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Title: Miss Ayr of Virginia & other stories

Author: Julia Magruder

Release date: November 11, 2024 [eBook #74718]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Herbert S. Stone and Co

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS AYR OF VIRGINIA & OTHER STORIES ***





  Miss Ayr of Virginia
  & Other Stories




  Miss Ayr of Virginia
  & Other Stories

  BY
  Julia Magruder

  AUTHOR OF “THE VIOLET”
  “THE PRINCESS SONIA”

  [Illustration]

  CHICAGO
  HERBERT S. STONE & CO.
  MDCCCXCVI




  CONTENTS


  Miss Ayr of Virginia              1

  A New Thing Under the Sun        63

  The Thirst and the Draught      127

  A Bartered Birthright           189

  His Heart’s Desire              225

  The Masked Singer               289

  The Story of an Old Soul        349

  Once More                       385




Miss Ayr of Virginia




Miss Ayr of Virginia


When Miss Ayr of Virginia came down to take her place on the coach for
the races, in company with her cousins, the Miss Ayrs of New York,
there was a discrepancy between the former and the latter which could
scarcely have failed to attract attention. It could not be denied that
the advantage was on the side of the last-named ladies, though Miss Ayr
of Virginia was exquisite, and they were plain.

Compared with such costumes as they wore, however, such _chic_, such
height, such distinguished bearing, what was mere beauty? The little
country girl, with her village-made costume, just saved from absolute
dowdiness by a few touches from her cousins’ maid (which she had
inwardly resented), was certainly a fish out of water in that jaunty
party; and in her wretched little soul she felt it.

Moreover, her dress was not only countrified, it was unbecoming. Its
style of construction quite disguised her slight and charming figure,
and her hat was as complete a handicap for a beautiful face as could
well have been invented.

She did not realize this, not having as yet entirely lost her buoyant
belief in herself, which was one result of her being an only child
and the spoiled darling of her father, besides being the recognized
belle of her county. What she did realize, however, was that these
fashionable cousins of hers found her a nuisance, and that the
invitation which she had received from their father would never have
come from themselves.

The Miss Ayrs of New York were partly right in what they said of their
cousin, namely, that she had been badly brought up. This fact might
possibly have been overlooked on the score of her having lost her
mother in childhood, but for the other fact, that the Miss Ayrs of New
York were in the same case, and yet felt proudly conscious that they
could challenge the world as to their unimpeachable good form. There
was one important difference between the two families, however. The
Ayrs of New York were rich, while the Ayrs of Virginia were poor. The
war, which had caused the impoverishment of the latter branch of the
family was not yet so far back in the past but that days of opulence
and ease could yet be remembered, even by this sole representative in
the present generation, Miss Carter Ayr, who, now for the first time
emerged from the safety and seclusion of her beloved South, was come to
taste the delights of a season in New York.

The two brothers, who were the respective heads of the families, had
both been left widowers, and neither of them had re-married; but John
Ayr of New York had been able to give his daughters the very best that
money could do for them, in the way of governesses and chaperonage and
foreign travel, while Henry Ayr of Virginia had had to content himself
with the ministrations of a gentle, old-maid cousin, who had been
governess and chaperon in one, and had let Carter grow up much as she
chose--a fact which had not in the least interfered with her father’s
complete satisfaction with her.

There were three Miss Ayrs of New York, and they were all tall, and
imposing, and perfectly dressed. They were particularly showy for
an occasion such as the present, which was, perhaps, one reason why
Jim Stafford, the young bachelor millionaire to whom all society did
reverence, had invited all three of them to go out on his coach to-day.
Jim was a very good-natured fellow, however, and often did things with
no other prompting than that quality, and so, when Mr. Ayr, hearing
the matter discussed over night, and no provision made for Carter, had
insisted that one of the girls should yield her place to her cousin,
Jim had good-naturedly said there was room for all, and Mr. Ayr had
decreed that Carter should go. He generally interfered very little, but
his daughters knew that when he spoke he meant to be obeyed.

So, in this way, it happened that little Carter Ayr found herself
in the midst of that fluttering, chattering, bantering party, whose
jargon was wholly unfamiliar, and whose manner toward herself seemed to
surround her with an atmosphere of chill and constraint.

As the female element was so largely supplied by the ladies Ayr, most
of the strangers whom Carter saw about her were men. She had never
seen such men as these before, except in a tailor’s picture-plate, and
she felt rather a contempt for them, as country-bred people are apt
to feel toward those who dress as they have neither the means nor
the knowledge to dress. Carter, with her provincial prejudice against
fastidiousness in dress, particularly on the part of men, now got some
sense of inward support by adopting a supercilious criticism of the
exquisitely cared for details of the costumes of these men. She had a
standard in her little Southern heart by which she liked to believe
that she measured these fashionable gentlemen into puniness.

In spite of all her loyalty to a very different type, she could not
help feeling lonely and depressed, as she was assisted to mount to her
high seat, while the grooms could hardly keep in check the impatience
of the four superbly harnessed horses. Carter, who knew the points
of a horse, thought the harness rather outdid the horses themselves,
but what did her opinion amount to in this company, where she was so
evidently a supernumerary and an incubus?

It was an uncommonly pretty foot that she put on the ladder to mount,
but it had on a very bad shoe. Even the big and clumsy feet of her
cousins contrasted favorably with it, for the reason that their shoes
were of shiny patent leather, with sharply-pointed toes, which made her
little blunt ones look somehow stunted and shabby. But then, again, she
had reason to reflect that no one was noticing her!

Who has not felt a certain sense of pity on festal occasions, for the
friend who is brought? That person seems, somehow, surrounded with a
sort of blight among the others who have come by a process of natural
selection.

But if any heart, under those fashionable habiliments, felt a tender
sentiment for Carter, no one showed it. Jim Stafford, himself, was
wholly occupied with handling the reins, as they drove through the
crowded streets. The Misses Gladys, Ethel, and Rosamond Ayr were
making themselves as painstakingly agreeable to the men beside them
as if it had been their business to divert attention from all the
others present, and the married woman, who was acting as chaperon to
the party, was the most cold and unapproachable of the lot--or so
Carter had concluded, when one of her cousins had given her a casual
introduction to Mrs. Emory, as “Miss Ayr of Virginia.”

Somehow, the intonation with which it had been said had given an
indefinable offense to Carter, and when other members of the party took
it up and said:

“Help Miss Ayr of Virginia to her place,” or “Miss Ayr of Virginia
comes next,” or “Don’t crowd Miss Ayr of Virginia,” though it was all
said in an amiable way, Carter’s sense of resentment deepened. There
seemed to be a certain disrespect to her beloved State implied, and
that was more than she could calmly bear.

It was a new and exciting experience to her to be whirled through the
thronged city streets, and gazed at by admiring crowds, upon whom she
looked down from such a great height that it almost made her dizzy. If
she had been in a congenial atmosphere, it would have been delightful,
for she was inherently pleasure-loving, and her blood was young and
ardent; but, as things were, everything seemed to add to her sense of
loneliness and depression.

The sky had been overcast when they started out, but now, suddenly, the
sun appeared, and with it came a little gleam across the shadows on
Carter’s face. She had felt bitterly the fact that she was ill-dressed
(though, at home, these clothes had seemed to her good enough for any
company in the world!) but with the appearance of the sunshine she had
remembered the one really incontrovertibly handsome and imposing thing
which she possessed--an elegant parasol, which she had bought the day
before at a very fashionable place, and for a price which a week ago
would have frightened her. Her father had paid over to her a little
legacy from an aunt, and she had intended to invest this in jewels or
some permanent thing, but she had heard her cousin Gladys admire that
parasol, and, needing one, she had boldly purchased it.

So, here, at least, she could be confident, and it was with an air of
satisfaction that she now unfurled her gorgeous sun-shade, and let the
full glory of its laces and ribbons float to the breeze.

The motion that it made attracted general attention to her, and
simultaneously with this she heard Gladys say, in a voice of excited
protest:

“For heaven’s sake, tell Carter to put down that parasol!”

The word was then passed to Ethel, who, in the same excited tone,
passed it to the man seated next to Carter.

“Miss Ayr of Virginia is requested to lower her parasol,” he said, with
more amiability in his manners than her two cousins had used.

Carter, who had heard the behest, when it had originated with her
eldest cousin, did not at once succumb, but said, from under the
flaunting glory of the proscribed article:

“Why?”

“Of course, coming from Virginia she didn’t know,” she heard her cousin
saying in a tone of contemptuous extenuation, which she hotly resented.

No one had answered her question, however, and so turning to the woman
who sat nearest to her--it happened to be Mrs. Emory--she said:

“Why shouldn’t I raise my parasol, if the sun is out?”

“It isn’t done,” was the answer, given curtly and coldly, and Mrs.
Emory returned at once to her talk with her neighbor.

Carter, of course, furled her offending sun-shade, feeling snubbed and
sore. It would have been childish and rude to persist, but she was
not only hurt, but puzzled. Being from the rural regions she had not
as her cousin suggested, any knowledge of the fact that it was not
considered smart to raise a parasol on a coach. This sacred tenet was
so strictly adhered to, however, that although it was a warm and dusty
autumn day, the ladies endured the heat unmurmuringly, staring with
haughty superiority at the coaches on which the people were pleasantly
shaded by their parasols.

By the time the entrance to the race-course was reached, Carter was
completely miserable. She despised the trivial conventions to which she
saw such importance attached, and she had a sense of suppressed rage
at being forced into an inferior position by people to whom she felt
herself superior.

She was no more conceited than an only child, and an acknowledged belle
and beauty might be excused for being, and she did know, in her heart,
that she would have been incapable of treating the meanest slave on
her father’s estate as unkindly as she felt that these people were
treating her.

No one noticed her as they went bowling along in the crowded procession
of vehicles, until, near the entrance, they came to a sudden halt, the
carriage in front of them having halted also.

The footmen sprang down and went to the leaders’ heads, while necks
were craned and eager questions put as to the cause of the blockade.

It was apparent enough. One of a pair of oxen, engaged in some heavy
draught in connection with the preparing of the track and grounds, had
fallen down, or else thrown itself down in a fit of sullenness and
could not be got to move. The animal was strong and fat, and looked
more obstinate than ill, but it was impossible not to feel pity for
a creature so beaten and belabored and kicked, as it was, by the men
about it. The thing had apparently been going on for some time, and
the men looked as if their efforts were well-nigh exhausted.

Various suggestions were made and tried in vain. Many vehicles had
emptied their passengers, and a crowd had gathered, while the ox,
stubborn and defiant, still refused to budge.

The party on the coach, from their high position, could see all that
was happening, and cries of distress soon began to rise from them.

“What are we to do?” “The creature hasn’t a notion of moving!” “We
shall be kept here all day!” were some of the protesting remarks,
through which a very sweetly modulated voice, with an accent so unlike
theirs as to sound almost foreign, was heard to say:

“I could make it get up, in half a minute.”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Jim Stafford, turning toward the speaker, who was
flushed, but perfectly composed. “Virginia to the rescue! Miss Ayr of
Virginia undertakes to raise the stalled ox! Ten to one she does it!”

The bet was eagerly taken by another man, and Carter found herself the
center of interest.

“Enter the field, Miss Ayr of Virginia,” said Jim Stafford. “Only
explain your method of procedure, and I’m your backer. What do you
propose to do?” And with the arrant childishness of the average
pleasure-seeker all the men present became absorbed in this incident,
which offered a new and unexpected diversion.

All the women, meantime, were looking at the young Southern girl with
cold disapprobation.

“Now, Miss Ayr of Virginia,” said Jim Stafford, “give your orders. How
do you propose to do it?”

“Could we possibly get some mud from anywhere?” asked Carter.

“Mud? not likely, in this dust!” said one man, but Stafford cut him
short.

“Mud? Of course. Nothing simpler!” he said. “Here, Trollope, get a
bottle of Apollinaris out of the lunch-basket and break it in the
road;” and as the groom flew to comply with his order he turned to
Carter.

“We’ll have the mud in a jiffy,” he said. “Now, what’s to be done with
it?”

“Stop the ox’s nostrils with it,” Carter decreed next.

The young dudes on the coach gave a little “Hooray!” and in a moment
they were down in the road, stirring the fizzing water into the yellow
dust with their canes, with all the glee of children at a new game.

The mixture was soon turned into a stiff mud, and the immaculate
Trollope was ordered to fill his hands with it and follow his master.

Every eye was fixed on Jim Stafford, as he approached the man who had
the ox in charge and ask permission to try his experiment. Carter, left
on the coach with the women, who she felt, instinctively, were not the
friendly element of the party, watched with a confidence not unmixed
with anxiety. How could she tell that these Yankee oxen would respond
to Virginia treatment? And if they did not, where would she hide her
humiliated head? She realized that, like many another act of daring,
its only justification would be in its success.

“Stop up both nostrils at once, and hold it in,” she called to
Trollope, in her pretty, low voice.

The crowd made way for the groom and his master to approach, and the
performance was quickly accomplished.

The next instant, there was a heaving and panting on the part of the
ox, and, with a frantic motion of consternation, it had scrambled to
its feet, and stood there snorting out the mud and shaking its great
head from side to side.

The man in charge of it caught hold of its harness, and without the
least difficulty, led it away.

The road was open.

“Three times three for Miss Ayr of Virginia!” cried Jim Stafford, and
his companions, imitating him, waved their hats around their heads and
echoed his words.

It was not loud enough to be positively rowdy, but it was too loud, it
seemed, to suit Mrs. Emory’s sense of decorum, for she was heard to say
rather severely:

“Really, Jim, if you ask me to chaperon your parties, I must insist
upon decent behavior. This is unbearable!” and she turned upon poor
little Carter a glance that was meant to be perfectly annihilating.

“Get out, Mamie! You’re making a point about nothing,” her cousin
answered, in an amiable, off-hand fashion. “If you’d been the heroine
of that incident, you’d think you deserved cheers and you’d have had
them. I’m not going to see Miss Ayr of Virginia deprived of the honor
and glory which are her due.”

His cousin said nothing, but her face continued to look both offended
and aggrieved, and she turned away to speak with some of the women of
the party, who seemed promptly sympathetic.

Carter heard her name pronounced several times among them in a tone
which she did not like, and it was Gladys whom she distinctly heard
saying:

“This is what comes of giving a girl a man’s name and letting her run
wild, as they do in the South.”

Carter felt indignant at the aspersion cast on her beloved South, but
the assiduities which she was at that moment receiving from all the men
in the party helped her to bear it.

It was not altogether her victoriousness in her recent undertaking
that had made them rally round her so. It had at last penetrated their
rather slow minds that the women were exercising a sort of tacit
ostracism against this young stranger, and every one of them was ready
with his protest.

Carter, moreover, had acquired a brilliant color, by reason of her late
experience, and, now that their eyes had been drawn to her directly,
they saw how uncommonly pretty she was, and regarded her unfashionable
garments with a commiseration that had something akin to chivalry in
it. She felt this, and, under the influence of sympathy, her beauty
blossomed out like a flower. She became suddenly gay and at her ease.
The men were so absolutely friendly that the women no longer frightened
her.

When Jim Stafford had brought his four bays triumphantly into place
and they had taken their position by the race-course, the grooms took
the horses away, and the host of the party being liberated from his
exacting duties as whip, was free to seek his own will and pleasure.

It was not long before the nature and direction of that became
manifest, for he deliberately proposed a shuffling of seats and
partners, by which he managed to seat himself next to Carter.

“I want to understand the philosophy of that splendid achievement of
yours,” he said. “Why did the mud make the ox jump up so quickly?”

“Because the mud stopped its nostrils and it could not breathe.”

“But can’t oxen breathe through their mouths?”

“They either can’t, or they think they can’t, for they never make any
effort to do it. It was having its breathing suddenly checked that so
startled and terrified the creature that it instinctively sprang to its
feet, and its whole mood was changed.”

“And where--if one may ask--did you become the possessor of such a
unique and valuable piece of information?”

(By Jove, she _was_ pretty, he reflected, and particularly so at that
moment, when, for some reason, a flood of lovely rose-color suffused
her face.)

“A neighbor of ours told me about it,” she said. “I am glad I happened
to think of it.”

“I should think so, indeed! But for that timely thought of yours,
we should probably have spent the day there, awaiting that brute’s
pleasure!”

He knew that this was not so, but he suddenly found himself possessed
of a consuming desire to do homage to this girl.

And to tell the truth, she looked not unused to homage. Indeed, she
was far more natural and at her ease, now that she was being made
much of and paid court to, than she had been, when neglected and left
alone. There could be no doubt as to which of these conditions was her
accustomed element.

When the racing began, the general interest centered on the track, of
course, and as the different horses were led out, Carter showed and
expressed such a knowingness on the subject that all the men listened
with visible interest to what she had to say. The remarks of the other
women sounded the merest _banalités_ in comparison, for this little
country maiden knew a horse as she knew a friend.

She was wildly excited over the first race, and had the good fortune
to pick out the winner. As a consequence, the men all insisted on her
betting on the second one, putting up gloves and candy recklessly.
To their surprise, their overtures were promptly snubbed, the little
Virginian looking so hurt at such a proposition that her big eyes
showed a suspicion of tears. The other ladies of the party, however,
took up the bets with avidity, though their opportunities were
decidedly more limited.

At last the great race of the day was called. A grey horse named
Quicksilver was the hot favorite in it, and was to be ridden by a
colored jockey. This last fact caught Carter’s attention, and sent her
thoughts flying wistfully Southward, and she was further interested
because he wore the Confederate colors--white and red. She could not
see his face, but it was easy to distinguish the silver-grey horse,
and, to her delight, it came in first, though pushed hard by another
horse named Hautboy.

The second heat was even more exciting, for now Quicksilver came
tearing along the home stretch, neck and neck with Hautboy.

The two ran together superbly, their jockeys poised like birds upon
their backs, but just before the judges’ stand was reached, there was a
wild plunging and collision, and Hautboy came in ahead.

And then began a scene of frantic excitement. The little mulatto who
had ridden Quicksilver was in a state of fury, bordering upon insanity.
He vowed that Hautboy’s jockey had used some trickery, and appealed to
the judges, who refused to sustain him. At this he went simply beside
himself, and tossing away his whip, declared he would not ride the
other heat. Threats, expostulations, bribes, oaths, abusive epithets,
coaxing cajoleries were used in vain. He was simply maddened with
fury, and stubbornly adhered to his refusal.

Quicksilver, meanwhile, was being walked about, switching his
tail viciously and glaring wickedly to right and left. He was an
evil-tempered brute, and this young darkey was the only rider who
seemed equal to him. Immense sums had been put up on the race and
desperate measures were resorted to to bring the obstreperous jockey to
his reason.

But it was all in vain. He reiterated his refusal with excited fury. He
said a million dollars wouldn’t make him ride the other heat, and that
he’d die first.

All this time Carter had been watching the scene with eagerness, their
coach being very near to the judges’ stand, and now, as the little
darkey, bearing her beloved Southern colors, turned his defiant face
upward toward the judges’ stand, and she saw it clearly for the first
time, a suspicion, which had been slowly dawning on her, was turned
into reality--a reality that thrilled her through with excitement.

“He must do it! He shall!” she said, in a low tone to Jim Stafford.
“Take me down there, and I’ll make him!”

Stafford looked at her aghast. He was excited enough himself, for the
time was flying, and, with a little more delay, the race would be
declared off.

“By Jove!” he said, in one second’s hesitation, and then, remembering
the ox, he added, “Come on, then, quickly,” and in another instant she
was nimbly descending the ladder and he was making a way for her to get
to the railing.

The party on the coach stared protestingly, and Gladys made an effort
to recall her, but little heed paid Carter, as she found herself
close up to the railing, toward which the colored jockey was even now
advancing, in his defiant resolution to leave the field.

A dozen men were following him, with urgent beseechings and threats, to
which he turned an absolutely deaf ear, until suddenly, across this
clamor a soft, clear voice said, with a ring of command:

“You, Little Tom!”

The darkey turned, as if shot, and looked the speaker full in the face.

“Get up on that horse this instant!” said the same clear voice,
imperiously. “Bring him here,” it added, to the man who was holding
Quicksilver’s bridle, and as the restive animal was brought near, it
suddenly became apparent that the human creature had been subdued.

The bewildered jockey stared full at the young lady before him, and
when she said:

“Get up--quick, I say! You haven’t a second to lose.”

The resolute command was immediately obeyed, and the
red-and-white-shirted jockey was on the horse and in his place, five
seconds only before the order to start was given.

Only those in the immediate neighborhood had seen and heard what
passed, and even they were so preoccupied by the paramount excitement
of the moment, that, in their eagerness to follow the horses now flying
away down the track, they forgot to think about the girl who had saved
the day by some occult authority which she possessed, and so she
managed to slip through the crowd almost unobserved, and to regain her
seat upon the coach, followed by Stafford in a state of ecstacy over
her success.

Meantime, the horses, like a pack of hounds, were bunched together
on the other side of the course, but now the grey could be seen
to be steadily gaining, and soon the red and white colors could
be distinguished. Quicksilver was ahead, and every instant was an
advance for him. As his slight young rider, leaning forward with his
mount, rose in his stirrups, and rested in delicate poise, the breeze
whipping into fluttering folds the striped silk of his shirt, and
seeming to blow backward, in its strong current even Quicksilver’s
lowered ears, the crowd sent up a wild yell of enthusiasm, in which one
alien-sounding voice was heard exclaiming:

“Good for you, Little Tom!”

The voice was so low, however, that no one heard it very plainly except
Stafford, and now, as the race ended, with Quicksilver first, and no
second, he turned delightedly to his companion, saying:

“Good for you, Miss Ayr of Virginia! It was you who saved the day, and
now will you be good enough to tell me how you did it? If ever I saw
a creature determined to go his own way and defy consequences, it was
that angry negro, until you spoke to him, when he came down like a
lamb. How you managed it--(and without even the aid of mud!)--is what I
want you to explain.”

“O, there is nothing wonderful in it when you come to find out,” said
Carter. “It’s our Little Tom, who ran off from home some time ago and
his mammy has been grieving for him ever since. Of course when I spoke
to him, he would not dare to disobey me.”

