 
 
 Still walking up and down, Lawrence King regarded 
 this group with curiosity. At last, out of curiosity, he 
 too, with pretty Mabel still on his arm, drew into the 
 circle to find the fascination. Where was it? What 
 was it? He looked at Miss M'Lean. She seemed to 
 be talking little. Now and then a low-toned word to 
 one and another, — a brief, quiet phrase, — but it claimed 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. 1 73 
 
 attention, and entered into the general tone. But the 
 fawn-colored silk she wore was not quieter and softer 
 than the hue of her eyes. 
 
 These eyes, that so lately had turned stone-cold 
 glances upon him, glances of suspicion and severity, 
 now beamed with gentleness. There was warmth and 
 sweetness in her face, and her aspect was cordial. He 
 wondered if she would change as suddenly from warmth 
 to cold for him. He addressed her. She answered him 
 with kind indifference. He entered into the conversa- 
 tion, which was interesting to him, because it was upon 
 Ruskin, and he admired and believed in Ruskin. And 
 here he met nothing but the soft, kind manner, as before. 
 Lawrence King knew a lady when he " saw her. He 
 knew he saw one now, and he felt half ashamed of his 
 defiant ground. So the night ended with a new sensa- 
 tion for this young gentleman, — a sense of humiliation. 
 It was good for him. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung." 
 
 Emily M'Lean woke from her sleep with that line 
 singing in her head, — that line which the sweetest of 
 poets never thought to be so applied. She awoke with 
 a shiver and a sigh. She thought of her depression as 
 she arrived. She was not given to nervous fancies, but 
 she asked herself if it were not a presentiment. 
 
 Mabel, on the contrary, woke up to gayest anticipa- 
 tions. The day was set to music for her. A drive 
 
1/4 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 with the Windlows to the glen, with Lawrence King for 
 vis-a-vis, and in the afternoon a seat beside him in his 
 own beach-wagon, — the Windlows again making it 
 propriety. She let this brilliant plan out to her sister 
 while she was dressing. 
 
 " And in the evening?" coolly asked Emily. 
 
 " Oh, the band plays here to-night." 
 
 Emily knew the evening would be spent like the day, 
 the charmer at her side, while the band breathed of 
 Mendelssohn, and the soft summer night wooed to the 
 long, cool ranges of piazza. She said nothing, however, 
 offered no suspicious advice or opposition, but thought, 
 " I must wait until to-night ; then you or I, Lawrence 
 King." 
 
 She waited until night. She saw Mabel flutter before 
 the glass for half an hour between the merits of a Tudor 
 hat with a blue feather, and a drooping brim with 
 sprays of meadow-grass, ere she went out upon her 
 drive. She saw her come back, her eyes like dark fires, 
 her cheeks a rosy flame, and exclaiming enthusiasti- 
 cally and innocently that she had had a splendid day. 
 
 All Emily M'Lean could think of was, — 
 
 " Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung." 
 
 That night she took as much pains with her toilet as 
 Mabel, though she knew her strength did not lie there. 
 It helped her to express herself, however. 
 
 This toilet is worth describing. It was a cool, sea- 
 shore night, and she changed her vapory muslin for a 
 silk. The hue was pearl-gray, an opaline lustre soften- 
 ing the plain, smooth surface. There was a flowering 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. 1 75 
 
 of fine lace at the throat, and through the slashed sleeve 
 it drifted out and bordered the slender wrist. Around 
 her brown head, whose outline was lovely from where 
 the hair waved in a rippling curve from parting to ear, 
 she had wound three times, following the natural line, a 
 fine thread-chain of seed-pearl. And a pearl held the 
 lace at her throat, large and transparent in its silver 
 socket, another shone softly upon almost as white a fin- 
 ger, and a cluster of them beamed and shook clear rays 
 of light near the wrist-border of lace. It was the dress 
 of a lady, and to any thoughtful observer it would at 
 once have suggested the wearer's character. It ex- 
 pressed much in Emily M'Lean, both of mood and 
 temperament. 
 
 Mabel was too actual a beauty to be made or marred 
 by what she wore. She offered a striking contrast that 
 night to her sister, with her gay colors, her ruffles, and 
 general air of bizarre piquancy which she could well 
 afford. 
 
 They went down together, a contrast, but not one to 
 make either lose. 
 
 And there, listening to the music already, were the 
 three, — Alayne, Marchmont, and King. 
 
 Marchmont, who had a cynical way of treating women 
 either brusquely or disdainfully, anticipated the rest by 
 wheeling a chair for Miss M'Lean, and seating himself 
 beside her. There was neither brusquerie nor disdain 
 in his manner, but a grave respect. His friends stared, 
 but he seated himself composedly and began talking 
 to her. He half frowned when Landler came up 
 and brought forth the Ruskin topic again. King, 
 
176 THE CHARMER CHARMED, 
 
 perhaps, was tired of Ruskin, or of the number. It 
 was one of his theories that he could only talk with 
 one ; and he proved it by sauntering off with little 
 Queen Mab. 
 
 Marchmont saw his companion's face change at this. 
 Her eyes wandered, following her sister. They returned 
 to him, full of meaning, of mule appeal. Strange, of 
 all men, she should look to him, but her instincts were 
 true. Marchmont had the power where others only 
 had the will to do sometimes. He had both now. Her 
 look, in that involuntary glance, said : " Take me away 
 from these people ; let me go to my sister." 
 
 He rose, made some remark, she never knew what, 
 and gave her his arm. She thanked him with another 
 glance, and then her face brightened. 
 
 V Lawrence King, standing beating time with a little 
 fan, and saying soft nothings, which in his tone might 
 mean everything, was suddenly surprised by a clear, 
 even voice, full of conscious strength, but very sweet, 
 and a little arch, saying, — 
 
 " Mr. King, if I ask you to give my sister up to Mr. 
 Marchmont, whom I wish to tell her about a friend of 
 ours he has met abroad (Martin Wilman, Mabel), will 
 you give me your attendance in the interval? " 
 
 A glance at Marchmont, but it was not needed. He 
 understood. 
 
 In three minutes, before King knew what he was 
 about, Mabel was going down the room with Wilkie 
 Marchmont, and her sister stood in her stead. 
 
 Was he angry ? For he too understood. He thought 
 he was. But immediately Emily M'Lean began talking. 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. IJJ 
 
 What was it she talked of? Nothing beyond what 
 anybody might have said at such a time and place, — 
 the season there, the climate, and the people ; but 
 with all her words there was a sweet deep core of 
 thought perceptible. There was the charm of interest 
 in what she said, too, — old and usual topics enough, but 
 freshened at her touch. 
 
 He found himself listening, replying. He found 
 himself feeling a sense of shame, of folly. He dimly 
 felt that he might have been acting a little absurdly, 
 that he might have been playing with a little school- 
 girl, as this woman talked. This woman? There was 
 the difference. In her presence his gay gallantry had 
 lost its availability. It was out of place. He had 
 wasted his time so long upon these exterior things, that, 
 thrown aside from them, he felt awkward. Marvel of 
 marvels ! He, the elegant, the preux chevalier. 
 
 But as she talked he found that other self of his, the 
 man without the conscious graces and hypocrisies. 
 Once more in his life he grew simple and outspoken, 
 such as he might, perhaps, be to Robert Alayne, on 
 occasions. Then the talk grew brilliant, a little merry. 
 In all she was so natural, yet so self-poised, he followed 
 her lead, natural himself. 
 
 Mabel, meanwhile, handed over to her heie ?toir, that 
 gruff dragon Wilkie Marchmont, whom she never knew 
 how to meet, and was so desperately afraid of — Mabel, 
 poor child ! literally trembled in her small shoes. What 
 had this huge, black-bearded woman-hater, this giant, 
 to tell her of Martin Wilman ? She was a little sore at 
 heart, too, a little disappointed. Em had interrupted 
 
 12 
 
1/8 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 such a nice conversation. Perhaps Wilkie Marchmont 
 took pity on this tiny Queen Mab, whom he had looked 
 upon half contemptuously twenty-four hours ago. Per- 
 haps he felt in duty bound to carry out satisfactorily 
 the plan laid before him. However it might be, he 
 astonished Mabel M'Lean by talking in the most ener- 
 getic way about Martin Wilman, whom he had met in 
 Italy. Told her how he had lived at Rome, about 
 their artist reunions, their Campagna strolls, and the 
 little peasant, Wilman had painted for her likeness to 
 somebody at home, — a picture everybody admired, 
 and that a prince wanted to buy, but which Martin 
 would n't sell. It was a girl with yellow hair, in place 
 of the Italian's darker locks; but it had her violet 
 eyes, and he called it Mabelle, looking significantly at 
 Queen Mab. By this time Mabel was interested, and 
 Marchmont supremely bored. All the time he was 
 thinking, — 
 
 " Miss M' Lean's mind must be rapid in its deduc- 
 tions to lay this trap and bait it with such an appetizing 
 bit of cheese as Master Wilman, from my three or four 
 sentences about him last night." 
 
 Then he raged inwardly over what he had under- 
 taken. Oh, agony of Boredom ! when should he be 
 released ? 
 
 "I found a rational being a while ago," he mur- 
 mured, under his breath, "and she slips through my 
 fingers for this small doll." 
 
 At this climax he abandoned his post to Alayne, 
 whom he hailed as a deliverer, and by and by found 
 himself in the vicinity of his '' rational being." 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. 179 
 
 But here was a dilemma : Lawrence King had no idea 
 of relinquishing. The less so as he saw Marchmont's 
 desire. 
 
 To have what Marchmont wanted ! It was a posi- 
 tion of possession which elated him with surprise and 
 ambition. Perhaps it raised the value of his position 
 too. At all events, his spirits rose, and he forgot how 
 he had been placed where he was, forgot Mabel 
 M'Lean, for the time at least, and triumphantly carried 
 the day, or the night, from Marchmont, the cynic and 
 the autocrat. 
 
 And Mabel, that night in her chamber, as she stood 
 pulling out the Httle gold combs from her hair, looked 
 languid and a little wan. Emily noted this, but wisely 
 held her peace. 
 
 Presently an attempt at great carelessness, and the 
 child says, — 
 
 " I thought you and Mr. King would get on nicely 
 together, Em. Don't you like him very much? " 
 
 " I don't know him very much," answered Em, with 
 better feigning than her sister. " He is an admirer of 
 yours, however, I plainly see, dear. I hope I shall 
 like him very much if you wish it." 
 
 " Oh dear, no," and all the yellow hair was pulled 
 into great snarls about the flushing face, and the Httle 
 hands were trembling. " Oh dear, no ; he is only a 
 friend, — like an elder brother, you see. He is older 
 than I, and tells me I remind him of his sister, and 
 that I must consider him as my most devoted brother. 
 It is very nice : makes me feel so much at home with him." 
 
 So that was the guise this preiix chevalier took, 
 
l80 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 these the Platonic theories he urged, to give himself 
 liberty to roam. 
 
 *' Selfish ! " inaudibly ejaculated Miss M'Lean, as she 
 made these conclusions. Sleeping upon it did not alter 
 her opinion, and all the following days proved her con- 
 clusions — and her power. 
 
 III. 
 
 Straight from the dining-hall went Lawrence King 
 to the parlor. There, with the Windlows and their 
 friends, he found what he sought ; and it was not many 
 minutes before he was standing before Mabel M'Lean, 
 talking with emprtsse7nent. Then, breaking in upon this 
 came her sister, and Lawrence King was satisfied. 
 Apart stood Marchmont, savagely biting the end of his 
 mustache, and looking out of lowering brows at the 
 preiix chevalier. Kow many times had just this thing 
 happened ? Just when he had commenced a sensible 
 conversation with Miss M'Lean, up starts that puppy 
 of a King, and by stratagem wiles her away. It was 
 very true; day after day had "this thing" happened. 
 What did it mean? Was Lawrence King for once 
 modest of his own attraction, and, doubting it, did he 
 resort to stratagem, or was it a little touch of malice to 
 foil the cynic, the sometime autocrat ? What did Law- 
 rence King care for so plain a person as Miss M'Lean, 
 when the first beauties of a season were ready to smile 
 at his approach ? It must have been the latter of these 
 two propositions then. And yet how long his malice 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED, l8l 
 
 held ! How absorbed he grew as he listened or talked ! 
 There was stratagem at least of some sort, and Emily 
 M'Lean herself was the last to see it. But she did see 
 it, though, at last. She saw it when she suddenly, one 
 day, aroused to the fact that Lawrence King was using 
 her sister as a lure, that he was more than content when 
 it proved successful, and transferred her from his side. 
 She had not meant to do quite so much. She had put 
 herself up as a shield. She had set herself as a barrier, 
 conscious of a power that, actively employed, would 
 accomplish her desire. She only desired to aver-t. 
 
 How much else had she accomplished? Suddenly 
 brought to suspicion. Miss M'Lean let this wily gentle- 
 man alone ; that is, when he approached her sister, she 
 did not interrupt : she waited, apparently deeply ab- 
 sorbed with the cynic. In vain he " charmed and 
 sung." She came not near him. Once, twice, thrice 
 he tried this. When he found that it was unsuccessful, — 
 as that savage Marchmont said, " played out," — he came 
 over and disputed the field in open, resolute warfare. 
 This was better than the other. Marchmont himself 
 gave him credit for manly courage. Miss M'Lean, too, 
 saw him in stouter guise. 
 
 But Mabel ? Yes, the play was played out, the fine 
 theories no longer heeded. No longer needed Law- 
 rence King " a sister." 
 
 " Why does Lawrence King follow up Miss McLean so 
 
 persistently ? She is n't a beauty or a belle, like her sister, 
 
 though Marchmont and his friends do pay her homage," 
 
 asked an observer of the somebody who had quoted, — 
 
 *' Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung." 
 
1 82 THE CHARMER CHARMED, 
 
 " Perhaps because Marchmont and his friends follow 
 her. It would be like Lawrence King to want what 
 other people value." 
 
 " The little M'Lean seems to have consoled herself 
 for his neglect." 
 
 *' Alayne's worth two of him ; I don't wonder." 
 
 " Alayne never looked at a pretty woman before." 
 
 The other laughed. 
 
 " No ; that is the reason why a pretty woman is 
 pleased with him. She thinks he must see something 
 beyond her beauty, thiat everybody can see." 
 
 So they were discussed. Those who discussed them 
 looked to see Lawrence King flag in his new pursuit 
 and turn to another. But no ; the days went by. A 
 new face appeared upon the scene, — beauty and fortune 
 and fashion, all in one. Still he clave to the plainer, 
 with neither fortune nor fashion. At first Lawrence 
 King says to himself, " Why do I Hke the society of 
 this Miss M'Lean? Is it that she makes me use all my 
 energies of mind, — makes me think ? Or am I emu- 
 lous of success where Wilkie Marchmont thinks it worth 
 while to show esteem? What is it? I don't want to 
 flirt with Emily M'Lean. I never think of saying a fine 
 thing to her ; but in her presence I am surprised into a 
 higher estimate of my capabilities than I feel with oth- 
 ers. Always at my best, — is that it ? And yet I am a 
 more modest man with her. She does not flatter me 
 with smiles or blushes. What is it?" One day he 
 found out the secret. He carried it with him for days, 
 for weeks, until the autumn came, and the time for the 
 breaking up of all this summer campaigning. 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED, 1 83, 
 
 It was a brilliant morning, just at the last of Septem- 
 ber, and Lawrence King came in from a solitary walk 
 to find a solitary occupant of the piazza. It was Emily 
 M'Lean. She was walking up and down in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 He looked at her as she came toward him. Her 
 dress was of the hue of late violets, and she had stuck 
 carelessly in her bosom somebody's morning offering, 
 — a bunch of cardinals. " How lovely she is ! " he 
 thought. Then flashed across him the memory of a 
 morning when she had come up that same piazza a 
 stranger, and their comments about her. He under- 
 stood now what little Queen Mab had meant when she 
 said, " It could n't have been Em ; Em is lovely." 
 There was neither bloom nor regularity of outline, he 
 confessed ; but a soft, subtile charm of presence, a 
 grace of motion, of expression, that you felt was the 
 expression of a royal womanhood. Lawrence King 
 felt it now as he went to meet her. He joined her, — 
 not fluent, as usual, but silent, distrait. What was on 
 his mind ? In this royal presence did he feel the weight 
 of his misdoing? Did he feel that he had sinned 
 against her and hers? And was he about to make 
 confession ? 
 
 He made confession, but not for absolution. He 
 confessed, not of penitence, but of passion. He loved 
 her. She was the only woman in the world to him. 
 And telling her so, he asked her to marry him. 
 
 Remembering litde Queen Mab, you think that now 
 was Emily M'Lean's hour of just retribution ; that she 
 turned upon him with scorn and withering reproach ; 
 
1 84 "^HE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 that her eyes flashed, that her cheek flamed, and that 
 she asked hhn *' how he dared ? " etc. No; this was 
 not Emily M'Lean's way^. She must have had some 
 deeper test of nature than most persons, some well- 
 spring of tenderness for every human being. 
 
 She waited before she replied, looking out toward the 
 sea, with her somewhat sad face growing sadder as she- 
 pondered. At length she said gravely, — 
 
 " I have been waiting for words that will most kindly 
 express what I wish to say — " 
 
 " No, no ! " he interrupted vehemently, putting away, 
 as it were, the rejection he anticipated with a gesture of 
 his hand. 
 
 " I am sorry," she went on, " to give any one so 
 much pain. I had not looked for this end, you may be 
 sure ;«but I cannot marry you, Mr. King." 
 
 He caught eagerly at these last words. She had not 
 said, " I do not love you." Perhaps — and with ardor 
 he urged his suit. He would wait. And as a special 
 claim he said, — 
 
 *' I have never loved a woman before. Miss M'Lean." 
 
 She looked at him a moment before she replied, — 
 
 " I should know that. To have loved, makes us ten- 
 der of others, fearful of inflicting suffering. I knew it 
 when you amused yourself with my little sister, Mr. King." 
 
 His face changed. " Ah, you will judge me hardly 
 there, but consider. I met your sister as the young 
 beauty of the season. She received my attentions, my 
 society, in the manner of all young belles. She was 
 arch, gay, and piquante — some might have said co- 
 quettish. I think we understood each other." 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. 1 85 
 
 *' Mr. King, my sister is seventeen. You can judge 
 how much chance she has had for judging the world, 
 and to understand men of society Hke yourself. Last 
 year she left school. In six months she finds herself 
 in the midst of fine people, who, instead of speaking to 
 her with simple sincerity, meet her with subtile com- 
 pliment of word and manner. Her own manner, which 
 you suggest as coquettish, is perfectly unlearned, — the 
 mere natural result of a young and imaginative mind. 
 You are mistaken if you suppose she understood you, 
 Mr. King. I will tell you frankly, — because I think it 
 is better for her dignity and for your experience to know, 
 — that when my sister blushed at your name when 
 alone with me, it was not for vanity. It is a grave and 
 solemn thing to stir the conscious depths of a young 
 girl's heart ; for though she may outwardly accept any 
 version of Platonism which those older and wiser in 
 the world's way may suggest, it is only outwardly. 
 The sensibility of her own nature contradicts such 
 theories." 
 
 A vivid color suffused her listener's face as she spoke. 
 He remembered himself in this suggestion. How un- 
 worthy at this moment of real feeling, did his own past 
 conduct appear ! In this clear and noble presence how 
 wasted seemed his former days ! 
 
 " At least," he said, after a short pause, " I have not 
 permanently disturbed your sister's heart. Alayne — " 
 
 " Mr. King, you have taught Mabel her first lesson of 
 unbelief. She has learned from you the meaning of 
 ^ trifling.' It was a shock which might have proved fatal 
 to her nature, making her the heartless, unbelieving 
 
1 86 THE CHARMER CHARMED. 
 
 coquette which you prematurely presumed her to be ; 
 but in the reaction Mr. Alayne's simple truth of charac- 
 ter convinced her that her ideal was not altogether illu- 
 sive. I am happy to say, Mr. King, that she accepted 
 Robert Alayne last night. I am sure you will be glad 
 to know this." 
 
 " I am sincerely glad.- I hope you will believe me to 
 this extent. But — but if you would but allow me to 
 convince you too, that my Hfe may not be so far apart 
 from yours, that I may at some time — " 
 
 *' Pardon me, Mr. King, for what I am going to say ; 
 but love does not grow by waiting bet^veen two such 
 lives as yours and mine. You are thirty ; I am twenty- 
 six. To you — forgive me if I seem harsh — life has 
 been a play, an amusement, which often palled upon 
 you. Do not think I arrogate anything to myself; but 
 we are unfit for each other. You have it in your power 
 to do much that is fine and splendid ; but your place 
 is in the world, mine is not." 
 
 *' And you will not — " 
 
 " I cannot." She held out her hand. " Will you for- 
 give me for what I have said ? Trust me that I did not 
 say it easily or unkindly." 
 
 He took the h^nd, held it a moment, then said in a 
 low voice, — 
 
 " I am glad to have known you, Emily M'Lean. I 
 shall never forget you." 
 
 He never did. His place was in the world, as she 
 had said. He was always where life ran in fashionable 
 circles ; but no one ever quoted for him after this, — 
 
 *' Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung." 
 
THE CHARMER CHARMED. 1 8/ 
 
 The charmer was charmed into finer charming. He 
 never forgot her nor the lesson that she taught him. 
 And Marchmont, — Marchmojit, the cynic and the 
 autocrat. In early Hfe he had learned the lesson of 
 distrust that came so near poisoning the hfe of little 
 Queen Mab. He learned it from a woman ; therefore 
 he hated women, therefore he earned the title of cynic 
 and autocrat. Emily M'Lean revealed to him his long 
 mistake, proved to him 
 
 " How divine a thing a woman can be made." 
 
 And when he said, " I love you, Emily M'Lean," she 
 who had so clearly perceived the character of another, 
 recognized as well the real goodness that lay beneath 
 the rough mask of cynicism. 
 
 "And Marchmont wins," says the shrewd observer, 
 who has watched the summer's campaign. 
 
 And Marchmont wins. 
 
1 88 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 AFTER .FIVE YEARS. 
 
 THERE were four of us, all girls — Kate, Liz, 
 Marian, and Lucy. I was Kate, and the eldest, 
 and at this time eighteen. Then came the others, as I 
 have placed them, with two years between each. 
 
 Our parents dying when we were very young, Grand- 
 mother Peyton, my father's mother, had given us a 
 home. Her own means were slender, and my father 
 left but a trifle for us. But she was an energetic woman, 
 wise and shrewd in her calculations, and under her 
 management we were well educated, and comfortably, 
 if not luxuriously, cared for in other directions. 
 
 It was a large old house that we lived in, the oldest in 
 Exham, known as ■ " the old Gaylord House," — Gay- 
 lord being the family name of my grandmother. It was 
 a quaint, rambling structure, built of brick, which in all 
 these many years, — and the house had been standing 
 above a century, — had never received a coat of paint, 
 and certainly for the last half of the century it had sus- 
 tained few repairs. The windows were high and nar- 
 row, the rooms wainscoted with oak or walnut, and part 
 of the floors were laid in Flemish tiles, while the mantel- 
 pieces vvere so tall that I could scarcely reach the 
 shelves even after I was fully grown. These, too, were 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 1 89 
 
 done in tiles, — a dull gray and white pottery, with 
 designs of impossible saints, or ungraceful Holland 
 figures, with fat, stolid faces and ample skirts. The 
 furniture harmonized with this ancient workmanship : 
 straight, high-backed chairs, covered with dark, worn 
 leather, and studded with clumsy brass nails ; tables, 
 black with age ; and faded red damask hangings at the 
 parlor windows, and depending from the four high posts 
 of the great bed in the guest-chamber. 
 
 It was quite as much a matter of taste as of economy 
 that caused my grandmother to keep on in this ancient 
 way without change. She had such respect for the 
 past, and disdained the fashions of the present day so 
 strongly, that I have often marvelled that she allowed us 
 to become instructed in many of the branches which 
 were unknown in her time. However, she was a shrewd 
 woman, and possibly had recognized the truth that it is 
 not wise to put yourself at odds with the age in which 
 you live. At all events, she did not permit us to be igno- 
 rant of whatever was suited to us that the time had to 
 teach. She even allowed me to have a piano in place 
 of the old harpsichord, because I early evinced a fond- 
 ness and aptitude for music. But it was placed in a 
 far-away room which we girls used for a sort of study 
 and library, and she never asked me to play for her, 
 though she knew that I was said to be remarkably pro- 
 ficient. Sometimes of nights, though, I would hear a 
 faint, quavering cluster of chords, which to my ear had 
 a cracked, stringy sound, and with it a quavering voice 
 would ascend and wander through the house like a wail 
 from the past. It was my grandmother at her harpsi- 
 
1 90 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 chord. Thus she made a protest, as it were, to herself, 
 against all innovation by stanchest fidelity to her time. 
 
 When I look back upon this old house, with its great 
 s]3ace, its sweet, neglected garden, where I strayed and 
 studied, — the life so free from care, so peaceful if mo- 
 notonous, — the vision seems Arcadian and full of 
 serene beauty. Yet those were not happy days to me, 
 and I recognize to the full the causes of my discontent 
 as well at this moment as I did when they were fresh 
 and poignant. 
 
 With all the care, the strict and watchful scrutiny 
 which was given to our needs and comfort, I soon felt 
 that it was more the result of conscientious motives of 
 duty than of love and interest. My grandmother was a 
 just woman, not an affectionate one ; proud also, with 
 a pride that never made boasts, she must educate those 
 who bore the name of Peyton in a manner befitting 
 their race. She was not hard, but cold and ambitious, 
 with the keen, scheming brain of a man, not the heart of 
 a woman. If one of us had been a boy her ambition 
 might have had room to expend itself, and doubtless 
 her nature would have been more genial in its reaction, 
 but, pent up with no outlet, she fed upon herself, as it 
 were, in a lonely, severe, and silent way, which sensibly 
 affected the atmosphere of the house, and hindered us 
 then from recognizing how really self-sacrificing she 
 was. For by taking the charge of four children she 
 had been obliged to forego all the luxuries of her 
 former life. Yet we were never reminded of this in 
 that querulous, half-taunting manner in which many 
 people indulge. 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 19I 
 
 But very early we were taught the value of money, 
 not in a sordid, vulgar way, but in an exact, practical 
 method of " account-keeping." Almost the first thing 
 I remember after coming to my grandmother's house, 
 was the possession of a little book in the form of a 
 diary, wherein I was taught to put down every item of 
 clothing which was purchased for me, from a gown to a 
 shoe-string. In this manner it was that I learned the 
 various prices of different qualities of fabrics, and very 
 soon found that it was a matter of necessity that I 
 should have only the simplest and cheapest. Then, 
 too, I was often required to assist my grandmother in 
 making up her weekly household accounts, so that I 
 realized also how much my daily bread and butter cost. 
 And often, in contemplating a purchase, I have heard 
 her compare and calculate some slight difference of 
 pennies, in her calm, grave way, which impressed me 
 forcibly even then. For when this began I was only 
 ten years old, and with the morbid perception of an im- 
 aginative nature I saw too ' that it was not meanness 
 that caused my grandmother to take this course with 
 us. But I did not quite understand it until one day 
 Judith, our one servant, — a woman who had grown 
 middle-aged in my grandmother's service, and so was 
 more familiar with her than any one, — said, in a low 
 tone, in my presence, as she glanced from the china she 
 was dusting to the little book I was poring over, — 
 
 "What's the good. Mis' Peyton, o' her doin' that? 
 Such a young one." 
 
 Her mistress answered in a louder key, cool and 
 tranquil, — 
 
192 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 " Because we are poor, Judith ; and unless she mar- 
 ries prosperously her means will be very narrow, and it 
 is my duty to teach her how to meet her lot." 
 
 Judith went on dusting her china, and I went on with 
 my little line of figures, wiser than I was ten minutes 
 before. But though I understood this explanation, and 
 pondered upon it in my precocious way, I did not un- 
 derstand until long after what Judith meant that night. 
 When I asked her for a bun with my glass of rhilk, she 
 gave me two large ones, mumbling out as she did so, 
 " Yes, for the Lord's sake, eat without counting 'em up. 
 It '11 choke if you do, 'fore long." 
 
 No, I did not understand good old Judith until long 
 after — years after; then it came to me. Judith was 
 wise in her way ; but it was a heart-knowledge, so went ' 
 deeper than that of her mistress. She foresaw, with her 
 finer instinct of tenderness, how this constant weighing 
 and measuring and counting of costs at every turn, 
 would be likely to appall a child's immature mind with 
 the ^eary cost of outward Ufe ; how, in " counting 'em 
 up," it would come to " choke 'fore long." It came 
 soon enough. 
 
 I went through my childhood with a vague sense of 
 anxiety, — a boding fear that some mistake or miscalcu- 
 lation would condemn us to penury. Somewhere con- 
 tinually lurked the shadow of possible want. As I grew 
 into girlhood I became influenced by other emotions, 
 but I did not lose my shadow. It affected me differ- 
 ently, however, than in earlier days. As my physique 
 matured and my mind expanded, my warm and vehe- 
 ment temper made me impatient of this constant cafe. 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 1 93 
 
 I well remember the prophetic words which I uttered 
 out of this impatience on my eighteenth birthday. I 
 had been invited to my first grand party, and my 
 grandmother had accepted the invitation for me. Glad 
 at first, I was heartily sorry in the three days of prepa- 
 ration, so grievously disappointed was I in the matter 
 of dress, and so worried by the close calculation, and 
 cutting off of home articles, by the necessary gloves and 
 slippers. I had counted on a new gown of white mus- 
 Hn, like that of my most intimate friend, Ann Carew. 
 But no, my fate was decided by the higher power^ at 
 home. 
 
 " I cannot afford a new gown for you, Kate ; but 
 we will have Miss Brown to make over my green bro- 
 cade." 
 
 " O grandmother, I shall look so odd ! " 
 
 " You will look well-dressed, if that be odd," returned 
 Madame Peyton, in her coolest manner. 
 
 It was an odd dress for a girl of eighteen, espe- 
 cially at that time, when these youthful materials were in 
 vogue. But when I stood before the glass, and saw the 
 brilliant contrast of the shining sea-green folds, finished 
 and softened by some wonderful old lace, to my fair 
 complexion and light hair, I was half converted to my 
 grandmother's opinion. I know now that she was right, 
 and that I must have looked very quaintly pretty with 
 all those shimmering, satiny folds, and rich lace, and 
 old-fashioned pearls. But my heart was sore with these 
 three days, and I burst out to Liz as I went down the 
 stairs after Madame Peyton had given her final admo- 
 nitions of care and caution about my finery, — 
 
194 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 ^' Liz, I am going to marry myself away from this 
 everlasting wear and tear of economy as soon as ever I 
 can." 
 
 " Do, do, and let me be carried away with you, 
 Kate " ; and Liz laughed with gay fun. 
 
 That night I was standing behind a great calla with 
 one of the Exham youths, who was talking boyish ad- 
 miration to me, when I heard some one say, — 
 
 " Mrs. Deerham, I want you to present me to that 
 little water-nymph I saw a few moments since." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " A little thing in sea-green, with white foam for lace, 
 and real ocean-pearls." 
 
 '' Oh," and a laugh, " it is Kate Peyton ! " 
 
 Johnny Carew, who overheard as well as I, gave a 
 contemptuous "'Bah ! " and then said, — 
 
 " It 's that old Chinaman, Ayre, as yellow as a 
 sunflower, Kate." 
 
 I made him explain, and found he meant a gentle- 
 man who had been doing business in Canton " for the 
 last hundred years, Kate " ; that accounting for the 
 exaggerated nonsense " yellow as a sunflower." 
 
 Johnny's story was not flattering, and we hid our- 
 selves away behind the tall calla, and were laughing in 
 great glee at the idea of eluding the old yellow Chi- 
 naman, when I was suddenly seized upon, with the 
 words, — 
 
 " Well, Kate, I have found you at last. Ah, Johnny 
 Carew, you are a very selfish boy," shaking a splendid 
 fan at him. Then, — 
 
 " Mr. Ayre, Kate ; Miss Peyton, Mr. Ayre " ; and 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 1 95 
 
 I Straightway found myself standing with the China- 
 man. 
 
 A little disturbed and confused, I did n't raise my 
 eyes at first, but stood listening to the gentleman's 
 voice, as he talked in a smooth, quiet way, easy com- 
 monplaces that put me at ease, so that presently I 
 looked up. I saw a thin, dark face, darkly bearded, 
 which seemed old to me, accustomed to beardless 
 boys like young Carew and the Deerhams. 
 
 At first I was impatient, and wanted to get away to 
 the gay, chattering set across the room ; but by and by 
 I grew interested and at last amused by my compan- 
 ion's conversation, and I plied him with questions 
 about China and the Chinese, which he answered 
 greatly to my satisfaction, giving picturesque descrip- 
 tion of the strange Oriental life, which pleased my 
 vivid imagination with warm, tropic tints. 
 
 I had been listening in a rapt, eager way, when once, 
 as he paused, I said, — 
 
 " Ah, how I should like to go there ! " 
 
 "Should you?" And he looked at me, his eyes 
 meeting mine with a curious intentness, which I thought 
 odd then, and did not at all understand. 
 
 When he bade me good-night he said too, " Will 
 you give my compHments to your grandmother, and 
 say to her that I shall do myself the honor of paying 
 them in person to-morrow? " 
 
 " So he knows grandmother," was my thought. 
 
 Liz sat up in bed, with wide, bright eyes, as I en- 
 .tered our chamber a little while after, and asked, laugh- 
 ing; ■— 
 
196 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 " Well, did you find him, Kate ? " 
 
 I had forgotten. 
 
 " Found who, Liz? " I asked. 
 
 " Why, the prince who is to carry you away." 
 
 I laughed merrier than she as I answered, — 
 
 " He 's turned out a yellow old Chinaman, Liz " ; 
 whereat I told her all about Johnny Carew and the 
 shield of the calla, which ended in being overcome by 
 the Chinaman. 
 
 " He 's the prince in disguise ; see if he is n't," she 
 commented as I ended. 
 
 And she persisted in it, in a half-mocking, half-seri- 
 ous manner, as he followed up his first call by others of 
 greater length, — calls that I never flattered myself by 
 appropriating, for they seemed more a renewal of some 
 past acquaintance with my grandmother than anything 
 else. But I enjoyed them, for he had fine conversa- 
 tional powers, and treated us to bits of travel, racy in- 
 cident, or humorous and caustic comment, which often 
 made me feel a wild sparkle of gayety and wit, that 
 sometimes flowed out even in Madame Peyton's digni- 
 fied presence. But it was the easy enjoyment which a 
 child feels in the presence of an indulgent senior. 
 What, he my prince ! I laughed merrier than ever at 
 Liz after I had seen him by daylight. Dark and thin 
 in the gay blaze of Mrs. Deerham's parlors, by daylight 
 he was hollow-eyed and sallow, — Johnny Carew's ver- 
 itable Chinaman. 
 
 " But you '11 marry him, you '11 marry him ! " pro- 
 nounced whimsical Liz in her droll way ; and I laughed 
 at the joke, and was utterly amazed one day when I 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 197 
 
 was summoned into Madame Peyton's chamber to re- 
 ceive the following communication : — 
 
 " Kate, Mr. Ayre has been speaking to me about 
 you ; he wishes to make you his wife." 
 
 "Me!" I ejaculated in astonishment. "How ab- 
 surd ! " 
 
 Madame Peyton looked up tranquilly from her darn- 
 ing ; said she did n't see the absurdity ; Mr, Ayre was 
 only thirty-six, a gentleman, and a man of fortune. 
 She considered it a fine thing for me, much finer than, 
 in all probability, ever would fall to my lot again. 
 
 I can never tell what words she employed to so in- 
 fluence my mind ; but I know that, before I left her, 
 all of my old childish terrors and boding anxieties had 
 returned in full force. I some way felt myself an un- 
 grateful burden upon her slender means. The world 
 looked very wide and dreary, with not an inch of room 
 for any little lonely wanderer. I pitied myself with an 
 aching sense of sympathy. I pitied my sisters ; and 
 Liz, Liz, — who pined for freedom, who hated her de- 
 pendence, I might do so much for her ! 
 
 All these wild emotions, while Madame Peyton closed 
 over the gap in her stocking with her skilful stitches, 
 perfectly unaware of the train of thought she had 
 aroused in her plain statements of circumstances. And 
 let me do her the justice to say that she did not seek 
 tt) bias my mind by warping it into the condition it was 
 then in. In her cold, calm way she had merely shown 
 me my chances in life as a matter of duty. It was a 
 truth, and I should be made acquainted with it. If I 
 had told her she could never have comprehended the 
 
198 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 agitation and misery I felt. I did not tell her ; but at 
 the expiration of half an hour I abruptly sealed my fate 
 by accepting the proposals she had laid before me. 
 
 I certainly had great faith in my grandmother's judg- 
 ments. Thus, though I tried to repel and disbelieve 
 those judgments, I still, in spite of everything, supposed 
 them inevitable. It was in this way that she colored 
 my thoughts to something the hue of her own in her 
 social opinions. 
 
 She had a cold, hard system of talk about people in 
 the world which utterly precluded the idea of disinter- 
 ested or romantic love. Marriage she held as a matter 
 of state and estate. The persons with whom we asso- 
 ciated did not tend to remove these ideas. They were 
 old families, tinctured with old, aristocratic notions j so 
 that everywhere in the actual life which I saw, I found 
 the opinions of my grandmother confirmed. 
 
 In the midst of this I lived two lives, — the ideal 
 and the real ; and I candidly believed them to be as 
 the words express, — the ideal and the real ; and thus 
 early came the habit of cynical thought, born of the 
 bitterness of this melancholy frame of mind. Reading 
 Shelley and Keats and Tennyson, I wrapped myself in 
 dreams, which I supposed utterly fallacious in other 
 moments, lovely suggestions of a state of life as impos- 
 sible as it was charming. What saved me from entire 
 disregard of everything save the present pleasure, with 
 such cynicism, I can never understand ; but faithless 
 of romance in the real as I was, I yet shrank at first, as 
 we shrink from something that seems unnatural, from 
 the proposed union with Mr. Ayre. If the suitor had 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 199 
 
 been Tom Deerham or Johnny Carew, — though I was 
 not the least in love with either of these two young 
 fellows, — I should have considered it a very proper 
 thing. There would have come to my mind no shock 
 of strange surprise ; for they were young like myself. 
 But this Mr. Ayre seemed to me to belong to my 
 grandmother's day, with his wise talk of politics and 
 the world, and things, to me, abstruse and ancient. 
 
 I remember with what a chill feeling of fright I went 
 down into the parlor to receive him the night after my 
 grandmother's communication. He was standing fa- 
 cing a window looking out into the garden as I pushed 
 open the door, but at the sound of my footsteps he 
 turned quickly, and coming forward, put out his hand 
 with the words, — 
 
 " Kate, I should have spoken to you first, but I 
 knew your grandmother's old prejudices ; you will for- 
 give me? " with soft accents of questioning, and meet- 
 ing my eyes with a glance of kindness. 
 
 He was so exactly like himself upon other occasions 
 that my fright broke away, and I smiled. Presently I 
 was talking with him in the same easy, unthinking man- 
 ner that had been my way during all these past visits 
 that I had appropriated to Madame Peyton. 
 
 " He was not so very dreadful as a suitor," I thought. 
 Indeed he scarcely spoke of our relation, and when he 
 parted from me, he just kissed my hand in a courteous, 
 grave way, as a matter of course. 
 
 As time went on he gradually evinced more tender- 
 ness, or, I should say, more ardor, though he was never 
 very demonstrative. It was evinced by a little closer 
 
200 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 attention, a word, or smile, or a lingering hand-clasp. 
 One night there were a few guests in the parlor, and 
 he had been joining in the conversation as usual, 
 while I sat apart ; for they were all older people than 
 I, and I was interested in watching the proceedings 
 of my bird Dick, that I had let out of his cage, as I 
 was often in the habit of doing, to air his wings in the 
 honeysuckle of the piazza. 
 
 Leaning my head out of the window, for it was a warm 
 May-day, I began to speculate upon the voices inside. 
 Suddenly I became aware that Mr. Ayre had ceased 
 speaking, that he had not been speaking for some time. 
 I turned my head quickly to look at him, and caught a 
 glance that I felt at once had been a gaze, absorbed and 
 intense. I started at his expression, and immediately 
 thought of a line I had met with somewhere, — 
 " He looked at her as a lover can." 
 
 Was that what he meant I vaguely thought. Did 
 he love me like that ? He, that thin, dark, oldish man ? 
 My dreams, born of Shelley and Keats, came thronging 
 up. Could it be possible that this ideal love was to be 
 found ? but then, — 
 
 "He looked at her as a lover can." 
 
 I could not look at him as a lover; I shuddered. 
 The May wind had suddenly grown chilly. By the 
 time I had come to this point, only a moment or 
 so in the whole time, he crossed over and began 
 talking about Dick. His quiet, simple air reassured 
 me, for I was strangely disturbed or confused. In the 
 constant occupation that followed, I forgot my self- 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 201 
 
 questioning, and became tranquil, and even gay, over 
 the new and exciting interest of my bridal wardrobe, 
 for I was to be married in a month. 
 
 My betrothed husband's gifts to me may give some 
 indication of him. He was a man vitally interested in 
 the subjects I have before mentioned ; but my gifts 
 were things chosen with a womanly tact almost. A 
 beautiful little watch, with a spray of diamonds in the 
 enamel back ; a set of opals, my favorite gem, with a 
 pair of ear-rings, when I had heard him declare that he 
 considered ear-rings a barbarous and unlovely orna- 
 ment, — he knew I liked them specially ; a diamond 
 ring too, and a bracelet of coins, heavy and fashionable ; 
 and various pretty trinkets that suited my gay, youthful 
 tastes, — these from a man who wore not so much as a 
 seal-ring, or a gold chain to his watch ! With all these, 
 with the excitements of preparation, I was so active 
 that it had the effect of delight. I was even deceived 
 myself, thought myself happy, until one day. Ah, 
 that day ! 
 
 It was the day of my marriage, a brilliant day, filled 
 with the bloom of flowers and the carolling of birds. I 
 awoke with the notes of a robin in my ear. As the soft 
 strain pierced the thin veil of morning slumber, I felt a 
 pang. What was it ? I awoke thoroughly, and realized 
 what it was. 
 
 About the room were scattered various articles which 
 were to form a part of my new wardrobe. A gray silk 
 shimmered in the sunshine. A large trunk stood open, 
 revealing glimpses of linen and lace. I sprang out of 
 bed, with a confused sense of gathering excitement. It 
 
202 AFTER FIVE YEARS, 
 
 was now six o'clock. At six in the afternoon I was to 
 be married. Our arrangements were completed, and at 
 sunset we should be on our way to my new home for 
 the next five years, — the strange Oriental country which 
 all my hfe had been a subject of fascinated speculation 
 with me. Mr. Ayre would have returned long before, 
 but for his engagement to me j and our wedding-day 
 had been hastened to meet the exigencies of the time, 
 which were urgent, news having been received some 
 time previous that Mr. Carle, the partner at Canton, was 
 in the most precarious health. 
 
 I was standing by the door, consulting with Liz about 
 some matter of dress on that momentous day, not long 
 after I had risen, when Mr. Ayre suddenly appeared, 
 holding an open letter in his hand. His countenance 
 was grave and preoccupied as he said, — 
 
 " Carle is dead ! It is providential that I had arranged 
 to sail in this steamer. I must have gone in spite of 
 everything, somehow." 
 
 The pang at my heart came again. More and more 
 I was waking up to reality. A fearful fate seemed clos- 
 ing about me from which there was no escape. Why 
 had I invited it ? Why left to myself to make this choice 
 of isolation ? Had I been mad ? At least I felt so now. 
 My pulses were beating with heavy throbs, my brain 
 whirled. Mechanically I went through my prepara- 
 tions. Morning ran to noon, and noon to night. I 
 suppose in all these hours I talked, and answered ques- 
 tions much as usual, but I felt in a horrible feverish 
 dream. Thus I found myself standing beside Thorburn 
 Ayre, and heard the piping of the birds, while the sun 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 203 
 
 streamed through the blind-bars, and soft odors of sum- 
 mer wafted in, while farther than all these seemed the 
 voice that was sealing my fate. 
 
 " What God has joined together let no man put 
 asunder." 
 
 I listened to these words, and knew what they meant. 
 I listened to the words that followed, — congratulations 
 and greetings. I felt kisses upon my brow, my cheeks, 
 my lips ; but the fearful spell did not break till I en- 
 tered my room to change my bridal garments. Liz was 
 there, pale and watchful of me. I was crimson with 
 fever. As I met her eyes, as I breathed the quietness 
 of that chamber, never more to be mine, the fire burst 
 forth. In a passion of tears and sobs I cried, — 
 
 " Oh, why did I do this ? Why did I marry him ? I 
 do not love him ! I hate him, — and I cannot, oh, I 
 cannot go from you all with him ! I do not know him. 
 I am too young. I am frightened to death ! O Liz, 
 Liz, my grandmother has done it, not I. I have been 
 in a dream ! " 
 
 As I said this wildly and bitterly, a flood-tide seemed 
 to mount up from my heart to my brain, my pulses 
 throbbed, a lava-stream poured through every vein. 
 Then all sensation stopped. Where was I ? Darkness 
 and confusion had settled upon me. 
 
 I opened my eyes. 
 "Is that you, Liz?" 
 
 " O Kate ! " And Liz, I saw, was crying. 
 I looked about me. I was lying upon the bed in 
 our little room, and there was an odor of camphor. 
 
204 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 "What is it, Liz? What has happened?" 
 
 She told me that I had fallen down insensible the day 
 of my wedding. 
 
 " My wedding-day? When was it, Liz? " 
 
 " It is July now, Kate." And she bent and kissed 
 me. 
 
 July ! My wedding-day was in May. I wondered 
 where was Mr. Ayre, my husband. I said faintly, — 
 
 "Tell me all about it, Liz." 
 
 And she told me. I had fallen insensible as I stood 
 speaking to her. The long, unnatural strain had at last 
 given way, and I had drifted out into unknown, restful 
 regions of spiritual calm. Weeks had passed, and I 
 had been dead to outward life. Where were the actors 
 in that life ? I asked the question that was thrilling my 
 heart. 
 
 " Where is he, — Mr. Ayre, Liz ? " 
 
 " He had to go, you know ; there was no alternative. 
 The physician told him there was no danger of your 
 dying, but that you would probably be ill for a long 
 time. A nervous fever of some kind. Grandmother 
 says that mamma was subject to them after strong ex- 
 citements." 
 
 She paused ; then, hesitatingly, " There is a letter for 
 you. When you are able to read it I will — " 
 
 But I turned my head away indifferently. I felt no 
 interest in the letter. I cared to look no further than 
 the present : rest was in the present, and freedom. I 
 went to sleep, tranquil and unthinking. I awoke 
 stronger, and with a dawning interest in the affairs of 
 life. I began to question myself. Where was that life 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 205 
 
 to be spent in these present days ? Then I asked for my 
 letter. It was a deep July day ; a gold sky, an ardent 
 atmosphere, and balmy breaths of summer all about me 
 as I read : — 
 
 *' Dear Kate, — You know how imperative is the ne- 
 cessity of my leaving you at this moment, or you will know 
 when you awake to consciousness. I leave you free to act, 
 to live, as you think fit. Mr. Calvin will be your business 
 man until my return. Choose your own place of residence, 
 your own companions. Mr. Calvin will assist you faith- 
 fully, and acquaint you with the extent of your income. 
 Good-by, and God bless you ! 
 
 "Thorburn Ayre." 
 
 It was an odd note, I thought, for such a long good- 
 by ; but then it was written in the brief interval that in- 
 tervened between the excitement of my sudden illness 
 and the sailing of the steamer. I glowed with gratitude 
 at the wild sense of freedom it conveyed. He was 
 very kind, certainly ; and so absorbed was I in the vista 
 that opened before me I forgot the reserve and brevity 
 that conveyed it, and ceased to wonder why he had not 
 mentioned his probable time of return. 
 
 Consulting with Mr. Calvin, I found my means far 
 exceeded my wildest expectations. The arrangements 
 that ensued seemed like a fairy-tale to me. I was to 
 live in the old Langdon mansion on the hill that lay 
 between Exham and Rawley. Rawley.was then famous 
 for its beaches, and was the resort of the summer. In 
 winter it was the link between town and city, lying 
 between Exham and New York. 
 
206 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 I formed my establishment with considerable fore- 
 thought for a girl of eighteen. My grandmother's pru- 
 dence had been effective with me. So I wisely chose 
 for a chaperon a middle-aged aunt who was in impov- 
 erished circumstances, for my grandmother at once de- 
 clined my invitation for her to be with me. Her pride 
 was too strong for her to give up the independence of 
 her own home, however poor and scant. But I took 
 Liz, as I had promised in jest long ago. 
 
 It was September before we were fairly settled in our 
 new home ; but the season was not yet over in Rawley, 
 and I very soon found myself making many new ac- 
 quaintances through the Carews and the Deerhams, who 
 held high festival for three months at Rawley Beach 
 every summer. There I renewed my old friendship 
 with Johnny Carew, and there Ashford Lang and his 
 three brothers, such brilliant, elegant men as I had 
 rarely met, sought our society. 
 
 "When does Mr. Ayre return, Mrs. Ayre?" asked 
 Stuart Lang one day, as we strolled together along the 
 beach. 
 
 " When ? " How could I tell ? Then it first occurred 
 to me that in his few letters my husband did not men- 
 tion the subject, /never had thought to ask. I put 
 the question aside somehow, and the thought with it. 
 