“So it appeared,” said Stafford, “though he did not scruple to disobey
and defy a dozen determined men! I must say I don’t understand it. And
since he is a grown man, why do you call him ‘Little Tom,’ may I ask?”

“To distinguish him from the other Toms on the place,” said Carter.
“There were so many of them--Little Tom, and Tom, and Uncle Tom, and
Old Uncle Tom, and Old _Old_ Uncle Tom.”

This explanation, which Carter made so simply, proved immensely amusing
to the men of the party, who laughed and enjoyed it sufficiently to
hide, in part, the lack of enthusiasm which the ladies had shown.

Stafford insisted on going and looking Little Tom up, and bringing
him to drink a glass of champagne in honor of his triumph. He came,
sheepishly enough, when he heard who had sent for him, though he had
borne himself with a good deal of swagger in the crowd where Stafford
found him.

“Howdy, Miss Kyarter,” he said, taking off his cap, and dangling it
nervously in his hands, as he stood on the ground looking up at her. “I
sut’ny is glad tuh see yuh. Them white folks kinder confused me ’bout
dat race, en mammy ain’ whup all the temper out’er me yit! I sut’ny is
glad you bin come ’long, en mek me ride. I leet more loss dat money! En
I gwine let yuh tek half of it home wid yuh, fuh a presen’ tuh mammy.”

“That’s right, Little Tom,” said Carter. “It’ll please mammy mightily.
I’m going to tell her about the race and what a fine horse you rode.”

“Yes’m, he’s right smart fine, Quicksilver is, but I don’ think he
ekills we all’s Whitefoot. I ain’ see none dese yer horses dat’s up to
Whitefoot _yet_! Ef ole Mars’d lemme bring Whitefoot on hyar, en ride
’im at a race, he’d beat ’em all, en dat’s what I tell ’em every time.”

Carter, who was intimately acquainted with Little Tom’s character
and points of view, smiled to herself at this compliment to poor old
Whitefoot, whose best days were so far in the past. She knew it was
only done to impress strangers with the importance of the people to
whom, in spite of his desertion of them for scenes more congenial to
his adventurous spirit, he was and would always remain loyal.

After this little episode, Carter’s timidity vanished, and, being the
centre of attraction on the coach now, she felt far more at her ease,
and she talked much and talked well. But, with it all, her voice was so
low, her speech so gently modulated, as she told negro anecdotes and
imitated their talk, that her cousins found nothing to say afterward,
except that she had made herself rather conspicuous, and Carter, who
felt that they would gladly have said more, felt that she could well
endure that.

Miss Ayr of Virginia had certainly been very unfortunate in the
specimens of New York women whom she had so far encountered, and, being
very rash and impulsive, she must be forgiven for making the great
mistake of judging all New York women by these cousins of hers and
their associates in “the smart set.” And as a convert to any faith is
always more zealous and infatuated than those who have been born to it,
so the Miss Ayrs of New York were the extreme examples of this type.

The little Virginian, who was accustomed to using her wits, had
discovered one thing during that day’s experience at the races, which
disturbed her very much. This was that she was badly dressed. It stung
her pride at first to be compelled to own it, but having done so, she
set about the task of remedying this defect. She had naturally a genial
and affectionate nature, and her first step was to try to get some
help from her cousins. They, however, showed so very little interest
in the matter that Carter, who now realized that she was heavily
handicapped by her dresses and bonnets, was led to believe that they
did not wish to see this disability removed. This thought hurt her, at
first, and then inspired her to a course of resolute and independent
action.

She knew that her father would be distressed if she came home suddenly
and gave her real reasons for such a course; and, besides, she could
not travel alone, and the time which her father had set to come for her
was still weeks off, so she made up her mind to stay, and to provide
herself with such an outfit as would change the face of her staying.

Finding her cousins quite indisposed to give her their aid, she made
a note of an address on the belt of one of their dresses, and next
morning she went to that address and held a conference with that high
authority.

The woman recognized her as a pretty subject, and they put their heads
together and got up two charming costumes, one for street, and the
other for evening wear. The dressmaker happened not to be very busy,
and the dresses were promised in a few days’ time. Then Carter, who
had taken in a good deal of the prevailing modes from her yesterday’s
experiences, went boldly, all by herself, and bought a hat, and gloves,
and shoes.

Every moment it was borne in on her more plainly what a countrified
little being she was, and she felt that if she now got safely housed
once more, she would not venture out, until she could spread her wings
in her new plumage.

It was, therefore, a real regret to her when she presently encountered
Jim Stafford, immaculately dressed and gloved and booted, walking down
Fifth Avenue with a bunch of fresh violets in his button-hole and a
smile on his good-natured face, which deepened into a look of real
pleasure as he recognized her and lifted his tall hat.

She would have been quite content to bow and pass on, but he turned and
walked with her.

“What luck!” he said, in his jolly way. “Would you believe that I was
that moment thinking of you? The stories of the ox and the jockey are
all over town to-day, and everybody is wanting to see you. When will
you go out on my coach again?”

“Not until I get some better clothes to wear,” said Carter, in her
impulsive way. “I never knew, until yesterday, how countrified country
people are!”

“And who undertook to enlighten you, I’d like to know?” said her
companion, frowning. “Some spiteful woman, of course! There’s nothing
the matter that I can see, and if I were you I’d pay no attention to
their criticisms.”

“You wouldn’t? Then you are distinctly _not_ me, for I’m mending my
ways with the utmost rapidity. You mustn’t ask me to appear again in
public, until I can look like other people.”

“But that’s exactly what I don’t want. It’s just because you look--and
are--unlike other people that I like you. It would be a perfect shame
for you to be changed into one of the people you are going to imitate.”

“Never fear that,” said Carter, with a sudden seriousness. “We are
utterly different peoples, I think--the North and the South! I have
never been in the North before, and I feel I’m in a foreign land.”

“Don’t say that! I can’t bear to have you feeling that way. What could
one do to make you feel at home here?”

“Nothing--I verily believe! The South is in my veins--but I think, in
a way, kindness makes one feel at home everywhere--and you _have_ been
kind to me!”

By this time they had reached her uncle’s house and she held out her
hand as if to say good-bye. Her look was so sweet and winning as he
took that little hand, awkwardly gloved as it was, that he felt an
inward protest at being dismissed.

“Why may I not come in?” he said.

“There’s no one at home,” she answered, innocently, “the girls were all
going to a tea.”

“Decidedly, I shall come in,” he said, as he rang the bell. “Why didn’t
they take you to the tea?”

“O, they said they thought I wouldn’t care for it, and they were right.”

When the servant opened the door and ushered them into the
drawing-room, he stopped to ask if he should serve tea there.

Carter hesitated a second, but Stafford said promptly:

“Yes, Thompson, you may. I am going to get Miss Ayr to give me a cup.”

So in a very few moments Carter found herself seated before the
exquisitely appointed tea-tray, pouring out a fragrant cupful, for
this pleasant and friendly man, who was evidently enjoying himself
thoroughly.

There was an undeniable sense of pleasure in it. The room was so large
and beautiful and luxurious; Thompson deferred to her wishes in such
an agreeable manner; the tea was so good; the china and silver so
delicate; the man facing her was so _soigné_ in all the appointments of
his dress--in short, there was about her everywhere the sense of ease
and luxury which money alone brings--and Carter had never cared a rap
for money! Her wants had been so few and small that they had always
been readily supplied; in fact she had never before imagined the mere
material comfort which it was possible to miss out of life.

“Do tell me something more about the darkies,” said her companion,
sipping his tea enjoyingly, when Thompson had gone, “I’ve been
chuckling ever since, over those stories you told us yesterday.”

Carter knit her pretty brow to try to think up something. It was very
pleasant to her to try to amuse this amiable man, for she really felt
grateful to him, and anxious to please him.

“O, I’ll tell you about Uncle Enos, when he got religion,” she said,
smiling at the remembrance. “It was such a clever thing in him! Enos
was our white-washer, and he had been notoriously bad and irreligious,
until his conversion. The very next day he came to me and told me of
it, and added that, early that morning, while he was white-washing
a fence, a serious danger had threatened him in his new life. ‘Miss
Kyarter,’ he said, ‘I was wuckin’ away en thinkin’ ’bout de blessed
change whar done bin cum tuh me, en I look up en see one o’ them
miser’ble, low-life, God-forsaken niggers, whar I had done bin use tuh
keep comp’ny with, a-cummin’ down de road. I see him begin tuh laugh
en sner, ez soon ez he cum nigh me, en I knowed ’twus kus I done jine
de army o’ de Lord. He stop short on t’other side de fence, en he low
since I bin done got religion, he s’pose I b’lieve everything de Bible
say is true? I tell him, ‘Yes, bless de Lord!’ ‘Well,’ he say, with
one o’ his wicked, mischeeveous grins, ‘don’t de Bible say dat when de
Lord done finish all He wuks, He bin look at ’em all, en behol’ dey
was all good?’ ‘Yes,’ I tell him, ‘dem is de ve’y words o’ de blessed
book.’ ‘Well,’ he say, ‘didn’ de Lord mek de _Devil_? How was dat?’ en
he slaps his impident fat sides en busted out a-laughin’! He had jiss
turn roun’ to go way, when I call him back. ‘Hol’ on, you blasphemious
black-skinned raskill!’ I say, ‘you think yuh dun kotch me, do yuh? But
wasn’ he a mighty good _Devil_?’”

Stafford laughed, with a feeling of zest that he had not known
for a long while. He was evidently immensely amused at the negro
characteristics, as Carter unfolded them to him, and the girl, catching
sight of a guitar, tucked away in a corner, ran and brought it, in her
natural and impulsive way, and, with her head prettily turned on one
side, began to tune it.

“I’m going to sing you some plantation hymns,” she said. “Shall I?”

As he responded with the most evident enthusiasm, she got her chords
attuned and began to sing to an indescribably plaintive tune:

  “O, send down de angel to trouble o’ de water,
   O, send down de angel to trouble o’ de water,
   O, send down de angel to trouble o’ de water,
     And to let God’s saints come in.”

Her voice was exquisitely clear and sweet and she possessed the unusual
charm of looking especially attractive when she sang. Altogether,
the experience was new to Stafford, and very interesting. To see
that pretty creature, in her country-made gown, with the hat thrown
aside from her charming head, which it had roughened into picturesque
disorder, singing that wistful, yearning tune about God’s saints,
with such an absence of any self-consciousness, except that she was
giving pleasure, was really a rare delight to the young man of fashion.
His whole life was the pursuit of pleasure, and he found it in a very
piquant form here.

She sang next a hymn beginning “De Gospel train am coming roun’ de
bend,” and then passed into the tripping measure of “Who’ll be de
Leader, when de Bride-Groom comes?” a catching little air with which he
was enchanted.

Altogether he had not been so well entertained for a long time, and the
next morning came a note asking that Miss Ayr of Virginia and one of
her cousins would take seats on his coach for an expedition to be got
up in special compliment to the first-named Miss Ayr.

It was a surprise to her cousins and, as Carter could see, not a
welcome one. Gladys, being spokesman, said that she thought it best
to mention the fact that, in her conspicuous seat by the driver, her
costume would be a target for criticism.

“Oh, I don’t mind that,” said Carter, lightly. “Mr. Stafford didn’t ask
me for my clothes.”

“You would feel awkward, I should think--” began Gladys, but Carter
interrupted her:

“Not a bit, I assure you!” she said. “I’ll feel as happy as possible.”

She was malicious enough to keep her secret, and she even suspected
some malice on her cousin’s part, in looking forward with satisfaction
to finding herself proved to be in the right when the appointed hour
should come.

And when it did come, and Miss Ayr of Virginia stepped forth arrayed,
she was a charming enough vision to have accounted for a good deal of
feminine envy and uncharitableness!

The fit of her gown was faultless, and it was a well-nigh faultless
figure which was fitted. The color was fresh and pure and so were
the tints of hair, and eyes, and lips, and cheeks. The hat was youth
and grace itself, and all smaller details of her toilet were beyond
criticism. She was a clever creature, this little Miss Ayr of Virginia,
and her present costume gave ample evidence of it.

When the party was ready to set off, she was feeling a wonderful sense
of companionship and friendliness with Stafford, and he with her.

“Stunning, by Jove!” he said, as she climbed to her place beside him.
“It looks as if Miss Ayr of Virginia was going to beat them on their
own ground. It’s really almost too bad of you!”

What a pleasant, light-hearted, boyish creature he was, she thought,
and how nice to be so cordially liked by him and to bowl along in the
place of honor at his side, the observed and admired of all who passed
them!

And not the least pleasant part of it all was the sense of _bien-être_,
which came from the consciousness of her irreproachable costume. It
made her feel brave and confident even with the women of the party,
and, this time, her somewhat timid overtures to them were far more
kindly met. Gladys, who had elected to be the one of her cousins to
accompany her, treated her rather differently, she thought, and,
altogether, it was a delightful occasion.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Stafford, just as this thought was
in her mind.

“Oh, yes, tremendously,” she said. “For the first time since I got here
I am almost forgetting to be home-sick. Almost, but not quite.”

“Home-sick?” he said. “I don’t like that. Why should you be home-sick?”

“Oh, I’ve almost died of it,” said Carter. “The other day, going to the
races, on the line of all those splendid carriages I saw, at the side
of the road, an old horse eating oats out of a nose-bag, with a ragged
old darkey standing by, and somehow it made me think so of home that I
almost burst into tears.”

“But why should you feel so? What is it that you miss so much that
could not be supplied here?”

“Here? Oh, I could never feel at home here! What I miss is simply
everything--the earth, and the sky, and the trees, and the darkies, and
the people, and everything!”

“I should like to see that wonderful country. Will you let me, some
day?”

“Strangers are always welcome in the South,” she said; “but you would
remain a stranger there. The life would never suit you.”

She felt instinctively that he did not like this, and--out of pure
compassion at having hurt a person who had been so good to her--she set
to work to make herself as delightful to him as she could, and with
such success that Gladys, who was taking notes from a back seat, formed
a conclusion, which definitely modified her future course toward her
cousin.

So marked was this that when, at the end of the excursion, Gladys
invited their late host to come and dine informally that evening, if
he had no other engagement, and when he had delightedly accepted and
driven away, she followed her little country cousin to her room and
offered in the pleasantest way to help her out with an evening toilet.

“I have one, thank you,” Carter said, “but I’m just as much obliged.”

She hadn’t it in her to bear malice, and far enough from her
consciousness was any suspicion of the real reason of her cousin’s
change toward her. Had she been present a few moments later at a
conversation which took place between the three sisters much light
would have been thrown upon this point. Here Gladys boldly avowed
her belief that Carter would be asked to become Mrs. Stafford.
Never, she said, had she seen Jim treat any girl as he treated
Carter, and without the necessity of much talk about it, the sisters
were unanimously agreed that it would be a good thing to have Jim
Stafford in the family on any terms. It was only too evident that
there was no chance of this on terms more close and acceptable than
the present ones, for his attitude toward the Miss Ayrs of New York
had been strictly limited to the off-hand intercourse of old friends
and neighbors. And Carter, in her guileless heart, would never have
imagined a further reason yet. This existed in the fact that Jim
Stafford had been so ardently angled for by so many of their friends
that it would be a triumph, in a way, to the Ayr girls to have him even
for a cousin. Their thoughts had gone even farther than that, and they
looked forward to being on cousinly terms in the establishment over
which Jim Stafford’s wife would preside in New York.

So when Carter came down to dinner that evening, innocent as a lamb of
any such designs and imaginings as occupied the worldly hearts about
her, she was received with great friendliness by her cousins, and her
gown was pronounced “as smart as possible” by Gladys, “very _chic_” by
Ethel, and to have “quite a _cachet_” by Rosamond.

And indeed it was a charming thing, and she was a charming thing in it!
No one could have dreamed of such a neck and such arms, under their
former unbeautiful coverings, and the clear cool green of her crêpey
draperies brought out the pure tints of skin and hair and eyes.

Jim Stafford, when he came, looked at her quite adoringly, and nobody
could wonder! One or two others of the bachelor _habitués_ of the house
had been bidden to the impromptu dinner and Carter drew all eyes upon
herself, with as little volition and consciousness as a magnet.

After dinner, Stafford got hold of the guitar and beguiled her into the
library, and she sang to him about God’s saints and the gospel train
and the Bridegroom, until every other member of the party followed and
gathered around her.

This was more agreeable to Carter, perhaps, than to her companion, for
he found any further _tête-à-tête_ with her impossible, and, to make up
for it, he asked her, on leaving, if he could see her to-morrow at some
appointed hour. She said yes, certainly, and fixed the time. Gladys,
who happened to be standing not far off, heard this.

When Carter went to her room that night, she looked long, and with
great satisfaction at the image which the cheval glass reflected. She
knew that she was pretty, but, indeed, she had never dreamed that she
could look so charming as this. Money was a wonderful thing, and she
would not be able in the future to wear such clothes as these, and she
did like them! She liked admiration, too, and to-night she had had it
unstintedly. Whence was it, then, that came this sense of lack, of
wanting, of imperfectness? She felt it, to a degree that positively
oppressed her, and as she doffed her brave attire and made herself
ready for bed she could scarcely keep the tears out of her eyes. Two,
at least, refused to be suppressed and lay wet upon her cheek as she
finally fell asleep.

Next morning, when she joined her three cousins in their upstairs
sitting-room, a very smiling welcome greeted her.

“We were just talking of you, Carter,” Gladys said, “and of how well
you looked last night. Jim Stafford thought so, evidently! And,
by the way, we were wondering how much you really know about Jim
Stafford.”

“I don’t know a great deal,” Carter answered. “Very little, in fact,
except that he is very kind and nice; and also, as I hear, very rich.”

“Do you know how rich?” said Gladys, with solemnity.

“No! How should I?” said Carter, looking rather wondering.

“I don’t know myself,” said Gladys, “but it’s a great many millions in
money; besides a superb house, horses, carriages, pictures, and all
sorts of things.”

“And a house at Newport,” put in Ethel, “a simply magnificent place!”

“And a yacht that is absolute perfection!” said Rosamond.

“And a collection of pearls of all colors, set in bracelets, necklaces
and rings, which he has been collecting for years as a wedding present
for his wife,” said Gladys with grave ardor.

Indeed, the solemnity of all these announcements seemed to Carter so
funny that she said with a little laugh:

“What are you all so serious about? There does not seem to me anything
profoundly solemn in all this.”

“The subject of Jim Stafford is more serious than you realize,
perhaps,” said Gladys. “I think it best to tell you that we all think
that he is going to make you an offer of marriage.”

Carter looked from one to the other with genuine surprise.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, and the next minute a crimson flush
suffused her face, and she added in a tone of indignation, “If there is
the least chance of such a thing it must be prevented.”

“Prevented!” said three voices at once in different tones of surprise
and protest.

“Yes--prevented,” Carter said. “I like him too much to want to hurt his
feelings, and if what you say is so, he must be stopped before he goes
farther.”

“Carter Ayr,” said Gladys, in a tone of voice thoroughly provoked,
“I’d like to know what you are thinking of and what you expect! You
Southern people do act as if you owned the earth! What prospects in
life have you got to make you throw away such a chance as this--the
most brilliant marriage that any girl here could hope to make! If Jim
Stafford asks you to marry him--as I believe he will--I’ll not believe
it that you’ll be such an idiot as to refuse him.”

Carter rose to her feet, and flashed upon her a pair of angry eyes.

“Why should I not refuse him?” she said. “There is but one cause for
marriage, and that does not here exist. Do you, for an instant, suppose
that I, my father’s daughter, one of the Ayrs of Virginia, would marry
a man for his _millions_, and his _houses_, and his _yachts_, and his
_pearls_?”

She hit these several objects off, with a tone which seemed to turn
them into chips, and blocks, and sawdust, and shavings, and then, with
a sudden softening of all her face, a sudden lowering of her voice and
another blush, she said, as she sank back into her seat:

“Besides--to settle the matter at once--I am engaged.”

“Engaged!” said her cousins together, and Gladys added:

“To whom, pray? Some neighbor in Virginia?”

Then, once more, Carter sprang to her feet, and stood there
palpitating, as she said:

“Yes--to a neighbor in Virginia!--a man whose only earthly possession
is a small farm, which is all that is left of a great estate. But he
is a man, and not a dude--and he works, instead of playing, and has
paid off thousands of dollars of debts which he did not make, working
day and night for the money, which, after all, is less than you are
accustomed to see thrown away at a day’s racing! He is not fashionable,
and you would scorn his looks and his dress, too, as you did mine,
if he were to come among you--but he is handsomer and stronger than
any man I’ve seen here--and dearer and better than any man in all
the world! Do you think I’d give up such a man as that for _money_?”
(accentuated as if it had been _dirt_!) “You don’t know him, you don’t
know me, you don’t know Virginia if you can think that! I like Mr.
Stafford, and I hope you are wrong in what you think; but if not, I
believe he would understand me, whether you do or not.”

“Carter,” said her cousin, insistently, “are you going to be fool
enough to throw away such a chance as this, for the sake of a mere
school-girl’s sentiment? You can’t play fast and loose, after your
Southern fashion, with a man like Jim Stafford. If you throw him aside
to-day, you can’t count on getting him back.”

Carter’s eyes were fairly blazing. She moved toward the door, but
before she passed it, she turned, and said proudly:

“What I have to say to Mr. Stafford is my own affair and his. You would
not understand, but he, I think, would.”

What she said to him was simply this (and he gave her occasion to say
it, two minutes after she came down to see him, dressed in one of her
homely little Virginia gowns):

“Don’t say any more, Mr. Stafford, please. You have been so good to me,
and I like you so much that I can’t bear to make you sorry, but I’m
engaged to be married to a man in Virginia, whom I love with all my
heart, and so that settles it.”

It settled it simply and at once for the poor young fellow, but he took
it hard. New York saw him no more that season, and when Carter was
married in the spring his magnificent collection of pearls was sent
to Virginia with a note which implored her to take them as a wedding
present, and said that unless she consented to wear them, no other
woman ever should.