 "You will not think of remaining here all winter? " 
 Ashford remarked presently. " You will come to New 
 York, and know my sister and mother. They will be 
 back from Europe in a month." 
 
 " I don't know. I am so young, and Mr. Ayre away — 
 perhaps — " 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 207 
 
 Ashford smiled. 
 
 "Do you fancy there are such special dangers 
 abroad in New York that you cannot escape them, — 
 roaring lions going about seeking whom they may de- 
 vour? " 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows, and his smile deepened in 
 amusement as he concluded. I felt foolish and afflicted 
 with gaucherie at his words, his manner. In a moment 
 my dress seemed ill-made, my \\2X was unbecoming, my 
 gloves out of place. How stupid I must seem ! How 
 little I knew of the world ! In books I was well edu- 
 cated ; but in the million local topics that are the current 
 coin of all general society, which keep it at brilliant 
 high-pressure, I knew nothing. Always ambitious of 
 knowledge, of all conversational power which places one 
 person eji rapport with another, I felt defeated, and un- 
 sphered as it were. Before the next day I had decided 
 to spend my winter in New York. I looked upon it as 
 a necessary part of niy education. I must find myself 
 equal with the world. 
 
 My grandmother made no objection, as I fancied she 
 would; she evidently had perfect faith in me, either 
 through her faith in her own training, or in my natural 
 caution and worldliness. She seemed to have relin- 
 quished me entirely. I was no more to her than some 
 distant relative. 
 
 In New York my Hfe opened more fully. I found 
 that I had many tastes, many qualities, which I was be- 
 fore unaware of. Through the Langs I was introduced 
 into society both fine and fashionable. I went out a 
 great deal with Liz, who was by this time a handsome, 
 
208 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 brilliant young creature, much admired and much 
 sought after. 
 
 The winter passed rapidly, then summer again at 
 Langdon Hill, and Mr. Ayre still away, and his coming 
 home indefinite. His letters had begun to lengthen 
 about the time I first went to New York, possibly from 
 the fact that I myself, vivified and amused by my new 
 acquaintances and plans, spoke more fully of myself. 
 Once I asked him when he would return. He answered 
 vaguely, " When circumstances will allow me." The 
 letters were kind, — those of a friend, not a lover or a 
 husband. I saw no particular want in them until one 
 day, Ashford Lang and his sister calling upon me, she 
 said, — 
 
 " I should think you would want to go out to your 
 husband, Mrs. Ayre. When our Tom was there he was 
 continually sending for Lou." 
 
 I suddenly flushed. I had not thought of it before. 
 My husband had never sent for me. I had always been 
 aware that there was something rather odd in the cir- 
 cumstances of my married life ; but so absorbed had I 
 been in my new freedom, in following out my tastes 
 and incHnations with my ample means, that I forgot or 
 put aside thoughts which in reahty were more uninter- 
 esting than any others. Words now and then from 
 strangers, like these of Camilla Lang, awakened me. 
 When she made this last remark she lifted her languid 
 eyes with rare interest to my face. I colored, as I have 
 said, and more vividly as I caught the searching glance 
 from Ashford. With effort I said, — r 
 
 " Mr. Ayre may return at any time. The complica- 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 209 
 
 tions arising from the death of Mr. Carle have kept him 
 beyond his expectations. It would be useless for me 
 to attempt the voyage when everything is so unsettled. 
 Mr. — my husband may return any day." 
 
 As I repeated this, again I caught the searching, in- 
 credulous look from Ashford Lang. He had noticed 
 my hesitation. I saw him exchange glances with his 
 sister. I felt humiliated. A sense of being neglected 
 and forsaken came over me. 
 
 My husband ! How strange it all was. How differ- 
 ent from others. By comparisons I now began to real- 
 ize my singular lot. My husband ! I said it over and 
 over. Why did he not return? Was it business really, 
 or had he repented his marriage? Why did he not 
 send for me if it was the first ? I was not sorry that he 
 did not, but I felt nevertheless neglected. 
 
 My husband ! That thin, dark, oldish man. I 
 looked at myself that night in my mirror. I was 
 young, fresh ; not beautiful like Liz, but attractive. I 
 had a graceful figure, and a fine air. I was called charm- 
 ing. I was conscious of this as a fact. As I looked 
 I thought of my mate, — the thin, dark, oldish man. 
 Who should it have been? Instantly my mind shaped 
 an answer. A man like Ashford Lang. My thought 
 went no farther. I never fancied myself in love with 
 Ashford. He and his three brothers merely ser\'ed me 
 as models of brilliant, gracious gentlemen. They were 
 not men to carry on intricate flirtations with married 
 women. They were too high-souled for that, - — brilliant, 
 gracious gentlemen, as I have said. With them and 
 their sister I learned what fine society meant. I be- 
 
 14 
 
210 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 came conversant with the best thoughts, the best books ; 
 with art and all splendid accomplishments. Standing 
 before my mirror, I thought over all this, and thought 
 myself fit only for such a type of man as they revealed. 
 I sighed. The next moment I heard Liz's gay voice 
 saying good-night to Stuart Lang. There was a new 
 tone in it. I went out, and leaned over the balusters. 
 She was standing under the gas, moveless, and rapt in 
 a dream ; but her face was sad ; some deep pain was 
 breaking its girhsh smoothness. Was she in love, and 
 with Stuart Lang? Then I ran rapidly over my mem- 
 ory for favorable signs on his part. I felt sure that it 
 was a mutual attachment. Why that look of pain then ? 
 A little love-cloud, I reasoned. To-morrow or the 
 next day I should have him claiming audience of me. 
 But to-morrow, and the next day, and the next, and 
 the next, — a month or more, — and Stuart Lang 
 claimed no audience of me. I was disappointed. 
 There could never come such another gallant fellow for 
 Liz, — my type for all that was noble and manly. 
 
 Months passed. I asked no questions, she told me 
 nothing ; but her cheek thinned, and the look of pain 
 broke through when her face was still. One day I 
 found her crying in her chamber. Then I swept re- 
 serve away. 
 
 " Liz, dear, what is it between you and Stuart Lang ? 
 He loves you ; you love him." 
 
 She turned and faced me. Never shall I forget her 
 look. It was so deep and wise for so young a girl. 
 
 "He loves me, and I love him," was the reply; 
 "but he will never ask me to marry him." 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 211 
 
 " Why, what do you mean? " 
 
 " Kate, did you never find out that the ruling power 
 through the Lang family is a passive kind of self-indul- 
 gence ? They have no will to conquer, to make new 
 conditions ; they accordingly accept circumstance for 
 fate, and it overcomes them. I am poor. Stuart Lang 
 has nothing by himself; living with his family, he lives 
 elegantly. Do you think he knows how to give it up ? 
 Do you think for a moment he would consider it pos- 
 sible for him to make his own future ? He hates busi- 
 ness ; he has no interest in professions ; he is not a 
 worker anyway. He can never do anything; and he 
 is but twenty- five." 
 
 Ceasing, a shadow of bitterness passed over her face, 
 and a faint sigh fluttered forth from her lips. 
 
 I was overwhelmed with the truth of what she said. 
 At once I saw that this analyzation was as true for one 
 as for another. Where, then, was my type of man- 
 hood that I was sure I had found in these brothers? 
 Always had I cherished the idea of a masculine char- 
 acter firm and enduring, and strong to conquer circum- 
 stances. This was my special point, my most vivid 
 expectation of a man's character, the one quality I 
 considered absolutely indispensable to form a rounded 
 nature. Without it, I could not beheve in its strength. 
 Incompleteness mastered and overcame all else. 
 
 After this confession of Liz's I made up my mind to 
 go away from New York. Her pale face haunted me. 
 My own disappointment, and that feeling of desolation, 
 of being adrift in our minds, cut off from all the old 
 landmarks of belief, as it were, influenced me in this 
 
212 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 choice. We went back to Exham for a while ; but 
 there, in a few weeks, the Langs appeared upon the 
 scene, and again resumed something of their wonted 
 charm. ' Liz grew restless under it. Fever burned in 
 her cheeks and in her eyes. 
 
 Again we became birds of passage. Hither and 
 thither we went, north, south, east, and west ; pilgrims 
 in search, one of change, the other of faith. By anoth- 
 er year Liz had found her color, her spirits. Devoting 
 herself to her music, for which she had developed won- 
 derful talent, perhaps genius, she became contented, 
 even gay. For myself, Lhad learned much, but I had 
 not learned or found my faith. I put my one experi- 
 ence to bear upon all others. Rapid in my conclu- 
 sions, I believed that I had sifted the world. I became 
 inwardly unbelieving, cynical to a degree far beyond 
 that of my vague girlhood's misanthropy. Outwardly, 
 I was brighter than before ; easier, because I had less 
 interest, and so thought less of my impressions. 
 
 After much wandering we came back to Langdon 
 Hill, and made it a permanent residence. 
 
 In all this time how the years had flown ! I was 
 twenty-three. Five years of my girl-marriage. Five 
 years ! 
 
 I looked at a picture one day that was taken when 
 I was eighteen, the period of my engagement. As I 
 looked I realized how I had changed, how the soft, 
 crude look of inexperience had changed to a self-con- 
 trolled womanhood. I sighed, and turned away from 
 the blue, believing eyes, so full of hopes and dreams. 
 What did life hold for me now ? 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 213 
 
 A long, low ring of the bell recalled me to the pres- 
 ent. I started, and a thrill of pain darted through me. 
 Then I smiled at my nervousness, and went down at 
 the summons from a servant : " A gentleman to see 
 you." There was no card sent up to me, and I thought 
 it somebody on business. 
 
 A dark figure stood bending over a book of photo- 
 graphs. I crossed the room ; he did not move. I 
 approached the table, and a pair of eyes lifted them- 
 selves to mine, — dark eyes, full of youth and fire ; but 
 the hair was iron gray, the full beard almost white. 
 Where had I met that expression ? I looked puzzled. 
 
 " Kate," he said, " have I changed so much? " 
 
 " Mr. Ayre ! " 
 
 Involuntarily I put out my hand, though I was faint 
 with feeling. He took it, and the strong, firm clasp 
 upheld me. The room swam for a moment, and I 
 gasped for breath. His voice broke through this con- 
 fused state. 
 
 " Is it so bad as that, Kate ? Do you still hate me, 
 that you shrink from me thus ? " 
 
 "Hate you?" I murmured. "Who said I hated 
 you? " 
 
 Still holding my hand, he replied, in an intense, 
 though controlled voice, — 
 
 " Five years ago, Kate, I stood in the room adjoin- 
 ing another, and heard a girl who had but just vowed 
 herself to me say in vehement accents, ' Why did I 
 marry him? I do not love him; I hate him; and 
 I cannot go from you all with him.' So / went, 
 Kate. Do you think I would have gone without that 
 knowledge?" 
 
214 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 Suddenly the past appeared all plain to me. " You 
 have been very generous/' I faltered. 
 
 He flung up his head with a half-impatient depreca- 
 tion. 
 
 " Generous ? Ah, how like all the rest ! Kate, how 
 could you marry me? " 
 
 I think my few plain words, attempting to explain 
 my state at that ti^iie, gave him some clear understand- 
 ing, for he muttered lowly once or twice, " What a 
 grievous error, what a grievous error ! " 
 
 At last I asked his own question : " Why did you 
 wish to marry 77ie, Mr. Ayre? " 
 
 He dropped my hand, and looked at me in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Why, was I so unfortunately inexpressive, then, 
 that you never guessed that I loved you?" 
 
 I do not know what I replied, but he seemed to get 
 further insight by my words, for, bending his dark, full 
 gaze upon me, he said quietly, but earnestly, " You 
 were very young, Kate." 
 
 These words, too kind to sound rebuking, yet filled 
 me with nameless regret. What was it? Had I lost 
 anything? 
 
 " Either I missed, or itself missed me," came into 
 my mind ; and in conjunction with this came a realiza- 
 tion of his delicacy. Meeting his gaze I asked, — 
 
 " And did you hate me too, after hearing what I 
 said there? " 
 
 " Hate you? No, I did not hate you," he answered, 
 in a curious tone, which puzzled and chilled me. 
 
 It was singular how soon after this strange talk every- 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 21 5 
 
 thing seemed to resolve into an outward harmony. 
 We occupied the same house, but I only met him at 
 the table, and sometimes in the garden ; never in the 
 drawing-room, except in the presence of guests. There 
 seemed no purposed avoidance. He was always so 
 active, busy with a hundred interests I knew nothing 
 of. With no specified arrangement of our life, he 
 quietly took up his course, and left me mine unem- 
 barrassed. He was so much away, riding hither and 
 thither, by horse, or rail, or boat, and always preoccu- 
 pied with his own thoughts when I chanced to meet 
 him alone, wrinkling his brows, and unconsciously in- 
 dicating the bent of his mind by tapping out upon the 
 table some intricate computations. Of mornings I used 
 to hear his voice, commenting, suggesting, or giving 
 orders about the grounds, and once in a while, at these 
 times, he would send to ask my opinion of some gar- 
 den alteration. 
 
 " He is a man of wonderful executive ability," pro- 
 nounced my grandmother one day, as she came up the 
 avenue with me, and overheard him as he went his 
 rounds. 
 
 "Yes, that is evident," I acknowledged; and as I 
 thought, I became conscious of how this executive 
 element was changing the character, the very atmos- 
 phere of the place. Somehow everything seemed to 
 be righted. The garden bloomed, the lawns grew 
 greener, the fruit-trees gave no trouble, and all my 
 household annoyances had fled somewhere out of 
 sight. Like one vast machine, house and garden 
 and servants were in regulated harmony. My out- 
 
2l6 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 ward life swung as easily as a perfectly adjusted pen- 
 dulum, but inwardly I was more restless than ever. 
 I felt humbled as I had never felt in all my life in 
 the presence of this active spirit of usefulness, of abil- 
 ity. What was it I wanted, what missed? The old 
 city excitements of society ? Would that give me con- 
 tentment ? 
 
 As if to answer this question, there came one day in 
 the last of the summer the Langs, brother and sister. 
 
 Remembering their questioning concerning my hus- 
 band's absence, I was glad that they should see him at 
 home. Then immediately followed a faint uneasiness. 
 Ashford Lang was so cultured, so fine, and elegant ; 
 Camilla was so critical. I had never seen Mr. Ayre in 
 such society. I had a feeling of apprehensive pride. 
 
 He came in late, finding us upon the lawn, waiting 
 tea. I went through introductions mechanically, and 
 turned to Camilla with voluble talk about the tuberose I 
 held, — a splendid specimen, worth the most eloquent 
 talk ; but mine was mere words, to which she did not 
 listen, so intently was she absorbed in regarding 
 my husband. He caught the look, came forward, 
 thinking we had appealed to him in our rose-talk, 
 took the flower from me, and in two or three sen- 
 tences astonished me by his rare knowledge as well as 
 by his grace of expression. In a second, however, he 
 had found that the young lady was only politely inter- 
 ested, and another sentence turned the subject into a 
 gracious pleasantry, half-gallant and wholly gentle- 
 manly, — a careless, unconscious ease, which gave me 
 much satisfaction. 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 21/ 
 
 After, in the drawing-room, at tea or dinner, driving 
 or walking, he was the courteous host, meeting his 
 guests more than equally because of a force he pos- 
 sessed that went beneath their culture. Sometimes 
 from some profounder talk of art or science he suddenly 
 struck out into playful badinage with Camilla. Then I 
 saw her eyes light and her languor dissolve, and my 
 pride was gratified and appeased. But I was still rest- 
 less and filled with vague discontent. I had come to 
 the worst of disbeliefs, — a faithlessness of myself. All 
 the rest were so serene, so happy. Even Liz sang with 
 gayer freedom, and Ashford Lang grew merry as he 
 stepped out of his stateliness. 
 
 " Shall you return to China with your husband? " he 
 asked me one night, with just that air he had asked before. 
 
 "To China?" I started, looking up to meet his 
 look, which had strayed away from me across the room. 
 My eyes followed it, and rested upon Camilla and 
 Mr. Ayre. He was talking brilhantly, I knew, in his 
 remarkably epigrammatic manner. She was listening, 
 intent and vivid. " He is very handsome," remarked 
 Ashford in a dreaming voice. 
 
 I thrilled with surprise. Handsome ? A mist went 
 over my eyes. Then I looked again with clearer vis- 
 ion. I saw a straight, lithe figure, full of expressive 
 hues ; a face dark and thin, but firm and fixed with 
 purpose and power ; youthful eyes, that lighted and 
 darkened ; bright warmth of color on the lips, and a 
 flush streaking either cheek. All these indications of 
 freshest hfe, while the hair and beard stood like grim 
 sentinels of decay. 
 
2l8 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 ^' He is not old; why should his hair be so gray?" 
 Ashford mused on. " The climate ? That climate, — 
 no," he interrupted ; " it is not climate." But, coming 
 back, — 
 
 "Shall you go to China?" 
 
 ^' I? Mr. Ayre will not return to China." 
 
 " He has told me that such was his intention." 
 
 I grew red with angry embarrassment. My disbelief 
 in myself increased. I shivered. Was I considering 
 my duty? 
 
 A half hour later Camilla and Ashford were listening 
 to Liz's wonderful playing. Mr. Ayre had excused 
 himself to "answer India letters." I waited till the 
 player and her audience were absorbed in a sonata, and 
 then stole out. The light streamed from the library, 
 but it was not there I meant to go. My head ached ; 
 the odors of dead flowers in the parlor were stifling. 
 Let me breathe the odor of living ones ; let the cool 
 breeze of the garden and the friendly dark give me 
 healing and calm, I thought. I got no further than the 
 veranda. The night was warm, and rainy winds blew 
 round the vines and drenched my hair with balmy 
 moisture. I leaned back for rest, and a glass door 
 slipped its bolt and sprung inward. I was falling, 
 when a hand caught me, drew me in, and secured the 
 fastening again at a breath. 
 
 " Where have you been, Kate, into the rain ? You 
 are quite wet." 
 
 My husband peered into my face as he spoke with 
 an intent expression. What I answered I do not know. 
 I only know his expression grew kindly and troubled. 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 219 
 
 "What is the matter? Are you ill, child?" he 
 questioned. 
 
 '' Are you going to China? " I asked, instead of re- 
 plying, in a blank, dazed way. 
 
 " To China? Who has told you that I was going? " 
 
 " Mr. Lang." 
 
 He turned away, and began sealing a letter, his face 
 preoccupied as he said, — 
 
 " Yes, we were talking about China this morning. I 
 am to take his brother Stuart with me when I 
 return." 
 
 The late hlies sent up all at once a load of heavy 
 incense from their damp, dark beds without. I seemed 
 to scent the odors of the Orient, and my heart beat 
 hurriedly. I sighed and shivered. 
 
 He glanced up, left his letters, and stood before me. 
 
 " What is it, Kate, — what is. it you want, poor 
 child?" 
 
 I met his look. The lips curved with pain, but 
 there was something in the darkening eyes that held 
 me, that gave me power to speak. 
 
 '' I want to go to China." 
 
 He started back. " You ! Why do you want to go 
 to China?" 
 
 There was fever in my veins. I must speak. It was 
 hke an expiation ; so wildly, vehemently I burst out, 
 though low enough of tone, — 
 
 " Why ? Because I love you, I love you ! You -may 
 have ceased to love me, you may have learned to re- 
 pent of your hasty marriage long ago ; but I — I 
 — oh, cannot you forgive me? " 
 
220 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 *' Forgiveness ! don't talk of forgiveness. Kate, my 
 Kate, this pays for all the pain ! " 
 
 As he spoke he took me to his breast, and there I 
 laid my love, and every wild regret and nameless bit- 
 terness. There I found my faith again, and with it 
 more than my old ideal. 
 
 " And shall I go to China? " 
 
 " If I go ; but if I do not go, Kate ? " 
 
 " Is there, then, no necessity? " 
 
 " None now." 
 
 Yes, I understood : all the dehcacy, the generous re- 
 serve, the tender pain, — all the cross and passion of that 
 strong, still nature. For my love he could stay. Without 
 it he would banish himself, uncomplaining, unreproach- 
 ful, from home, from native land, and social civilization. 
 Tears came to my eyes. Ah, God was very good to 
 bring me out of the dark into such Hght as this. 
 
 Ashford Lang was talking fine talk and critical about 
 a beautiful woman as we went into the parlor. Liz had 
 shut the piano, but drummed her fingers on the rose- 
 wood as she listened absently to Ashford. Camilla, 
 yawning, brightened as we entered. 
 
 I went over to Ashford. 
 
 " Mr. Ayre is not going to China, Mr. Lang." 
 
 He looked at me searchingly. Liz wheeled round 
 and exclaimed softly, — 
 
 '' How bright your eyes are, Kate ! " 
 
 " Not going to China? He has changed his mind 
 since this morning, Mrs. Ayre," Mr. Lang kept on. 
 
 "Yes, since this morning, Mr. Lang." 
 
AFTER FIVE YEARS. 221 
 
 All the time Camilla was talking volubly with Mr. 
 Ayre, drowning our words. Presently they joined us. 
 
 " So Mrs. Ayre tells me that you have given up going 
 to China, Mr. Ayre?" 
 
 " Yes j I shall send Steyne in my place. Your 
 brother will find him a better travelling companion than 
 myself." 
 
 Speaking, his glance fell athwart mine. A light came 
 into his eyes, a tender look of recognition dawned in 
 the faint smile. 
 
 Liz broke into a little low, sweet air, still beating her 
 fingers on the piano-case, and Camilla Lang sang a soft 
 second ; but her brother talked in undertones to my 
 husband. My husband ! I looked at them both there 
 with clear eyes. 
 
 I remembered my verdict in the past. A brilliant, 
 gracious gentleman ; and that thin, dark, oldish man. 
 It was still there. A brilliant, gracious gentleman was 
 Ashford Lang, and my husband was thin and dark and 
 oldish. But did Thorburn Ayre lack any grace or charm 
 as he stood beside the other? 
 
 Not one. Ashford Lang had recognized his power ; 
 Camilla had roused from her languor into apprecia- 
 tion ; and I — I had realized more than my ideal in 
 this thin, dark, oldish man. Johnny Carew's Chinaman 
 was my first, my only love. 
 
 '' You will never care to go to China now," said 
 Ashford Lang, in a low tone to me, as we said good- 
 night. 
 
 "Never, — why?" 
 
222 AFTER FIVE YEARS. 
 
 " Because you have found your world. I congratu- 
 late you, Mrs. Ayre." He bent over my hand, and his 
 glance was expressive, but no longer searching. He had 
 read my life correctly from page to page, the last as 
 clearly as the first. " He is what I hoped to be years 
 ago," he went on, with a melancholy wistfulness, — "a 
 man to conquer circumstance. Good-night, Mrs. 
 Ayre." 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING, 223 
 
 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE November night was settling down darkly and 
 coldly when John Eccleston came out from the 
 little dingy office where he had just finished his day's 
 work. His day's work ! It was an odd phrase to 
 apply to John Eccleston, because in no way did labor 
 of any kind ever seem to have any fit connection with 
 him. And now, as he emerged from the low lintel, 
 after three years of this dull servitude, it appeared to 
 fit him as little as it had three years before, when life 
 with him was at its highest ebb of ease and pleasure. 
 
 Looking at him, you thought of him, '' to endless 
 pleasure heir," so bright, and blithe, and full of gracious 
 youth did he appear ; and now, as he came out of the 
 little dingy office, though his garments were slightly 
 rough of texture, and certainly wanting in fashionable 
 freshness and finish, yet his air was that of a debonair 
 gentleman, and he hummed lightly a strain from Der 
 Freischutz, as if only last night he had come from some 
 stately feast where the horns and harps had set the en- 
 chanted hours to music. But it was many, many nights, 
 so many that he had ceased to count them, since John 
 Eccleston had sat at a feast and listened to festal music ; 
 and even now, as he hums the brilliant aria with that 
 
224 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 debonair manner, he is thinking very sadly and sorrow- 
 fully of a small home where nothing brilliant ever enters 
 save it may be his own brilliant presence. 
 
 He observes the holiday merriment, and hears the 
 gay laughter about him as he enters upon the wider 
 thoroughfares, and he thinks painfully and bitterly how 
 far away it all is from him ; and then some one steps 
 out of a splendid shop, and says to a passing friend : 
 " See, I have bought this lovely little Como of Valsi's 
 for Alice. It 's Alice's birthday this Thanksgiving, you 
 see, and I wanted something specially rare." 
 
 A fresh pang struck John Eccleston as he heard. 
 He knew of another Alice, whose birthday came upon 
 this Thanksgiving too, and he had nothing to give her, 
 not even one of those pretty colored lithographs hang- 
 ing in the window there, and this man, talking so hap- 
 pily with his friend, could carry home Valsi's lovely 
 Lake of Como. How late it was since he, too, could 
 have carried home to his AHce the most expensive 
 work of art ! Still, with these sad and bitter thoughts, 
 he kept on humming unconsciously that strain of Der 
 Freischutz. And humming thus, he caught the obser- 
 vation of a gentleman who was walking down the 
 street. 
 
 " What ! Is it you, Eccleston ? I have n't seen you 
 for an age. Where have you kept yourself ? " 
 
 And saying this, he joined him with a hearty eager- 
 ness of manner which bespoke real pleasure at the 
 meeting. Turning the corner of a street, they came 
 upon a house whose one bow-window shed out a bright, 
 curtainless radiance upon the night; and looking in, 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 22$ 
 
 you saw a pleasant room, full of pictures and aU manner 
 of delightful and charming things. 
 
 " Here we are now, Eccleston," exclaimed his com- 
 panion ; " and you must come in for a minute, and see 
 a new picture I have." 
 
 It was early ; Alice would not expect him for half an 
 hour yet ; so he went in. 
 
 " Come round this side — there now, with this light 
 — and tell me honestly what you think of it when 
 you 're ready." 
 
 There was a pause. In it the host watched his 
 guest's face with eager scrutiny. But he was so eager 
 he could not keep silent long. 
 
 "Well," he presently exclaimed, "do you recognize 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes ; it is a copy of that loveliest head of all those 
 lovely fancy heads of Rosalba Carriera in the Dresden 
 Gallery. But though I recognize, I must tell you 
 frankly I don't like the copy." 
 
 "Well, where is the fault? I see there is a fault, a 
 want, or something, but it is so intangible I did n't 
 know but it might be in my remembrance." 
 
 Eccleston, with his eyes still on the picture, sat down 
 absently at the little table standing before it, and in the 
 same apparently absent manner took up a pencil that 
 lay upon a sheet of drawing paper, and with a free 
 hand and a dreamy eye fell to sketching. A few strokes, 
 bold and firm, and he held it up for inspection. 
 
 ''That is what I mean. . Do you see it? " 
 
 The other uttered an exclamation of delighted satis- 
 faction ; and no wonder. His doubts were all cleared 
 
 15 
 
226 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 in an instant. He had not mistaken his first impression. 
 Here was the solving of the difficulty ; and just a few- 
 lines by this amateur on a piece of white paper had 
 wrought the miracle, had given to that loveliest head 
 its wonderful airy pose, which the finished copy lacked. 
 
 '^ Eccleston, how did you catch it? " 
 
 " Oh, I have spent hours in that particular room 
 before that particular picture, and it was this very lift of 
 the head, and that matchless setting on of the throat, 
 which impressed me most." 
 
 " I wish that something might be done to this, but I 
 suppose — " 
 
 " No," interrupted Eccleston quickly and decisively; 
 " nothing could be done to this. It is in the first draw- 
 ing that the whole aerial grace and spirit are fixed." 
 
 Clarke Steyner, as he Hstened, speculated curiously, as 
 he had done many a time before, about this John Ec- 
 cleston, and wished he knew more about him. A year 
 ago he had met him at an artist's exhibition. If he 
 remembered rightly, Valsi himself had introduced them ; 
 and he had learned then that he was a bookkeeper at 
 Warde & Slido's, and a fine judge of pictures, — "a 
 man of unerring taste," according to Valsi ; and he 
 had never learned anything more. They had met in 
 print-shops, studios, and exhibitions, until a sort of 
 acquaintance had been established through their mutual 
 admiration of art, and Steyner had proved him to be, 
 indeed, "a man of unerring taste." But how did 
 this man, with all his various cultivation and travelled 
 lore, appear here in the counting-room of an importer ? 
 He could not answer this question. Who could ? Who 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING, 22/ 
 
 knew anything more of him than what he knew? He 
 seemed to have no intimate friends, no places of visit- 
 ing ; yet he was a gentleman to grace any society, was 
 Clarke Steyner's verdict as he came to know him better. 
 And as Eccleston sat there after his critique of the pic- 
 ture, talking still of art with that debonair manner, his 
 entertainer puzzled himself again and again with these 
 thoughts. But a city clock struck the hour. 
 
 " Bless my soul, how the time has gone ! " And 
 Eccleston rose hastily. 
 
 " Stay and take a cup of tea with me. I 'm an old 
 bachelor, you know, and like my cup of tea." 
 
 " No, thank you ; my wife will be waiting for me." 
 
 Steyner started almost visibly wijth the sudden sur- 
 prise he felt. It had never occurred to him that John 
 Eccleston had a wife ; and the fact struck him oddly 
 and curiously, making a new combination of circum- 
 stances. His wife ! Steyner looked at the rather 
 shabby coat of his guest, and wondered what manner 
 of home it could be with this clerk on a small salary, 
 who was yet like a young prince in disguise. 
 
 "Come again,, come in at any time," he invited 
 Eccleston cordially, following him to the door ; but he 
 noticed that Eccleston, in replying, did not reciprocate 
 the invitation. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was a contrast to step from the spacious room, 
 with all its elegant appointments, where Clarke Steyner 
 
228 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 had entertained him, to the low-ceiled little apartment 
 where his wife awaited him ; and John Eccleston felt it 
 bitterly. But he entered with a gay smile and an apol- 
 ogy for his lateness ; and Alice answered as brightly, — 
 
 " Oh, you 've been to see that Mr. Steyner whom you 
 like so much. I 'm glad you went. No, I have not 
 been waiting long." 
 
 And ringing the bell for their one little maid, she 
 took her place at the table. She was an elegant, high- 
 bred young creature, was this Ahce Eccleston, looking 
 quite as much like a princess in disguise as her husband 
 did like the prince ; but it was pretty to see them both 
 in this simple, narrow room, and over this simple table ; 
 they were so sparkling and cheery in their air and talk,, 
 carrying with them all the time a consciousness of 
 something too fine and rare to be overborne by the 
 meagreness of their surroundings. He told her all 
 about his call upon " that Mr. Steyner," about the pic- 
 ture and its deficiency, and showed her upon a fresh 
 piece of paper, by a few touches, what the figure had 
 lacked, and how he had recalled it. And then they, . 
 too, fell to talking about art in much the same manner 
 as he had talked with Clarke Steyner. 
 
 " Has Mr. Steyner ever seen the Violante ? " And 
 asking the question, Mrs. Eccleston glanced up at a 
 beautiful half-length, with a peculiarly spirituelle head, 
 which hung over the mantle. 
 
 " Oh yes, he must, if he has been in the Dresden 
 Gallery." 
 
 "Ah, I forgot." Then, after a moment's musing 
 pause, " He would appreciate your copy, John." 
 
yOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 229 
 
 The next moment she blushed scarlet at the sudden 
 color that came into her husband's cheek, and the ex- 
 pression of startled surprise that crossed his face. But 
 immediately he drained the contents of his cup, and 
 said brightly, almost gayly, — 
 
 " Ah, well, we don't want any company, do we. Ally ? " 
 
 And immediately her own face reflected his. 
 
 " Oh no, I 'm sure /don't ; it is. quite enough fo^ my 
 selfishness to have Mr. John Eccleston all to myself." 
 And into Mrs. Alice's deep, tender eyes there stole a 
 softness which made the playful laugh a little suspi- 
 cious. 
 
 *' So you won't go to Lady Russell's reception to- 
 night, or to Mrs. Ap-Glydon's ball afterward ? You pre- 
 fer the society of a dull fellow who has been running 
 to seed for the last three years — eh, Mrs. Eccleston ? " 
 
 There was a briUiant smile on his face, and a light, 
 jocose tone to his voice to fit these words ; but in his 
 eyes there was a watchful anxiety all the time. And 
 her whole manner was just as airy and sportive as she 
 replied, — 
 
 " I 'd thank you not to abuse my preference, sir. Mr. 
 John Eccleston, after three years of seediness, is more 
 to my taste than those prosy Englishmen at Lady Rus- 
 sell's and all those witty Ap-Glydons put together. 
 Then I 've worn out parties. I 've got beyond them, 
 you see," nodding at him archly, and with an inde- 
 scribable air of espieglerie. 
 
 He laughed. "At the age of twenty-five, madam, 
 you prepare yourself to renounce the vanities of the 
 world. Where are the mob-caps? Where — " But 
 
230 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING, 
 
 he got no further. All their airy talk came to an end 
 as the little maid, Kitty, thrust herself excitedly into the 
 room. 
 
 " Shure, marm, it 's the pipes has bust agin, and the 
 water is a-runnin' all over the floor. I tould the man 
 how it would be whin he put thim chape fixins in, but 
 he would n't heed me, bad luck to him ! " 
 
 The color rushed into Mrs. Eccleston's delicate 
 cheek, and her first thought was, " I wish it had hap- 
 pened before John came home." But John was 
 already laughing gayly over it ; and, laughing, followed 
 Kitty into the tiny kitchen, where he set himself to 
 the task of remedying the mischief till better help could 
 be summoned. He whistled and hummed in gay good- 
 humor over his work, now and then making odd little 
 jests, or, with some quiet fun, calling out the quaint od- 
 dity of. their odd little maid, until Mrs. Alice herself 
 could not help but laugh in real merriment. And no 
 sooner was this matter of mending over than Kitty 
 found a dozen other things awry, — those perplexing 
 leaks and cracks and breakages which are forever oc- 
 curring in a household. And to their repairing, this 
 " young prince " set himself as easily as if all his hfe he 
 had been accustomed to their doing and undoing. 
 And Alice, overlooking, laughed lightly over his blun- 
 ders, or applauded his success. You would have pre- 
 sumed them at once to be without a shadow of care 
 upon their lives ; but the presumption would never have 
 been more incorrect. 
 
 Instead, the shadow of more than care perpetually 
 hung over them. Much as John Eccleston loved his 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 23 1 
 
 wife, and much as she loved him, there was a fatal want 
 of understanding between them. Married five years 
 ago in Paris, where they had met for the first time in 
 the same year of their marriage, they had Hved for two 
 years a charmed life of continental travel. At the end 
 of the two years John Eccleston, as honorable and open 
 as the day, found himself, by the villany of others, at 
 the end of what he imagined perhaps an endless fortune. 
 Instead of turning his great talent — yes, let us frankly 
 say genius — to the use for which it was destined, in- 
 stead of going to work as an artist, and painting pic- 
 tures for his daily bread, by some curious want of self- 
 knowledge he looked upon himself as wholly unfit and 
 unworthy for the work, and with this underrating he set 
 his face against all the great company of painters to 
 which he rightfully belonged, and, coming back to his 
 native land, cast about him for other work. 
 
 His father had lived abroad, so many years that the 
 son found he was a stranger in this native land, with no 
 near or far ties of blood to take up the dropped links. 
 His wife's family was in the same isolated condition. 
 What associations, then, were there to bring him, this 
 fastidious, cultivated gentleman, fitting employment? 
 Not one. So it happened that out of his pride and his 
 humility, he came down to the place of bookkeeper in 
 the small house of Warde & Slido, importers of china. 
 It was a hard coming down for both of them ; but 
 harder for John, who was full of all kinds of chivalric 
 ideas about woman, and who had all his life been able 
 to carry them out until now. 
 
 Perhaps, if they had loved each other a little less ro- 
 
232 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 mantically, they might have accepted their new condi- 
 tion with much more ease and contentment ; but they 
 were moulded in a delicate, sensitive fashion, with a 
 good many of the rose-tints in their soul as well as their 
 clay-coloring, so it was impossible for them to do 
 otherwise than they did. Thus it happened that they 
 made each other miserable in many ways by little con- 
 cealments and subterfuges of affection. John, who 
 hated poverty honestly and heartily, and all its long 
 train of petty annoyances, made pretence of gay con- 
 tent for Alice's sake ; and Alice, with the same tastes, 
 followed his example. Fond of social Hfe, yet isolated 
 completely from it for three years, he made pretence of 
 distaste for it because he fancied that it was distaste- 
 ful to his wife in their altered way of living; and so 
 it came about that the two or three men whom he 
 had met at artists' studios, men like Clarke Steyner, 
 who would have been glad to visit him, were never 
 invited to do so. And Alice, wishing all the time that 
 John was not so morbidly sensitive on their poverty, 
 refrained from saying a word indicative of any desire for 
 him to bring home a friend. Thus they played at cross 
 purposes, each making pretence of a state of feeling 
 that was unreal out of this mistaken view of the other. 
 
 III. 
 
 Clarke Steyner sat for a long time, forgetting his 
 bachelor's tea, after Eccleston had gone, looking at the 
 sketch upon the table, — and sitting there, Valsi him- 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 233 
 
 self came in. Steyner, telling him of his call, handed 
 him the paper. 
 
 " You don't mean that young Eccleston did this? " 
 
 " I do." ■ 
 
 " Then what in Heaven's name does he burrow down 
 there in that counting-room for? " 
 
 " Just what I 'd like to know," returned Steyner 
 animatedly. 
 
 Valsi mused a while longer over the little sketch, sit- 
 ting with his chin dropped into his hand. By and by, 
 in a musing tone, — 
 
 " Why don't Warde & Slido send him to Europe for 
 the firm ? Then some of you might give him a commis- 
 sion. I 'd like to see what he 'd make of the Christo 
 della Moneta." 
 
 Steyner lifted his head with a sudden, quick move- 
 ment, but said nothing ; but he had evidently got a 
 new thought which fitted an old one. He brooded over 
 it with his tea. He smoked it in his after-supper pipe. 
 He slept and dreamed upon it. The next morning, 
 meeting young Slido at the bank, was it accident that 
 set him talking of Eccleston to him? It was careful 
 talk, not too interested ; but through it he discovered 
 what he wanted to know, — that John Eccleston was 
 invaluable as a reliable clerk, but that Warde & Slido 
 could not afford to send another man to Europe, 
 Warde himself being already there. 
 
 " He 'd make an excellent buyer, for he has, besides 
 an artist taste, a knowledge of the wants of the people. 
 I wish we could afford to send him ; but we are a new 
 house, you know, and our capital isn't large," commu- 
 nicated Slido. 
 
234 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 Steyner went home with a " bee in his bonnet," 
 "Tom will do it," he said to himself, " on my sugges- 
 tion, and I '11 take the responsibility. It 's the very 
 thing." 
 
 Tom was his brother-in-law, an extensive importer 
 of china ; so it is easy to see where the bee buzzed. 
 
 He was right. His brother-in-law was in need of a 
 good buyer, and had such ample confidence in Clarke 
 that he caught gladly at the suggestion. Steyner went 
 home triumphant, dropping a note on his way to John 
 Eccleston, — just a simple request that he would call 
 as he went up from the office that night. 
 
 That night was the night before Thanksgiving. Every 
 night for a week John had walked through the gay and 
 busy crowds, noting the holiday merriment and prepa- 
 rations with a fierce ache at his heart. Once, so little 
 while ago, he could have spread a brilliant feast, and 
 welcomed a host of brilliant friends. Once he could 
 have ransacked the splendid shops for his Alice's birth- 
 day ; and now he was plodding home without a token, 
 a tired and shabby man. He had turned the corner, 
 and was right upon the bright bay-window before he 
 thought of his engagement. 
 
 A soft light shone from the window, and within there 
 was a glint of gilding, and the glow and warmth of many 
 pictures, and in the midst of all he saw Clarke Steyner 
 sitting, gazing idly into the fire, full of careless, happy 
 ease. What a contrast it offered to the dim little 
 rooms, and to the dreary state he daily kept ! And en- 
 tering, he could not quite conceal beneath that debo- 
 nair manner the bitter pain he felt. 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 235 
 
 Steyner, like all persons of delicate sensibilities, found 
 it difficult to approach this matter, where he himself 
 was the apparent conferrer of a favor. So he put it off 
 by a gracious little bustle of hospitality. He touched a 
 bell, and there appeared such wine as Eccleston had 
 not tasted since those " long Italian days." And sip- 
 ping slowly that delicate, airy sparkle, he was led on 
 into that region of enchantment, where Art alone 
 reigns, by the skilful suggestions of his host. Either 
 the delicate influence of the wine, or the magnetism of 
 his companion, or it may be both together, carried him 
 so far away from the present ills and narrowness of his 
 lot that he gave himself up fully to the charm, and stood 
 revealed to Steyner at his full measurement of manly 
 breadth and culture. How rich that hour was ! With 
 what happy gayety he talked of some things, with 
 what tender reverence of others, and accompanied 
 always with an appreciation as rare as it was genial and 
 delighted. But the hour passed ; a neighboring clock 
 struck, and recalled the present. The old pain returned, 
 and its shadow stole into his face. The wine had lost 
 its flavor, the fire no longer sent out warmth and radi- 
 ance ; there was the chill of a cold reality about every- 
 thing. What right had he to be sitting here sunning 
 himself in an atmosphere of ease and indulgence, — 
 what right, while in the little lonely house his Alice 
 waited for him ? He rose with a sigh that was half a 
 shudder ; and it was then that Steyner began to speak. 
 Just a few words, but of what import ! — a few words 
 modestly spoken, deprecating all generosity, as one 
 might ask instead of giving. 
 
236 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 
 
 A great red flush rose to Eccleston's cheek. Stey- 
 ner, seeing it, mistook the cause. He had been abrupt 
 and patronizing in his offer, perhaps, was his instanta- 
 neous thought. As if Clarke Steyner, the gentlest soul 
 alive, could have been abrupt or patronizing ! 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he began, "if I have 
 seemed — " 
 
 And then Eccleston found his tongue. " You have 
 seemed nothing but what is most delicate and kind," he 
 interrupted. 
 
 The flush died away, and almost a pallor succeeded, 
 as in a few brief words he gave his acceptance and 
 thanks. The words were so simple they might have 
 sounded cold but for the warmth of his eyes, the inten- 
 sity of his tone ; and the clasp of his hand, as he said 
 " Good-night," had in it so much meaning that Clarke 
 Steyner in a moment recognized a gi'eat deal — not 
 all — of the sad, sore struggle of these years of 
 deprivation. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The little table was set in the little room, a fire 
 burned in the grate, and the one picture, the lovely 
 Violante, smiled down from the wall in the evening 
 light as Eccleston entered. Alice, sitting in abstraction 
 over a book, glanced up with a quick smile, but the 
 smile chased a shadow. 
 
 " How bright you look, John ! Have you been to see 
 Mr. Steyner?" she asked. 
 
 '' Yes, I have been to see Mr. Steyner, Alice." 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 237 
 
 There was something in his voice which Alice could 
 riot understand ; something in his eyes, too, — a soft 
 sparkle she could understand as little. She was glad for 
 him to have such pleasure with Mr. Steyner ; but there 
 came to her, as there will to the most generous some- 
 times, a Httle pang of loneliness at the contrast of this 
 pleasure. She had been so specially lonely on this 
 night before Thanksgiving. The tears were in her eyes 
 a moment ago at the thought of other days, and the 
 obscure uncertainty of the present. She had ached for 
 sympathy and consolation ; for somebody to compre- 
 hend her mood, to say some tenderer word than usual, 
 to look some sweeter look. But she was very glad that 
 John had had his pleasure, and yet, — and yet there 
 lurked that slender thread of pain. He sat down at 
 table, keeping still that soft sparkle of enjoyment, quite 
 oblivious of the extra pains Alice had taken, — of the 
 perfumed chocolate that steamed fragrant in the cups, 
 of the pretty attire that set off her loveliness. How 
 strange it was ! Had he forgotten ? Could he forget 
 this night, the eve of her birthday? She tried to meet 
 his mood as usual. She tried to put out of sight all 
 her " cross and passion," and be as bright as he ; but 
 as she met his eyes, and saw only the gleam of airy 
 mirthfulness, and listened to his almost exaggerated 
 jesting, a shiver ran over her. 
 
 "What is it. Ally?" he asked. " Has this dreadful 
 little house, with its thousand and one cracks and 
 crannies, given you the ague ? " 
 
 It was not so much the words as the light, jocose 
 tone that jarred with the words ; and together it proved 
 
238 JOHN ECCLESTON'S J'HANKSGIVING. 
 
 the drop too much. She tried to answer him, but in- 
 stead burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 "Ally, Ally, what have I done? " 
 
 He started from his seat, and going to her side, bent 
 over her with such fond concern that in her uncon- 
 trolled state she sobbed out some words that could not 
 fail to enlighten him of her feeling. 
 
 " I have been a great blunderer, Alice, but I meant it 
 all for the best." 
 
 And then he took her in his arms, and hiding her 
 tearful eyes against his breast, he told her the good 
 news that had brought such unusual gladness to his 
 face, and such buoyancy to his manner on this night. 
 
 " And we will go back again to all the dear old 
 scenes, John ; and you will have your right place among 
 men again, which is best of anything. O John, what 
 a Thanksgiving this will be to us after all ! " 
 
 And the tears flowed afresh, but they were no longer 
 tears of bitterness. And presently, when they had 
 looked at this new happiness on every side, they began 
 to talk of Steyner, and John wondered and questioned, 
 out of the simplicity of his nature, the meaning of his 
 election. But Alice was clearer sighted. 
 
 " You dear, modest old John ! " she cried, " how 
 could any man of discernment know you as Mr. Stey- 
 ner has without knowing you were worth something? 
 And John — " 
 
 She paused, looking up at him wistfully and shyly. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "I — I think we might — perhaps ask Mr. Steyner 
 here for to-morrow." 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 239 
 
 "Alice!" 
 
 " Not if you don't wish it, dear John ; but I thought 
 you — that he might like it." 
 
 ^^ I should like it, Alice ; but you — " 
 
 " /should like it very much, John ; and I am so glad 
 that you do. I was afraid you might not, living as we 
 do ; for you never have brought him home with you, 
 you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but, Alice, do you know that I have 
 not because I thought it would be distasteful to you in 
 our way of living." 
 
 They regarded each other a moment in eloquent 
 silence. It was Alice who broke it, and her voice fal- 
 tered as she spoke, — 
 
 " O John, how we have misunderstood each other 
 all these years ! and I — " 
 
 He bowed his cheek to her head, and held her a lit- 
 tle closer, as he interrupted, — 
 
 " But we have loved each other, my darling ! Let us 
 always remember that." 
 
 There ensued a longer silence, and then John said 
 brightly, in his old debonair manner, " So we are to bid 
 Mr. Steyner here for to-morrow, are we?" 
 
 And Alice answered as brightly, " If you are not 
 afraid he will miss his accustomed crystal and Sevres 
 dinner-service, Mr. Eccleston." 
 
 " I am not afraid of his missing anything if he dines 
 with Mrs. Eccleston," he answered, with tender gayety. 
 
 And so that very night Clarke Steyner was bidden to 
 John Eccleston's Thanksgiving. I think he had no less 
 than four invitations to great houses, where there was 
 
240 JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING, 
 
 brilliant company, and where the feast was served on 
 crystal and Sevres ; but he never "hesitated a moment 
 when John, coming in upon him unexpectedly, said 
 simply, " I want you to dine with us to-moiTOw if you 
 can, Mr. Steyner." 
 
 " My dear fellow," he answered, quickly and cor- 
 dially, " nothing would give me more pleasure." 
 
 And sitting at Mrs. Eccleston's right hand the next 
 day, I am very sure that he did not miss the crystal 
 and Sevres dinner-service. And sitting there, too, he 
 comprehended more of John Eccleston's life than he 
 had ever done before. Of course they talked of art ; 
 neither Clarke Steyner nor John Eccleston could be long 
 in any company where there was any sympathy or taste 
 that way without drifting into it ; and so, of course, the 
 Violante was discussed. Mr. Steyner was delighted with 
 it, and even satisfied Mrs. Alice with his praises. He 
 had not meant to proffer his request quite yet, but he 
 was led into it involuntarily by his talk. 
 
 ^' I have been thinking," he said slowly and thought- 
 fully, looking all the time at the Violante, '' if you v/ould 
 make me another copy of that fancy head, when you 
 are in Dresden. I know that no copy but yours will 
 satisfy me now." 
 
 Alice's eyes literally glowed with the intensity of her 
 delight ; but her husband — " that dear, modest old 
 John," as she called him — murmured out something 
 about Mr. Steyner's overrating his ability ; and then 
 Mr. Steyner loosed his tongue utterly, and told him of 
 Valsi's praise. 
 
 Again Clarke Steyner saw that great red flush mount 
 
JOHN ECCLESTON'S THANKSGIVING. 24 1 
 
 to John Eccleston's brow ; and for a moment, as once 
 before, John could find no words to speak, and when 
 he did it was in his gay and pleasant fashion ; but it 
 touched Steyner more than any gravity. And over 
 their cigars, a little later, it was decided that the copy 
 should be made. And a httle later still, when the guest 
 had gone and the husband and wife sat alone together, 
 she said, in a low voice, — 
 
 " John, I think this is the happiest birthday and the 
 happiest Thanksgiving of my life." 
 
 He put his hand caressingly on her head. " My love, 
 I know it is my happiest Thanksgiving." There was a 
 little upward look which dwelt a moment on the Vio- 
 lante, then lifted thoughtfully beyond ; far beyond into 
 no earthly space that look went. 
 
 It was John Eccleston's Thanksgiving. 
 
 i6 
 
242 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 AN HEIRESS. 
 I. 
 