He believed it, poor fellow, but Carter didn’t. That was the only thing
that comforted her as she stood, with her lover’s arm around her waist,
turning over the splendid jewels.

“Of course they must go back,” she said, “but not just yet. I can’t
bear to hurt him.”

“Poor, poor fellow!” was her companion’s response, spoken in tones of
heart-felt commiseration, “what a beggar he is, with all his millions,
and how criminally rich I feel!”




A New Thing Under the Sun




A New Thing Under the Sun


During the months of summer Belton was usually crowded with city
guests, but the last of these departed, as a rule, with the falling
leaves, and by the time winter had set in the little town had relapsed
into its normal monotony.

One year, however, there was an exception, and Mrs. Bryan, who had
pleasant accommodations in her large, old-fashioned house, received,
for a stay understood to be indefinite, a city boarder, who arrived in
midwinter, and took two of her best rooms at the highest summer rates.

This lady was duly indorsed and recommended--as Mrs. Bryan’s boarders
were required to be--in spite of the fact that she was coming with the
avowed purpose of getting a divorce from her husband.

The new arrival--Mrs. Leith--proved to be young and exceedingly pretty.
All her simple, dark costumes were made in the highest fashion, and
had the names of the best French dressmakers on their linings. She
was an extremely small woman, exquisitely made, and with minutely
perfect hands and feet. She had with her an immense Angora cat, and an
old negro servant-woman, who had been her nurse. Her companions are
mentioned in the order of their estimation in Mrs. Leith’s regard. The
great, white, sleepy, selfish, unresponsive cat was her very idol; and
the old negress, who loved and watched over and toiled and suffered for
her, was taken little account of, and even, at times, made the object
of unreasonable and unjust irritation. But “Mauma,” as her mistress
called her, cared nothing whatever for that. The days of slavery were
over, but she was held by chains more binding and restrictive than any
that they could forge or break.

This old woman had an immense power of reserve, and her lips were
sealed as to any revelations concerning the past life of her young
mistress. Mrs. Bryan, however, made a few notes from her own
observation. She noticed, for instance, that Mrs. Leith always looked
forward to the coming of the mail with an eager interest, and that,
no matter what letters were received, the expression of her face was
always the same--disappointment. She wrote few letters, herself, and
seemed to take little interest in those that she got. Mrs. Bryan
came to know, moreover, that on the not infrequent occasions when
Mrs. Leith would excuse herself from coming to meals, the cause was
generally a fit of crying which, no doubt, gave rise to the headache
which Mauma would name as her excuse. Once or twice, when Mrs. Bryan
had accidentally got a glimpse of the inner room, where she had gone
to make inquiries, she had seen the same picture--the old negress in
a big rocking-chair before the fire, in her arms her young mistress,
dressed in a little silk dressing-gown that looked like a baby’s long
frock. Mauma was rocking her backward and forward, patting and soothing
her, while the poor little creature clung around her neck and sobbed.

The one real interest in Mrs. Leith’s life was Fleecy, the Angora cat;
and when, at rare intervals, she chose to show off her accomplishments,
and catch the rubber ball her mistress rolled on the floor and bring
it to her, Mrs. Leith would grow gay, and laugh until her cheeks were
flushed with a rosy and becoming color. Mrs. Bryan had sometimes
watched this game, when she would go up with her knitting to Mrs.
Leith’s sitting-room.

She had assisted also at another pastime of Fleecy’s, which was more to
the cat’s fancy, but much less to that of its mistress.

Mrs. Leith had a standing offer among the servants for live mice, which
it afforded Fleecy the highest ecstasy to catch. Always, when the poor
little captives would be brought (and fortunately they seemed hard to
secure, and were not numerous), there would be a sharp conflict in the
mind of Mrs. Leith.

“Oh, I hate to see them frightened and tortured so!” she would say;
“but nothing in the world gives Fleecy such delight, and they don’t
suffer long. Still, I wish Fleecy liked the dead ones as well.”

She would take her darling in her arms, and say: “Mouse, Fleecy,
mouse!” and there was no sort of doubt that the cat understood.
She would prick up her ears and great plumy tail, and quiver with
delighted anticipation. Then, when the trap was opened and the mouse
let loose, Mrs. Leith would clap her hands with delight to see the joy
and activity of her great, indolent pet as she would scamper about,
over chairs and under tables, wildly pursuing her prey. Invariably,
however, when the final moment came, and the piteous little dying
squeaks would be heard, Mrs. Leith would turn away and shut her eyes
tight, and put her fingers in her ears. Sometimes, when Fleecy had
finished her meal, and sat licking her lips, and drowsing in complacent
repletion by the fire, Mrs. Leith would give way to reproaches of both
her pet and herself, and would think of the sufferings of the poor
little victim, till the tears came into her eyes. In spite of that,
however, when another mouse was offered, the same scene was invariably
re-enacted.

She loved this cat with a passionate affection; more, indeed, than
that bestowed by many mothers on their children. She spent hours in
combing and brushing its long fur and tying on various ribbons, and she
often kissed and squeezed it so ardently as to get scratched in return
for her tenderness. She called it by a hundred tender names when this
would happen, and blamed herself for her roughness.

There were certain little oddities in Mrs. Leith’s behavior, now and
then, which Mrs. Bryan was quick to observe. For instance, one day,
when someone remarked that Mr. Manning, the lawyer who was conducting
her divorce case, was a very handsome man, Mrs. Leith smiled to
herself, in a confident, abstracted way that piqued curiosity; and
again, when another man was commended for having very delightful
manners, Mrs. Leith said with the same look on her face:

“Oh, do you think so, really?”

Even Mrs. Bryan, who was not very imaginative, got the idea that the
little creature had some standard in her mind, measured by which she
found these men very small.

Mrs. Leith spent almost her entire time in her own room, sometimes
singing to herself, to a guitar accompaniment, impassioned love songs
that made her tremble from head to foot with emotion, and often break
into uncontrollable weeping. When she was in her not infrequent fits of
despondency, even Fleecy was no comfort to her, and she would sometimes
complain that she slept so contentedly on the rug.

“She doesn’t love me. She only wants to eat and sleep and be
comfortable,” she said one day, in an outburst of despair. “Oh, nobody
loves me, nobody loves me! If God would only let me die!”

“Mauma loves you, honey,” the old woman answered. “God ain’ gwine tek
you ’way from po’ ole Mauma.”

“What’s the use of your loving me, when you don’t love Bertie? You hate
him, and you hate Fleecy, too--you know you do! I don’t want anybody to
love me, if they don’t love them. Oh, I’m so wretched!” and she went
off into low wails of anguish that subsided, as usual, in sleep.

Many a time would old Mauma sit and hold her so, until her arms and
shoulders ached. Small and childish as she was, she was much heavier
than a child, but she had no more than a child’s consideration for the
trouble she gave, and Mauma would no more have reproached her with this
than a mother her baby.

Mrs. Bryan, out of sheer pity, began to feel herself growing attached
to her boarder. She seemed to make, however, but little progress in her
acquaintance, and things remained just as they had begun, until there
came a break in the monotony of their intercourse, caused by the sudden
illness of Fleecy.

Mrs. Leith flew wildly downstairs, one morning, her face pallid with
fear, and dragged the astonished widow up the stairs, exclaiming that
Fleecy was dying. When they got into the room, the big white cat was
lying on the lounge, stretching and jerking its body, and giving every
indication of the vulgar malady of fits. Mauma was bending over the
lounge, but her little mistress flew at her and pulled her away.

“You shan’t touch her,” she cried, angrily, “go away! You have always
hated her, and you’ll be glad if she dies! Oh, Mrs. Bryan, you will
help me! Do you think she is going to die? Oh, Fleecy, Fleecy, my poor
baby, don’t go and leave me! You are all I’ve got in the world.”

The old negress shrugged her shoulders and moved away. It was evident
that the reproaches of her mistress amounted to nothing with her.
Mrs. Bryan, out of pity for the poor child’s grief, went to work to
try to render aid, and, after a little doctoring, Fleecy showed signs
of recovery. The gratitude showered upon Mrs. Bryan was touching to
see. Mrs. Leith, usually so cold and abstracted in her manner, became
suddenly affectionate and effusive. She kissed Mrs. Bryan’s hands and
then her face, and begged her not to leave her. When she was entirely
reassured about Fleecy, and had her darling sleeping on her lap, she
suddenly caught hold of Mrs. Bryan’s hand and said, impulsively:

“You are good and kind. You have a tender, loving heart. I’d like to
talk to you, and tell you about my troubles. May I? Oh, if you knew how
unhappy I am, and how no one understands and sympathizes with me!”

Mrs. Bryan moved closer to her, and begged her to speak, assuring her,
beforehand, of the sympathy which showed plainly in her face.

Then, still holding the big cat on her lap, and touching it with
tenderness from time to time, Mrs. Leith told her story.

A singular one it was, and Mrs. Bryan, as she listened, could not
altogether wonder at the friends who had refused to sympathize with
Mrs. Leith in her position.

The unhappy young wife, who was in Belton for the sole purpose of
getting a divorce from her husband, began her narration by describing
him in terms of glowing enthusiasm, as the handsomest, the cleverest,
the most charming, gifted, lovable being that mind could conceive. “You
think Mr. Manning is handsome,” she said, “and you thought that other
man’s manners were charming! If you could see Bertie! It makes me cross
to hear Mr. Manning and those other people talked about. Why, Bertie
is like what you would imagine a great big angel to be, if it hadn’t
any wings and wore clothes. He’s so tall and strong that he can lift
me about like a baby, and never get tired in his shoulders, as Mauma
does after the least little while. He’s got a figure more beautiful
than any statue that was ever made, and hair that curls in little shiny
rings the moment he lets it get long enough. Oh, once, in Italy,” she
broke off, as a sudden memory came to her, “I persuaded him to let it
grow. We were in the country, where no one knew us, and it came down
all about his neck. It was so funny. We used to row a great deal, and,
though he wore a big peasant’s hat, he got brown as a berry, but his
neck was always fair, where his hair hung over it. I used to say it
was the only place left for me to kiss, because the sun had made him
brown as an Italian, so I wouldn’t kiss him, except there. I always
said I felt as if I were kissing some Italian woman’s husband. O Mrs.
Bryan,” she said, in a choking voice of pain, “we were so happy then!
He loved me so! He never got tired of me, and couldn’t bear me out of
his sight. I don’t see why I didn’t die then. If joy could kill, I
would have.” She paused a second, and then went on, with a return to
her former tone: “You would have to see him before you could understand
how poor all other men seem after him. His voice is like a great strong
lark’s, that can sing and fly together. He used to sing until he could
be heard for miles, all the time that he was rowing me over those
tremendous waves that shook our little boat about like a chip. I never
dared to go with any one else, but with him I never had a fear. I often
used to think we would be drowned, but I would laugh at the idea, and
tell him it would be only to wake up in another heaven with him. Then
you were talking about manners! Oh, you can’t have any idea of Bertie’s
manners, and I couldn’t give you any! He never goes into a crowded room
that everybody doesn’t look at him and speak about him. He seems to
know, at once, the ways of every country, and never makes a mistake.
And gentle! why, he’s gentler than any woman that ever lived! Children
always love him, and so do animals. Fleecy loves him fifty times better
than she does me, and you ought to see how he loves Fleecy. I thought
it was so good of him to let me keep my dear kitty. I offered to give
her up, but he would not let me. I know she’d be happier with Bertie,
and I did offer, but when he said no, I was glad, for Fleecy was all I
had left. If Bertie had been here to-night, he would have nursed and
doctored her just as you did, instead of getting cross like Mauma.
Sometimes I hate Mauma!” she broke off with a vicious snap of her
little regular teeth.

For a long time Mrs. Leith talked on, dwelling on the attractions and
perfections of the man from whom she was seeking a divorce, until
finally her companion, unable to keep down her curiosity any longer,
said abruptly:

“I can’t help asking, Mrs. Leith, why you want to be divorced from such
a man as that.”

“Want to be!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet, and forgetting even
Fleecy, who fell to the floor. “Want to be? Why, I should think you
could see that it is killing me! Do I look like a person doing what she
wants to do? If you had seen me a year ago you would not say that.
Look at my poor thin arms,” pulling up her sleeve. “They used to be so
plump and round that Bertie never tired of kissing and praising them.
And look at my face, so white and pasty, when I used to have a color
like a rose! Oh, I’m glad he can’t see me now! I’m glad he doesn’t know
how I have changed!”

“Then why do you get the divorce?” Mrs. Bryan couldn’t help saying.
“You are doing it, and not he--aren’t you? What makes you do it?”

“Because he wants it,” she answered with a look of defiance. She
expected nothing else but that Mrs. Bryan would hold with all her other
friends, and she wanted to show her, at once, that she did not care.

“And why does he want it?”

“Because he is tired of me--simply that. No one but me can make
allowances for him, and I don’t expect it. I know you are shocked
and indignant and all that, but you may save yourself the trouble. It
is terrible and unfortunate for me, of course, but I can see, if no
one else does, that it is not unnatural. He is highly cultivated and
intellectual, and I am not a companion for him. It was long before I
would acknowledge it, but I have looked it in the face at last. I was
never worthy of him--but oh, while he loved me, it didn’t matter in the
least that I was so inferior to him! And he did love me--he did! he
did!--as much as he can love anybody--as much, I do believe, as he will
ever love that beautiful, wicked woman he is going to marry.”

“Going to marry!” exclaimed Mrs. Bryan, almost breathless, but the
little creature who stood near by with her cold hands pressed against
her burning cheeks, and her excited eyes fixed on the fire, paid no
attention to the reflection of astonishment in her voice.

“Yes, going to marry,” she said. “That is why he was so determined
to have the divorce. I knew he had begun to weary of me; I knew I had
nothing in me to keep the love of a great creature such as he is, but
I think he would have stayed with me and let me go on loving him, at
least, if he had not seen that widow, who made up her mind to have him
the moment she laid eyes on him, and saw how far above other men he
was.”

“But you could have prevented it! He couldn’t have got the divorce from
you. Didn’t he know that?”

“Of course he knew it,” she answered, in the petulant tone she often
used to Mauma. “He’s a man thoroughly informed on every subject. He
knew he could never get it, and that the only way was for me to do it.
He made a great mistake, though, and gave himself and me six miserable
months of suffering.”

“How do you mean?”

“He tried to force me to sue for a divorce,” she said; “and used every
means that he could think of. My friends were wildly excited, and
demanded that I should get the divorce, but they might as well have
talked into the air. I had but one answer: ‘I love him--love him--do
you understand? And there is nothing love cannot forgive!’”

“Love--yes,” retorted Mrs. Bryan, now no longer able to control her
indignation. “Love is all very well--but where is your pride?”

The tiny creature standing on the rug drew herself to her full height,
and looked her in the eyes, as she answered:

“I have none, where he is concerned.”

“Merciful goodness!” exclaimed the other, with a deep-drawn breath.
“Then if you haven’t any pride, what induced you to agree to the
divorce?”

“Love,” said the other, solemnly. “If he had understood that--if he had
made that appeal at first--he might have had his way in the beginning,
instead of the end. If, instead of subjecting me to all the shame and
outrage that he made me endure, he had done at first what he did at
last, he might have spared himself as well as me much suffering.”

“You don’t mean to say you consented because----”

“Because I loved him,” she replied, in a voice beginning to shake, as
her eyes began to fill. “Oh, why do I talk about it? No one will ever
understand. You are all alike, and blame me, because you don’t know
what it is to love, as I love him. He came to me at last, after those
awful months, and when he came into the room and shut the door behind
him, and I looked up and feasted my hungry eyes on the sight of him,
the love that shook my breast then was a thing you other women don’t
know. He called my name. ‘Mimi,’ he said, ‘you have it in your power to
make me happy, if you will.’ And I said: ‘I will do anything you ask.’
He came then and took me in his arms and told me he wanted me to get
the divorce. He said he was selfish and vile and unworthy of me, that
I would be happier without him, and a great deal more such trash, and
I told him I had but one desire in the world, and that was to make him
happy, and that I would give him the divorce. With those arms around
me, and those eyes looking into mine beseechingly, there was nothing
I could have denied him--only I had rather it had been the last drop
of my blood he had asked for. That was not what he wanted, though, and
I gave him what he did want. I asked him if it would not please him
better if I were dead, and if he had said yes, I would have killed
myself. But he said no, that would make him wretched; he only wanted me
to let him be free, and to be free myself to marry some good man who
would make me happy as I deserved. He knows that woman isn’t good; he
told me so himself--at least he said she was utterly different from me,
and so much more fit to be the companion of a poor devil like himself.
I don’t know how it is,” she broke off, passionately, “but if being a
devil could make him love me again, I’d be a devil, too, if I could!
Of course you’re shocked, but I would! Well, no matter what happens,
I’ve got that evening to remember. He had not been pleased with me for
so long, that it was like heaven on earth to have him as he was then.
He let me sit on his lap, and hold him tight around the neck, and kiss
his curls and his eyes and his darling mouth. You needn’t look so
horrified,” she said with sudden resentment, “he was my husband still,
and he’s my husband now, and I’m proud and happy I can say it a little
while longer.”

At the last words her voice gave way completely, and she threw herself
down on the lounge and burst into violent sobbing. It was piteous to
see her, and Mrs. Bryan, in spite of the tempestuous indignation this
recital had aroused in her, felt her heart grow soft with sympathy as
she looked at the little figure, no bigger than that of many a child
of fourteen, shaken with great sobs of anguish--the deep and incurable
anguish of a loving and despised wife.

She did her best to comfort her, and forced herself not to criticise,
knowing intuitively what the poor little thing must have already
suffered at the hands of her friends.

She found, however, that the task of comforting her was an impossible
one. All she could do was to soothe and speak lovingly to her, and to
avoid abuse of her husband; she felt it would be the cause of hopeless
estrangement between them, if she allowed herself to express her true
opinion of him.

At last, when Mrs. Leith had consented to be covered up, and made
physically comfortable, and had drunk a cup of tea, Mrs. Bryan left her
to try to get a nap. She had Fleecy in her arms, with her head peeping
out above the coverlet, and had laid her cheek against it with a degree
of affectionateness that she seemed unable to show to the human beings
about her.

“It is only because Bertie loves Fleecy, and she loves him,” said the
little creature, answering the unspoken thought which she had read in
Mrs. Bryan’s eyes.

As the latter passed through the outer room, where Mauma was sitting at
the window running the narrow ribbons in and out of the eyelet holes in
Mrs. Leith’s dainty French underclothes, she stopped and looked at the
old woman inquiringly.

“She bin tell you all ’bout it, has she?” said Mauma, looking up over
the top of her brass-rimmed spectacles. “I knowed how it gwine be, soon
ez I see you done tech her heart, by nussing o’ that black varmint.”
(It always seemed to give Mauma great satisfaction to apply the word
“black” to Fleecy’s creamy whiteness.) “I’m glad you kin mek out to
show some likin’ fur de dirty thing, en to please Missy I’d do it
myself, ef I could. De Lord knows ef anythin’ kin please her, I want
her to have it, but it’s more’n I got sense to do, to ack like I love
dem two darlin’s o’ hern.”

“Then you don’t like Mr. Leith, either?” said Mrs. Bryan, tentatively.

“Like him? Nor’m, I don’t like him, I don’ like him for nuthin’--a
good-for nuthin’, low-life raskill, as ain’t worthy to tech Missy’s
feet! Thar ain’ but one thing in the worl’ I won’ do for Missy, en
that’s it! I ain’ gwine say I like him, kus I pintedly don’t, en I’d
wring he neck same ez a chicken’s, ef I had de chance. Lor’, mistiss,
you don’ know. You don’ know nuthin’! De sights he is tuk dat air
little angel-chile through is enough to tun yer hyar right white.
’Tain’ no kine o’ shame en meanness he ain’ bin heap up on her--a
puppus to mek her git de divoce. En you think she’d do it? Nor’m, she
wouldn’! She bin quoil wid ev’ry fr’en’ she got in de worl’ ’long o’
that! She ain’ ’low nobody to say nuthin’ gin’ him. All she say is,
‘When you love, you kin furgive anything.’ He mought ’a’ kep’ on, twel
jedgmen’-day, en he mought ’a’ drug her through de streets by de hyar
o’ her hade, en she wouldn’ nuver ’a’ uttered a complaint. De warn’ but
one way he could ’a’ got her to git dat divoce, en he jis dat mean en
sneakin’ dat he bin foun’ dat way out. He come to her at las’ wid all
he impident, sweet ways, en he jiss coax en beg for it. I knowed den
’twas all up. She ain’ nuver been able to say no to him in her life, en
she couldn’t say it den. So she tell him. Yes, she do it fur de sake o’
makin’ him happy en pleased wid her. She sont right off fur de lawyer,
en made all de ’rangements. I hear him tell her myself dat ’twas easy
’nough to do. Yes, Lord! I reckon ’twas easy, wid dem scan’lous doin’s
o’ his! Lor’, honey, you don’ know,” and the old woman ended, shaking
her head with an air of deep mystery.

The ice once broken between Mrs. Bryan and her boarder, frequent
confidences followed, but it was always the same thing, with more
or less detail, as to the charm, superiority and lovableness of the
husband she had renounced, or was now making it her business in life
to renounce. It was evident to Mrs. Bryan that the days passed all too
quickly for Mr. Manning’s client, and that she clung desperately to the
mere form that retained him as her husband.

In the monotonous regularity of her life at Belton she began to improve
in health and looks. Mauma attributed it to the fact that she no
longer had the torment of discussions and protest from her relatives
and friends, who had one and all abandoned her to her own devices. So
indomitable a will in so slight a body, it was certainly strange to
find. After the promise to her husband she had never faltered, though
the idea of the divorce was evidently terrible to her beyond words.
She told Mrs. Bryan that she was twenty years of age, but it was hard
to believe it. She looked a mere slip of a girl, and was made with
such exquisite perfection, that that fact seemed to make her look
smaller than she really was. Every one who saw her was fascinated
by her beauty, but she was cold to all overtures of friendship, and
seemed to have exhausted on her husband and Fleecy all her capacity for
affection. She still cared scrupulously for her toilet, though she wore
only the one or two dark dresses in which she had appeared on first
coming to Belton. Her mother had been a Creole, and from this source
she had got her little French name, Mimi, which she told Mrs. Bryan her
husband usually abbreviated into “Mim.” There was also a trace of her
French origin in her utterance--a certain peculiarity of the _r_--that
gave her a sort of unusualness which added to her charm.