 HOPE grew tired of her work, — it was some tedi- 
 ous law-copying, — and flinging the pen down 
 with a little weary sigh she went to the window for 
 amusement or for sight-seeing. Plenty of the last there, 
 for the window overlooked a busy street ; and soon 
 Hope's brighter face did not belie her name. Take a 
 long look at her now at this point of her life, for Hope 
 Carroll is to play a very important part in this history ; 
 is even now, as she stands there in the small, plain room, 
 a very important person, though she is yet unaware of it. 
 She is not a beauty ; no, but she is attractive in the 
 very teeth of that demuprer, — attractive from the crown 
 of her head, with its wavy hair, to the sole of her shoe, 
 which shows the royal hollow as she stands a-tiptoe, — 
 for she is not tall, — and leans out to catch another 
 ghmpse of a passing figure that pleased her eye. No, 
 not a beauty, but delicate and fair and womanly in 
 mould and motion and tone. There is about her, too, a 
 look of soft youth, yet Hope is deep in her twenties. 
 Miss Miles, who lives across the way, would tell you, 
 with that peculiar triumphant smile that some women 
 assume when they are enlightening you on such sub- 
 jects, that Hope was twenty-six, every day, if she did 
 '' see7n so young." 
 
AJV HEIRESS. 243 
 
 Hope 7vas young, not merely in seeming, but in all 
 interior life. She had about her, or within her, an ever- 
 springing freshness which made for her an immortal 
 youth that would last until her dying day. So, as she 
 stands there now with the weight of, it may be, even 
 twenty-six years, there is this airy quality of young grace 
 in her movements and expression which her life of 
 planning care cannot utterly overcloud. Her day's 
 work is ended ; and looking down the gay street she 
 forgets her weary toil in the dreams and fancies the con- 
 stantly changing faces suggest. Now and then some one 
 of these many faces will look up, and a smile and bow pass 
 for greeting to her. In this observation of hers, twilight 
 steals on, and she turns away with a little sigh from her 
 pleasant pastime, yet half holds still to her dreams as 
 she obeys the tinkling of the tea-bell. Only she and 
 Aunt Mary at the small round table ; only she and Aunt 
 Mary in the small tenement. They two make the home 
 there ; a very pleasant home, fhough it has its cares, its 
 anxieties, which proceed from that rough janitor, — 
 Poverty. There is a trifle that goes out with Aunt Mary ; 
 that is not half enough to support them, and Hope, in 
 her capacity of copyist, makes up the principal. Hope, 
 if you were her intimate friend, would tell you that she 
 was certainly one of the most favored of women in hav- 
 ing such constant occupation, and such kind and con- 
 stant employers. Her clear and legible chirography 
 would be enough to answer all that, and you might 
 wonder perhaps that with such constant employment, so 
 well paid, that Hope was n't a richer woman. But con- 
 sider this girl, with her delicate, though not diseased 
 
244 -^^ HEIRESS. 
 
 physique, and do not wonder that she cannot confine 
 herself for eight or ten hours of each day to the close, 
 moveless occupation of a copyist. If she did, you would 
 miss that fresh bloom upon her cheek which deepens 
 as she seats herself at the table under a brilliant globe 
 of gaslight. 
 
 " Hope, will you take marmalade to-night? " 
 Hope sits gazing into the little amber and gold gift- 
 cup that Aunt Mary always places for her, and answers 
 irrelevantly, — 
 
 " * And lucid sirups tinct with cinnamon.' " 
 
 "What?" half questions, half exclaims. Aunt Mary. 
 
 Hope lifts her head and laughs. The dream clears, 
 and she comes back from her fancy wandering to an- 
 swer more sanely, " No, I will not have any marmalade. 
 Aunt Mary." 
 
 " Hope, what were you thinking about? " 
 
 "Thinking? I wasn't thinking. Aunt Mary. I was 
 sitting at a feast served 
 
 " ' On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreathed silver ; sumptuous they stand.' 
 
 And I don't know, — I believe I was the queen of it, 
 and was listening to some sort of a kingly fellow as he 
 talked splendid nonsense to me. 
 
 " ' King of us all, ^Ye cried to thee, cried to thee ! ' " 
 
 sung Hope in conclusion, her quotation fitting only to 
 some dinner fancy of hers. 
 
 Aunt Mary laughed, and asked Hope how she could 
 condescend to come down to such simple fare and to 
 
AN HEIRESS. 245 
 
 only her society after that fine feast and company. 
 Hope laughed back, and told her that she brought her 
 company with her ; and as for the feast, nothing so easy 
 as to turn this amber cup into gold, and the rest of the 
 table furniture changed just as swiftly into " wreathed 
 silver " and cut-glass. The marmalade melted into 
 
 " jellies soother than the creamy curd." 
 
 The little white biscuits became French puffs, and all 
 imaginable sweets and wonderful wines glistened and 
 glowed upon this fairy table. 
 
 "Just like Duke Humphrey's dinner. Ah, Aunt 
 Mary, did you ever read that story, * Duke Humphrey's 
 Dinner ' ? No ? You shall read it very soon, then, and 
 I too. It was the most charming and delightful thing, 
 written by Fitz James O'Brien. I read it long, long ago 
 in one of Harpers Magazines. Ah, me !" 
 
 And Hope, though she smiled, looked a little wist- 
 fully at the amber cup. By and by : — 
 
 " Aunt Mary, I should like to be rich, and be queen 
 of fete and feast. If I were rich. Aunt Mary, I should 
 be handsome." 
 
 There was the least tinge of bitterness in the sarcasm 
 of this remark. Aunt ]\Iary made some demurrer 
 against the sarcasm, not the assertion, which Hope 
 took up. 
 
 " O, I don't mean that the gold would gild my face 
 entirely ; I have more vanity than that ; but I mean 
 that, with its prestige and the pretty, fresh things it 
 would buy me, I should be discovered by the now un- 
 obser\^ant world to be a beauty. Not that I should be 
 
246 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 that, but pretty, fresh things, and artistic taste in the ar- 
 rangement of them, would make any woman more 
 attractive." 
 
 Aunt Mary rallied Hope a little on her ambition and 
 her vanity, but Aunt Mary did not moralize. She had 
 the genius to sympathize with what she had long passed, 
 and her gay raillery at Hope contained no restriction 
 or reproof. Thus these two, so wide asunder in years, 
 were closer than many comrades of the same age. But 
 after the raillery the good lady opened another subject, 
 some project or plan of housekeeping, and the fairy 
 feast was all out of sight, when rat-tat came the post- 
 man's knock upon the door. 
 
 Hope did not even look up when Aunt Mary took 
 the letter the carrier handed to her ; for Hope had no 
 curiosity and little interest in the postman's visits. She 
 had no young-lady love for letter-writing, which was 
 quite natural when you consider that her daily occupa- 
 tion gave her enough of that kind of employment. 
 Aunt Mary, on the contrary, had correspondents in 
 plenty ; nieces, nephews, and cousins contributed their 
 several quotas to her fund. The rat-tat of the postman, 
 then, had deep interest for her. But this letter puzzles 
 her. She puts on her spectacles and carries it nearer 
 to the light. 
 
 " Why, Hope, it 's for you." 
 
 '' For me?" 
 
 Hope reached over, and taking it into her hands, 
 puzzled, as Aunt Mary had done, over the direction 
 before she opened it. Toronto ! She knew no one in 
 Toronto. What could it mean? She broke the seal, 
 
AN HEIRESS. 247 
 
 and reading the contents, her surprise did not seem to 
 abate. 
 
 "Aunt Mary, who is James Retson? " 
 
 Her tone was quite cool, but full of the surprise that 
 was in her face. 
 
 " James Retson ? Why, Hope, it 's your Uncle 
 James, your mother's brother." 
 
 " How stupid of me ! I had forgotten. We chil- 
 dren always called him and heard him called by his 
 step- father's name. I always think of him as Uncle 
 Jim Colman." 
 
 '' I know ; he was so young when your grandmother 
 married again. But what has the letter to do with 
 him, Hope? Has he remembered you after all this 
 time ? " 
 
 Hope handed the letter to Aunt Mary that she might 
 read it for answer to her question. And Aunt Mary 
 read it. What do you think this letter contained ? It 
 contained Hope's fortune. Yes, nothing less ; for it 
 was as good as that, — this crabbed, lawyer-like an- 
 nouncement that by the will of James Retson, she, 
 Hope Carroll, was sole heiress of all the lands, estates, 
 and funded property of the said James Retson. And 
 Hope was forthwith summoned to appear before the 
 courts of Toronto to prove and swear herself the said 
 Hope Carroll. Hope was watching Aunt Mary's face, 
 and knew when she had got to the end of the letter. 
 
 " Was there ever anything out of a sensation novel 
 equal to this. Aunt Mary? That this uncle, whom I 
 have n't seen and have half forgotten in all these years, 
 whom none of us ever heard of — good, bad, or indif- 
 
248 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 ferent — in the time, should suddenly appear to us after 
 death in the form of a will like a prince's ! Aunt Mary, 
 do you suppose it is true ? I feel odd and elfish, as if 
 I had stepped into a fairy ring and seen the little men 
 in green. Just as I was talking about being rich, too. 
 I wished, and presto ! the enchanter comes in the 
 form of the postman. Somebody 's served us a trick, 
 auntie." 
 
 '' Nonsense, Hope ; it 's all fast and sure enough ; 
 but very strange, it is true." 
 
 Hope knew it was nonsense, but she was steadying 
 her emotions a little by this gayety. They sat and 
 talked, Hope bearing her part very soberly for a while, 
 as they planned their journey and all the little details 
 concerning it ; but after a while the tricksy spirit broke 
 out again, this time not to steady her emotions, but as 
 an outlet of exuberance. 
 
 " Ah, Aunt Mary, I '11 have the violet silk gown I 've 
 always wanted now, and rings, and brooches, and brace- 
 lets in abundance ! " Hope had a barbaric taste for 
 ornaments. " We '11 ride in a coach every day ; I do 
 hope it won't turn out a pumpkin, as we drive up to 
 the door, auntie. And I '11 have a feast like the one of 
 my fancy, with the baskets of silver and the gold cups ; 
 and I '11 be queen of it. 
 
 * All in a purple gown she stood 
 Her hair within a diamond snood.' 
 
 I shall be a beauty then, you may be sure, auntie. 
 
 * For 'twixt the diamond bands her hair 
 Shone soft as silk, and still more fair 
 The faint, faint rose upon her cheeks.' " 
 
AN HEIRESS. 249 
 
 '^ Hope, go to bed," said Aunt Mary. " Your head 
 is getting light." 
 
 " But the best of all is, auntie, you shall sit with folded 
 hands from morning until night." 
 
 " Hope, I should be tired to death of it." 
 
 '' You shall go to routs and balls then, every evening, 
 and ' not come home till morning.' " 
 
 Hope's gay voice here failed her. The two looked at 
 each other for a moment, and the tears came into the 
 young and old eyes. Deep within both their hearts 
 swelled the tide of thankfulness for this ease and plenty 
 and freedom from anxiety and care, that had come to 
 them. 
 
 11. 
 
 In the brilliant rooms of Mrs. Hofman Grey there 
 was a little buzz of expectation, which sometimes 
 amounted to a slight waiting-hush. What was it ? All 
 the reigning belles had arrived. Even Mrs. Marsh and 
 her beautiful twins, who always made a sensation. A 
 young man standing by Ellen Marsh broke into his 
 pretty party talk, to say, — 
 
 " My cousin, George Dane, says the old house on 
 Ludlow Square is turned into quite a palace of art. 
 George, you know, is a judge." 
 
 " Oh ! " the little beauty looked thoughtful a mo- 
 ment and forgot her flirtation. " How I wish I knew 
 her well enough to call," she ended animatedly. 
 
 "George is quite intimate there," the young man 
 resumed. 
 
250 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 " He admires her, does n't he ? Thinks her very 
 handsome?" the fair Ellen asked anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, he admires her, but I can't beUeve George 
 thinks her very handsome. She has wonderful style 
 and air, I '11 admit, but her face is cold and irregular ; 
 yet I 've known fellows as fastidious as George, and with 
 as critical a knowledge of the lines of beauty, talk viva- 
 ciously, after they had known her a while, of her beauty. 
 You know — " 
 
 Young Ranger did not finish his sentence ; he 
 stopped to watch the entrance, as did his companion, 
 of a lady who was making her way toward her hostess 
 at that moment, — a lady young and with the aspect of 
 beauty. We, who watch her unexcitedly, will not call 
 her beautiful, but we will admire the marvellous grace 
 and art of her dress, which in every point is so suited 
 to the wearer, which so calls out every fine feature, 
 which conceals every bad or indifferent one. It is not 
 a brilliant, showy toilet. At first Mrs. Hofman Grey, 
 who likes people to adorn her rooms with their most 
 splendid array, is inclined to feel disappointed and 
 aggrieved that the special guest to whom she looked for 
 magnificence should present herself without a single 
 diamond, or even a pearl, to do honor to the occasion. 
 George Dane, that wise, far-seeing critic, stands aloof 
 and observes this scene. He sees the expression on 
 Mrs. Grey's face. He knows what it means ; and there 
 is an expression on his own face, a half smile of appre- 
 ciation, which, if you saw it, would tell its own story. 
 George appreciates the taste that consults only becom- 
 ingness, and enjoys with an artist's eye the lovely 
 
AN HEIRESS. 25 I 
 
 grouping of flowers. Lilies so real that you would 
 bend to catch their odor, and, looking into their dewy 
 hearts, would expect to see the yellow pollen, powder 
 the pearl silk and floating lace. As Mrs. Grey's eye 
 detects this lace her brow clears. Mrs. Grey under- 
 stands all the mysterious grades of the delicate fabric, 
 and this tender, fairy-meshed stuff counts for diamonds 
 in adornment. So, with her floating lace, her floating 
 lilies, her consciousness of perfection in her costume, 
 which gives her something of that smiling ease which a 
 woman must always feel with this consciousness, Hope 
 Carroll goes down the room to meet and speak, to re- 
 ceive greetings and exchange them, with men and 
 women who ten months since did not know of her ex- 
 istence. She perceives the value of it all, — and there 
 is some value, — and she takes it for everything it is 
 worth, — for opportunity to be present at fine pageants, 
 to have the power to know the many, to find the few, 
 to hear and to see whatever is worth hearing or seeing. 
 So Hope enjoys herself. Her enjoyment is of a vastly 
 amusing kind ; sometimes a little bitterness creeps in. 
 But though she realizes the world, she does not think so 
 very badly of it generally. 
 
 "It is natural for people to go where there are fine 
 rooms full of fine things : is it unnatural that they should 
 think the occupants or the owners of them finer people 
 than in different surroundings ? I don't find fault with 
 this, Aunt Mary ; but I wonder whether, if I lost all 
 this wealth, there are half a dozen persons who have 
 become fond enough of me through these surroundings 
 to seek me in the little house we left?" And Hope 
 would give a faint sigh as she concluded. 
 
252 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 Hope had been prophetic of herself in declaring that 
 she should be called beautiful in the gay shining of her 
 wealth, and the power of adornment it gave her. Most 
 persons, men especially, did not see what subtile taste 
 brought such effects of color and outline. They looked, 
 and saw, through soft surroundings of lace and silk and 
 harmonious tints, a fair face that looked fairer and 
 fresher for the surroundings ; a form that somehow ex- 
 pressed itself by contours and motions in such graceful 
 ways that they exclaimed at once, " What a beautiful 
 woman ! " There was one, at least, — George Dane, — 
 who understood, but, understanding, only admired the 
 more. He was one of the many whom fortune and 
 fashion brought to her door ; for Hope was herself the 
 fashion. An attractive young woman, with an almost 
 unlimited income, how could this help being the case ? 
 But George Dane was not one of Hope's many adorers. 
 He was one of the few interesting people whom she 
 welcomed for their geniahty or agreeability. George 
 was not exactly of the former class. : he was scarcely 
 genial, with his half- satiric unbehefs, his philosophic 
 cynicism ; but he was certainly agreeable to Hope, 
 with her keen sense of wit and humor, and her insight 
 and experience of life. 
 
 Yet now and then as he sat in her parlor, which 
 was one of those rooms in what he had named the 
 "palace of art," as he sat there, talking interestedly and 
 interestingly, Hope's mind would flit to the small plain 
 room in the little plain house on Martyn Street, and she 
 would wonder if George Dane was one of the few who 
 would follow her there. It was a question she was not 
 
A AT HEIRESS. 253 
 
 anxious to put to the test. This evening, as she went 
 through the rooms with that smiling ease, he certainly 
 did not follow her or pay her any court. Hope liked 
 this. It was a change. By and by he came up with 
 his cousin, Will Ranger. 
 
 " I want this boy to know you, Miss Carroll," he said 
 lightly, but with a certain air that said as well, " You 
 will honor him." 
 
 The "boy" bent his graceful young person before 
 the famous Miss Carroll, who liked him none the less 
 for his boyish blush and slight embarrassment, and, 
 George Dane turning at the appeal of his hostess, the 
 new acquaintances were left alone together for a few 
 moments. Ranger, fresh from his first parties, and the 
 pretty though uncertain manners of young girls like 
 Ellen Marsh, was taken captive by the soft, subdued 
 graciousness of this maturer woman, whose face was 
 yet tender with its youthful aspect. There are some 
 women and some men who have a way of smiling 
 slowly upon you as you speak and they listen, with an 
 expression that seems to imply that what you say is of 
 the utmost importance to them. This was Hope 
 Carroll's way. Will Ranger, when he gave up his place 
 by her side and received that brilliant, sweet smile, did 
 not wonder any longer " that fellows as fastidious as 
 George Dane, and with as critical a knowledge of the 
 lines of beauty," thought Miss Carroll handsome. Hope 
 knew her power ; she had known it long ago when her 
 range was smaller; and she laughed sometimes to 
 see how now it was not only wider range that had been 
 given her, but a newer charm which deepened all her 
 
254 ^^ HEIRESS. 
 
 natural ones. Her laugh turned scornful sometimes as 
 this personality of the heiress pushed itself through 
 everything to her view. Yet with all her insight into hu- 
 man action, her knowledge of the world, it was not in 
 the nature of things for Hope to be unhappy. On the 
 contrary, she enjoyed herself vastly. 
 
 " Hope, how you play with life ! " one day said an 
 old friend, — an old, old friend, of the little house on 
 Martyn Street. 
 
 " Well, I worked with it for a long time : give me 
 my play-days without grudging," answered Hope, mer- 
 rily, yet meaning earnestly. It was a day after this 
 night of Mrs. Grey's, and George Dane was present 
 with Will Ranger and Selwyn Grant. People whis- 
 pered that Miss Carroll had a secret liking for this 
 Grant, that some time she might take his name. 
 Watch him as he leans there against the bronze shaft 
 that holds that charming Faun. He is handsome, but 
 that is n't the best of him. There is a certain repose^ 
 about him which is strength and sweetness. To look 
 long into the gray-blue of his clear eyes would be to 
 believe in every expression that he gave of himself. 
 How different from the satiric play of George Dane's 
 dark, inscrutable face ! 
 
 Into Selwyn's clear eyes comes a fresh light as Hope 
 answers the carping friend with her frank confession of 
 those working-days. 
 
 '' Mrs. Lee " — to the " friend '' — " does Miss Car- 
 roll play with life when she goes down into those 
 crooked alleys by the mills? " 
 
 Mrs. Lee looked surprised, questioning. Selwyn 
 
AN HEIRESS. 255 
 
 answered it, nodding his head with the words, so in 
 earnest was he, — 
 
 " She does. The back windows of my office over- 
 look Mill Street." 
 
 Mrs. Lee now looked as if she would like to have 
 asked Hope's pardon ; but Hope, with flushing cheeks, 
 was busy over the music-stand, and asking young Ran- 
 ger to help her, — young Ranger, who flashed adoring 
 glances at her upon this revelation. Hope's eyes 
 turned away as she caught them ; she half smiled too, 
 but flushed deeper as Selwyn's eyes met her in the 
 turning. Only George Dane seemed unstirred by this 
 revelation. In fact, George appeared a little bored. 
 He whistled softly an opera air, tapping lightly a tattoo 
 accompaniment upon the arm of his chair, and rose 
 very soon to make his adieux. He stood on the 
 threshold a moment, hat in hand, which he waved 
 with a playful sort of exaggeration as he turned away, 
 saying, " Farewell, sweet saint ! " There was a flitting 
 smile upon his thin, darkly fringed lips, and Hope 
 thought a tone of mockery in his voice. This was n't 
 agreeable. George Dane's satiric sense was very 
 amusing when it touched upon impersonal topics ; but 
 against herself ? 
 
 ni. 
 
 The winter had gone, summer had come, and Hope 
 at the sea-shore dispensed hospitalities in the loveliest 
 of cottages. Of the many, she had chosen her itw, 
 
256 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 her most intimate. There was a girl friend, a widowed 
 cousin whom she liked, Selwyn Grant, and young Ran- 
 ger. She had asked George Dane, but George had 
 said to her, — 
 
 " Hope, I 'm a cross-grained fellow, I suppose, but I 
 hate to visit ; it seems to me to take away some of my 
 right tO"<^^ cross-grained, so I prefer my hotel. When 
 I get away from my office I shall run down to your 
 neighborhood for a week or so : you '11 see enough of 
 me then." 
 
 All summer Hope stayed there, nor ever wished to go 
 elsewhere, nor ever wished to change her company. 
 Once, when after a few weeks there were signs of flit- 
 ting in her guests, Hope implored them to stay. 
 "Why will you force me to change my household ? " 
 she said. " Now, when we have all become so nicely 
 fitted to each other, you go and break it up for a doubt- 
 ful uncertainty." Her cordial philosophy settled the 
 matter. They stayed. 
 
 At the latter part of the summer George Dane came 
 down, and dropped in upon them one evening, darker, 
 thinner, more saturnine than ever in his cool white 
 linen garments, offering a marked contrast to Selwyn 
 Grant's frank, fair countenance, and Will Ranger's 
 happy boyish health. But they all welcomed him 
 cordially. 
 
 "You ought to have been here before, Dane," 
 Selwyn said to him. " You 've lost all these golden 
 weeks burrowing in the city." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say ; but I don't suddenly take out a 
 lease of independence when summer comes," answered 
 
AN HEIRESS. 257 
 
 George, with a grim smile. " I 've been rather enter- 
 tained, however, — been ferreting out a knotty case 
 that has hung over two sessions already " ; and George's 
 grimness relaxed into the keen, triumphant look of the 
 attorney. Selwyn, who observed, and listened, and 
 admired this keen fellow, offered another contrast to 
 him at this point. Selwyn Grant was a man of lei- 
 sure ; not an idle man. With abundant means, his 
 refined intellect, his warm sympathies, his health of 
 mind and body, all saved him from idleness. But 
 George Dane, as he had said of himself, had taken out 
 no lease of independence. By temper or fortune 
 George was not a man of leisure. Yet he worked at 
 his profession as if he loved it sometimes, — alert, 
 eager, and high-tensioned. It gave him a handsome 
 yield, wherewith he lived handsomely, when, to use 
 Grant's words, " he was not burrowing in the city." 
 
 While gossip accorded Selwyn Grant — who pecu- 
 niarily had no need to draw a matrimonial prize — to 
 Miss Carroll, why did it pass by George Dane without 
 a word of suspicion, when he sat at her table, and 
 called her intimately "Hope"? Probably because 
 George Dane, now seven-and-thirty, had passed by, in 
 their several seasons, heiress after heiress ; had sat at 
 their tables, had been intimate in just that passionless, 
 friendly way of his with one and another, without any 
 of that gallant assiduity, that waiting attendance, which 
 distinguishes a suitor ; because he could stand by and 
 see them wooed and won ; could even applaud the 
 winning, too, — it had come to be understood that 
 George Dane was no fortune-hunter in that way, that 
 
 17 
 
258 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 he was, in fact, too cold and ambitious, of too stern a 
 pride, to seek any object but professional distinction. 
 Thus it comes to pass that he has long talks with Hope, 
 discussions of books or thought, when they are in a 
 manner intimate and confidential ; that he can sit 
 there just outside the window those summer nights, 
 abstractedly smoking, while Selwyn Grant within — the 
 handsome, manly fellow — goes on with his wooing. 
 At the end of the chapter, perhaps, you may expect to 
 see George Dane applaud. 
 
 It was on a morning after one of these nights that 
 George was met by this announcement — not what he 
 had expected — " George, I have decided to spend 
 the coming winter in Rome." 
 
 " Um. Who goes with you? " 
 
 " Aunt Mary, of course, and ive go in company with 
 the Fannings." 
 
 " You don't say so? " 
 
 George looked more surprise than he usually allowed 
 himself to express. Hope colored a little at the quick 
 words and the look. She must have understood his 
 surprise. He said no more, however, about it, and she 
 confided to him all the winter plans. She seemed in 
 high spirits, full of anticipation, and George rode away 
 after their conference, saying to himself, — 
 
 " I dare say Grant is going too." 
 
 Hope went, but Selwyn Grant did not join the party 
 that sailed with her ; neither did he go to meet it. 
 
 The winter passed, spring came, summer again ; it 
 was full a year before Hope returned. A year older, 
 yet Hope bore the burden bravely. Her face was fresh 
 
AN HEIRESS. 259 
 
 and fair in healthful coloring, her eyes full of sparkle, 
 her figure round, yet lithe. 
 
 " Hope, have you found the fountain of youth or the 
 philosopher's stone?" asked George Dane of her the 
 day he called after her return. 
 
 Hope lifted her eyebrows with a merry sort of affecta- 
 tion she was fond of assuming sometimes. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 He made a grimace. 
 
 " As if you did n't know that you bloom fairer than 
 ever after a year's wandering." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " I am like the aloe, you know ; I bloom late." 
 
 " I know that you have had cares, for you have told 
 me so ; but there is n't a print of them on your face. 
 How does it happen? " 
 
 She grew serious. " Partly temperament, I suppose, 
 which in its elasticity throws off much, — the print at 
 least ; and then you have only known me since life was 
 easier to me, through this fortune that my uncle left me. 
 I was not unhappy then, when I lived in the little house 
 on Martyn Street alone with Aunt Mary. It was a 
 pleasant home, and I enjoyed my reading, my friends, 
 or any amusement, with great zest after my work was 
 over for the day. Hope and Fancy were always build- 
 ing for me very fair and stately edifices of happiness, 
 and my days seemed going on almost pleasurably, 
 sometimes. But my skeleton was only hidden even 
 then. It was one abiding care for the future. I knew 
 that I had no nearer relative than Aunt Mary ; her I 
 loved as a mother, for she had been that to me, and I 
 
26o AJV HEIRESS. 
 
 used to think with vague trouble of what would happen 
 to us if some ill should come to me — if I could not 
 work as I did. Ah, does any ma7i know what this 
 shadow of possible want is, that hangs over the heads 
 of so many women, gently nurtured as we were, — women 
 poor and proud, who can look to no one for home 
 comforts and cares ? Over my head always hung this 
 shadow. It used to blot out all the sunshine in my 
 castles sometimes. I think if you had known me then 
 you might possibly have seen the shadow once in 
 a while breaking through upon my face," she con- 
 cluded, in a low tone. 
 
 " I am glad I don't see it there now, Hope." 
 
 " Yes : do you know I never wake now without that 
 consciousness for a first thought, — that the shadow of 
 that care is gone ? Ah, I thank Heaven for it, it is such 
 blessed relief." 
 
 Her companion was leaning slightly forward, his arm 
 resting upon his knee, — a usual attitude when deeply in- 
 terested. As she paused he asked a question, whose 
 pointedness was softened by the simple, friendly tone : — 
 
 " Hope, why have n't you married ? " 
 
 It was abrupt, but it seemed neither too free nor in 
 any way intrusive to Hope, who knew that he was think- 
 ing of her peculiarly isolated lot, with no nearer tie 
 than Aunt Mary. She colored a little, however, very 
 faintly, just evincing the blush of her womanliness, but 
 her voice was steady and quiet when she spoke in 
 reply. 
 
 " I suppose I have n't had my heart touched deeply 
 enough, or because / have not touched anybody's heart 
 
AN HEIRESS. 26 1 
 
 deeply enough. Then I think I am wanting in faith. 
 I have seen too much into human nature, perhaps, and 
 yet — Well, I am not, it seems to me,' one of those 
 who have an ideal ; but I have not met the man whom 
 it appears to me is enough in unison with me to make it 
 safe for him to marry me. I have one bit of romantic 
 sentiment, perhaps " ; and she colored more ardently. 
 '' I wish to be loved for myself. You will not think this 
 arrogant, you understand — " 
 
 He broke in : — 
 
 " Yes, I understand. You have little faith ; it is no 
 wonder : but there was a fine fellow, last year, Hope, 
 whom you could n't doubt. There were fifty men whom 
 you knew, whose consideration for various reasons went 
 beyond yourself, though you attracted, to your fortune. 
 We will allow this to be natural to those fifty ; but you 
 found one who offered a broad contrast. He stood out 
 nobly, one against the fifty. There was no earthly 
 reason of any kind why you should doubt him." 
 
 The calm, kindly interest that was displayed in this 
 still closer questioning, and the confidence and sympa- 
 thy that existed between these two, hindered the ques- 
 tioning from the least approach to inquisitiveness. His 
 tone and manner both implied too strongly for any 
 such suspicion, solicitude for her welfare, and a fear 
 that she was making some mistake with her life. He 
 waited, still regarding her earnestly, after he had spoken 
 those last words : — 
 
 " There was no earthly reason of any kind why you 
 should doubt him." 
 
 Her eyes were cast down as he said them. For a 
 
262 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 moment she kept silence, then, still looking down, her 
 color deepening very much, she answered, lowly, — 
 
 '' I doubted myself." 
 
 He knew pretty nearly what she meant, and by and 
 by he said, — 
 
 " Hope, perhaps I should not have questioned you 
 thus, but I have seen all along what your fear has 
 been, — that you might be wooed for your fortune." 
 He rose up to go, held out his hand, and for the last 
 words, " Don't let it fetter you, this fear, Hope ; you 
 ought to be happy. Good-by." 
 
 She stood for some minutes just where he had left 
 her, looking out upon the rich glories of the autumn 
 landscape with an expression of mortification gathering 
 upon her face. These last words had struck her deeply. 
 What, was this vague fear rendering her suspicious ? and 
 did he think after all that she had not dealt fairly with 
 herself in regard to Selwyn Grant ? She sat down there 
 by the deep window, and, gazing out upon the wide, 
 bright street, held inward communion with herself. 
 She liked the woof of which her life was wrought at the 
 present time ; it was all fair and splendid : but in the 
 future had she no dream of closer companionship? 
 Only she and Aunt Mary in the world. Some day Aunt 
 Mary would leave her, and some day her youth would 
 be gone. She started, for here went riding past a brave 
 and loyal gentleman, one whom she had not seen since 
 last year, — Selwyn Grant. He lifted his hat, bowing 
 low, and there was a sudden flush upon his cheek at 
 sight of her. For a moment her pulse beat quicker, 
 and her color came flushing like his. You would have 
 
AN HEIRESS. 263 
 
 said at once there were the signs of love ; that, like the 
 Lady of Shalott, she had seen Sir Lancelot, — 
 
 " As he rode down to Camelot." 
 
 But no, Hope knew better than any one that this was 
 not her Sir Lancelot. And why not? Hope herself 
 asks herself this question. " He pleases my taste, he 
 stirs my imagination ; I admire him ; I know him to be 
 kind and manly and honorable ; and I know that he 
 liked me for myself ; why is it, then, that he does not 
 fill my heart? " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hope sat at a great feast. She was queen of it, and wore 
 the identical purple of her fancy feast, — that soft, cool 
 lilac-purple that evening light does not destroy. How 
 it had all come true, this dreaming of her youth ! . She 
 thought of it, and smiled as she sat for a moment a lit- 
 tle apart, catching the sound of the music and the white 
 flying feet of the dancers ; hearing through all the mur- 
 murous hum of many guests, whose festive array in the 
 richly decorated rooms under the blaze of the chande- 
 liers made a brilliant pageant. Hope smiled, and rising^ 
 stood again in the very midst of the throng, her gracious 
 presence carrying a charm wherever she moved. At 
 last she comes upon a group eagerly discussing some 
 bit of news or gay gossip. She hears as she approaches 
 the voice of Will Ranger : — 
 
 " She will know if anybody ; she is his most intimate 
 
264 A^ HEIRESS. 
 
 friend. I '11 ask her. Miss Carroll " — he had come 
 to meet her, and the group closed in, leaving them 
 outside. 
 
 " What is it I am to know if anybody, and to tell you 
 if I know, Mr. Ranger? " and Hope smiled in such a 
 fascinating way upon the young man that he wellnigh 
 forgot his purpose. He stooped to pick up a glove she 
 had dropped, pressing it to his lips in the action, — the 
 foolish, honest boy, — and then remembered to say, 
 while Hope was still smiling, in a sort of indulgent 
 amusement, — 
 
 " About George Dane. He is my cousin, but I never 
 know anything of him. It 's about this rumor of his 
 engagement. Is he engaged to Miss Wharton of Wash- 
 ington, do you think? Ellen Marsh says she knows it 
 to be so. Ellen was in Washington all last winter." 
 
 George Dane, just then entering, and looking round 
 him for his hostess that he might pay the courtesies of 
 the evening to her, suddenly catches her glance across 
 the intervening sea of faces. Will Ranger, who stood 
 beside her, and listened to her commonplace denial of 
 knowledge concerning the matter of the rumor, heard 
 nothing, saw nothing, in her tone or expression as she 
 answered him that struck him as unlike her ordinary 
 demeanor ; but what was it, what mute appeal or ques- 
 tion did George Dane catch with that glance of her 
 eyes? Once before he remembered to have seen that 
 look in her face. It was on a day when some one has- 
 tily brought her tidings she thought then to be true, — 
 that Aunt Mary had been thrown from a carriage. He 
 had never forgotten that look; it flashed over him 
 
AN HEIRESS. 265 
 
 now. What had happened ? His quick eye perceived 
 Will Ranger talking in his usual style to her, and he 
 knew him to be unconscious. As swiftly as he might 
 he made his way to her. Will Ranger had vanished 
 at his approach, and as he took her hand he looked 
 inquiringly at her. 
 
 " What is it, Hope ? W^hat has happened ? " 
 
 Gradually, as he watched her in his onward progress 
 toward her, he had seen the bloom and brightness die 
 out of her face ; and as he questioned her now, not- 
 withstanding the flush that came to her cheek, she 
 looked desolate. He drew her arm in his, and said, 
 " Come out into the garden." 
 
 The long windows were wide open, and the late Sep- 
 tember night had the balmy breath of summer. 
 
 Hope, her arm in his, followed his guidance with a 
 vague unresistance ; and as she went, every moment, 
 through a certain sense of exterior confusion, she was 
 becoming conscious of the state of her heart. She 
 began to see that her Hfe, enriched by such steady 
 friendship, had never missed anything ; but at a blow 
 this citadel was vanishing. Her whole life seemed 
 threatened. If George Dane had been other than what 
 he was, other than the constant, unimpassioned, almost 
 ungallant friend, she would have sooner discovered her 
 heart. He led her out into the garden into a sheltered 
 pleasaunce, and then again asked her, — 
 
 " What is it, — what has happened, Hope ? I saw it 
 in your face the instant I caught your glance." 
 
 His cool, only kind friendliness aroused her pride, 
 struck, too, a cold chill upon her. She recoiled in- 
 
266 AJV HEIRESS. 
 
 wardly; outwardly her manner was calm enough, 
 though she answered hurriedly to his question : — 
 
 " Nothing has happened. Will Ranger was asking — 
 telling me something, and — I had just heard some 
 news that startled me." 
 
 She had bungled at her answer, that she felt at once ; 
 in trying to remedy it she had made it worse. George 
 Dane kept silence for a little space ; then, as if he had 
 waited for her to speak further if she had been dis- 
 posed, and was relieved to find it a matter of small 
 importance, he began telhng her something that was 
 then interesting him. In the midst of it Will Ranger 
 came in sight with Ellen Marsh. As they passed in the 
 pleasaunce suddenly George Dane stopped to say, — 
 
 "Will, what marvellous story were you amazing 
 Miss Carroll with when I came in ? " 
 
 It was a mere impulse, unreasoning, half mischiev- 
 ous, that prompted this, for George Dane was too 
 much of a gentleman to wish to intrude into anything 
 seriously kept secret. To him the matter had settled 
 into a trifle. Will Ranger laughed. 
 
 " I asked Miss Carroll to tell me something about a 
 bit of news I had heard. We thought she 'd know," 
 he answered. 
 
 Ellen Marsh took up this answer with her gay, ban- 
 tering words, which revealed the whole. George gave a 
 satirical, indefinite reply, and turned abruptly away 
 with his companion. Hope's heart died within her ; a 
 glance at his face, — his face which never turned to her 
 now, — and she knew that he had her secret. With- 
 out a word he kept on, not toward the house, but in 
 
AN HEIRESS. 267 
 
 the path away from it. Where was he going? For 
 her life she could not have spoken ; and still holding 
 her arm firmly against himself, he kept on. 
 
 On the grounds was a little pavilion where she some- 
 times passed the hours she desired to be uninterrupted. 
 It was simply furnished, the door easily opened by one 
 who understood its hidden bolt. George Dane had 
 made many a visit to this httle hermitage ; its hidden 
 bolt was well known to him. Into this retreat, then, 
 he now surprised Hope by turning. He wheeled a 
 chair for her by the moonlight-flooded window, and 
 himself remained standing, leaning, facing her, against 
 the casement. 
 
 "Sit," he said abruptly, "and let me speak to you." 
 Still unresisting, she obeyed him. " Hope, I have a 
 confession to make to you." 
 
 Hope felt as if the soft south wind was full of taunt- 
 ing, jeering voices. 
 
 " In the first days of my acquaintance with you, 
 Hope, I came to the knowledge of one thing, — that 
 you were the one woman that I could love. At the 
 same time that I made this discovery I made another, — 
 that you would never marry a man whom you were not 
 assured would take you just as readily penniless." 
 
 He stopped a moment, his face paled and flushed ; 
 then, with a resolute lift of his head, he went on , — 
 
 " Hope, I loved you. I do not love easily nor 
 lightly. I had lived nearly forty years without finding 
 a woman who could be to me what you were ; but for 
 all that, Hope, I would never have taken you pen- 
 niless, with my own income merely the result of my 
 
268 AN HEIRESS. 
 
 professional work, if I had been assured that you 
 returned my love. Had I been the possessor of an 
 independence apart from this, you would have found 
 me a determined wooer. Hope, do you understand? " 
 
 He paused a moment, but she could not speak» 
 He went on : " Life is uncertain. I would not, first of 
 all, put a wife or family into the possible position of 
 poverty which my death would be sure to do. Sec- 
 ondly, I am fastidious about the conditions and circum- 
 stances of life. If these conditions and circumstances 
 must be inharmonious to my tastes, I prefer to bear 
 them alone. If there are to be struggles and pri- 
 vations, I prefer to struggle by myself, and to endure 
 without a companion in privation. . Perhaps this is 
 very worldly ; perhaps I should forget everything but 
 love and the possession of the loved one : but it is not 
 my nature to lose myself in romance. I can love 
 ardently, enduringly, but I cannot lose sight of the 
 fact that we live in an age when all refined social con- 
 ditions are somewhat imperative for the enjoyment of 
 this love. I am not pleading my cause, the cause of 
 a suitor, Hope, when I say all this to you. I say it 
 because I consider it your due. Knowing what I do 
 of your prejudice, — and I do not blame you for it,- — 
 I am much too proud to offend you by offering myself 
 as a suitor." 
 
 As he ceased he passed his handkerchief across his 
 forehead, as men do when under some emotion or 
 excitement which blurs the eyes and beads the brow. 
 Then he turned toward the door with the words, — 
 
 " Shall we return to the house ? '' 
 
AN HEIRESS. 269 
 
 Already he was holding the door open, was waiting 
 for her to pass ; and she sat there motionless, thrilling 
 under his words. Thinking — " This man, who plainly 
 tells me that he would never marry me if I were pen- 
 niless, is the man that I love. He is a different man 
 from him of last year, from Selwyn Grant. He is 
 worldly and ambitious and prudent. The other had 
 some of the heroic elements. He would have dared 
 anything, borne anything, for my love ; but he did not 
 fill my heart. I knew all this, I know it now. That 
 other is the very ideal of a lover, but I do not love 
 him. I love this man who stands unasking here before 
 me. He fills my heart." 
 
 Something like this it was which flashed through her 
 mind ; and as he stood waiting she spoke his name. 
 
 '' George." 
 
 He started at the accents of her voice, they held so 
 much in their low sweetness. Then she put out her 
 hand. 
 
 " George, come back. We two are only suited to 
 each other ; we cannot lose each other. Will you 
 take me now with this very fortune I have made such a 
 bugbear of? " 
 
 He took her, holding her closely in his arms ; and 
 when he spoke his voice was full of tender vehemence, — 
 
 " Hope, I take you, loving you so well that the pos- 
 sible misconstructions of the world at my choice do 
 not embitter or deter me. You know that I love you, 
 Hope." 
 
 She knew it by the very rest and content that filled 
 all her heart as he spoke. Verily, ''we love whom 
 we must." ' 
 
2/0 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 I. 
 
 IT was in the summer of i860. Margaret Freyer was 
 one of the season belles at Newport. She was then 
 two-and-twenty, — a slender, graceful girl, whom men 
 spoke of as " that charming Miss Freyer " ; of whom 
 women wondered " what men could see in Margaret 
 Freyer to admire so much." I have known gentlemen 
 to come from her presence, where they had been 
 lengthening a brief call into a visit, ahd go into raptures, 
 in the hearing of lady acquaintances, over Margaret's 
 hair, and her eyes, and her teeth ; or her color, her 
 form, and her grace. 
 
 " Such dark eyes ! Such brilliant hair ! Such daz- 
 zling teeth ! " 
 
 And the fair hearers would look in amaze. " Why, 
 her eyes were green. And she was so sallow ; and the 
 outlines of her face so irregular ! And as for her color, 
 why, that was quite as irregular. When Margaret was n't 
 under some excitement she was pale as a ghost, and 
 showed great hollows in her cheeks. Handsome ! " 
 They could n't see Margaret Freyer's beauty. 
 
 Yet Margaret Freyer possessed the power of great 
 beauty. For she was one of those persons who had all 
 the effects of beauty without its perfect possession. So 
 men and women differed about her. To the former, 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 2/1 
 
 after leaving her electric presence, where they had 
 watched that vivid coming of color, the kindling eyes, 
 the quick flashing smiles, the flitting expressions, Mar- 
 garet was beautiful. To the latter — women whom 
 Margaret mostly saw, gay girls, who chatted and gos- 
 sipped over last night's party — Margaret Freyer was 
 only " a plain, sallow girl, rather stylish, but so peculiar ! " 
 
 And what was the reason that this " sallow girl " 
 transformed herself so brilliantly for these men instead 
 of these women? Was it the common incentive of 
 coquetry that roused her to animation ? No. But in 
 the position of life in which it was Margaret's fortune 
 to be cast, as a general rule, the sons took wider ranges 
 of thought and speculation than the daughters. And 
 naturally enough, as being men, they came in contact 
 with all the contrasts of life, touched at all its points in 
 their intercourse with their fellows ; while their sisters, 
 revolving in their narrower circle, which custom has 
 rendered exclusive to one class or '' set," have Httle 
 knowledge and less interest for any other. 
 
 And Margaret, an only daughter, associated with her 
 father and two brothers from her early girlhood, par- 
 took of their spirit most cordially, — a spirit which by 
 nature and education embraced broad grounds. So it 
 happened that she became more companionable to 
 " these men " than to " these women." 
 
 So it happened that she stood talking, on one of those 
 summer nights, with Matt Dillon and Harry Smythe 
 and Mr. Garruth, three of the finest fellows you could 
 have found at Newport that season or any other season. 
 
 And across the room, leaning on their partners' arms. 
 
2/2 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 and waiting for the next waltz to strike up, were some 
 of those fair dissenters, who wondered "what Matt 
 Dillon and Harry Smythe and Mr. Garruth could see 
 to admire in Margaret Freyer." 
 
 One of these partners — a tall, slight, and dark man, 
 with a promise of greater breadth in the well-knit frame 
 for the days that were to come — was evidently not so 
 surprised at the admiration as the pretty blonde who 
 hung upon his arm ; for as he listened to Bertha's light, 
 graceful talk with courteous response of smile, or word, 
 or bow, he shot out from under black brows a curious, 
 inquiring look at Margaret opposite. 
 
 But Madison Wythe was too much of a tactician to 
 betray his interest to his lady companion. Much too 
 wise and witty to say, as he felt, " Who is that brilliant 
 girl across there with Dillon and the rest?" 
 
 No, he waited ; went through the long waltz with 
 that tireless Bertha Downes, swung off near the supper- 
 room as the last flute sounded, met Dillon coming out, 
 and made him go back again while he transferred Miss 
 Downes to one of the Smythes. Then at liberty, he 
 linked his arm in Matt Dillon's, and sauntering down 
 the floor, asked, — 
 
 " Who was that girl you stood talking with, Matt ? " 
 
 "Which girl?" 
 
 Matt had been talking with a dozen certainly, and 
 this rather widely put question was n't easily answered. 
 
 " Which ! " There was sarcastic emphasis in this 
 repetition. " It 's my opinion there is but one girl 
 here with whom we can talk for the space of fifteen 
 minutes. Matt." 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 27.3 
 
 " Oh, I know now " ; and Matt laughed, and then 
 looked at his companion oddly. 
 
 ''Well, who is she?" Wythe was getting impatient. 
 
 " A slender, sallow girl, with heavy eyes and an ab- 
 stracted manner — " 
 
 " Pish ! No, no. A girl with clear skin, a vivid 
 color, and splendid dark eyes, that talked with her 
 tongue. And she wore some sort of scarlet vine run- 
 ning like fire through her hair." 
 
 Matt laughed again. 
 
 " Yes, I know, I know, Wythe ; but what / said is 
 what the women say about her. It's Margaret Freyer." 
 
 " I want to know her." 
 
 " Yes, I see you do," returned Dillon significantly. 
 '' But I warn you, Madison, that you won't agree with 
 each other. You '11 quarrel. She 's radical ; comes of 
 a radical family ; full of isms, and that special ism 
 which you hate specially — " 
 
 '' Come, Matt, you are wasting time. Will you in- 
 troduce me ? " Wythe interrupted, laughing himself 
 now. 
 
 " Then I warn you again," proceeded imperturbable 
 Matt. And here a tragic look. *' There are two obsta- 
 cles. Smythe and Garruth are in the way." 
 
 *' In the way of what, — an introduction? " 
 
 *' Oh, only an introduction ! " with a quizzical look. 
 " I thought — O Miss Margaret, did you get your 
 fan? (There she is now, the other side of the table, 
 Wythe," in an under-tone.) Then again, louder : — 
 
 " You promised to drink that Marcobrunner with me, 
 and hear my Spanish pledge over it. It 's a secret I 
 
 18 
 
274 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 can only give to you. I '11 come round, or over, which 
 is it? There seems an even chance." 
 
 And for a second the sparkhng fellow looked about, as 
 if in debate with himself. 
 
 Then a gentle jostle here, a setting aside in some re- 
 markable manner of square shoulders, and a parting of 
 seas of silk and muslin, — smiles, bows, and " I beg 
 your pardons," all with that inimitable good-humor 
 and charming grace, — and Matt Dillon had found his 
 way through the throng, and was bending over the Mar- 
 cobrunner, speaking low and rapidly to listening Mar- 
 garet Freyer. Madison Wythe, across the table, knew 
 what the ruse of the Spanish pledge meant. 
 
 He knew, as he lent an ear to a gay little talker be- 
 side him, that he was under discussion between the 
 owner of those splendid dark eyes and Matt Dillon. 
 He knew Matt was proposing his acquaintance, and he 
 felt the splendid eyes in a glance of curiosity, it 
 seemed to him like measurement ; and he colored so 
 fiercely that the little talker thought she had bewitched 
 him. 
 
 Presently the throng thinned, and Matt Dillon re- 
 turned, took him by the arm, with these words : — 
 
 " Smythe and Garruth will want to kill you, and then 
 perhaps you '11 want to kill them. If it comes to that, 
 you know, you can wait till you catch them in the 
 Carolinas, and setde it in a compound duel. I '11 come 
 on and play the second." 
 
 "Which side?" 
 
 But by this time they stopped in front of Miss Freyer, 
 and Dillon stopped his nonsense to say, "This is my 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 2/5 
 
 friend Mr. Wythe, Miss Freyer. Miss Freyer, Mr. 
 Wythe." 
 
 Margaret Freyer looked up and caught that glance 
 again, — a glance that, half an hour ago, had struck 
 athwart Bertha Downe's blonde hair, as that dark face 
 went flashing above it down the measures of a waltz. 
 
 " I wonder who he is ! " she had thought then. She 
 knew now ; that is, she knew his name was Wythe, — 
 Madison Wythe, Matt Dillon had said. But that 
 wasn't much to know. It was something, but not 
 everything. And Margaret liked to know a great deal 
 about people when she cared to know at all. She liked 
 to study character, and she was really a very clever 
 student. Here was a face that promised plenty of study, 
 — a dark, deep face, that wore its dusky beauty Hke a 
 mask, and kept cool control somewhere beneath of 
 the fire that leaped to the eyes in those flashing glances. 
 
 He didn't say much, as they stood there in the 
 supper-room ; but as they moved away, he followed 
 directly ; and when again in the hall he managed to 
 draw her apart from the others, in some perfectly un- 
 noticeable manner, — a certain silent power, which was 
 not stratagem. 
 