One day, the morning of which had passed in the usual uneventful way,
Mrs. Leith was sitting with Mrs. Bryan in the latter’s sitting-room,
when a telegram was brought in. Mrs. Bryan took it, and then handed it
to her companion, to whom it was addressed. As she read it she sprang
to her feet and uttered a cry--unmistakably a cry of joy.

“Read it--he is coming!” she said.

Mrs. Bryan put on her glasses and read these words:

  “Must see you on important business. Arrive at eight o’clock.

                                                                 “B.”

“I must go--I must get ready. Where is Mauma? Mauma!” she called as she
hurried from the room, and ran up the stairs.

Half an hour later Mrs. Bryan went to her boarder’s room. She found
everything in confusion. Trunks stood open in the middle of the floor;
Eastern stuffs were scattered all about; exquisite dresses were lying
in heaps, and poor old Mauma, with protest written on the very curve of
her back, was diving into a trunk, and tranquilly accepting a scolding
for not knowing where some indispensable article was.

“I am going to hang these stuffs about the room, and get out a few
ornaments,” Mrs. Leith explained. “I won’t hurt anything, but Bertie
does so love to see things look ‘homey and comfy,’ as he calls it.
Will you send someone to the florist, and tell him I want lots of
flowers--all that he has? Oh, Mrs. Bryan, do tell me--honestly and
candidly--which of these dresses I look best in. You see, I can’t tell
just what humor he will be in. Sometimes he likes to see me dressed as
richly as possible--and then again I can’t be too simple. Oh, yes, I
forgot--I know what I’ll wear! I’d rather he’d see me very simple--for
I can imagine he’s seen plenty of magnificence lately. I’ll wear just
this little white _crêpe_ gown--one he used to love. Perhaps he’ll
remember he praised it once, and be pleased at my remembering. Oh,
Mauma, where’s the girdle? You don’t seem to know where anything is,
and if you’ve lost that girdle--” she stopped, with sudden tears of
vexation in her eyes.

Mauma came toward her with the girdle in her hand. She darted forward
to take it, and gave the old woman a sudden hug, as she said, coaxingly:

“Don’t be cross with me to-day, Mauma--please don’t. I’m so happy.
You ought to be glad your child is going to be happy once more in her
life. He’s sure to be pleased with me, for I’ve done every little thing
he wants. Oh, to think I’m going to see him once more!” Then, with a
sudden change of tone, she added: “Don’t be vexed with me if I’m cross
and rude to-day. I’m so wild with joy that I can’t stand the suggestion
of anything else. And oh, Mrs. Bryan, if you saw him, you would not
wonder. Promise me this,” she cried, seizing the other woman by both
hands with intense earnestness, “promise me that you will go to the
door, yourself, when he comes, and that you’ll just say some little
thing to him, so as to make him speak. I want you to hear his voice,
and get some idea of his manner. Then, after that, if you talk about
Mr. Manning or Mr. Anybody else, I’ll promise to listen to you!”

Mrs. Bryan agreed to do as she wished, and went away more puzzled and
astonished at the ways of her boarder than she had been yet.

Shortly before eight o’clock that evening, Mrs. Bryan, dressed in her
neatest black dress, and wearing her freshest cap, went up to Mrs.
Leith’s sitting-room. When she entered, she hardly recognized it, and
felt as if she must be in a dream. Wax candles, with pink shades, were
set about in groups; the walls and furniture were decorated with rich
embroideries and Eastern stuffs, and beautiful flowers were massed
together on tables and mantel. Fleecy had been freshly washed, and
was ornamented with a gay pink ribbon tied in an enormous bow at the
back of her neck, suspending a little gold bell, which tinkled as she
walked about with her great tail in the air. A glowing wood fire burned
on the hearth, and on a white fur rug, which had been spread in front
of it, stood Mimi. The metamorphosis in her was quite as startling as
in the room. She was dressed in a scant and clinging little gown of
white _crêpe_, half-low about the throat, from which a fall of creamy
lace hung down. It was loosely gathered in about the waist by a silver
girdle, and had great flowing sleeves, from which her little hands came
out divested of all ornament, except her wedding-ring. Her tiny feet
were cased in white slippers worked with silver. But the wonder of it
all was her face. It was nothing short of radiantly beautiful this
evening. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were pink as roses. Her hair,
instead of being twisted, as usual, into a decorous knot, was falling
free about her shoulders. It was not long, but curly and fluffy as a
child’s.

“You look about twelve years old,” was Mrs. Bryan’s comment.

“Bertie always said so, when I wore my hair like this,” she answered,
delightedly. “He loves it this way best of all. I was so afraid I’d
look too old to do it; but if I have grown old and thin, thank the
_good_ God, it doesn’t show to-night!”

It was the first expression of religious fervor that Mrs. Bryan had
ever heard her use; but as she said this, she clasped her hands and
looked upward in a rapture of thanksgiving, the sincerity of which
could not be doubted.

“Fleecy, do you know who’s coming?” she exclaimed, suddenly catching
the big cat up, and looking into its face as if it had been a child’s.
“Master, Fleecy--master!”

Fleecy certainly pricked up her ears, seeing which her mistress covered
her with rapturous kisses, while Mrs. Bryan had more than a suspicion
that Fleecy mistook the word “master” for “mouse;” but this she would
not have dared to suggest.

“Isn’t it after eight?” said Mimi, looking at the little clock on the
mantel. “Oh, if he shouldn’t come!” And at the thought of this the
color faded from her cheeks. It came bounding back, however, the next
minute, as the door-bell was heard.

When Mrs. Bryan reached the landing at the head of the stairs, she
found Mauma leaning over the railing and looking into the hall below.

“Is it Mr. Leith?” Mrs. Bryan asked.

“Yes, it’s him--the ugly buzzard!” answered Mauma, with intense disgust.

It was impossible not to smile at this comment as applied to the man
whom Mrs. Bryan now went forward to meet. She acknowledged at once, as
she saw him shaking the thick snowflakes from the collar of his coat,
that his beauty had not been exaggerated. He was a magnificent, blond
creature, with youthful strength and health in every line of figure
and face. A ready smile of good humor rose to his lips, as he took off
his hat with a splendid grace and made Mrs. Bryan a bow.

“Mrs. Leith is expecting you,” she said. “Will you go up to her
sitting-room?”

“Yes, thanks, when I have got rid of some of this snow. I must ask your
forgiveness for bringing so much of it into your house. It’s clean,
however, and I hope will do no harm.”

As he spoke he was taking off his long, fur-lined coat, and as he threw
in on a chair, he looked at her again and smiled.

“Oh, I’ll have it brushed for you!” she said, and then stopped short,
provoked at having been so civil to the man whom she had intended to
treat with cold contempt.

“Walk upstairs,” she said, more distantly. “I’ll go with you, and show
you the room.”

He gave her the smallest of bows, but it gave the old widow an
agreeable sense of homage. As he preceded her up the stairs, he said,
in a voice no one could fail to find delightful:

“What a fascinating old house you have!”

The compliment was agreeable to her, but at the same time she felt a
certain indignation that he could be so unmoved at the prospect of an
interview which had put that poor child, waiting yonder, in a fever of
agitation.

Mauma had disappeared from the landing, and when Mrs. Bryan had pointed
out the door, she turned and went downstairs. She heard his quick
knock, and then the turn of the knob. As she looked back, he was just
disappearing and closing the door after him.

In the room beyond that closed door intense silence reigned for some
moments. Leith had come no farther than across the threshold, and stood
with his back against the door. Then, undoubtedly, Fleecy recognized
him, for she came forward and began to rub against his legs, making a
purring noise distinctly audible in the silent room. Fleecy’s mistress
stood on the rug intensely still, with her hands clasped tight together.

Presently the man spoke, in his very gentlest voice.

“Fleecy is glad to see me,” he said in a tone of tender reproach.

“And so am I! Oh, Bertie!” she gasped, catching her breath with a sort
of sob.

“Are you?” he said, and, standing where he was, he held out his arms.
In a second she had flown to them, and the great man had lifted her off
her feet and caught her to his breast and held her there. She clung
with both arms around his neck, and laid her face in the hollow of his
throat. For a few seconds neither spoke, and then he put her down,
still holding one of her hands, and led her so across the room.

“So you are glad to see me, Mim!” he said, standing on the hearth-rug,
and taking her little face between his large, beautiful hands.

“I worship you,” she said, looking up at him, through two big tears.

“So you’re just as big a goose as ever!” he said, almost in a whisper,
still holding her so and looking down at her. “I suppose I ought to be
sorry, but do you think I am? Well, I’m not. I’m glad!” Impossible to
describe the winning charm of this man’s manner, or the tender beauty
of his face as he said this. “But stand off and let me look at you,”
he went on, loosing her face to take her two hands and hold her at
arm’s length by them. “Who said you were losing your beauty? It’s not
so. You’re absolutely bewitching. I doubt--now I’m going to tell you
something that will make you happy for a year--I seriously doubt, upon
my word of honor, whether any one else in the world is so pretty.”

She smiled until her cheeks dimpled, but the next moment the tears had
sprung to her eyes.

“What does it matter,” she said, “if you don’t care?”

“Don’t I, though? I can tell you I do care tremendously. Do you
suppose, after all that’s been between you and me, that I shall lose
interest in you and never care what happens to you in the future?”

“But if we never see each other----”

“Yes, I know,” he said hurriedly. “That’s pretty hard, poor baby! But
don’t think, in spite of all that’s happened, don’t think I’m not
sorry for you. Sometimes, when I think about how unhappy and lonely
you are, it drives me wild. I have to go to the theatre, or play polo,
or do something to make me forget it. There’s one thought that always
consoles me, however, and that is that you’ll be well rid of such a
scamp as I am. I’ve been a brute to you, Mimi, and one thing that
brought me here was to ask you to forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Bertie; I’ve never had one hard feeling
toward you,” she answered in a low and resolutely steadied voice.

“That’s because you’re an angel on earth, not because I haven’t treated
you abominably. I know it and confess it freely, but I hate to think
about it.”

“Then don’t think about it, our last evening together.”

The words almost choked her, and he saw her throat swell; he saw, too,
that she was making a tremendous effort not to cry. They had sat down
in two chairs in front of the fire, and were looking away from each
other. After a short silence the man turned toward her, compelling her,
by his persistent gaze, to turn her eyes to his. Then he said:

“It isn’t natural for us to sit together like this. You used to--” He
smiled and laid his hand on his knee. She came at once and took the
seat, and when she had done so, he lifted one of her arms and laid it
around his neck. Then he laughed--a low laugh of appreciative amusement.

“I’m sure I don’t know whether this is proper or not,” he said, “and I
suppose you can’t inform me. By Jove, this _is_ a situation! Come, Mim,
I always said you had no sense of humor, but you can’t help seeing the
fun of this!”

The poor child tried her best to smile, but perhaps his accusation of
her was not unjust, for the effect was a complete failure, and she had
to hide her face against his neck to conceal the fact that tears had
come instead of smiles.

“Don’t try to make me laugh,” she said; “if you do, I’m sure to cry,
and I do not want to do that. It always made you angry to see me cry.”

“All right, then, we won’t laugh or cry either. We’ll just be sensible,
and you’ll show me what a little brick you really are. You’ve acted
in a way already to win a tremendous respect from me. You can just
remember that. I don’t know another woman who’d have behaved as well.
And, now, let me show you something. Don’t move, it’s just here in my
pocket. I had such a sweet idea the other day. You see,” he went on,
as she sat up to look, “I knew you’d feel badly about leaving off the
ring, when--when the time comes, so I’ve got you another--not plain
gold, of course, but one you can always wear, in place of it, for my
sake. Isn’t it a little beauty?” He opened his hand and showed her a
ring set with two very perfect pearls, one white and one black.

“The white’s for you, and the black’s for me,” he said, laughing, as
he slipped it on her finger. “I knew it would fit,” he went on, “for
_I_ knew what a mite of a hand it was for! The man thought it was for a
child.”

“Oh, how dear, how lovely, how beautiful it is!” said Mimi. “How good
you were to think of it! But, Bertie--” She hesitated a moment, and
then said: “You won’t be vexed if I ask you something, will you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, with a slight frown. “I don’t like questions.”

“Oh, I know that--and I’m not going to inquire into anything! You
needn’t be afraid of that. All I want is to know whether--when the time
comes--I’ll be obliged to take off my wedding-ring? Couldn’t I wear it
still?”

She looked into his face with the most earnest beseeching, and
evidently with intense anxiety as to his reply.

“Oh, I suppose you could--if you wanted to! I don’t see why not. I
never heard of anyone’s doing it, but of course you can keep it on,
if it will be a comfort to you. It’s a natural enough wish. Precious
thing! I declare it’s perfectly touching!”

“Oh, thank you, Bertie, _thank_ you!” she cried, throwing her arms
around his neck again. “You don’t know what a load you have taken off
my mind!”

“Poor little Mim,” he said, gently stroking her hair, “how you can care
as you do about such a devil of a scamp as I am is the mystery!”

“You are not--you are good,” she said brokenly, “and Bertie, there is
just one more thing I want to ask you to let me keep. If you’ll do
that, I’ll be satisfied.”

“What is it?”

She put her lips to his ear and whispered: “Your name.”

He did not answer immediately, and turning to look in his face, she saw
that he looked perplexed.

“Upon my word, my darling child, I don’t know how that is, but if it
can be arranged, of course I am willing,” he said.

“Oh, Bertie, Bertie! How can I ever thank you? I was almost afraid to
ask it--but it would break my heart to have to give up your name.”

“There, then, precious child, you shan’t!” he said, soothingly. “I’ll
talk to the lawyers about it at once. There are one or two business
points on which I have to speak to you--things you will have to give
your consent to. That is what I came chiefly to see about--at least
that was my excuse, though I wanted to see you, too, and to be sure you
had forgiven me. You do believe I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused
you--don’t you, darling?”

“Oh, I know you are! I know you wouldn’t have done it willingly. It
was only a misunderstanding. If you had come to me at first and told
me what you wanted me to do, I would have done it. It’s the same thing
now. There is no need to consult me. All you have to do is to tell me
what it is you want me to consent to.”

“We can get through with it very quickly, then,” he said. “I might have
known how good and generous you would be; but you see I can’t help
making the mistake of thinking you are like the rest of the world,
which you are not!”

He explained to her briefly, then, the points on which he had wanted to
confer with her, but found, as she had said, that he had her consent to
everything he wished beforehand.

“Oh, don’t let’s spoil our last, last time, by talking about things
like that!” she said, presently. “Let’s take Fleecy up between us and
be happy this once, as we used to be all the time.”

So Fleecy was called and put in the old familiar place, where she
nestled snugly down, and purred and dozed in absolute contentment.
Both of them caressed the cat in silence for a moment, the tiny hand
following the big one up and down its back. Presently Mimi lifted her
hand, and said:

“Kiss my ring, please. I should always be regretting it, if I didn’t
make you do that.” He kissed it, and the hand too, holding it against
his lips a full moment, so that she felt his breath upon it.

Presently she spoke again: “Have I been good?” she said. “Are you
pleased with me, Bertie? Do tell me so, if you are. I want to remember
that you said so.”

“Pleased with you, my good little darling? Why, how could I fail to be?
The more I see of your goodness, the more convinced I am that I was
never worthy of you, and my hope is that, once freed of me, you will
meet some man who will deserve you better and make you happy.”

She put her little hand over his mouth, so that the last words were
stifled, as she said to him, in a voice of keen reproach:

“Bertie, how can you, how dare you think of such a thing? It is the one
thing on earth I couldn’t forgive you for. I can forgive utterly and
freely your getting tired of me, and wanting a cleverer, handsomer,
more amusing wife. It is nothing but natural that you should, and I
can see it. But, oh, my dear darling, don’t believe that I could ever
love any one else! If I thought you would believe that of me, I don’t
believe I could help killing myself. Promise me, Bertie; give me your
word, you’ll never say such a thing as that again.”

“I promise, child; I promise,” he replied, half-awed by the intensity
of her reproach. “You are a mystery to me, and I’m a mystery to myself,
to have won such love.”

“You didn’t win it,” she said; “you just got it, by being what you are.”

“But no one else has ever given it to me--or ever will,” he added, with
conviction.

“Ah!” she said, with a deep, indrawn breath, sitting upright on his
knee, and clasping her hands tight together, “you will find that out,
Bertie! I know no one will ever love you as I do.”

“I know it too,” he said, a look of despondency suddenly crossing his
face.

“Bertie,” she said, timidly. “Don’t be angry with me if I ask you
something.”

“I warned you not to ask questions.”

“Yes, I know, but I’m not going to do anything to bother you. I promise
that, and you know I always keep my word. Only, if you would tell me
about things, it would be easier than hearing it from others, or from
the papers. But suppose,” she was watching his face intently, to see if
its expression permitted her to go on, “suppose,” she said, timidly,
“you were to grow tired of her, and wanted her, for your sake, to give
you your freedom. Do you think she’d love you enough to do what I have
done?”

A curious smile came suddenly to his face:

“Do what you have done?” he said. “I think she’d probe for my heart
with a polished stiletto sooner, or put a spider into my dumpling!”

“Then she loves herself better than she loves you--and I love you
better than I love myself!”

She said these words with an infinite satisfaction, and the expression
of her face was triumphant--almost happy. Her cheeks had still that
feverish color, and her eyes were wide and brilliant, as they rested
with a hungry, expectant look upon his face. He, meantime, sat silent,
looking into the fire. When, at last, compelled by her steady gaze, he
looked at her, there was such dumb, intense entreaty in her eyes as he
could not misunderstand.

“Mim,” he said, in a whisper, “do you want me to kiss you?”

The tears sprang to her eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind--just once,” she
answered.

Their lips met in a long kiss. As he drew backward from it, he put her
gently from him, and rose to his feet.

“I must say good-by, now,” he said. “It’s time for me to go.”

She gave a little cry, and looked at him with a half-distracted gaze,
as she said, excitedly:

“Oh, not yet--not yet, surely! I thought you would stay for hours. Oh,
Bertie, don’t leave me yet--just as we were so happy! My heart will
break!”

She turned away with an instinct to conceal from him the agony in her
face. He saw her wring her little hands together, and then put them
to her lips and bite them, and he knew she was making an effort, for
his sake, not to cry. But it was worse still to see this courageous
struggle with agony, and his one thought was to get away.

“Bertie,” she said, suddenly turning toward him her pallid and
terrified face, “I’m going to bear it if I can. I’ll do my very best,
but if--if I find I can’t--if it is going to be like this always, and I
can’t bear it, would you mind it very much--do you think you could keep
from letting it make you unhappy--if I couldn’t bear it--and killed
myself?”

“Mind it! What are you talking about! Why, what do you think I’m made
of? I should never have another happy moment as long as I lived. You
would simply make me a miserable man for life.”

“Then I won’t do it!” she said, hurriedly. “Indeed, indeed, I won’t!
Don’t look at me reproachfully, darling! Forget that I ever thought of
that. It was only a moment’s frenzy, and it doesn’t really amount to
anything. I give you my promise not to do it, and I know you’ll believe
in that.”

“Lord, what a relief!” he said, with a great sigh. “You frightened
me out of my wits; but of course you didn’t mean it. Now that you’ve
promised, I feel safe. You are too good and tender to give me such a
life-long sorrow as that would be. You never could have done it; but it
gave me a scare. You don’t believe it now, but once it is inevitable,
you’ll get over this extreme feeling about me, and be happy.”

“O Bertie,” she said, timidly, “I don’t want to make you angry,
dearest, but if you only _wouldn’t_ say that! I’m willing for you to
think of me as happy, if it would comfort you, but not by losing one
atom of my love for you. Try to think of it this way--that I’m happy
because I love you, so that to have given you the wish of your heart
makes me happier than to have the wish of my heart. Will you try?”

“Of course I will, darling. I’ll do anything on earth I can to please
you. I’m sure I ought. But now,” glancing at the clock, “I must really
be going. I’m obliged to get back on to-night’s train.”

It was no use struggling any longer. She had no strength for the
effort. With the weakness of utter surrender, she threw herself into
his arms and sobbed.

“There, there, baby,” he said, soothingly. “Don’t cry so, darling.
Why, there’s lots and lots to make you happy in life yet. I’ll always
remember you as the noblest and most unselfish little woman that ever
lived; you’ll have that to comfort you. Don’t let it make you so
wretched, precious child. You and Fleecy will have many merry days
together yet.”

At the mention of Fleecy, who was contentedly napping on the rug, the
poor little creature lifted her head, to say, brokenly:

“Would you like to have Fleecy? You always loved her so. I meant to
tell you you could have her if you wanted. I could give her up, if it
would please you.”

“No, my precious, no--not for the world. I wouldn’t take her from you,
for anything. How could you think I’d be so selfish?”

“Thank you, darling,” she sobbed, with her face hidden on his shoulder.
“I wouldn’t care so very much to keep her, but that you gave her to me,
and loved her, and she was always with us when we were so happy. Oh,
Bertie, darling, beloved, precious treasure of my heart, you’ve been so
good to me! You made me, for two years, the happiest creature outside
of heaven. If it’s any comfort to you, you can think of that.”

“Of course it will be a comfort to me, darling--and, by Jove, I expect
to need something to comfort me, when I think of you, and how unhappy
I’ve made you!”

“Don’t reproach yourself. You couldn’t help it. I always knew there was
nothing in me to keep the love of such a man as you. Oh, Bertie, my
husband!” she cried, still clasping his neck, but drawing back that she
might look into his eyes, “let me call you by that name once more, for
you are still my husband--mine, mine, mine, and no one else’s! Call me
‘wife’ once more, my darling, before we say good-bye.”