 Then a French horn began piping Strauss's sweet 
 Zamora ; and as the clear whistle of a flute closed in he 
 bent his head to her. It was curious. The mere mo- 
 tion was of deferential entreaty, which made the words 
 that followed a surprise : — 
 
 '' I want you to waltz with me." 
 
 There was not only a simplicity about this, but there 
 was a dreamy, confidential tone in it. 
 
2/6 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 The music seemed to suggest some fine conditions 
 of thought and feeling, which he felt that she could 
 share. That was the expression of his manner, his tone. 
 And Margaret accepted the invitation it involved as she 
 put her hand in his. Down through the cool spaces of 
 the hall, just without the circHng dancers, he held their 
 way. 
 
 Sure, silent, and with profound repose of action he 
 bore her on. And ever through the tender deference 
 of his air there was that confidential tone which drew her 
 into his thought. 
 
 Softer and clearer blew out the clear notes of" the 
 horns, finer the fine, shrill whistle of the flute, sweeter 
 the strains of the violins, and nearer, sweeter yet, the 
 harp's low, golden twang. 
 
 But what strange story were they pouring forth? 
 What " thoughts that breathe and words that burn " did 
 horns and flutes and harps express as she floated on? 
 Was this the effect of Strauss's Zamora? She had kept 
 its sweet measure a hundred times with a laugh and a 
 jest ; but now she kept its rhythmic beats with a pul- 
 sation that thrilled responsive to the new story the 
 horns and harps and flutes were teUing. 
 
 So floating on, she lost the time, the place ; and thus 
 rapt away, what is it she hears, what is it she says in two 
 or three questioning, words of dreamy tone ? 
 
 " Miss Freyer ! " 
 
 And the dream was broken, the spell was dissolved. 
 
 They were just gliding past a window. There was a 
 door beyond. Her companion dropped into a walk, 
 and putting her hand over his arm, led her out under 
 the night and the stars. 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 2// 
 
 " Miss Freyer, I have tired you." 
 
 He did not wait for her to answer, but leaning over 
 the balustrade with a deep respiration, as if in the scent 
 of the sea, and its hoarse murmur, he recalled something 
 foregone, he said, — 
 
 " I have not heard that waltz since I heard it played at 
 Wythe Willows. It was just such a night as this, and 
 my cousin, Raymond Wythe, — you may have met him 
 last summer here, — a splendid young fellow ; he was 
 lost at sea, yachting, after he left the North, — it was 
 just such a night as this that he played the Zamora, and 
 for the last time at Wythe Willows. When the band 
 struck up its familiar notes a few moments ago I thought 
 of that time. I remember I was sitting in a far window 
 while he played, and could only see the outline of his 
 head and his beautiful face, which came out into the 
 moonlight ; all the rest was in shadow. And as I listened 
 and looked he seemed to me the personation of some 
 beautiful, strong, womanly soul, — all the sweetness of 
 a woman, you know, and enough of the strength of 
 manhood, not masculinity, you see. Raymond had 
 always suggested something like this to me, but never 
 so completely as at that moment. His youth aided the 
 feehng, — not then nineteen, and lovely as any girl. But 
 you are fatigued. I tired you ; I kept you there too 
 long. Sit here, and let me get your shawl." 
 
 Before she could assent or dissent he had disap- 
 peared ; and returning, brought, fluttering across his 
 arm, a shawl of white wools, fringed with a curious min- 
 gling of pale green chenilles and strings of pearly beads, 
 which glistened and shone and clashed together with 
 
278 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 every movement in a little soft tinkle such as you might 
 fancy for fairy bells. She looked in surprise. 
 
 " How did you know my shawl? " 
 
 " How ? Well, I can hardly tell. I certainly had 
 never seen you wear it ; but there" were twenty shawls 
 lying in a chair, — blue, red, and black ; all the colors 
 of the rainbow, and every style of stripes and checks. I 
 shook them over, and came to this scrap of a mermaid's 
 drapery. The moment I heard the tinkle of the fringe 
 I knew where it belonged, — I knew the sound of the 
 sea. On what nautilus shell for a boat did you sail for 
 this, Miss Freyer? " 
 
 He looked down at her as he spoke, his mouth 
 smiling and his eyes alight with sportiveness. She 
 laughed, caught his spirit, and answered, quoting, — 
 
 " * On the broad sea-wolds i' the crimson shells 
 Whose silver spikes are nearest the sea.' " 
 
 He was leaning against the balustrade opposite her, and 
 laughed gayly back again as she quoted. 
 
 " Yes, it is veritable sea-foam," he said, — " all that 
 white and green and pearl. And how it suits you ! Just 
 as if I should not have known its owner. There is n't 
 another inside there who could wear it. I know peo- 
 ple's belongings when I see them." Just then she 
 raised her hand. A diamond flashed upon one of her 
 fingers, and he went on with his fanciful mer-talk. 
 
 " Ah ! I see a merman has left his kiss upon your 
 finger. Is it a pledge or a bond ? and why did n't he 
 give you for keepsakes * turquoise, and agate, and al- 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 2y() 
 
 mondine ' ? Those are more of your rightful belong- 
 ings." 
 
 The band was playing again other waltzes, and they 
 both stopped to hsten. Gay tunes these were, dashing 
 along in mirthful measure, swift and jubilant, for they 
 were the last. The dances were nearly done. 
 
 Margaret was beating her fan upon her wrist to these 
 swift gayeties, and thinking of that sweet Zamora, and 
 the strange spell it had brought, when her companion 
 broke the silence. He had only been waiting. 
 
 "Miss Freyer," — and his voice was soft and deep, 
 as the softest and deepest strains of the music, — " will 
 you tell me of what you were thinking when the band 
 played the Zamora just now as we danced? " 
 
 A flush rose to her cheek. 
 
 " Did I speak as we waltzed? " she asked. 
 
 He came forward and sat down upon the second step 
 of the flight, and leaned his elbow on the floor at her 
 feet. Looking up he answered, " You asked once, 
 * What is it you were saying? ' " 
 
 Margaret returned his gaze. It was a fine face up- 
 turned to her, and Margaret trusted her skill in reading 
 character, and felt that the character here was one to 
 have faith in. There was depth of nature and philoso- 
 phy in it, and something else, — a sympathetic sense, 
 that won her on to speak honestly, if not fully. 
 
 " I think I must have followed your thought in a 
 measure," she said, not without some fluctuation of 
 feeling, which flushed her cheek there in the moonlight 
 so vividly that he could not but see it. 
 
 " Or perhaps your thought followed me " ; and she 
 
280 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 smiled faintly. " I think the intensity of your remem- 
 brances must have reacted upon me and impressed my 
 mood. I am not specially impressionable, but some- 
 times my sense of sympathy is touched and I seem to 
 know, or fancy I know, a person's thoughts, perhaps" — 
 laughing a little nervously. " So it was, I suppose, that 
 I received a certain tone from you, and my own mind 
 shaped it to my own needs ; or perhaps that is not the 
 word I should use." 
 
 He flashed a quick glance at her as she hesitatingly 
 uttered this, then bent his head again. 
 
 ''And you thought I had spoken? "he said mus- 
 ingly. ''What?" 
 
 "No, no. I can't recall. I — " She stopped. 
 
 Again he lifted his eyes involuntarily. There was 
 such emotion of color and expression upon that ex- 
 pressive face that in an instant he understood. It was 
 a revelation to him. 
 
 Immediately he spoke. " I will tell you frankly," 
 were his words, " that as we stood there, and the music 
 began with that familiar Zamora, and brought up with 
 it the old association, the old dreams and fancies, I felt 
 — how can I express it ? — that your nature was so 
 friendly and kind and genial that you would under- 
 stand any peculiarity of mood, and become, consciously 
 or unconsciously, a sharer of that mood, and so heighten 
 instead of lessen its vague yet intense charm. But why 
 strive to explain the inexplicable ? Why strive to reduce 
 to words what can only be felt ? I hope all this will not 
 bring any regret to you. I hope you will not feel that 
 I have been intrusive. I see what you think, — that I 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART, 28 1 
 
 am specially magnetic. I am not. I must tell you fairly 
 that I do not understand its laws, that I have never 
 tried to. I am only conscious of indirect magnetism, 
 such as any sensitive person possesses, such as tempers, 
 likes and dislikes, repulsions, etc. I have never met 
 with the person before that I have impressed as I have 
 yourself." 
 
 They all at once became conscious here that tlie 
 horns and harps and flutes had ceased, and the dancers 
 were leaving the hall. He rose instantly, and with 
 quick transition of tact turned any possible feeling of 
 embarrassment by gay recurrence to her mermaid 
 claims, as the shining sea-foam fringe clashed its soft 
 music. 
 
 As he bade her "good-night," or I think it may 
 have been "good-morning," at the carriage-door, he 
 leaned in a moment to ask, — 
 
 " May I come round and see you to-morrow?" 
 
 She gave assent, smiled, bowed ; the sea-foam fringe 
 sounded in his ear, and she was gone. 
 
 What were Margaret Freyer's thoughts that night as 
 she unbraided her hair, sitting there in her room, as she 
 laid her head upon her pillow, and gazed through the 
 open window upon the fading stars ? Whose words did 
 she remember most vividly? Whose face shone out 
 beyond the others? Was it Harry Smythe's, earnest, 
 refined, and manly? Was it Garruth's, elegant, elo- 
 quent Garruth's ? Was it Dillon's — Matt Dillon, the 
 most sparkling and graceful of her friends ? 
 
 Not one of these. Margaret's remembrances of that 
 evening dated from the time when the band began 
 
282 MARGARET FREYEK'S HEART. 
 
 playing Strauss's Zamora ; when she found herself drift- 
 ing down the hall, upheld by a touch, light yet firm ; 
 when she found herself dreaming a dream whose vivid- 
 ness mocked reality, — in which she seemed to hear tones 
 new, yet familiar as life ; in which she seemed to hear 
 even the shaping of sentences, — faint utterances, — 
 and then she half murn>urs, " What is it you were say- 
 ing?" And the dream passes. 
 
 This is what Margaret thinks of as she unbraids her 
 hair, as she Hes down upon her pillow. And failing 
 asleep, she dreams it over again. And all through these 
 sleeping fancies still winds and steals Strauss's sweet 
 Zamora. 
 
 11. 
 
 "Where did you disappear last night? I saw you 
 waltzing with Wythe after we left the supper-room, and 
 that was the last of you for my vision. Bertie Downes, 
 with feminine sagacity, declared you had gone home, 
 on the strength of a white and green shawl being miss- 
 ing." 
 
 Margaret did n't care to contradict Bertie Downes's 
 sagacious declaration, so she kept silent. 
 
 Dillon was too gentlemanly to ask the question again, 
 so went on, covering the pause with his sparkling talk. 
 And Margaret, while she listened, held a little thread of 
 thought apart from what she gave to him. 
 
 Here it was nearly the end of the day, and he had n't 
 come. It was rather odd, after his request. Smythe, 
 
. . MARGARET FREYER'S HEART, 283 
 
 Garruth, and Dillon. Dillon not yet departed. The 
 day had been sprinkled thickly with calls. All but the 
 one she looked for with the newer, therefore the greater 
 interest. It was rather odd. 
 
 Margaret Freyer, what are you doing? You have a 
 hundred friends, a hundred interests running far back 
 of this new one. Why should you think so much of 
 this ? Why should you trouble yourself to feel annoyed ? 
 Ah, Margaret, you are proud, and so you think your- 
 self secure. But do you know what you are doing, 
 Margaret ? 
 
 Margaret is too proud even to ask this question. 
 And so she sits and swings the fringe of her shawl, 
 and listens to the sea-foam sound, and the bright talk 
 of Dillon, and lets that small thread of doubt and won- 
 der and annoyance clash all the fairy bells out of tune. 
 
 And then, just as Dillon was saying, — 
 
 " Where 's Wythe ? I have n't seen Wythe to-day. 
 Strange fellow Wythe is. There 's something so spon- 
 taneous, yet reserved, about him. The best fellow in 
 the world, but — you know the story — the hand of 
 steel in the velvet glove." 
 
 Just then a clear tone, whistling softly, as if in ab- 
 straction, a waltz tune, — the Zamora. Then a step 
 turned upon the gravel-path. Then a figure came in 
 view, and Dillon exclaimed, — 
 
 "There he is now ! " 
 
 A moment, and he stepped in over the low sill of the 
 window, — Madison Wythe. 
 
 And, " How do you do, Mr. Wythe ? " very quietly, 
 a trifle coolly. And, — 
 
284 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Freyer?" very warmly; 
 and Matt Dillon, who always had his eyes open, looked 
 up and caught a blush just steaHng off of Miss Freyer's 
 cheeks. 
 
 I don't know by what train of reasoning Mr. Dillon, 
 from this, came to the conclusion that Bertie Downes 
 was mistaken in her assertion last night; Iput it was 
 very certain that he did come to the conclusion, and 
 said to himself, — 
 
 " She was flirting somewhere with Wythe on one of 
 those confounded piazzas all the time I was looking 
 for her. Hang Wythe, how he steals the march ! " 
 
 If Margaret Freyer had heard the name he gave to 
 her tete-a-tete she would have been scornfully indig- 
 nant, for Margaret never consciously flirted, whatever 
 the world might call her occupations. The next thing, 
 Dillon asked, by way of talk, — 
 
 '' Where 've you been all day, Wythe? " 
 
 " In my room ill, — one of my rare headaches ; it 
 goes with the sun. So I am out for the first time to- 
 day. I could have spared yesterday better." 
 
 Twice had this last guest made Margaret's pulse beat 
 quicker in this brief sentence, — once in sudden rehef 
 at the reason of his absence ; again, " I could have 
 spared yesterday better." 
 
 O Margaret, did you confess to yourself what 
 strange pleasure that simple sentence gave ? No ; you 
 only thought, Margaret, " I like that, it is so earnestly 
 said." 
 
 Yes ; there was that subtile charm about Madison 
 Wythe. He never said a thing of this kind but that he 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 285 
 
 was in earnest ; and the careless admission of his earn- 
 estness in tone and manner — that one-thoughted, 
 dreamy manner — was not its least charm. 
 
 Matt Dillon saw it all, — the blush, the smile, per- 
 haps the heart-beats ; and he drew his conclusions 
 again, — wise conclusions. 
 
 Ay, Matt, go home. The sun has gone down, and 
 night has come on, and there are no stars in the heavy 
 sky. Go home ; you will not be missed, though you 
 have missed so much. Go home, old friend, and leave 
 the new. It is bitter ; but the world is full of- such bit- 
 terness, and it is sure to touch warm, generous natures 
 like yours. So Matt goes home, whistling softly, as he 
 goes through the green fields, and along the lovely 
 lanes, snatches of that same Zamora. A httle while 
 since, from other lips, it sounded like a song of happy 
 triumph. Now it is Uke a dirge of hope. 
 
 It was not long after that, in his very footsteps, 
 through the green fields and along the lovely lanes, 
 followed those two, — Madison Wythe and Margaret 
 Freyer. They were going down to the sea. There 
 was a storm coming up. Margaret had never witnessed 
 the effect at the beaches, and he had proposed her 
 going now ; and, wrapped in her hooded cloak of 
 tweed, Margaret "was ready for the wildest expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 She had a fit companion for the scene she sought. 
 Madison Wythe possessed all the elements of strength 
 and softness. With what intensified appreciation, then, 
 did she stand there upon the rocks, and hsten to 
 the roar of the waves, every moment growing nearer 
 
286 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 and deeper, until they broke their silver walls against 
 cliff and shore with the booming as of cannon and 
 the thunder of a hundred drums. It was a wild 
 and splendid sight. Black reaches of land, lying in 
 the background like some couchant monsters of the 
 deep ; and before, that trackless waste of water, lashed 
 into foaming fury, its towering waves Ht into sublime 
 exaggerations by the constant play of lightning. The 
 very earth seemed to heave under them in this increas- 
 ing convulsion. 
 
 Nearer and nearer dashed the waves, louder and 
 louder their derisive scorn ; and the wind and rain and 
 thunder joined the tempestuous cry. 
 
 Nearer and nearer the waves, until a fierce dash, and 
 they who had stood a moment since untouched were 
 almost overwhelmed. Their rock of refuge was a rock 
 of refuge no longer. But a strong arm upheld Mar- 
 garet, and not a fear or a misgiving entered her heart 
 as it bore her backward, though the waves followed 
 closely, shouting for their prey. For how could fears 
 live in such a presence as his who held her there ? 
 
 He had the very quahties to be brought out most 
 buoyantly on an occasion hke this. Thoughtful, specu- 
 lative, and given to imaginings, with all his " social 
 genius and natural earnestness, he would quite Hkely 
 fall unconsciously into silent dreams amidst the gay 
 pageantry of a ball-room. But amidst the excitements 
 of the outward life, the roar of the elements, or any 
 suggestion of peril or adventure, his spirits rose exhila- 
 rant. So now, as he bore her backward from danger 
 in all that wild commotion of nature, he grew gay and 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 28/ 
 
 jubilant. A certain airy, fantastic grace played about his 
 words as he jested and laughed at every fresh assault of 
 wind or wave. To Margaret this fearless gayety, this 
 laughing security, where everything else seemed so inse- 
 cure, was fascinating to the last degree. She too became 
 gay and jubilant, she too laughed and jested at wind or 
 wave. 
 
 And at length, far out of the reach of the hurrying, 
 hungry tide, they rested in their homeward flight for a 
 few moments, and looked back upon what they had 
 left. The storm was breaking; the rain had ceased 
 to fall, and the moon was drifting up through the 
 clouds. 
 
 Its faint hght showed the flooded shore, all landmarks 
 of familiar rock and stone obliterated, — one wide, vast 
 expanse of sea, lifting fearful heights of angry tide ; 
 and evermore that ceaseless song, which the sea wails 
 solemnly by night or day, in storm or shine, piercing 
 through the raving of the wind. 
 
 As Margaret listened to this solemn chant, and looked 
 where she had lately trod, her gayety fled, and with a 
 little shiver she sang out suddenly that tragic verse 
 which seems to be the very expression of the sea : — 
 
 *' The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
 And o'er and o'er the sand, 
 And round and round the sand, 
 As far as eye could see ; 
 The blinding mist came down and hid the land, 
 And never home came she." 
 
 And as she ended the salt sea-spray, as if in solemn 
 mockery, dashed " Winding mist " athwart her face. 
 
288 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 She turned with an exclamation that was half a cry. 
 Her floating hair, caught up by the wind, streamed 
 across her companion's hands and brushed his cheek. 
 
 Soft, tender touch, clinging and caressive, breathing 
 the faint violet odor which he remembered as one of 
 the mystic thralls of last night ; it was enough to kindle 
 a less ardent imagination, to thrill a less sensitive heart 
 than this young Carohnian's. 
 
 Did Margaret think of this as she saw that '' tress o' 
 golden hair " crushed with vehement pressure against 
 those be'arded lips? Did she think that, though any 
 man of gallantry might kiss a " tress o' golden hair " 
 under such circumstances, none other could so have 
 thrilled her own heart as this young stranger, whose ac- 
 quaintance dated by hours only? 
 
 O Margaret, your cheek was pale, your breath came 
 quickly ; and a blinding mist, which was not of the sea, 
 hid the land for that moment. Yet, blinder in your 
 pride, you would not read these signs. 
 
 It was a wild hour. The drifting lights and darks, 
 the moaning wind, the moaning sea, which evermore 
 sang its restless song. And in her thrilled and pensive 
 mood, Margaret asked no questions of herself. 
 
 And half in silence, half in some broken poetic talk 
 to fit the night, they wandered home through the green 
 fields and along the lovely lanes. 
 
 How many such nights, how many such hours as 
 these before Margaret would comprehend her heart ? 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 289 
 
 III. 
 
 It was the last of September. The "melancholy 
 days," the " saddest of the year," were neither melan- 
 choly nor sad in this loveliest isle of the sea. The grass 
 wore its deepest green ; the trees, though full of flaming 
 hues, yet held the life of summer ; and golden skies 
 smiled down on golden asters and the rich refluence of 
 the dark-eyed dahlias. 
 
 Tardy is the coming of the '' melancholy days " to 
 this favored spot, the shores of which are bathed by 
 that warm, south current which the Gulf Stream, in its 
 tender partiality, suddenly diverging westward, brings. 
 
 It is thus that summer lingers late, and there are 
 those who are wise enough to linger with it, and enjoy 
 its last loveliness. 
 
 So, on this summer, Margaret Freyer and her friends 
 lingered. 
 
 The last of September, and there are no signs of 
 flight in that group who sit round a morning fire of sea- 
 coal, — girls knitting, netting, and crocheting; young 
 men leaning in at open windows, chatting, or scan- 
 ning newspapers and letters, as the "boy " brings them 
 in. 
 
 And Margaret — where is Margaret Freyer? These 
 are all her friends. There are Bertie Downes and Helena 
 Bell, and the three Gale sisters. And there are another 
 three, — Harry Smith and Mr. Garruth and Matt Dillon. 
 
 By and by somebody asks the very question : — 
 
 " Where is Margaret? I thought she was coming 
 
 19 
 
290 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 round this morning. She promised to show me a new 
 stitch." 
 
 Bertie Downes gave a little giggle, which made Matt 
 Dillon grate his teeth. He always grated his teeth 
 when Bertie Downes gave one of her giggles. He said 
 he always knew something disagreeable was coming 
 after one of these performances. 
 
 But Bertie only said now, • — 
 
 " I guess you '11 wait for your stitch, Helena. I saw 
 Madison Wythe going in at the gate as I came by." 
 
 Was there anything disagreeable in this? Matt 
 seemed to think there was, by the way his brows drew 
 down into a dark wrinkle over his great, honest blue 
 eyes. 
 
 Helena Bell dropped her crocheting into her lap, and 
 said earnestly, — 
 
 " I wonder if Margaret will marry him." 
 
 " Of course she will," answered Bertie decidedly. 
 " I never heard of a girl's declaring she would 71' t marry 
 a man with such and such qualities or circumstances or 
 peculiarities but what she was sure to marry him " ; 
 and Miss Downes settled herself complacently, as if she 
 had had all the experience in the world. 
 
 A strange gleam passed over Matt Dillon's face ; 
 and, — 
 
 " What do you mean by that, Miss Bertie? " he de- 
 manded, in rather a sudden and imperious manner. 
 
 " Helena can tell you best. Helena remembers the 
 conversation." 
 
 He turned to Miss Bell. 
 
 " Why, it was one day last month, just before Madi- 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 29 1 
 
 son Wythe came. We were talking about Carry More's 
 Southern marriage ; and Sarah Kingsley, who had spent 
 a winter with her, was telKng how comfortably Carry 
 took the * peculiar institution,' — Carry, who had such 
 prejudices and principles against it only a year before ; 
 and Margaret, who was listening, declared she thought 
 it was shamefully weak, if not wicked, in Carry to take 
 it so. Sarah was a little provoked at this, and asked 
 Margaret if she wanted Carry to make discord between 
 herself and husband for the sake of opinions. You 
 should have seen Margaret's look at this ! and she said, 
 in that low, intense voice of hers, ' We were talking of 
 principles^ Sarah, not merely opinions. And I say that 
 it is either weak or wicked, if not both, for any one 
 to voluntarily place one's self in such positions, where 
 they must live a constant lie, and deny themselves the 
 protest against what they know to be evil.' Then Ber- 
 tie said pretty much what she said just now ; told Mar- 
 garet that she had never been tried ; that if she should 
 fall in love with a Southerner, as Carry More did, she 
 would quite probably follow the rest of the programme. 
 ^ Never, Bertie ! never ! ' she answered, with the most 
 vehement earnestness. ^Well, we shall see,' Sarah 
 Kingsley retorted, in her sceptical tones." 
 
 "Yes, we shall see!" Bertie Downes now inter- 
 rupted triumphantly, as Helena paused. 
 
 What made Matt Dillon so insensible to Bertie 
 Downes's sharp triumph just then? What made that 
 sudden color flush up along his cheek ? What made 
 the dark wrinkle over his brows melt away, and leave 
 that misty, far-off look in his eyes ? He was thinking. 
 
292 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 And while he thought, yes, and while they had been 
 talking, Margaret was passing through the sorest trial 
 of her life. She was proving the very question of 
 which they talked. 
 
 " But you love me, Margaret, — you love me ! " 
 
 These were the fateful words that Madison Wythe 
 flung down at her feet as the one weapon of truth 
 which beat through all her resisting armor. 
 
 " Yes, I love you ! I love you ! " And as she spoke 
 she wrung her hands together in woful passion. 
 
 " You love me, and yet you sacrifice that love for 
 an abstract theory, — or, well, a belief then. But 
 upon what is your belief founded? A mere matter of 
 circumstance, of education." 
 
 " And I thank God that I was educated in a portion 
 of the country where that point of belief is not ob- 
 scured by self-interest. It is God's beHef, Madison !" 
 and her voice rose out of its tears as she uttered this. 
 