“My little wife, my little wife--my good, true, noble, unselfish,
little wife,” he said, while her arms clasped him tighter and tighter,
and a shiver shook her little frame from head to foot.

The man’s face, too, was seamed with the lines of pain and
disturbance. He looked at the clock and at the door, with the evident
desire to escape; but he could not force her from him while she cried
and clung like this.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said, suddenly, as a thought struck
him, “I’ll walk you, as I used to do, when you got nervous and unhappy.
It always made you quiet--do you remember?”

“Oh, you’re so good to me, darling!” she murmured, as he took her up in
his arms like a child, and began to walk up and down the room with her.
He was magnificently strong, and she was light and little, so that it
was no great tax upon him. Fleecy, with her plumy tail held high and
her little gold bell tinkling, joined them, and walked at their side,
up and down, up and down. Now and then Mimi would murmur some words of
tenderness and gratitude, and he would answer with some soothing caress.

The faculty of humor was not lacking in his composition, at least,
for, in spite of the agitated pain he had just been suffering, when he
caught sight of the little procession in passing a mirror, he smiled
at his own reflection. The smile was quickly suppressed, however, as
he went on speaking to her soothingly. It had--as he had predicted--a
marvellous effect. The little thing ceased sobbing, and her breast grew
quiet, after its excited heavings.

At last, the clock struck, and he took her to the lounge and laid her
down. “I have not another moment,” he said, “you will let me go now,
like the good, brave darling you are?”

“Yes,” she whispered, in a faint, unnatural tone. “I’ll let you go now.
Tell me good-by once more.”

“Good-by, my darling wife.”

“Good-by, my darling husband.”

She put her lips up, and he pressed a quick kiss on them, and was gone.

On the landing outside Mauma was sitting, erect and repellent, in
every line of figure and face.

“Go to your mistress, Mauma,” said Leith. “I trust you to look after
her and take good care of her.”

“Yes--bress de Lord, I say!” replied Mauma, with cold contempt. “It’s a
pow’ful good thing nobody don’ trus’ _you_--fur that or nuthin’! Dee’d
find deeselves mistaken, ef dee did.”

With a smile of amusement, the man shook off the sadness that had clung
to him, in coming from that room, and said in a gay, though carefully
lowered tone:

“You’re just the same as ever, Mauma, I see! Well, I’m glad of it. I
wouldn’t have you changed for anything. I always told your mistress
that you were the one woman I had found it impossible to win! So, you
see, you have a unique charm for me.”

“I hope to de Lord some woman’ll pay you back fur what you’se bin mek
dat angil-child suffer,” was the solemn response, “en you mark my
words--de day’s gwine come!”

With his unfailing instinct to escape from what was unpleasant, Leith
hurried down the stairs, threw on his coat, and let himself out into
the street. As the door closed behind him, Mauma, bending over her
little mistress, found that she was in a dead faint.

Restoratives were used, and she at last recovered consciousness; but
that evening’s ordeal was followed by a long attack of fever, in which
death, after promising relief for a while, withdrew and left her to her
life of misery.

“There is one blessing in this illness,” Mr. Manning said to Mrs.
Bryan, when he called one day to inquire for the invalid, “she never
knew the day of her divorce. Now she will just recognize the fact that
it is past, and that she’s no longer that scoundrel’s wife. A more
cold-blooded, selfish, unmitigated brute I never came across, and it’s
a blessed thing she’s got the divorce, poor little thing! All the same,
it has broken her heart.”

By the time the invalid was able to go about again, the papers
mentioned the marriage of Herbert Leith, in Spain.

Nothing but the bare fact reached the ears of Mimi, who still bears
his name and wears his ring, and bullies Mauma and pampers Fleecy, and
looks almost as childish, though never as pretty again, as she did on
the night of that parting.




The Thirst and the Draught




The Thirst and the Draught

  “The thirst which from the soul doth rise
     Doth ask a draught divine!”


“Most extraordinary!”

These words were uttered aloud by Mr. Black as he sat alone in his
editorial office, engaged in the laborious work of reading manuscript.
He was a reserved man; indeed, he had to be, for nothing but his great
self-possession and power of concentration could have enabled him to
get through with the duties of his position. With the aid of these,
however, he did accomplish them thoroughly and systematically, and was
always deliberate in his manner--rarely hurried, and rarely excited.

For this reason it was all the more remarkable that such an exclamation
as the one recorded should have escaped him. His duties included such
an endless amount of boredom that the perusal of a manuscript which
could have had such words applied to it would have been cause for
immense gratulation to him, had it been its merit which had called
forth such an expression. As a matter of fact, it was not this, but
rather a very extraordinary coincidence.

Mr. Black was possessed of a marvellous insight into the literary
demands of his subscribers, and it was this insight which had swelled
his list to its present size; and he knew perfectly well that the
manuscript now in his hands would have to be refused, as he knew also
that the one which he had laid down just before it must share the same
fate. And yet to himself, personally, both of these manuscripts had
been of deep and peculiar interest.

The first was written in a woman’s hand, and was signed “Ethel Ross,”
and, in the note that had accompanied it, Miss Ethel Ross had given her
address in a certain small and obscure town. This note, as well as
the manuscript itself, had a certain _naïveté_ about it which gave Mr.
Black some insight into the writer. The freedom with which the note was
written was of a piece with the freedom with which the manuscript was
written, and Mr. Black felt pretty sure that both of them were under
the protection of a _nom de guerre_. The young lady calling herself
Miss Ethel Ross had taken him into her confidence in the amusing way
in which a contributor so often confides in an unknown editor. Mr.
Black, however, was a very human-hearted editor, and he never objected
to these confidences, and even did what he could to give a friendly
word of response to the writers, independent of his judgment of the
manuscript.

In this instance the writer had acknowledged the fact that this was her
first manuscript, and had added that it would probably be her last! She
had always heard, she went on to say, that everybody had one story
in them, and, if that saying were true, this was her story. She had
never thought of writing for publication before, she said, but for
certain reasons she had suddenly concluded to make the effort, and the
accompanying manuscript was the result.

With these data to go upon, Mr. Black, who was a keen student of human
nature, had seen the whole thing as plain as a picture before his eyes,
even to the understanding of the “certain reasons.” He felt sure that
the need of money had been the reason--a _motif_ for literary effort
known to him all too well. There was no indication in either the letter
or the manuscript of even the faintest stirring of the divine afflatus
of literary creation. There was no hint of any desire for fame. It was
distinctly, and he felt sure, honestly, owned, that the writer had
emptied herself in this story, and would be incapable of doing anything
further. Of all the incentives to writing known to him, the need of
money was the only one that fitted this case. And how powerful must
that need have been to have caused a woman to write her heart out, as
this woman had done here.

The story, if it could be called a story, was absolutely without
literary form, and so unfinished in style that no magazine could
have ventured to print it. And yet there breathed through it such an
exquisite soul of sweetness, such a spirit of refinement, purity,
innocence, aspiration and charm, that Mr. Black was tempted to ask
her to re-cast the manuscript, leave out the poor attempt at plot,
and let the subtle self-analysis appear in the form of entries in a
journal, or letters, or something of that sort. There were two reasons
against this, though--one was, that he felt that the girl would have
been incapable of doing what he wanted, and would simply have made a
mess of it; and the other was, that he positively shrank from exposing
to public view the secrets of the heart of this young girl. For the
keynote of this poor story of hers was the aspiration of a young,
innocent, and ardent woman after love. What it described was the
hardships of a lot keenly interpenetrated with pain, full of privation
of body and soul, obscured by perplexities and difficulties on every
side, and yet sweetened, illuminated, glorified, by the possibility of
the attainment of the supreme good, which, to this being, at least,
was to be found only in love. Here was a creature, if ever words
painted truth, whose waiting heart was kept both strong and pure by
the sanctification of that hope. The manuscript proved beyond a doubt,
that, though she could not write, she could love!

Mr. Black had laid it down, with tenderness and regret, and had rather
sadly gone about the task of writing her a note to be sent with the
returned manuscript. He had had to harden his heart to this sort of
thing so often, that he did not flinch from the plain duty before him,
and he would not lead this girl to believe that she could ever write.
What he felt like telling her was, that he found himself positively
grateful to her for the self-revelation of so pure a heart and so
strong a spirit. This, of course, he was not at liberty to express; but
he said what he could to soften the blow to her, and he put aside to be
returned to the author the manuscript, which was beautifully written
(on both sides of the paper, however), and tied with a bit of blue
ribbon.

Then he took up the next manuscript, and, to his relief, found it to
be in a man’s handwriting. It would help him, he hoped, to efface the
impression which its predecessor had made on him. This strong and
vigorous writing was unknown to him also, and Mr. Black began to read,
with that stirring of possibilities which rises in the jaded mind of
the editor at the sight of the work of a perfectly new contributor, and
which ninety-nine times out of a hundred ends in disappointment.

This case proved not to be the exceptional one, for this manuscript
possessed the same faults of inexperience and lack of literary form
as the last one. The letter that accompanied it furnished a further
coincidence, in the fact that it acknowledged the use of a _nom de
guerre_, and that the present was the first effort of the writer, who,
for certain reasons, had been impelled to write this one story, and
would probably never write another. The motive, however, in this case,
must have been a different one; for this man, who called himself Hugh
Robertson, said that he didn’t think his story worth paying for; (This
made Mr. Black smile. Could it then be worth publishing?) but he would
like to have it come out in this magazine, because its circulation was
so large that, in that way, it would reach a great number of readers.

And what, then, was the message for which this Hugh Robertson desired
such a wide audience? Mr. Black read the manuscript attentively, and
then, after a brief study of the man, as his character was indicated in
his note and his handwriting, he constructed his theory of the case.
Here was a man, strong, able, successful, surrounded by conditions
of prosperity and ease which flatly contradicted the case of Ethel
Ross--and yet the keynote to this soul, too, was the all-powerful one
of love. Between the two there was a difference, however, for the
woman’s heart was attuned to aspiration and the man’s to renunciation.
The message from the woman’s heart was that every trial and earthly
evil could be borne without complaint, so long as there remained the
possibility of the fulfilment of ideal love. The message from the man’s
heart was that the fulfilment of ideal love was so well-nigh impossible
a thing (though every other fulfilment which the world could give
was scant joy in comparison with it), that it behooved one to learn
earnestly the lesson of resignation without cynicism. The man’s voice
was the stronger of the two, and his message was the nobler, but then
there was every indication of its being the outcome of a maturer mind.

It had been as Mr. Black laid down the second manuscript that he had
uttered the exclamation already recorded, and the thing that struck
him as so very extraordinary was the subtle sort of answering to
each other’s needs which these two manuscripts conveyed to his mind.
The man’s was as obviously a self-revelation as the woman’s; and the
perspicacious editor shrewdly suspected him of being a very shy man,
who would not have been able to express himself fully and freely in his
own person, and who had therefore sought this means of saying what he
had to say to as large an audience as he could reach. Mr. Black could
not quite explain why he felt it so, but, in reality, he was convinced
that this was a man of influence and importance, who lived a life of
active labor, in which he was able to express himself objectively,
but who was now, for the first time, giving his soul a subjective
expression in this manuscript. The address given by Hugh Robertson was
in a great and populous city. It was also in a locality not very far
away from the little town from which Ethel Ross had dated her letter.
Mr. Black reflected on this fact rather wistfully. He wished that this
man and this woman could meet. He could hardly have been the judge of
fiction that he was, without a certain amount of romance in him; but,
on the other hand, he had an equal amount of common sense, and he saw
that the obvious and practical duty of the present moment was to guard
the confidence of his contributors in the discharge of his functions as
editor.

So he drew a sheet of paper toward him, and wrote his letter to Hugh
Robertson. It was much shorter and more restrained than the former one,
for no one could fail to recognize in this man a person quite able to
stand on his own feet, and yet Mr. Black felt conscious of a regret in
this instance, too. A man so strongly capable of renouncing seemed to
him the very man who deserved to possess.

Before he had quite finished, he was interrupted by a pressing business
demand, so he thrust both the finished and unfinished letters into the
drawer of his desk, together with the letters to which they were the
answers. Before he left the room, he called one of his assistants and
delivered to him the two manuscripts, to be put up for return, and
giving the addresses, told the clerk to send on the manuscripts, and he
would forward, later in the day, his letters to the two authors.

He hurried away from the room then, and the clerk took the two
manuscripts into the outer office, put them up with great precision
and care, and in all unconsciousness sent Hugh Robertson’s manuscript
to Ethel Ross, and Ethel Ross’s manuscript to Hugh Robertson. He had
understood Mr. Black’s very explicit directions, but, in putting up and
sealing the two parcels, he had mixed them.

So it came to pass that when Miss Ethel Ross--whose real name, in
full, was Ethel Ross Duncan--went on her daily mission to the little
postoffice of the small country town, she received one day, not the
envelope containing a check, for which she so mightily longed, but a
bulky package, which made her very young and ardent heart sink low
within her. She really had not expected to have her story returned. It
had seemed to her, as she had written it with breathless agitation,
in stolen moments, alone in her chamber at night, so palpitatingly
interesting, that, as she had ended it, she had felt a positive
certainty of seeing those thrilling words turned into print, and of
having, in exchange for it, a check which should be large enough for
her to carry out a passionate desire of her heart.

It was with difficulty that she could repress her tears as she took the
package, which had suddenly become so stale and poor and worthless a
thing, and walked homeward with it.

It could hardly be called a home to which she was going back, for she
had neither father nor mother to give that sacred character to the
shabby little house she now approached. But this house contained,
all the same, the being who was at once the source of the sweetest
pleasure and the keenest pain in her young life. This was her little
brother, who, long ago, had had an injury from a fall, and who had been
an invalid and a cripple ever since. The whole responsibility of his
care, as well as his support, was upon Ethel, and she had been able to
discharge it by means of a position in the village school, which paid
her just enough for the bare living of the two. For years her brother’s
case had been considered hopeless, and the local doctor, saying he
could do no good, had not kept up his visits. Lately, however, Ethel
had heard of wonderful things achieved by a distinguished surgeon in a
great city not far away, and it had now became an ardent hope in her
heart to take little Bob there. She confided this wish to the woman
with whom they boarded, but the rural mind is slow to catch enthusiasm,
and she had only responded by saying that it would take more money than
ever she could scrape together. Ethel had managed to save a little by
great economy, and she calculated that this would cover the traveling
expenses, if only she could get from somewhere enough to pay the doctor.

This had been the spur that had led her to make that desperate effort
with the story, and to lay bare the deepest and most sacred feelings of
her heart. She was a very reserved girl, and she never could have done
it, but for the safety of distance, and the protection of a name that
was not her own.

Well, she had done it, and done it conscientiously. She had “dipped
her pen in herself” and written out of her own heart, and this was the
result--to have the record of her soul-life returned with thanks, or
perhaps without them. She felt no interest in opening the packet, and
went and thrust it out of sight in the back of a drawer in her own
room as soon as she reached the house. Bob was in pain, and he called
to her crossly, and complained because she had left him. He was often
impatient with her, and she generally bore it sweetly; but to-day it
cut and irritated her.

She said nothing, however, as she took off her hat and came to the side
of the couch where he was lying. The child looked up and saw tears in
her eyes, and his face and tone grew more resentful still.

“What are you crying about?” he said. “What business have _you_ to cry,
when you are well and strong, and you can walk and run and go about
wherever you please, and never have an ache or a pain? And then you
have the ‘cheek’ to tell me to be brave, and to bear my pain, and not
to cry!”

“O Bobby, you are right!” she said. “I ought not to cry and be a
coward, and I _am_ ashamed of it; but something has happened that has
disappointed me so dreadfully. However, I’ll try to be brave about
it, and remember the lessons I have tried to teach to you. I wish I
could help you--poor little Bob! It _is_ awful, _awful_, to have to
suffer all the time as you do; but, at least, you don’t suffer in
your mind--do you? You know I always take care of you and make you as
comfortable as I can. Tell me that, Bobby, for it comforts me more than
anything in the world to think of that.”

“Of course, I know you will take care of me,” said the child; “but is
nobody ever going to do anything to make me any better? Am I going to
lie and suffer all my life, and never be strong and well like other
boys?”

“O Bobby, I don’t know! I don’t know!” said the poor girl, remembering,
with a pang, the failure of the only effort it had been in her power
to make. “I want to take you to the city to see that great doctor, for
I think he might be able to help you. I will do it, if I ever can, but
poor sister can do so little to make money, and it takes money to do a
thing like that.”

“Yes, I know,” said the boy, with a certain change in his tone. “When I
was little, I used to think I’d make money for you. I used to say you
were too pretty to work, and that I would work for you. When Mother
died and the pension stopped, I thought if you’d work for me a little
while, I’d soon be able to work for you, and I would have done it, if
I had not had that fall. Oh, why didn’t it kill me at once! I wish it
had!”

“No, my Bobby, no!” said Ethel, bending over him and drawing his arm
around her neck. “If you had died, poor sister would have had no one in
the world to love; and that would be the worst thing that could happen
to anybody.”

“It’s not so bad as being lame,” said the boy.

“O Bobby, I think it’s worse!” said Ethel, half involuntarily.

“Then it shows how much you know about it!” said Bobby; and Ethel made
haste to soothe and reassure him, and tell him how much she sympathized
with his trouble, and stifled back the wish that he, or somebody, could
sympathize with hers.

When night came at last, and the child had gone to sleep, and Ethel was
alone in her little room that opened into his, she softly closed the
door between them, and gave herself up to the luxury of a good cry.
It was one of the few luxuries within her reach; she did not often
indulge herself in this, but to-night she felt she must. It was this
craving for sympathy which brought it on her--the passionate wish
that somebody understood her and was aware of the struggle she made
continually, by day and by night, to still the craving of her heart for
love. She loved Bobby, but he was an unceasing care to her, and she
wanted somebody to care for her, as she cared for him. If she had, how
ardently grateful would she be for such care and protection--and how
little he seemed to respond to or appreciate it! Of course, it was not
to be expected of a crippled boy, continually preoccupied by pain, and,
as a rule, she never thought of expecting it. But to-night she felt
that need of being understood swelling up within her so passionately,
that it seemed almost more than she could bear.

When she had cried until there seemed to be no more tears left to shed,
she got up and went to the old dressing-table to prepare for bed. She
looked at herself, half bitterly, as she realized how useless all those
foolish tears had been. She might as well make up her mind that her
lot in life was to be drudgery and disappointment, and that no one
would ever really understand her or enter into the feelings of her
heart.

She pulled open a drawer to get something out, and as she did so she
remembered the manuscript. She took it out and looked at the cold,
unsympathetic typewriting on the back. It was foolish of her to shrink
from opening it, and she would compel herself to look once more at
those poor pages which she had written with such heart throbbings, and
sent off with such hopes.

Running a hairpin along the edge of the sealed envelope, she cut it
open and drew the contents out. How was this? They looked unfamiliar.
There was no binding with blue ribbons, no delicate woman-writing.
Instead, she held in her hands a number of loose sheets covered with
the strong, distinct, nervous characters of a man’s hand. The title of
this manuscript was _The Draught Divine_. The title of hers had been
_The Soul-Thirst_. The caption under the title was exactly the one that
she had put under hers:

  “The thirst which from the soul doth rise
     Doth ask a draught divine.”

But for this coincidence she would probably have suspected some mistake
at the editorial office and put the manuscript by; but after seeing
this, she felt that she must read it.

And so, standing fascinated where she was, she turned leaf after
leaf, and read breathlessly on. As she did so, the old mirror
opposite reflected a picture whose glowing beauty deepened every
minute. Here, the divine draught of love was so strongly analyzed,
its component parts so comprehendingly described, and its powerful
effects so brilliantly demonstrated, that the paper had almost the
character of a scientific treatise. The subject, she felt, could
scarcely have been handled in this deliberate way but for the very
fact that the writer was in an attitude, not of anticipation, but of
renunciation. It mattered little to Ethel that the plot of this story
was ill-constructed and illogical, and the situations commonplace and
trite. What she saw before her on these sheets, and felt permeating
every corner of her soul, was the renunciation of all the ideal
conditions of living and loving that her heart aspired to. What this
man gave up was what she had always so resolutely claimed--what she
had never wavered in demanding and expecting of life, until this very
evening, when, for the first time, she had looked in the face of
possible renunciation.

But with the reading of this paper she shifted back to her old
ground, for here, at least, she felt herself comprehended at last.
Not one of all the people with whom her lot had hitherto been cast
had ever uttered thoughts and feelings such as these; but here, in
this manuscript, were the very echoes of her own soul. Yes, all of
them--the loud, sonorous, reverberating ones, no less than the
delicate soundings of her finest needs. She looked at the signature at
the end, and saw the words, “Hugh Robertson.” This gave an individual
character to the consciousness that had just entered into her, and the
mere knowledge of the existence of such a personality in the world was
a stimulating and an exhilarating thought that made her smile.

As she did so, she looked up and caught the reflection of herself in
the mirror before her. Happiness, the supreme beautifier, had swiftly
done its wonder-work, and she could not fail to realise that she was
very fair to see. The knowledge of it gave her pleasure. The power of
enjoyment, lately so stultified and depressed, returned to her with
a glowing ardor. All the world began suddenly to look more hopeful.
Ah, life was sweet, its opportunities were great and precious, its
possibilities were divine!

As these thoughts darted through her mind and illuminated her
beautiful face there came a sudden recollection which checked the first
and clouded the second--the thought of Bob with his sad burden of pain
and helplessness. Oh, how dreadful that such things could be! Couldn’t
it be helped? she wondered. Couldn’t something be done? Somehow, a new
power seemed to have come into her--a power of initiative and action,
such as she had never felt before. She suddenly determined that she
would write to the great doctor, of whose skill she had heard so much,
and ask him if he would examine Bob if she brought him on, and tell her
what could be done. The incentive was so strong that she got her desk
and wrote the letter at once, explaining that she had no money now,
except enough for the bare expenses of the trip, but adding that, if
treatment could be had for Bob at a moderate cost, she might hope to
save the money for it, if she could pay a little at a time.

She finished the letter, and addressed it in her delicate,
characteristic hand to Dr. Arthur H. Hubert, but there she had to stop.
It would be necessary to wait until she could get his address.

Ethel waked next morning with a feeling of renewed youth, for which she
could not account, until she recollected the manuscript, which, in her
ardent way, she had slipped under her pillow, before going to sleep.
Perhaps it was to that cause that she was indebted for some very sweet
and joy-giving dreams, in which she had lived in such a rose-colored
world that, even in returning to the sombreness of the actual one, she
brought with her a portion of that lovely hue.

To-day’s mail brought her Mr. Black’s letter, and made it perfectly
clear that this manuscript had been sent her by mistake, instead of
her own. The kind words in the letter helped and strengthened her,
and the reading of the manuscript had given her such joy that she
felt the sting of the failure of her own half obliterated. She sat
down and wrote to Mr. Black, telling him of the mistake, and asking
him to give her the address of Hugh Robertson, so that she might send
his manuscript to him and ask for her own back, if he should, as she
supposed, have received hers. She knew that the more regular way would
be to send the manuscript back to Mr. Black; but the fact was, she
hated to part with it, and she resorted to this means of keeping it a
little longer. She was too refined a girl to have any idea of getting
up an acquaintance with the writer of the story in this way, and it
would never have occurred to her to do more than let him know that
she had read it. That, she thought, she might do, though she did not
mention the fact to Mr. Black.

Immediately upon the receipt of her letter Mr. Black wrote and asked
that the manuscript might be returned to him, apologizing for the
mistake. He said the addresses of his contributors were a matter of
professional confidence, and he felt bound, therefore, to return the
manuscript himself. He made many apologies for having also, through
a fault in his office, sent her manuscript to Hugh Robertson, and
added that he had just received from that gentleman a request for her
address, to which he had replied in the same terms as those of his
letter to her. As soon as he received her manuscript he would forward
it to her, he said.

What he did not say, however, was, that the clerk who had made the
mistake had been let off with a lighter reprimand than was usual with
Mr. Black, who somehow felt that if he said too much he might be
tampering with the designs of Providence.

Dr. Hubert sat alone in his office opening his mail--a great pile
of letters and papers and medical journals, relative chiefly to his
practice and the working of his hospital. Many of the people who
wrote to the celebrated surgeon from a distance were much surprised,
when they came to see him, to find him so young a man. The great
success of his surgical practice had brought him almost suddenly
into notice and prominence, and now, although he was under forty, he
had a well-established and very successful hospital of his own. He
was unmarried, despite the fact of such decided personal attractions
as made him almost an idol with the ladies; and the current belief
was, that he had been “disappointed in love.” Although this fact was
generally accepted, no one had ever been able to identify the object of
this theory. If the more intimate of his friends and patients ventured
to question him on this point, he would laughingly defy them to point
out the lady; but, confident as he was of their inability to do this,
he acknowledged, to his own heart, at least, that it was literally true
that he had been “disappointed in love.” That was exactly it. No loved
woman had ever disappointed him, but his feelings came from the fact
that love itself had disappointed him; and the little god, though long
expected and looked for, had resolutely turned his back and looked
the other way. So now, at last, Dr. Hubert had made up his mind to be
independent of Cupid; and having spent much of his force in restless
watching and wooing of him, he had determined to secure a greater
power of concentration in his profession by bidding him farewell. He
was essentially a deliberate and methodical man, however; and as it
was his habit to study and investigate every theory and practice of
medicine and surgery before he either accepted or rejected it, and even
to formulate his grounds of action in writing, he had written out his
theory of love, and formulated to himself the grounds of his rejection
of it. The chief reason for this rejection was the difficulty, if not
the impossibility, of realizing his ideal. Dr. Hubert was an intensely
energetic man, and the great secret of his success had been in his
excellent discrimination between the attainable and unattainable. So
in his profession he left the province of abstract and experimental
theories to less active men, and only worked along the lines that gave
promise of definite results. He was very ambitious in his profession,
and he knew that he had so long served it with a divided heart, that he
now proposed to do in the matter of love what he had done in all other
departments, and give up a search for what plainly appeared to be the
unattainable.

Accordingly, it had occurred to him to make the matter more impersonal
by writing his thesis on renunciation in the form of a story, and,
having written it, to publish it under a _nom de guerre_, and send it
to a journal with a large circulation. He was accustomed to having his
papers considered important, and he had never written one that appeared
to him more so than this. Moreover, he had an absolute horror of
wasted force in any department, and he wanted this paper to be widely
read. The message which he delivered in it was a warning to men, and
women too, not to spend their best energies in a restless seeking after
love, but, rather, after a reasonable amount of time and force had been
put into the quest, to make a strong act of renunciation, and to have
their faculties unimpeded for whatever work they could find to do.

This was the story which he had sent to Mr. Black’s magazine, and
which, with Mr. Black’s usual admirable promptness, had been returned
to him, as he supposed. But, lo! upon opening the envelope he had found
another manuscript, written in the beautiful handwriting of a refined
woman, tied with a bit of blue ribbon, and having a title strongly
allied to his own, and a sub-title that was identical.

Of course he read the manuscript. He began it with interest, which
increased to eagerness, and ended in avidity. Whoever Ethel Ross might
be, she had a soul that answered his; a heart that gave back to his
heart, throb for throb. He had dashed off a note to Mr. Black, asking
for her address, that he might return the manuscript to its author,
and Mr. Black had sent him, by this post, the letter in which he had
declined to give the address, and had asked that the manuscript might
be returned to him.

This was the letter which Dr. Hubert had singled out of the pile before
him, recognizing it by the name of the magazine printed in the corner,
and pushing all his other mail aside.

He read the letter twice, with a look of distinct disappointment on his
face, but mingled with it there was a look of strong determination. He
was in the habit of overcoming difficulties, and he did not purpose to
let himself be conquered here. He put Mr. Black’s communication in a
drawer, and drew the remainder of his letters toward him.

He read them rapidly through, putting them by to be answered by his
stenographer in the evening, until he came to the one at the bottom
of the pile. When he saw the address on this letter, he started. All
the rest he had read with business-like composure, but now his face
actually flushed. The handwriting looked familiar; its character was
peculiar, and he had seen it before--he knew where.

He hastily cut it open and turned to the signature. It was “Ethel R.
Duncan.” What could it mean? Had she, perchance, read his manuscript,
too, and more successful than he, obtained his address and written to
him? These questions were soon answered by the reading of the letter.

He found himself addressed simply in his capacity as physician, and
the whole tone of the letter was that of a young person speaking to an
elder. This grated on him a little, but it was a mere detail, and the
main point was, that he found the coveted opportunity, which he had
been prepared to do much to win, just within his grasp.

He held the letter in his hand a moment, and then opening a drawer,
and taking out the manuscript eagerly, identified the writing. There
could not be a shadow of a doubt. This letter proposed to give him
immediately the power to make her acquaintance, by coming on to his
hospital at once, and bringing her little brother to him for treatment.
This was her wish and design, provided the very scanty means which she
acknowledged should not be an obstacle. One point that she made, was
the necessity for immediate action, as her school was to re-open in
three weeks, and she, at least, would have to return.

Dr. Hubert drew a sheet of paper toward him at once, and wrote to
Miss Duncan, taking the tone that it was the most natural thing in
the world for people to bring patients to his hospital without any
prospect of paying for their treatment, and urging her not to lose a
day in bringing her brother on, saying that the financial part of the
transaction could all be settled at some future time, when it had been
seen whether or not the patient could be benefitted. This he left to be
copied on the typewriter.

Then he wrote a very light and easy letter to Mr. Black, and with the
utmost propriety returned the manuscript. He had fancied that it would
be a great trial to him to give up that little packet of paper but
now, with the opportunity which he had in view, he could let it go
willingly, especially as every word of it was inscribed on his heart.

These two matters disposed of, Dr. Hubert got into his buggy, and had
himself driven to the hospital. It was not his usual time for coming,
and the matron and nurses were thrown into quite a little flutter of
surprise at seeing him. He soon explained, however, that he had only
come to give explicit orders that Number 29 was not to be given to any
one, as he wished it reserved for a patient whom he was expecting in a
day or two. This was his favorite room in the hospital; its wallpaper,
furniture, and situation were the very best in the house, and the price
of it corresponded to this fact.

When Dr. Hubert sprang into his buggy again, there was a buoyancy in
his manner which was unusual, even to this energetic man. A little
later, as he came suddenly in view of a florist’s window, he put out
his hand and jerked up the horse suddenly, to the driver’s surprise,
and went into the shop. When he came out, he had a rose in his
button-hole, and a big bunch of carnations in his hands. These he smelt
with evident pleasure, from time to time, finally bestowing them on a
little crippled boy who was one of his patients.

By return of post Dr. Hubert got a letter announcing the day and hour
on which the new patient and his sister might be expected.

On that day and hour he sent one of his young assistant physicians to
the station to meet the brother and sister, explaining that they had
been very especially commended to his care, and that, as the boy was
lame, the young lady might require assistance in moving him.

As he uttered the words “young lady,” the possibility crossed his
mind that the adjective might possibly be proved to be a mistake.
Suppose, after all, she should turn out to be elderly, unlovable, and
unbeautiful! He laughed to himself, in ardent rejection of the idea.
Such a woman might well have been the author of those two letters,
which were models of stiff propriety and reserve, but such a woman
could never be the author of that manuscript. When he remembered the
free expression of vivid thought and ardent feeling that that story had
contained, he felt a positive certainty that the being who had written
it would prove to be both young and lovely.

And both young and lovely did she prove. When “The Doctor,” as he was
called by all the inmates of the hospital, whether they served and
worshipped him as employees or as patients, arrived that afternoon, he
paid every visit that was due on the premises before he went to Number
29. These visits were unusually brief, however, and as he consulted his
watch before tapping at that door, he saw that he had managed well, and
had left himself plenty of time to be deliberate in the examination of
this patient and the talking over of his case with his sister.

Certainly it was a youthful voice that called, “Come in,” in answer to
his knock. He came in, accordingly, and closed the door behind him.

He was a very handsome man, this doctor, and very young for his great
reputation. He stood just within the threshold, with his hands resting
on his hips in an attitude of much natural grace. Then he bowed
politely and took in the two occupants of the room with a keen and
concentrated gaze, through a pair of very light and polished glasses.

The crippled boy was lying on the bed, and a beautiful, blooming,
vigorous young girl was sitting by him in an attitude of expectation,
and with a look upon her face that was tinged with a shy timidity. The
doctor did not speak at first, having a fancy that she should open the
conversation. She stood up, in evident hesitation what to do, and then
said:

“Did you want to speak to me about anything?”

“I fancied you wanted to speak to me,” he said.

“You are, perhaps, one of the doctors,” said Ethel, not knowing what
else to say.

“Yes, I’m one of the doctors,” he said, looking at her keenly all the
time, with a self-possession which she found it impossible to imitate.
She was so confused, in fact, that she could think of nothing to say
but, “Which one?”

“Dr. Hubert,” he said.

“Oh, are there two Dr. Huberts?” she asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“There is but one Dr. Hubert, so far as I know,” he said. “Why do you
object to my being he?”

“Oh, really!” said the girl, blushing. “Please excuse me. I thought he
would be an old man.”

“I’m glad he ain’t. I hate old men!” put in Bobby, unexpectedly.

“Thank you very much, my boy,” said the doctor, advancing to the
bed-side. “Your sister, it seems, is disappointed in me. I am afraid I
will have to make a big effort to build up her confidence.”

“Oh, no, no! It isn’t that,” said Ethel, eagerly; but he was plainly
not attending to her words, as he bent over the bed and looked
scrutinizingly into the boy’s face, and then took one of the small,
thin hands into his, and held it in a watchful sort of way as he turned
to the girl and said, with earnest interest:

“Is his general health pretty good?”

“Oh, yes, I think so,” began Ethel; but the child interrupted her,
roughly:

“Oh, yes, you think so!” he said. “As if you knew how I suffer! You
never have an ache or a pain, and you don’t care how _I_ feel!”

Ethel was about to speak, when the doctor, catching Bobby by the chin
and looking intently into his eyes, said firmly:

“Now look here, my youngster, I’m going to put a stop to this at
once--do you understand? I’m not going to have your sister spoken to
in any such a way as that. She’s your best friend, and she seems to be
a good enough one for any boy alive, and I’d like to see you treat her
with a little respect, if you please.”

The boy flushed deeply as he realized the impression that he had made
upon this new doctor, from whom he hoped so much. He was very angry
with himself, and said quickly:

“Perhaps you think I don’t love her, or know how good she is to me. If
you think so, you are wrong. I love her better than all the world, and
I know there never was such a good sister; but she doesn’t mind. She
knows how I suffer, and she lets me talk to her like that, when the
pain is very bad.”

There were tears of regret and mortification in his eyes as he spoke,
seeing which the doctor’s face grew suddenly very gentle.

“I know how you suffer, even better than she does,” he said; “but until
I can relieve the suffering, as I hope to do, _I_ am not going to let
you talk to her like that, both because it must hurt her feelings and
because it is unkind and unmanly of you. I know you well enough already
to feel sure that you want to bear your troubles like a man, and I am
going to help you to do it.”

With what infinite comfort did Ethel listen to these words! She had
found her poor little brother’s tempers almost more than she could
battle with at times, and for his own sake she had longed to correct
them, but no one had ever given her any help before. Indeed, it was a
new thing to her to be helped in any way, and never had she recognized
in any human being such a power of helpfulness as she had already
divined to be in this man. She looked at Bobby keenly to see if he
appeared to be irritated and angry; but, instead of showing a spirit
of peevishness and antagonism toward the person who had given him so
decided a rebuke, she saw that the child’s eyes were fixed upon the
doctor with a look of strong confidence and affectionate appeal.

“Can you make me well?” he said.

“That is more than I can tell you yet,” the doctor answered; “but I
will do my part, if you do yours. You know, and I know, that this good
sister of yours will do hers.”

“Yes, I know that better than you,” said Bobby; “but what is my part?”

“To be patient and manly, and to do what you are told. Can you do
that?”

“I can try,” said Bobby, wistfully.

“That is all that any of us can do--try our best. And now, Miss Duncan,
if you will do me the kindness to go to the matron’s room, at the end
of this hall, and tell her to send Dr. Lawson to me here, at once, I
will see what is the trouble with this little man. If you will also
stay with Mrs. Mills until I send for you to return, you will have the
chance to make acquaintance with a very kind and motherly woman, whom
you will find prepared to render you any help or service that may be in
her power, while you are in the house.”

Ethel got up at once, but before leaving she said, while her face grew
suddenly white and anxious:

“Can you tell me what you are going to do?”

“Only to make an examination,” he said, gently. “I will not hurt him.”

Oh, how grateful it was to her heart to find that he cared--cared
about hurting Bobby’s body, and cared about hurting her feelings!
As the girl left the room and walked down the wide and beautifully
clean and bright hall, she was conscious for the first time since
childhood of being helped and taken care of, and of having her load of
responsibility shared by another.

At the end of about twenty minutes of pleasant talk with Mrs. Mills, a
pretty little nurse, with snowy cap and apron, appeared, and with the
manner of suppressed agitation, which usually characterized in this
establishment those who were the bearers of messages from “The Doctor,”
she summoned Ethel to an audience with that august individual in his
private office.

When Ethel knocked at the door of this attractive room, it was promptly
opened from within, and Dr. Hubert, after having closed the door behind
her, led her to a chair and sat down facing her. He then began asking
her very searching and detailed particulars as to the fall which Bobby
had had, and, when he had ended these, he added:

“And, now, you would like to ask me some questions, would you not? You
want to know the result of my examination?”

“If you want to tell me,” she said. “I am willing to know as much or as
little as you wish.”

“You have confidence in me, then?”

“Oh, I have, indeed,” said Ethel, “absolute confidence!”

“That is good!--but, this confidence--when did it come to you? From
what you have heard of me, or from what you have seen?”

“A good deal from what I have heard, but more from what I have seen. I
knew you were a great doctor, but now I know you are good and kind.”

“You trust me, then, about your brother? You believe that I will do my
utmost for him and for you?”

“Oh, I do!” said Ethel, earnestly.

“Then let me tell you, my dear child, that I feel very certain that
I can help him and relieve him of much of the pain, but I have no
certainty of curing him. The most that I can do is to help nature out,
and wait for results. The treatment will be long, but will inevitably
do much good and relieve the pain; I ask nothing, but that you will
leave the case to me. Will you?”

“How can you ask? How can I be anything but glad and thankful to do
it?” said Ethel, the tears springing to her eyes. “But I have told
you--”

“Yes, I know,” he interrupted her, “we needn’t speak about that now. If
you leave the matter to me, you must leave it to me wholly. All that is
my affair. I often wait indefinitely for my pay, and it really isn’t
such an expensive matter as you may suppose. But, as I said before, you
must do your part. You must stay here with Bobby, and take care of and
amuse him. That will do away with the need of a special nurse.”

“Of course I will--until my school begins,” said Ethel. “Then I will
be obliged to go. That is a matter of life and death to Bobby, and me,
too.”

“And how long before that does begin?”

“Three weeks,” said Ethel, in a tone that was half desperate.

“Three weeks!” said the doctor, quickly. “That is plenty of time to
arrange for the future; and now all you have got to do is to be as
happy as you can, say your prayers, and leave the rest to me. Now, you
can go and see Bobby. I told Lawson to stay with him until you came.”

He got up and opened the door for her, as he spoke, and, without
knowing why, she carried away a strong impression of charm and strength
from the pose of his figure, as he held the door open for her. He was a
trained athlete, and not the least part of his personal attractiveness
was in his exceptionally handsome figure.

The next day, Bobby was put under chloroform, and an operation was
performed. Ethel was sent to Mrs. Mills’ room during this time, and
when at last a message arrived for her to come, she found her little
brother stretched out very straight and stiff upon a bed, waiting for
the plaster jacket, in which he had been cased, to harden. He was still
unconscious, but the doctor, who met her at the door, prepared her for
a comprehension of everything, by telling her that it was “all right,”
and that he was more convinced than ever of being able to do Bobby
good. The doctor himself was in his working clothes of immaculate white
linen, a costume in which those who had been privileged to see him,
declared that he looked his very best; and when he bent over Bobby,
and took the trouble to explain to Ethel what he had done in the way
of straightening and righting things, she felt as if he were a sort of
strong good spirit, who had both power and will to lessen the woes of
life.

Ethel had feared that the effect of the plaster would be to make the
boy, at first, at least, more uncomfortable; but to her delight, she
found that the support which it gave was an intense relief to him, and
that he seemed every hour to be growing better in body and in mind.
The doctor’s influence over him was simply unbounded, and a tremendous
reformation had evidently begun in temper and disposition.

One afternoon, a few days later, Ethel was sitting telling Bobby a
story, when there came a knock at the door. She called “Come in,” and
to her surprise it was the doctor who entered, although it was out of
his usual hospital hours. He wore a long overcoat of tan-colored cloth,
had a flower in his button-hole, and held an immaculate top-hat in his
gloved hand. Ethel quite started. She had never seen such an imposing
gentleman as this, outside of a picture, before.

“I have come to give you a little airing,” he said; “you need it, I
am sure. Will you put on your wraps and come down as soon as you are
ready? I want to take you to the park.”

Then he turned and put his gloved thumb on the button of the electric
bell, and, in a moment, a tidy nurse appeared.

“Are you on special duty, this afternoon?” he asked; and having a
negative reply, went on: “Then find some storybooks or toys and come
and amuse this child, if you please. I am going to take Miss Duncan for
a little airing.”

When Ethel, five minutes later, came downstairs, she found the doctor
waiting in the hall, while several people--nurses, patients, etc.--were
trying to get a word with him.

But he waved them off, shaking his head and shutting his eyes, with a
smile of obstinate dismissal of their claims.

“I am off duty now,” he said; “all these things must wait, or you must
go to the other doctors. Come, Miss Duncan,” and he led the way down
the long hall. As he opened the door for Ethel to go out, she saw,
drawn up before the pavement, a handsome drag, with a pair of superb
horses, glittering with their heavy harnesses, and with a groom in
top-boots standing at their heads.

As she was helped into this imposing equipage, which was as far removed
from anything in her former experience as the coach and six was from
Cinderella’s, the doctor gathered up the reins, while the groom sprang
into his place behind, and they started off over the noisy cobblestones
at a swinging pace.

Very soon, however, they had left the city streets behind, and were
bowling along at ease over the smooth roads of the beautiful park.
And then what delightful talk they had! How her companion drew her
out, and provoked her to charming and spontaneous chatter! She was a
rather countrified little creature, in spite of her beauty, and perhaps
some of the fashionable people, who bowed to Dr. Hubert in passing,
wondered at the shape of her little black hat, and the cut of her dark
cloth jacket. If they did, she never suspected it; and if her companion
did, it must have troubled him very little, for he had a gleam of
positive exultation in his eyes.

It was a memorable drive to them both, and there was such a feeling of
spontaneous freedom and confidence in the girl’s heart, that, when she
got back to Bobby at last, she felt as if she had really known this
charming, friendly doctor the whole of her natural life.

“And so you have!” he said to her, next day, when, having sent for her
to come to his office, she had made this same remark to him. “I really
believe we have known each other always. It only remained for us to
meet in bodily presence. But what I sent for you to-day was, to tell
you that I had leisure now to listen to what you said you had to tell
me about your future plans. I checked you then, but now I want to hear
what it is. Tell me.”

“I only wanted to remind you that I must go away very soon,” she began.

“You can’t go; Bobby needs you,” said the doctor, decidedly.

“I know it. I don’t see what I am to do. I can go back and send a
little money from my salary for his weekly board, but that seems almost
preposterous.”

“The idea of your leaving seems preposterous,” he said. “I really can’t
let you go. The school must go to the wall.”

“Oh! how can you talk so?” she said. “It’s the first time that you have
seemed uncomprehending.”

“I am not uncomprehending,” he said; “I am only thinking hard how I can
make you comprehend.”

“Comprehend what?” she said.

“Shall I tell you?” he asked. “Will you promise me not to be angry, and
will you keep your promise?”