 He leaned forward, soft fire in his eyes and fond 
 persuasion in his tones : " But, Margaret, love is be- 
 yond everything. What strange, sweet proofs have we 
 had from the beginning that to us had come that rare 
 revelation of fitness which proved us the two halves of 
 one soul ! O Margaret, my Margaret, do not turn 
 away from this ! Is love not sacred ? Is love, such 
 love as ours, not the first consideration, the greatest 
 possible gift? " 
 
 So he shook her soul with his impassioned pleading, 
 and tears came as she listened ; but in a moment she 
 returned, — 
 
 " And you, Madison ! If it is above everything, 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 293 
 
 if it is the first consideration, why not give every- 
 thing to it ? Why not give up that inheritance which 
 is the barrier between us ? Would you give up your 
 slaves, Madison, for love? " 
 
 His dark cheek flushed. 
 
 *' Margaret, if I gave up my inheritance I could not 
 give up my conviction. I could not yield my behef to 
 yours — " 
 
 '' Nor could I," she interrupted. 
 
 " And I do not ask you to," he went on eagerly. 
 " Keep your faith, keep your beliefs. They shall be 
 sacred to you. You shall live under my roof, you shall 
 lie in my bosom, Margaret, as free and untrammelled 
 in thought and action as you are at this hour." 
 
 Margaret was weeping silently behind her clasped 
 hands. He moved nearer, and touched her head 
 with a motion that was like a blessing. 
 
 '' Oh, Margaret, come !" he entreated. " My lot 
 is cast by all the laws of Nature in the land of my an- 
 cestors. Come and share that lot, Margaret. Every 
 instinct of your heart tells you that your place is here." 
 And he suddenly but gently gathered her to his breast. 
 
 How much easier to resist would have been impa- 
 tience, anger, or reproach, — anything but this unvary- 
 ing sweetness, this loving persistence ! And here 
 lurked Madison Wythe's power; here, the hand of 
 steel in the velvet glove. His spirit was strong ; and • 
 where heart or intellect aroused themselves to conquer 
 or win, all lesser passions were subdued by the greater. 
 With Margaret, therefore, though she resisted him on 
 that one ground, where resistance would have seemed 
 
294 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 most irritating, yet the mere point of resistance kindled 
 not the least spark of anger. And so, doubly pow- 
 erful in his calmness, united to his undoubted love, and 
 his deep, underlying will, did he set himself to break 
 down this resistance. 
 
 So intrenched was this man in his own pride of 
 belief that opposition or denunciation, even from 
 strangers, rarely moved him to anger. He seemed to 
 regard this opposition or denunciation as one from his 
 superior heights of knowledge and wisdom might look 
 down upon the ignorant offences and foUies of a 
 child. 
 
 This was the man with whom Margaret was brought 
 into such woful resistance. Would she yield to him? 
 He never doubted, as he gathered her into his arms 
 there, that she would. 
 
 But a moment, and then she lifted her head, her 
 face pale but resolute ; her voice once more clear, 
 though faltering with her struggle ; her eyes meeting 
 his eyes, dark, mournful, and pathetic. 
 
 " It cannot be," she began slowly. " No, do not 
 interrupt me," lifting her hand beseechingly. " I know 
 all that you would say ; but it cannot move me from 
 my decision : it can only wring my heart, and you are 
 surely too generous to inflict needless suffering. Hear 
 me once for all, Madison ; let me speak fully. You 
 think that my reason of resistance is a theory, a senti- 
 ment, which your influence may overcome : but it is 
 belief, religion ; it rules my whole character, and holds 
 place in my heart. How, then, can I put myself in a 
 position where my daily Hfe must be either an unspoken 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 295 
 
 lie or open discord ? You tell me, ' Keep your faiths, 
 keep your beliefs : they shall be sacred to you.' But 
 I could not keep them silently. Ah, if in the vain 
 hope that my constant thought might influence yours, 
 I should be tempted to become your wife, how dare I 
 break the covenant of my own soul, and for another 
 generation, perhaps, perpetuate a race of those who 
 may hold another race in bondage ? " 
 
 Firmly rang her voice now as she concluded, and 
 her face wore the look of one who has passed " near 
 to danger." 
 
 In the pause that followed he did not attempt an- 
 swer. Her noble earnestness had touched him with a 
 momentary despair of his power. But when again she 
 spoke his heart leaped. He little imagined that that 
 sudden softness was the last expression of her love and 
 the final seal of her renunciation. 
 
 "Ah, if I had but known it would have come to 
 this I would have guarded my heart and yours ; but I 
 was proud or blind. I had never loved before, and I 
 did not recognize love's signs, I had had so many 
 friends, and I thought you only another. If I had but 
 known — if I had but known ! But no, it was Fate, it 
 was Fate, — or God's providence. Heaven forgive me ! 
 perhaps I needed this sore trial," she broke in upon 
 herself with sudden passion. And then all the im- 
 passioned tenderness of her heart overflowed in glance 
 and word and tone, as she said, — 
 
 " And you, Madison, — ah, I have made you suffer ! 
 But I loved you, I loved you : remember this. And 
 remember always, in the days that are to come, when 
 
296 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 we shall be no more together, that there must be God's 
 truth in a principle that could give me strength to sac- 
 rifice what I have done to it. Think of this for my 
 sake ; and think I loved you, Madison, I loved you all 
 the time." And then, as one in a dream, he felt her 
 breath passing down his cheek, and the soft, swift 
 pressure of her lips upon his own. 
 
 Touched, thrilled beyond words, at this seal of her 
 confession, he held her for a moment to his heart. 
 And as she clung there, silent, breathless, what dim 
 presentiment of her meaning struck darkly athwart his 
 soul ! What vague uncertainty of his own success ! 
 What 
 
 " * Never, never,' whispered by the phantom years," 
 
 rung its warning knell there ! 
 
 But the next moment all this passed away in the 
 clear certainty of the present. She loved him. His 
 presence was dear to her. From this sprang the vis- 
 ion of success ; and again the behef in his own power 
 rose triumphant. Yes, he would win her ; not by re- 
 linquishment of his ground, but by constant, unwav- 
 ering persistence in a devotion that was unexacting 
 and generous. His presence was dear ; it should be- 
 come necessary. He would subtly, but surely, in some 
 imperceptible ways, overcome her thought by his own. 
 This was his vision of success ; this his plan of con- 
 quest. 
 
 Thus he left her after this interview, confident of 
 many interviews that would follow, where his suit 
 should never be pressed, but where the patient per- 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART, 297 
 
 sistence of his love should finally prevail. x\nd as he 
 went out of her presence, her kiss yet thrilling his 
 lips, that day, his soul was jubilant over his vision of 
 victory. " I will see her again to-morrow," he said to 
 himself. 
 
 To-morrow ! Ah, proud and passionate heart, 
 gather up all your sweetest memories, all your strength 
 of love and endurance, for the to-morrow that is to 
 come will find your will thwarted, your power defied, 
 and your pride laid low ! For while, a few hours 
 after, you pace the beach in the trembling starlight, and 
 fancy that to-morrow will find you in her presence, 
 upon the deck of a steamer, watching the same stars, 
 and perhaps fathoming your thoughts at this very hour, 
 Margaret is speeding away from you. Ay, go to that 
 cottage-door on to-morrow's night. Those left behind 
 can give you little clew to her destination. And if 
 they could, of what avail ? You are much too proud 
 to follow where she has voluntarily fled from you. Ay, 
 fled from you. In all your far-reaching thought, you 
 had not thought of this alternative. 
 
 " O sweet, pale Margaret, 
 O rare, pale Margaret, 
 What lit your eyes with tearful power," 
 
 that through all this fair temptation you did see so 
 clearly? What inward ken revealed to you the danger 
 that beset your path in that fine and fascinating pres- 
 ence? 
 
 " O rare, pale Margaret," very wisely you inter- 
 preted that daring spirit, very surely you read the 
 meaning of the " velvet glove," — that deep, under- 
 
298 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 lying will, that would yield nothing of its own decis- 
 ions, yet with soft and subtle power seek to overcome 
 whatever resisted it. Very wisely you saw that ^-our 
 only hope of peace was out of the sight of those eyes 
 whose alluring glances must follow you in vain, out of 
 the hearing of tones in whose sweetness lurked a 
 charm that you must ever resist. " O rare, pale 
 Margaret," for conscience' sake have you chosen a 
 heavy cross. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mrs. Dillon held high festival in honor of her son's 
 return ; only a seven-days' furlough, and Captain Dil- 
 lon would gladly have evaded the compliment intended 
 him. But Mrs. Dillon was not unlike the rest of her 
 country-people, who, upon the least provocation, run 
 madly to serenades and dinner-parties and all manner 
 of feasting. So it happened upon this night that- the 
 old Dillon mansion was resplendent with the blaze of 
 chandehers and the "gloss of satin and glimmer of 
 pearls." All Matt's old friends were bidden to the 
 feast, and most of them obeyed the bidding. All the 
 old friends, but who is he looking for with that ex- 
 pectant face ? And now and then he consults his watch, 
 and again glances toward the door, restless, eager, 
 watchful. Who is it he is looking for ? 
 
 In this preoccupied mood he suddenly starts : " Ah, 
 it is Bertie Downes ! How do you do. Miss Downes ? " 
 
 " That was three years ago, Captain Dillon. Mrs. 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 299 
 
 Dupuy, at your service " ; and she sends him a curious 
 smile as she drops him a courtesy. 
 
 *' How can one help forgetting the flight of time, 
 and so fancy himself three years younger when he 
 looks upon Mrs. Dupuy?" And Captain Matt bowed 
 over his gallant speech in the most gracious manner. 
 
 " So you fancied yourself three years younger, Cap- 
 tain Dillon? Three years ago? Where were we all 
 then ? Oh, I remember. It was at Newport. I have n't 
 been there since, have you? Oh no, I forget you 
 have been in Europe all this time, and come back to 
 become a hero. I congratulate you. It seems to me 
 everybody went away very suddenly that season. Mar- 
 garet set the fashion first, flashing off without a good- 
 by to anybody. Do you remember that night when 
 Harry Smythe walked in and asked if we had heard the 
 news about Margaret Freyer — how we all thought we 
 were to hear of her engagement to Madison Wythe, and 
 how amazed we were when Harry said she had gone 
 away ? And Wythe — did you meet Wythe in Paris, 
 Captain Dillon? He left for Europe just before you 
 did, I believe." 
 
 " No, I did n't meet Mr. Wythe in Paris, Mrs. Dupuy. 
 I met him nearer home a month ago, when he came 
 over to our lines under a flag of truce. It was Captain 
 Wythe then. Mrs. Dupuy," — and he lowered his 
 voice a little and looked straight into the lady's bright 
 eyes, — " you must allow that you were mistaken in 
 your estimates of Miss Freyer's character. She did 
 maintain her theory, it seems." 
 
 " Oh yes, I was mistaken there ; but I am not always 
 
300 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 mistaken, Captain Dillon " ; and the bright eyes had a 
 triumphant glitter. 
 
 The brave, honest captain met these keen rays very 
 steadily as he answered quietly, " I am glad you are 
 not, Mrs. Dupuy." 
 
 Mrs. Dupuy colored, and looked a trifle disconcerted. 
 What did he mean? That he was glad she knew him 
 to be hopelessly in love with Margaret Freyer ? It was 
 like his cool audacity. 
 
 But there came a clash of music here ; it broke the 
 current of talk. There was a movement of silk and the 
 flutter of lace ; and the next moment Mrs. Dupuy had 
 another companion, — Helena Bell of the old days, now 
 Mrs. Harry Smythe. They withdrew a little from the 
 crowd ; and overlooking it, Mrs. Dupuy watched her 
 host saunter indifferently past the prettiest girls of the 
 season — girls fresh and fair — with that preoccupied, 
 restless manner. 
 
 " Did you know that Margaret Freyer is at home, 
 Bertie? Going back next week, her Aunt Anne said." 
 
 A new light suddenly dawned upon Mrs. Dupuy's mind. 
 
 That preoccupied, restless manner was explained now. 
 It was clear for whom he waited. 
 
 " How strange that she should like that horrid wear- 
 ing life, don't you think so, Bertie? " 
 
 " Margaret was always doing odd things, you know, 
 Helena." 
 
 " Yes, I know, but to become a hospital nurse. How 
 could she ? Then it must tell upon her looks so. And 
 Margaret is n't very young now. She must be twenty- 
 five or six." 
 
MARGARET FREYEK'S HEART. 3OI 
 
 Mrs. Dupuy made no reply ; she was too much ab- 
 sorbed, for just then she saw that restless, expectant 
 face change with the flash of a sudden, swift smile, and 
 then the handsome military figure was bending in greet- 
 ing toward a lady entering, — Margaret Freyer. If Mrs. 
 Dupuy had expected to see Margaret looking worn and 
 old, perforce of her hospital service and her twenty-five 
 years, she was mistaken. 
 
 To women of Mrs. Dupuy's temper and tone, these 
 twenty-five years of maidenhood were suggestive of 
 waning beauty, and exhausted wit and womanly fascina- 
 tion ; instead of which, to natures like Margaret Frey- 
 er's, at once deep and ardent, earnest and elastic, it was 
 the prime of beauty, of wit, and of fascination. Mrs. 
 Dupuy wondered at her secretly as she looked upon 
 her there. She saw the sHght but rounded figure of 
 other days ; the face full of eloquent meaning, with not an 
 added line, a sharper curve. There was about her, too, 
 a fair aspect of freshness, from the tint of her complex- 
 ion to the motions of the supple form, clad in soft fold- 
 ing silk and floating lace. There was a litde wonder, 
 too, in the gaze with which Captain Dillon regarded 
 Margaret. He did not wonder at her changeless as- 
 pect, because of added years and arduous occupation ; 
 but he knew how she had suff'ered sacrifice and loss in 
 the past. He remembered a night when he had nearly 
 risked his fate by outward confession, a confession that 
 stayed his own by words that dropped from quivering 
 lips like "slow-wrung beads of agony." He had re- 
 paid her generosity by the most generous friendship, 
 and buried all warmer hopes beneath that sacred bond. 
 
302 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 But now her bright, almost radiant face, her pleased and 
 interested manner ! She showed no scars of her wound. 
 Perhaps, perhaps she may 
 
 " Overlive it and be happy." 
 
 Perhaps, if again he should risk his fate — 
 
 " What is that ? You are not going back to the hos- 
 pitals again, Margaret?" and he stopped suddenly, 
 arrested by her w^ords, under the flying flags of the 
 doorway. 
 
 " Yes, certainly. Did you think I had offered my 
 services from mere restlessness or curiosity, and had 
 grown tired by experience? I have enlisted for the 
 war, you know " ; and she laughed a little, in a certain 
 arch way that was peculiar to her. 
 
 But Captain Matt did n't seem to see where the laugh 
 came in ; for his own mouth was drawn down into grim 
 disapprobation, and there was that ominous wrinkle be- 
 tween his brows which presaged opposition. So Mar- 
 garet was prepared for what followed : — 
 
 " How absurd ! You '11 kill yourself or ruin your 
 health, Margaret." 
 
 She laughed again, glancing up into his face. 
 
 " Do I look so much the worse for the wear, then, 
 for this year's service ? I certainly don't feel on the 
 road to decay." 
 
 But Matt was not easily soothed into complaisance. 
 Still he carried an outward gruffness of friendly dis- 
 pleasure to hide the secret pain. And still she laughed 
 and lightly answered him, until he exclaimed, — 
 
 " But what is the use, Margaret ? There is surely a 
 sufficiency of nurses without you." 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 303 
 
 Then a strange change came upon her. A look of 
 pain and perplexity clouded over the brightness of her 
 face, and, "Do not say that," she answered quickly. 
 " I should be sorry to think I was not specially needed 
 by some natural fitness for this work. I have been glad 
 to believe that it was so. Do not, I beseech you, by a 
 single word, try to shake this belief; for I have found 
 in it a contentment, a rehef, from almost — " 
 
 She broke off, agitated, in a still, breathless passion, 
 -which revealed her heart. 
 
 Her listener was silent. His glowing fancy of the 
 moment before — that bright, half-formed hope — had 
 suddenly become obscured. And this second pang of 
 loss, perhaps, was bitterer than the first ; for by its means 
 he had caught a nearer glimpse of the fond and faith- 
 ful nature, so womanly while so strong, whose wealth of 
 love he could never hope to win. 
 
 Silent, with his head dropped into his breast, he 
 moved on through the rooms with her, until a sudden 
 stillness, in place of the murmurous hum and the clang 
 of music, aroused him. Unwittingly he had strayed 
 aside into a vacant apartment, where the lights shone 
 softer, and the atmosphere was full of the breath of 
 flowers. As he lifted his head the shadow of bitterness 
 passed. The brave and g-enerous spirit was again 
 triumphant. He was not a man to evince much emo- 
 tion, to betray his sensibility ; but when he broke the 
 silence there, with the brief, vehemently spoken words, 
 " God bless you, Margaret, in any work, in any life 
 you may choose to lead ! " 
 
 Margaret, looking up, saw all he meant, knew that 
 
304 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 again he suffered and lost, yet was ready again to 
 give her the loyal service of friendship. She did not 
 speak, but her face was eloquent. They understood 
 each other. 
 
 Bertha Dupuy, talking gayly with Harry Smythe, saw 
 the two re-enter the rooms. " Margaret Freyer looks 
 remarkably well to-night," she commented to her com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Yes, I was thinking so myself, — remarkably well ; 
 but I always admired Margaret." 
 
 Bertha glanced from Harry Smythe's face, with its 
 " admiration," to that of Captain Dillon's. Her subtle 
 keenness of insight penetrated much of the truth. As 
 she had said, she was not always mistaken. 
 
 " Ah," she thought, as her quick vision contrasted 
 these two men's faces, " we blundered at more than one 
 guess there at Newport that summer, when we put 
 Harry Smythe and Garruth into the lists before Matt 
 Dillon. Harry Smythe has contented himself with 
 Helena Bell's pretty amiability, and Mark Garruth is 
 desperately in love with Harry's sister. But Matt Dil- 
 lon alone, that unsentimental Matt Dillon, has persisted 
 in his constancy. He has actually had a grand passion 
 for her all this time. And who would believe it if I 
 told them this discovery? Bah, what a blind, stupid 
 world it is ! But you may persist. Matt Dillon ; your 
 constancy will never win what you want ; for, spite of 
 your gay looks, Margaret Freyer, you are fretting over 
 what you have lost." 
 
 So shrewd and worldly Bertha penetrated the truth, 
 but stumbled in her final conclusion. Her shrewd 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 305 
 
 and worldly instincts did not serve her in the sum- 
 ming up. 
 
 Fretting ! Did Matt Dillon think the glimpse he got 
 of that sacred sorrow could be thus translated ? 
 
 V. 
 
 The cool, sweet wind of the early March morning 
 blew up over wide ranges of field and meadow with 
 faint suggestions of budding tree and flower in its wild, 
 frolic currents. It bent the branches, it swept the lawn, 
 and sung its song of spring up the garden slopes and 
 around the windows of the stately house upon the hill, 
 and fluttering down, it wafted breaths of bulb and root 
 and crocus-scent away from their winter shrouds of 
 straw through lifted sashes, where feverish patients, suf- 
 fering "war's cruel curse," in mangled limbs or slow 
 disease, were lying, sleepless and restless, in the long 
 and cleanly garnished wards. 
 
 But in the stately house upon the hill, which looked 
 across to the hospital, there was one as sleepless as any 
 under the roof of pain. She had awakened long before 
 light, and, lying there in the darkness, had listened to 
 the wind, and thought of other times and more peace- 
 ful days, perhaps. Perhaps, as the wind sung its song of 
 spring, she dreamed, in waking visions, of springs and 
 summers when, Hstening, she had heard far sweeter 
 songs, wherein no under-note of funeral wailing w^ent 
 over the land. Perhaps, as the gray dawn came creep- 
 ing on, she remembered dawns when to some soft 
 good-night, spoken while the sweet clash of music was 
 
 20 
 
306 MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 
 
 yet lingering in her ear, she had gone home to dream 
 of some bewildering waltz or moonlight tete-a-tete. All 
 of these memories might have kept her company as she 
 lay there listening to the wind, but none of them 
 brought her sleep again. No morning slumber with its 
 tender train of fancies blessed her. Still she, waking, 
 watched the coming of the dawn. It came at last, white 
 and clear, and showed a fair womanly face, whose dark 
 eyes looked wistfully out toward the waving flag that 
 flung forth its stars and stripes across the hill. Lying 
 there, the wistful look grew deeper, and the wind 
 seemed to bring newer and nearer thoughts and fancies 
 as she listened. Into its wild, frolic currents had stolen 
 another tone, — a plaintive tone of entreaty, which 
 whispered and moaned with sobbing insistence. And 
 somewhere out of the lonely garden thickets, all bleak 
 and bare, a bird began piping a faint, shrill, melancholy 
 strain. It mingled with the insisting wind, like a cry or 
 call for companionship. Now near, now far, it swept 
 with the sweeping breezes from hill to hill. 
 
 It seemed to stir strange depths of emotion in the 
 soul of her who lay there listening. Her face put on a 
 restless expression. Her eyes strained eagerly beyond 
 the flying flag, as if otherwheres her vision would fain 
 have pierced. 
 
 Still the wind kept on its insisting tone, still the 
 little bird piped its urgent cry, until a bar of gold struck 
 suddenly athwart the sky. The sun had risen. She, 
 too, rose now, dressed herself hastily, and, without dis- 
 turbing the sleeping inmates of the house, descended 
 the stairs and went out into the *' wild March morning." 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART, 307 
 
 Into the " wild March morning " ! 
 
 She shivered a little as the willows sighed and brushed 
 her cloak in passing, and half under her breath mur- 
 mured out, — 
 
 " The trees began to whisper and the wind began to roll, 
 And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul." 
 
 Mechanically she stooped as she saw a clump of frail 
 anemones and the bright blooms of the crocus, and 
 gathered bud and blossom into a hasty bouquet before 
 she proceeded down the avenue. And inhaling their 
 dewy freshness she went on, singing in the same half- 
 absent way the same sweet, mournful verse. 
 
 The sentry touched his cap, with a little look of sur- 
 prise, as he let her pass. The doctor smiled a welcome 
 smile, but, — 
 
 "You are early. Miss Freyer," he said. 
 
 "Yes; not too early, I hope." 
 
 " No ; I am glad you have come. There has been 
 a fresh arrival. The beds are all occupied now." He 
 gave her some directions in a lower tone, and she went 
 in. 
 
 Stopping here and there for kind, soothing word or 
 tender office, she came to the last in her round, — a bed 
 divided by curtaining from the others. 
 
 Some unaccountable tremor arrested her steps here. 
 
 Her heart beat, her breath came quicker. What did 
 she dread, who had faced for months all woful specta- 
 cles of sabre-cut or gunshot wound? She did not 
 know ; but her mind was in a whirl of confusion. 
 
 A low groan, proceeding from within the curtained 
 space, broke the spell, and gave her resolution to pen- 
 
308 MARGARET FREVER'S HEART. 
 
 etrate the seclusion. What did she see? No fearful 
 sight, surely. A tall, straight figure, lying all its comely 
 length along the low white cot; a head of dark, dark ■ 
 hair ; a face pallid, but dusky with natural tint of climate 
 and added bronze of marches and camp exposures ; a 
 face stained with clay and gore, sharpened with pain, 
 but lit into life and courage by the unfading fire that 
 beamed forth from the burning splendor of the deep 
 black eyes. 
 
 These were the eyes that met Margaret Freyer as she 
 entered, with a glance that thrilled every pulse. And 
 beneath the slender line of dark silk beard that fringed 
 his lip the pale mouth smiled with rapturous greeting, 
 and the faint sweet voice articulated, — 
 
 '^ Margaret ! Margaret ! I knew you would come." 
 
 She knelt beside him ; she put her arms about him, 
 and laid her cheek to his. No need for her to speak ; 
 but he kept on, — 
 
 "■ So I find you at last, Margaret. I thought it would 
 be so. The bond was vital. I knew you must feel when 
 my life was going out. I knew you would come. Kiss 
 me, Margaret. Ah, my love, my love, I have waited 
 for this ! " 
 
 Once more he gathered her to his breast, folding her 
 fervently with strength that seemed garnered up for this 
 last embrace. Once more. Then the old soft smile, 
 the old sweet gay voice, faintly falling, as he wandered 
 back to other scenes, — 
 
 "How the wind rises, Margaret ! Will you go down 
 to the beach ? The wind and the rain will never harm 
 my mermaid. And the sea-foam drapery, — where are 
 
MARGARET FREYER'S HEART. 309 
 
 the fairy bells ? Oh ! you have decked yourself with 
 flowers instead. They are wet, wet. Is it the spray, 
 sweet? " 
 
 His eyes closed. A moment more, then all fancies 
 left him. He looked up, clear, conscious, and irradiated 
 by the passing spirit. 
 
 " My darHng, do not weep. This is better than all 
 the world for us. Yes, — I see, — I see it now. You 
 were right, Margaret, — you were true." 
 
 And Madison Wythe lay dead. 
 
 University Press : John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
i 
 
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