“Yes, tell me; I promise,” she said. “I don’t believe I could fail to
comprehend whatever it is that you have to say to me.”

“Then what I have to say is this--what my heart burns to say, what I
have had to fight myself, day and night, since the first day of your
coming, to keep from saying, is this--that I love you, and that all my
hope of joy is to have you for my wife.”

She sprang to her feet, and looked at him with wonder and mystification
in her eyes.

“Ah!” he said; “you were mistaken. You cannot comprehend how I love you
so, when, as you think, I know you so little. But there you are wrong.
I know you, as no one else in all the world can possibly know you; and
I think you, of all the world, are the one who best knows me. Here,
look at this, and tell me if you have ever seen it before.”

He took a packet from the drawer at his side, and put it in her hands.
The color flew to her face, and her lips parted in a radiant smile.

“Yes,” she said, “I have seen it before. Was this story written by you?”

“It was,” he answered; “and it is because I know that you have read
it and have understood that it is no story, but the baring of a man’s
inmost heart, that I say you know me as no one else does. In the same
manner also, it has come to pass that I know you.”

“You got my manuscript?” she said. “It was you to whom Mr. Black sent
it by mistake?”

“It was,” he answered; “and perhaps it will not seem strange to you
now when I say, we are not strangers, but are intimately, closely,
mysteriously known to one another. This knowledge of you, on my part,
has led to love--the first real passion of my life. I loved you from
the hour that I read that paper. I loved your nature, your mind, your
soul. Now that I have seen you, in all your goodness and loveliness
and beauty, I love you beyond all my dreams of love. And you?” he said;
“how is it with you, Ethel?”

She looked at him with a slow, half-puzzled, wholly confiding, and
happy smile.

“If you had asked me to marry you without telling me this,” she said,
“I could not have said ‘yes.’ I might not have told you the reason, but
it would have been that my heart was already given to a man whom I had
never seen, and who was known to me only as ‘Hugh Robertson.’”

“But now,” he said, “now that you know that Hugh Robertson is really
Arthur Hugh Hubert, what will you say? O Ethel, I love you with the
hoarded love of many loveless and lonely years! Will you come to me,
and be my wife?”

His eyes were glowing. His face was flushed; his breathing came from
him in quick breaths. He did not move toward her, but stood where he
was, and held out his arms.

And Ethel came to them, and as she rested there an instant, and then
turned her face upward to receive his kiss, they both felt in that
moment’s ecstasy the long thirsting of their souls satisfied at last,
completely and eternally, by the divine draught of love.




A Bartered Birthright




A Bartered Birthright


After debating the matter for ten years or so, John Hertford had made
up his mind to adopt St. Petersburg as a place of residence, and was
now on his way back to New York, to order his affairs to that end.
He was not rich, but then he was not extravagant, and his moderate
income was more than sufficient for the wants of a man who had no one
dependent on him, and who had entirely made up his mind not to marry.
He had been in love more than once in his life, and yet, ardent as his
feelings had been for the objects who aroused that emotion in him, he
had never had quite the feeling to make him long to call any woman
his wife. The truth was owned to himself in his secret heart--that
word “wife” possessed for him a significance which involved so much
that he had often wondered, in early youth, if he could ever actually
find, in one personality, all the qualities of mind and heart and
person which he looked for. In maturer years, he had quite satisfied
himself that the idea was absurd. So he abandoned his youthful dreams,
without any great ado, especially as he had found that life had certain
positive compensations for their loss. He made up his mind, however,
that he could not accept less than his ideal in marriage, and so,
with more or less contentment, he had shaped his life to the demands
and dimensions of a bachelor existence, and was looking forward with
pleasure to the more deliberate and satisfactory settlement of himself
and his belongings at the brilliant capital on his return. He was not
indolent, and his taste for art, music and literature gave him plenty
of occupation to diversify the life of social pleasure in the midst
of which he had cast his lines. He was a very popular man, and yet
one could hardly tell exactly why it was that men and women, and even
children, liked him so. His face was strong and interesting rather
than handsome, and his figure active and powerful rather than elegant.
He had no especial charms of manner, except a supremely winning trait
of gentleness, which would have made the eternal happiness of his
wife--had there been such a being!

He was not looking forward with much pleasure to his visit to his
native country, and had bound himself by the severest obligations to
be back in a very short time; and now, on the first day out on his
ocean voyage, he found himself wishing that the trip to New York was
over, and that he was going back. There would be so many changes among
his old friends--so many reminders of the painful fact that youth was
passing--a thing he could ignore much better in Russia than in his own
land!

He was, like many people whose attachments are warm when made, rather
averse to making new acquaintances, from the fact that the ones already
possessed kept his faculty of affection sufficiently employed. So, when
he glanced over the passenger-list, it was rather satisfactory than
otherwise to see there was no name he knew. He had plenty of books with
him, and expected to find his time sufficiently occupied in reading,
and in escaping from the bores by whom men crossing the ocean are apt
to be beset.

It was early in December, and the weather was raw and cold. Hertford
was well protected against it, however, and spent much of his time on
deck. On the afternoon of the second day out, he had been comfortably
settled for some time, absorbed in his book, when, amid the confused
sounds of water and machinery and human speech, he heard some words
spoken so near him that they compelled the recognition of his
consciousness.

“It seems that’s her aunt, and not her mother,” the voice said: and
glancing up, Hertford saw two women, who had placed themselves very
near him and were evidently discussing some third party of travellers.
“I heard the beautiful girl call her ‘Auntie,’ as I passed. I call
the old one the ‘Rich Lady,’ until I can find out her name, because
she’s so high and mighty and magnificent. They’ve got a foreign maid
and man-servant with them, and more furs and rugs and foot-warmers and
luxuries than any one on the ship. I want you to watch the Rich Lady
when she speaks to those servants. I’ve heard her call them both by
name, and they had foreign names unfamiliar to me; but I told someone
yesterday evening that, as well as I could make out, she called the
maid ‘Minion,’ and the man ‘Varlet’--perhaps her manner helped me a
little to this understanding of her words.”

The speaker and her companion both laughed, and Hertford, amused,
too, followed the direction of their eyes, and soon identified the
two persons under discussion. It was certainly true that they were
surrounded by a greater evidence of magnificence in their travelling
paraphernalia than any one else he had seen. Their deck-chairs,
cushions, rugs, and superb furs made them seem almost unnecessarily
luxurious. The older of the two had her large and bony frame stretched
out at length on her deck-chair, and her harsh profile, with its
thin, aquiline nose and thick, whitish eyebrows was thrown out in
high relief against the dark-red cloak worn by her companion, whose
head was enveloped in its pointed hood. The girl’s face was turned
seaward, so that Hertford could not get a glimpse of it. But just
as he had seen, in spite of heavy coverings, that the older woman’s
figure was angular and thin, so he could see, in the younger one’s,
suggestions of youthful vigor and loveliness. He was conscious of being
interested by the mere pose of her head and turn of her throat. Her
red cloak was gathered in at the neck by an infinite number of fine,
flat little plaits that broke into free and graceful folds about her
shoulders, and covered her arms and hands. Hertford had given no more
than a passing glance to the faces of the two women whose conversation
he had overheard, and a glance was enough to satisfy him also as to
the appearance of the girl’s companion; but for several moments he
kept his eyes furtively upon the muffled figure and head of the girl
herself. As he was looking, a more violent lurch than any that had
preceded it tipped the vessel so far on its side that a great wave,
which was advancing, broke over the deck and deluged everyone with the
heavy salt water. In an instant it had receded, leaving the floor of
the deck a running stream, and the water standing in little puddles on
rugs and cloaks, and wherever it had found a hollow to fill. Most of
the passengers laughed good-humoredly, and took it as a joke, while
the deck-stewards were brushing them off and mopping up the water.
Hertford sat up and shook himself with a smile, and as he did so, he
heard his nearest neighbor say:

“Oh, _do_ look at the Rich Lady!”

She had drawn herself upward in her chair, the picture of angry
protest, and as the assiduous steward hurried to her assistance, she
said, indignantly:

“Well! Are we likely to have much more of this?” Quite as if she had
put up with as much from the ocean as she proposed to stand!

As the humor of the thing flashed upon Hertford, he glanced at the
figure beyond, which had also taken an upright position, and he saw the
very loveliest girl-face that he had ever set his eyes on. He not only
saw it, but he exchanged with it a glance of sympathetic amusement,
which, somehow, seemed to do the work of an acquaintanceship of weeks.
If, as George Eliot so profoundly says, “A difference of taste in jokes
is a great strain on the affections,” the reverse is equally true; and
a sense of liking sprang into being in both of the individuals whose
eyes met in that momentary smiling glance. In an instant they looked
away from each other. And now the two foreign servants came hurrying
up with towels and brushes. Hertford could not distinctly make out the
hurried French sentences which the old lady addressed to them, but
he soon comprehended the attitude which had suggested the names of
“Minion” and “Varlet” to his bright little neighbor.

It soon appeared that it was the Rich Lady’s will to go below, and she
got to her feet, shaking herself free from her furs, and motioning her
niece to follow her. The girl rose obediently, and as the maid came to
her assistance, Hertford noticed the gentle and amiable way in which
she spoke to the servant, in strong contrast to the manner of the older
woman. She, however, responded very submissively to her aunt’s wish,
although he thought it possible that she would have preferred to stay.
As she passed very near to Hertford she did not look toward him, and
so he could venture to look at her. Her profile was exquisite, and her
very manner of walking and holding her wraps was full of charm for
him. When she was almost out of sight, he obeyed the strong impulse
which prompted him to follow, and, leaving all his belongings, he did
so, keeping them in sight until they had disappeared into one of the
_cabines-de-luxe_, the number of which he easily ascertained. Then he
went to the saloon, where he looked at the passenger-list. The names
opposite the number of that state-room were: _Mrs. Etheridge and Miss
Sheldon; valet et femme-de-chambre_.

He returned to his seat on deck, but his book had lost its interest.
There was something in the glance of that girl’s eyes which was
enthralling. It crowded everything else out of his mind. He sat there
thinking for a long time; and he felt it a real satisfaction when, at
last, from some deep recess of his memory he recalled a rhyme which
represented to him exactly his present state of mind. He said it to
himself, under his breath:

  “But if Maud were all that she seemed,
   And her smile had all that I dreamed,
   Then the world were not so bitter
   But a smile could make it sweet.”

In the days that followed, Hertford became more completely absorbed in
watching this young girl, and wondering and imagining about her, than
he had ever been in anything in his life. He never saw her except at a
distance, and even then he guarded his looks carefully. The two ladies
seemed to have no acquaintances on board, and if they had had, it would
have done him no good, for he knew no one to introduce him. Besides, he
was not sure he wanted to be introduced. There was more room for the
indulgence of dreams as things were now.

And he did indulge himself in dreams, without restriction. The more
he saw of the beautiful young creature, the more adorable she seemed
to him. He never met her suddenly, or even caught sight of her red
cloak at a distance, that he did not feel a sudden stilling of his
heartbeats, followed by thick throbbings that made his next few
breaths difficult. Sometimes he would meet her taking exercise on
the deck with her aunt, and sometimes she was on the arm of a French
maid. Hertford noticed that when the latter was her companion she had
generally a gayer and freer air, and he could see that there were the
kindest feelings of sympathy and good-will between the two, in spite
of their different spheres of life. The woman did not look as if she
could have answered to the name of “Minion,” in this companionship!
When, however, the young girl was with her aunt, Hertford often saw
a look of constraint, and even sadness, on her face. This set him to
conjecturing, and gave him a fear that she might be dependent upon
this rich and exacting relative, and perhaps a victim to her tyrannies
and caprices. The mere suggestion of it stirred in his heart depths of
tenderness whose very existence was a surprise to him.

One afternoon, during the last days of the voyage, Hertford had been
sitting a long time silently thinking. His thoughts were always on one
subject now--the girl who, at this moment, sat in one of the long row
of chairs, made fast against the rolling of the vessel. There were,
perhaps, half a dozen people between them, but, although he had not
looked toward her since he sat down, he had no consciousness of any
human existence about him but hers. He felt, moreover, in his inmost
soul, that she had a consciousness of him. He was sure that an electric
current of sympathy communicated from his heart to hers. There was
nothing whatever external to encourage him in his belief--not a look
nor a sign, but it was a thing stronger than either. And whenever he
did meet her eyes, which was rarely, what was it that gave him that
inevitable little shock, if it were not a meeting of such currents?
Of course, his might be the positive and hers the negative, but he
absolutely believed she felt it, too.

As he sat there, watching the cold flutter of the dingy white canvas
that covered the life-boat, made fast in front of him, and which was
shaken into strong ripples by the winter wind, making a crackling
little noise, he liked to think that they both saw and heard the same
things, and he longed to ask her if the ridiculous little cannon, with
its canvas cover, did not remind her of a child on all fours, under a
table-cloth, playing _bogy_. Why couldn’t he have a little innocent
talk with her? The restrictions imposed by society seemed to him most
absurd.

He became aware that the people between him and the object of his
thoughts were, one by one, going away. At last, a man and a woman
sitting next to him got up and went below, and now, with a quickening
of the heart, he realised that the being nearest him, across that row
of empty chairs, was the girl whose image had now out-crowded every
other from his heart. The maid was on the other side of her, but they
were both quite silent. Presently he ventured to turn his head and look
toward her. Only her pure profile was in view, but he felt that she saw
with her averted eyes that he was looking at her. Her rounded cheek
seemed to return his gaze, and he was almost certain that it reddened.

Of course, he might be mistaken in thinking that she had any
consciousness of his existence. He had no real evidence of the fact,
but the unreal was enough for him. He was always frank, in dealing with
himself, though often the reverse of it, in interpreting himself to
others. For instance, he had always carefully concealed the fact that
he was, by nature, sentimental and romantic; but he knew it of himself
absolutely. He was not at all surprised to find himself, now, in love
with a woman to whom he had never spoken. It had always belonged to his
old ideal of himself that he should love at first sight, if he ever
loved at all, in the real sense. This girl--if her nature and character
corresponded to her personality--was absolutely all that he ever
dreamed of; and he had not a fear that, in knowing her, he should find
himself disappointed. Indeed, what he felt was, that he absolutely knew
her already. It gave him a slight twinge of regret to think she must be
so many years younger than himself--it must be ten or twelve, for she
could not be over twenty-two or twenty-three. But then she was a being
with whom he might renew his youth--indeed, she had already called into
fiery life all the most ardent impulses of his earliest manhood. He
had made up his mind now that he would make it his first business, on
landing, to get himself formally introduced to her. He had satisfied
himself, by marks on their luggage, that their destination was New
York, so he knew he was not in danger of losing sight of them. They
were sure to belong to his own world, and he knew he could easily make
their acquaintance. As he sat there, so near her that by a slight turn
of the head he could see her, he felt impatient at the formalities
and delays which must be gone through with, before he could go to her
boldly and ask her to leave the irksome thraldom of her life with her
rich, old aunt, and be his wife. That was exactly what he had to say to
her, with as little circumlocution and delay as possible. His mind had
never been more definitely made up about anything in his life. It was
decidedly pleasing to him to think of her as poor, even though she had
the surroundings of riches and luxury. Still, how different to be in
the really independent position in which he could place her!

A little thing had happened one day during the voyage, that had touched
and pleased him intensely. A poor man had died in the steerage, and
a subscription paper was sent around to raise money for his family.
When Hertford took it, he ran his eye rather eagerly down the column
of names and figures and saw: “Mrs. Etheridge, $100.00,” and under it,
“Miss Shelton, $1.00.” It went to his heart that she had had so little
to give, but had not on that account refrained from giving what she
could. “Shelton,” he kept saying over and over to himself, trying in
vain to remember if he had ever known any one of the name. He knew the
name of Etheridge as belonging to a rich and influential family in New
York, but could recall no definite acquaintance even with them.

There was a lovely winter sunset that evening, and Hertford felt it a
delight that his eyes took in the same scene as hers, and felt that the
same emotions were aroused by it in both their hearts. When, at last,
she spoke to the maid and rose to go below, he boldly resolved to make
a move at the same time, and so he walked the length of the deck behind
her, and followed her through the door. It was a delight to him even to
catch the tones of her voice as she spoke to the maid. As they turned
away in opposite directions, their looks just met. How was it possible,
he asked himself, that he could feel what he did from the touch of her
eyes, and she feel nothing? He did not believe it!

The next day they landed at New York, and he saw her met by friends
whose ardent feeling showed how lovingly welcome she was. They whisked
her away in a handsome carriage whose liveried servants, as Hertford
observed, showed far more pleasure in their faces at welcoming the
young lady, than her august and stately aunt.

Hertford was accorded a cordial welcome by his old friends, and the
first thing he found himself called upon to do was to attend a large
ball. He felt disinclined for it, but the possibility of seeing the
lovely face that haunted every sleeping and waking minute made him
consent. One of his former circle of friends insisted on taking him,
and as they drove through the streets, he confided to Hertford the
fact that he was in love, and that he expected to see at this ball the
object of his affection, who, it appeared, was a rich and charming
widow. The former of these attributes was intimated very delicately,
but the whole thing seemed to Hertford, in his present romantic state
of mind, revoltingly vulgar. How impossible it would be to confide to
his companion the feeling that possessed his heart! Any allusion to
the money struck him as being unpardonable--and he simply could not
understand a man’s finding it possible to be in love with a widow.
He thought of the lovely maiden on whom his heart was fixed, and the
mere memory of her fresh young beauty made his pulses quicken. But
he forced himself to appear interested, and wished his companion all
success and happiness.

“The success would certainly secure the happiness,” was the answer,
“but the trouble is there are a dozen fellows, besides me, trying to
marry her, and she declares she will marry no one.”

As they got out of the carriage Hertford dismissed the subject from his
mind. He had not yet got himself up to the point of making definite
inquiries about the lady of his love, and it seemed to him now
impossible even to make a confidant of a man whose nature could permit
him to talk about being in love with a rich widow!

As the two men walked about the rooms together, each was conscious of
being on the watch, but Hertford, for his part, gave no sign. He met a
few old acquaintances who remembered him still, but the place was very
barren and irksome to him, in spite of its magnificent display, when
suddenly his companion gave his arm a jerk and said: “There she is!”

But Hertford, too, had caught sight of something that made his heart
thump suffocatingly. A few paces from him was a tall, imposing, angular
figure with a familiar Roman profile, and at her side was the adorable
being he had so worshippingly enshrined in his heart, looking so
beautiful in her white ball-dress that his eyes were dazzled with the
delight of this vision. Again, as her eyes met his, he felt that their
spirits had touched. Out of the delicious confusion caused by that
glance, he was roused by the consciousness that he was being formally
introduced.

“My friend Mr. Hertford, Miss Shelton--and Mrs. Etheridge.”

At the mention of the former name, the tall and sharp-faced lady made
him a gracious, if angular, acknowledgment; at the mention of the
latter, the beautiful young creature in white looked up into his face
and gave him a frank and lovely smile. She seemed even to half-extend
her hand, and was beginning to speak, when Hertford, bewildered,
stunned, and only dimly conscious of what he was doing, made a hurried
bow, and with some excuse, moved rapidly away.

With a numbed consciousness, and a bewilderment that scarcely allowed
him to realize the objects before his eyes, he somehow got through the
rooms and out into the street, and, finally, into his own room at the
hotel. There he locked himself in, and, without turning up the light,
threw himself upon his face on the bed. After ten minutes of such
fierce unhappiness as he had never known before, he got up, turned on
the light, and looked at his dishevelled figure in the glass. “Have I
been crying?” he said to himself, seeing that his cheeks were flushed,
his eyes red, and his face dampened either by tears, or by the sweat of
pain. With his nature, romantic, sensitive, the blow was a terrible one.

He sat down in a chair, thrust his fingers into his short locks, and
rested his elbows on his knees. With the feeling in him that he could
not give up this woman, even for this, he began to struggle with his
disappointment. At first, it seemed intolerable that she had once
belonged to another man--and he had to adjust his whole being to these
changed conditions. He realized far more deeply than ever, how he had
fixed his very soul upon her, and he resolved to go on and win her,
if he could. He forced himself to realize the fact that she had loved
another man, and had suffered for his sake the pangs of widowhood. It
was some consolation to him to see that she had outlived them, and he
was glad that youth and nature had asserted themselves and enabled her
to regain her interest in life. No, he could not give her up, without
her own refusal to be his wife. The fact that she had money, too, was
intensely unpleasant to him. It was she--Mrs. Etheridge--who had given
the hundred dollars to the poor man, and her arrogant-looking aunt,
Miss Shelton, who had given the one dollar! The money was the girl’s,
then--and she was the “Rich Lady,” after all! He could not get used to
the idea.

But he had fought out the fight and choked down his disappointment, by
the time the ball broke up, and Tom Kennedy, puzzled by his friend’s
strange conduct, came in search of him.

When Hertford, in his disordered evening-dress, admitted him in answer
to his knock, he was able to make up some excuse about having felt a
sudden vertigo in the heated room, etc., and to carry it off with some
likeness to truth.

“By Jove! I don’t believe she half liked your leaving--the lovely
widow, I mean! (There’s but one _she_ to me now!) And it seems you had
crossed on the steamer together without being acquainted! It’s a wonder
she even noticed you--but she did--and she asked three or four times
where you were gone. I begin to be reconciled to your going back so
soon, old man. She takes more interest in you than I exactly fancy.”

Hertford let him run on with this flippant sort of talk, for the sake
of the information he let drop now and then. He discovered that the
haughty individual who acted as her chaperon was in reality a poor
relation, dependent on her bounty; though, as Kennedy said, she owed
everything to this aunt, who had made this rich match for her, and had
married her to a husband who died in a year, leaving her a millionaire.
This made Hertford wince with pain. The whole interview was frightfully
trying, and he was relieved to be alone at last.

He passed a sleepless night, and a restless, impatient morning. In the
afternoon he inquired his way to Mrs. Etheridge’s house, and rang the
bell, sending in his card for the two ladies. Miss Shelton, it turned
out, was not at home, but after a few minutes spent in a magnificent
drawing-room, down the long vista of which he could see into other
superb apartments beyond, the young widow came to him.

Hertford was so entirely sure that they understood each other, that
it was all he could do to keep from asking her, then and there, to be
his wife. The restrictions of conventionality prevailed, however, and
they kept to mere friendly discussion of the events of the voyage, and
such things. It was so free and delightful, however, this long talk,
that he stayed on and on, and when he rose to go, and she gave him her
hand, he dared to hold it a second longer than was necessary, and to
feel that the touch conveyed a message to her heart. It is certain that
she blushed, as he looked down at her, and that the blush made her a
hundred times more bewitching to his heart and senses than before.

The magnificence of the grand hall that he crossed in leaving her, and
the suggestions of great wealth that he saw on every side, grated upon
him, but, as he walked away from her presence, he was too blissfully
in love for that to matter much. He felt perfectly certain, in spite
of the odious idea suggested by his friend’s coarse way of putting
things, that the marriage had been a love-match; for it was absolutely
impossible that the divinely good, and sweet, and modest creature from
whom he had just parted, ever could have married from any motive but
love. He even got up a sort of emotion of pity for the dead man, when
he thought of what had been lost to him, and yet he felt any dealing of
fate to be merciful, which opened to him the only chance of supreme and
ideal happiness, which his life had ever offered.

He spent the next day with lawyers, absorbed in business affairs. In
the evening he went to the theater, where he saw the woman he loved
surrounded by a gay party. But she looked at him, as he passed, with a
look that thrilled to his heart’s core, and all through the play he was
happy in the sense that she thought of him, and even furtively watched
him. Coming out, he met Tom Kennedy, who walked along the street with
him, beginning at once to speak of Mrs. Etheridge. Hertford, with a
certain reluctance, asked some question about Mr. Etheridge. He felt
jealous of the man, and at the same time, sorry for him. He inquired
how long he had been dead.

“O, three years, or such a matter. She’s only just come back into the
gay world. No one can say she did not play her part with propriety. It
was even more than could have been expected from a girl of twenty, to
go into such long retirement for a husband four times her age.”

“What!” said Hertford, in a low, contained voice, swerving a little in
his gait, but otherwise apparently calm.

“O, he must have been well on to eighty, I should think,” replied the
other, “though his wretched old body was cosmetized and bolstered up
with the utmost care to the last. By the way--you saw him! Don’t you
remember our laughing at the decrepit old dandy at the races that day
when Hotspur won?--the old fellow who tried so hard to give a cheer,
but couldn’t get up the voice, and who incessantly ‘wrestled with his
false teeth,’ as I remember you put it? That was Etheridge. Don’t you
remember him?”

“Yes,” said Hertford, coldly, “I remember him distinctly.”

A moment later, he had excused himself and returned to his hotel.

The next day, and the day after, he applied himself very closely to
business, and was so successful in getting through with it, that he
caught the same steamer on its return trip, and started back to St.
Petersburg.

He had been gone a month, perhaps, when Mrs. Etheridge, who had been
little seen by her friends, either in society, or at her own house,
said abruptly one day to Tom Kennedy, to whom she had not been at home
once since Hertford’s departure:

“Mr. Hertford once lived in New York--did he not?”

“O, yes--born and raised here,” was the off-hand response.

“Do you know,” she said, facing him unswervingly, though her cheeks
reddened, “do you know whether he ever saw my--I mean Mr. Etheridge?
Did he know him?”

“No--he never knew him, I’m sure, but he saw him once at the races. I
was reminding him of it the last evening I saw him. But why do you ask?”

“I merely wondered if they ever met,” she answered, carelessly. “I
never heard my husband speak of him.” She said the word out boldly this
time.

“No--I fancy not,” said Kennedy. “They were not friends at all. In
fact, Hertford had no idea he was the man you had married, until I told
him.”

Kennedy was a little dull, and he wondered now, why in the world she
was interesting herself in such a trivial matter.

He had joined Mrs. Etheridge on the street, and he walked home with
her. When they reached her handsome residence, and the doors were
thrown open, she did not ask him to come in, but said good-bye rather
abruptly. She crossed the magnificent hall and walked with a firm step
up the grand staircase. Then, entering her own splendid apartment, she
locked herself in and stood silent a few moments. Then she spoke aloud,
safe from being heard in that lofty vastness.

“That was the man I could have loved,” she said, “the man I do love!
And I might have married him!”

In a second, she added, in a tone grown thick and indistinct with tears:

“And he loves me, too! I know he does--or did, until he knew!”

She stretched out her arms, with her hands clenched hard, and saw
herself reflected from every side in splendidly-framed mirrors, which
gave back her image, from head to feet, in her elegant French costume.
They showed her, too, the innumerable beauties of her luxurious rooms,
hung with satin and carpeted with velvet.

She gave a cry of horror, and shut out the vision with her hands. Her
birthright was gone, and this was her mess of pottage!




His Heart’s Desire




His Heart’s Desire


It was a beautiful country through which the Aroona River ran; so
beautiful that at last, after ages of unmolested repose, a railroad
had been built along the top of the mountain ridge, and tourists had
begun to talk of its attractions. As yet, however, they knew the
fertile little valley only from a distance. The point most admired by
the passengers on those flying trains, was that where the Aroona lay
beneath them, like a great tin funnel on its side. They could see it,
in one place, broad and placid, and could follow distinctly its sharp
and sudden compression into a passage forced between two great walls
of rock, where it seethed and rushed through the contracted space
representing the stem of the funnel. This was called The Narrows, and
below it was The Falls--a foaming cataract that dashed relentlessly
over great, dangerous-looking rocks.

Perhaps the passing tourists sometimes wondered what sort of men and
women they were, who lived in the odd, misshapen little houses, bunched
together to form the tiny village, which was not much more than a dot
on the landscape. It soon passed out of sight, and they thought of it
no more, and yet it is likely that they were more concerned about these
obscure country people, whose very isolation made them interesting to
speculative minds, than the latter allowed themselves to be concerned
about the occupants of the trains, which, twice a day, darted along the
high horizon line, almost as swift and mysterious as meteors crossing
the heavens. They were tranquil-minded, unimaginative people, and lived
their lives and died their deaths in this distant valley of the earth,
without much interest in what lay beyond.

On the outskirts of this village was a house conspicuously superior
to the rest. It was built on a slight elevation of land, and had some
claim to ornament and architectural display. It was also supplied with
comfortable outhouses and enclosed grounds.

Back of this house, beyond the commodious barn, was a little well-worn
pathway, which led through the large vegetable-garden down to what had
once been an old dairy and spring-house. The spring was long since
dried up, and the building would perhaps have fallen into disuse, had
it not been that someone had taken possession of it and put it to a
decidedly novel purpose. Almost one-half of it was occupied by a grand
piano. Lying on top of this was a violin-case carefully closed, a lot
of loose music, some bits of charcoal, some dilapidated paint-tubes, a
very dirty palette, and other odds and ends of accumulated litter.

On the walls, and scattered all about in various stages of
incompleteness, were sketches in oil, water-color, and charcoal,
all unmistakably bad, and yet with a quality in them that indicated
that the mind had had something to express, in spite of the impotency
of the hands. The room was dusty and disordered, and smelt strongly
of tobacco, but the windows were open, and this odor was forced to
give place, now and then, to the fresh, keen breath of the blooms of
the honeysuckle vines, which hung in green density over the rickety
porch without. There had been a heavy rain, and the wet sweetness was
delicious.

The path through the old vegetable-garden had been carefully cleared at
the important period known as “garden-making time,” but now, in late
summer, the weeds and grass had so encroached upon it as to make it
almost as wet as the cabbage and potato patches on each side.

Down this path, stepping very cautiously, there came now a man and a
child. The former was tall, thin, and much bent in figure. His hair
and beard were scant in quantity, and almost white. He had deep
lines in his face, such as could only have been made there by age or
sorrow. His features were without beauty, and quite unremarkable,
except the eyes, which had a look that caught and fixed the attention.
That look, one of earnest beseeching, was turned now upon the child,
whose little hand was clasped in his great bony one, and who kept up
with his shuffling stride by a little skipping motion, which bobbed
her bright head up and down and seemed directly connected with the
inarticulate murmurs which came from her lips, expressive of a totally
irrelevant and irresponsible joyousness. Her little calico frock was
neatly made, well-fitting and clean, while the clothing of the man
looked, by contrast, almost piteously shabby and uncouth. His hair,
too, was long, and straggled over his ears, meeting and mixing with his
beard in confused disorder. The child was captivatingly pretty. Her
nose was a queer little pug, her eyes were enormously big and round.
Her flesh was deliciously smooth, and her hair was curly gold, that,
freely exposed to the sunlight, gave back shining for shining. She
was not more than four or five years old, plump and chubby in figure,
and seemed to give out an exuberant happiness, brighter than birds or
butterflies.

As the path got lower down the hillside, the dampness of the
undergrowth increased, so that the child’s feet were in danger of
getting wet. Noticing this fact, the man stooped and lifted her in
his arms. Even this did not stop the sort of physical bubbling-over,
which she had been keeping up, and she still dipped and nodded from her
perch, and uttered her little gleeful gurgles, as if her heart had more
joy than it could silently contain.

When they reached the gloomy little house, the man was very careful to
close the door behind him, and his next action was to draw before the
window the muslin curtains, which had once been white, but were now
dust-stained and weather-beaten. Then, with the air of old habit, he
placed the child among the tumbled cushions of the sofa, saying, as he
carefully felt first one foot, and then the other:

“Rose-Jewel mustn’t get her feet wet. Mamma wouldn’t like that. No,
they’re all right. And, now, must I tell you a story?”

The child shook her head in decided rejection of this idea, and said in
an imperious voice:

“No, play.”

He did not speak at once, but reached up and took the shapeless old hat
from his head, and, with a sudden jerk, shook backward the thin locks
which straggled over his forehead. There was unmistakable gratification
in his face, as of one who had received a welcome invitation for which
he had been too humble to look.

One would have thought it likely that the child, when she spoke, would
call him “Grandpapa,” but she turned her insistent gaze upon him now
and said peremptorily:

“Play, Papa, play!”

As he crossed over to where his violin-case lay, there had come a
sudden buoyancy into his figure, and as he lifted the instrument
carefully from its case and began to tune it, his face, too, was fervid
and alert. The fact became evident now, that he was not an old man.
There was all the strength of youth in the sudden motion with which he
braced his shoulder to the violin, and all the fire of youth was in his
eyes.

The child looked upward into his face, and smiled. He returned the
smile, and with a bright nod of encouragement and promise, he broke
into the gay movement of a little dance tune, played with extraordinary
brilliancy of execution.

“How’s that, baby? Here we go! Now the pretty lady is going down the
line and holding up her pink silk dress. Listen to that! And now they
are all catching hands and whirling round and round, and everybody is
laughing--and here goes the music like this!”

As he fiddled away at the merry tune, bending about, and jerking his
head and elbows, the child got into a state of ecstatic glee, clapped
her hands and laughed aloud, and finally slipped off the sofa, caught
up her skirts, and began to dance. It was done with the tottering,
uneven motion of a baby, but there was extraordinary vim in it, and as
the music got every moment gayer and faster, she jumped and whirled
about, until her companion, with a wild laugh of delight threw down
violin and bow, and caught her up in his arms, covering her with
kisses, and jumping about, himself, in rather a mad fashion, with the
music in his blood, as well as hers. Then growing calmer he put her
back upon her cushions, and taking up his violin, said soothingly:

“Now Rose-Jewel’s tired, and Papa’s going to make her rested. Sit
still, darling, a little while, and see if you don’t feel as if you
were in a lovely little cradle with soft blue ribbons on it, and a
little bird singing on the window sill. Now listen for the little bird.”

He drew the bow across the strings once, twice, with long minor tones,
and then he began the bit of descriptive improvising. The child sank
back in the cushions, and breathed a long sigh of ease. When the motion
of the cradle was indicated, she rocked her little body slightly, from
side to side, and closed her eyes luxuriously. Then, with his gaze
fixed on her face, and with an intensity of fervid feeling that made
him almost beautiful, the musician touched some short staccato notes
that made a little cheeping sound, to which the child delightedly
responded by saying:

“Birdie! Birdie! Birdie!” and made an infantine effort to snap her
plump fingers.

The man’s face grew radiant. Holding aside the violin in one hand and
the bow in the other, he took a few steps toward her, bent down, and
kissed first one, and then the other of the soles of her little shoes,
which were covered with fine grains of damp sand, that he felt against
his lips.

“The good God gave you to me, Rose-Jewel,” he said. “Put your hands
together while I play Him a prayer of thanks.”

Unquestioningly, the child placed her two hands palm to palm, and
looked up reverently, as he began to play.

It was a strange, wild, sweet _Te Deum_ that rose now and filled the
little room. The very heart of praise was in it, the very soul of
thankfulness. The man’s dark eyes, for the time, had lost sight of the
gift in the Giver, and were turned upward to the dingy ceiling, that
was soon obscured by tears. The large drops rolled from his lids and
ran down his cheeks. His face grew strained and seamed with agitation,
and a thick sob rose in his throat. Still he played on with that rapt,
uplifted gaze, until a sound from the sofa recalled him, and he
started, and lowered his bow-arm with a sudden movement of dismay.

There were tears in the eyes of Rose-Jewel, too, and her little
heart, which he felt should know only the joy of praise, was tasting
too soon its sorrow and solemnity. As one quick, sharp sob followed
another he felt a sudden deep contrition stab him, and lifting his bow
again, he began to play in a quieting, comforting, reassuring strain,
interspersed with words that matched it.

“The dear God loves us both, Rose-Jewel,” he said. “He wants us to be
happy and bright, and not cry or get frightened. He sends us beautiful
angels to take care of us, and make us go to sleep, and have sweet
dreams. Listen to this now, and see if you don’t hear them flying into
the room.”

The child ceased sobbing, and listened with earnest attentiveness, and
by and by he had the joy of seeing her fall into a gentle sleep. He
played on, pleasing himself with the idea that his music represented to
her, in her sleep, the dreams the angels brought.

At last, when she had sunk into a slumber too deep for dreams, and even
the sobbing breaths of her scarcely spent emotion were stilled, he
gently laid by his violin and came and sat down beside her. He placed
himself, with extreme care not to disturb her, at the bottom of the
sofa upon which she lay. His eyes lingered on her a moment, and then
wandered around the room. The poor sketches on the walls, all so weak
and ineffectual, looked back at him sadly, as it seemed to him, and the
piano was another reproach.

This man--Hugh Eastin--had once thought that he would be a great
musician, and many years of hard study had made him rather a
distinguished one, within a limited field; but nothing had come of it.
At the end of that time, in the impulsive way in which he did things,
he had married, and of that marriage he was the victim. He did not
say so to himself; perhaps he did not even know it; but the paralysis
which had fastened on his mind and soul was directly the result of his
marriage. It would hardly have been possible for him to realize this,
as he had enthusiastically agreed with all his friends that he was an
extraordinarily fortunate man to win for a wife the pretty, virtuous,
healthy, good-tempered young girl, who was known to be the heiress of
the neighborhood from which she came. Her father had manifested the
ambition he had for his only child, by sending her off to the city
to be educated, and she had not graduated at school before the young
musician, who gave lessons to the advanced pupils, had seen and fallen
in love with her, and had obtained her consent, as well at that of her
father, to their marriage. The engagement might have been sufficiently
long to give them an opportunity to discover their unfitness for each
other, had it not been that the girl’s father died very suddenly. It
was then decided that, as she had no near relations to be responsible
for her, she should be married at once. The wedding was therefore
hastened, and he found himself, almost before he could realize the
change in the current of his life, settled at the obscure country
place, which his wife resolutely determined never to leave, and all his
dreams of foreign study, and achievement in his art were suddenly in
ashes.

It took him many a day to realize the inevitableness of his present
environment, and when at last he looked it in the face, it bewildered
him. He was married to a woman as severely practical in her ideas,
and systematic in her life, as he was visionary and erratic. She was
stronger than he, both in nature and character, and the habit of
yielding to her had now become the absolute rule of his life. Very
shortly after their marriage she had found his music an inconvenience,
and although she had made no outward objection to the arrival of the
grand piano, she had, when it suited her, accomplished its removal
to the old outhouse, where no one could be disturbed by it. It was
not so much the noise she minded, as the sight of useless hours and
misdirected energies. On coming into her property she had shown herself
a capable business woman, and she managed the large farming operations
in connection with it with ability and success. It had never seemed to
occur to her to commit these matters to her husband, and he felt it
a deep relief that he was spared an effort which he knew would have
ended in failure. Early in their married life he had suspected that his
wife felt her marriage to have been a foolish one, and as time went on
the certainty of this conviction settled upon him. But then came the
children, and in them, without doubt, she was more than compensated for
her disappointment in her husband.

She was a woman of great shrewdness, and her decision that her husband
had no capacity in him but music, once made, she ceased to expect
anything but music from him. For herself, she had no respect for music
as an art, and no perception of it as an enjoyment, and she did not
scruple to say so. One day her husband heard her say to a friend, that
she prayed every morning and evening of her life that she might never
have a musical child. He never forgot that moment. It was not said to
him, but she evidently had no objection to his hearing it. It was only
an incidental remark, and the two women went on with the discussion of
household affairs, from which it had been an off-shoot. As for Eastin,
his heart-strings tightened, his breath came quick, his throat hurt
him, and his eyeballs grew hot with the repression of tears. A sick
terror seemed to take possession of him, and when he turned and walked
to the window, his eyes seemed to look out on absolute despair.

For he, poor fellow, had been praying a prayer, too--the one
consistent, fervid, passionately persevered in prayer of his life.
Night, and morning, and at noonday, whether on his knees or walking in
the fields or wandering along the river banks, or oftener still, when
he held his precious violin beneath his chin, that prayer arose with
suddenly uplifted eyes to the great God whose power was infinite, and
who could, if He would, give him his heart’s desire--a child with the
musical gift. He longed, too, that this child might have a nature and
heart to comprehend and sympathize with his, though his wish he did not
put into words. He felt absolutely sure that the greater would contain
the less, and that if the music were there the sympathy could not
lack. He knew his wife was right in holding that the musical faculty,
alone, was a blessing to no one, and his hope was that this child might
inherit from its mother the decision, industry and capableness that
would complement the gift of music, which was the one thing of himself
that he felt he could wish any child of his to possess. He was acutely
aware that his life was a failure--that he had lacked the capacity to
put his musical power to any use. He had worked hard over it for years,
and although people had praised and admired his music, no advancement
or recognition amounting to anything had come of it. He knew that it
was his own fault--he claimed no sympathy for himself and no merit. He
wished that the child might have all the traits that he lacked, but
he passionately wished, also, that it might have one thing that he
possessed--this spirit of music, that was to him alternately a devil of
despair and an angel of consolation. Surely, surely, if another being
should possess an inward prompting such as his, something would come of
it! Surely, no other creature who possessed it could be so handicapped
by the impotent body and incapable mind, which he knew to be its
accompaniment in him!

Dreams of that child were the theme of all his aspirations and
imaginations, and when, in the midst of some uplifting strain of
music, he realized that it was absolutely a possibility--a thing that
might simply and naturally come about, he would sometimes utter his
soul in such sounds of harmony, that again would come the old haunting
thought of composing some grand oratorio or opera, and he would begin
desperately to try to get down on paper the music in his soul.

Sometimes the fit of exaltation and hope would last for hours, but it
was enough to be brought for one moment into contact with the realities
around him to stop it all. A summons to dinner would come, perhaps,
and, if obeyed, the atmosphere produced by this change of scene was
fatal. If he ventured to disregard such a summons, he felt the pall of
coldness and disapproval hanging over him, and that feeling crippled
him. It was a favorite remark of his wife, that considering how little
she required or expected of him, she thought she had a right to demand
that he should be regular at meals, and should not counteract the
lesson of punctuality which she tried to instil into her children. He
felt the force of this, and stifled his complaints, living in dread of
meal-time, and often prevented by this dread from making any progress
at all.

When the heavy discouragement which came from his continually
frustrated efforts settled down upon him, he grew moody and silent,
and feeling that he was a drone in this busy household, he would seek
the wide and unreproaching fields, or sit by the placid river bank,
and content himself for hours imagining what would happen if the
wonder-child he dreamed of should be born to him. His own life and
career were utterly without hope, but now he could live again a better,
fuller, freer life in this fresh young one, unhampered by inherent
difficulties and self-made hindrances.

As time went on his life became daily more circumscribed and aimless.
His wife, with her usual shrewdness, had discovered that any effort
to make a farmer and a man of business of him would be folly, and had
long ago given it up. By degrees, she seemed to expect less and less of
him, accepted the evident and inevitable, and ordered the life of her
household in complete independence of him. She was a woman who felt it
important to have the approval of her conscience and her neighbors, and
both the one and the other acquitted her of blame concerning her duty
as a wife. Sometimes people expressed wonder at her great patience with
such a husband--a thing that she never encouraged them to say--but she
felt that she deserved the tribute, and in this opinion her husband
concurred. The task in life to which she set herself with the greatest
fervor was to counteract in her children any tendency to resemble their
father. So far, there had been slight indication of anything of the
sort, and after having borne four little counterparts of herself in
dispositions and tastes, she had almost ceased to dread a reproduction
of her husband.

In the same way Eastin had almost ceased to hope for that which
she dreaded. In four instances had he gone through that agitating
conjecture, and wonder, and hope, and fear, and hung eagerly upon
every sign of baby intelligence that he saw. He would make occasions
for taking the babies--the first, the second, the third, the fourth,
consecutively--apart from every observer, and would hum or whistle
different tunes to them, play furtively on a little music-box he had
procured for the purpose, and even--when he could keep them long enough
from their watchful mother’s observation--try the effect of playing to
them on his piano or violin, after having propped them safely on the
sofa where he could watch every expression that crossed their little
faces.

Few souls, the greatest and strongest, can have known deeper pain than
that endured by this starved and eager man, as the result of all these
experiments. If by any chance an illusive look or smile led him to
believe that for which he so thirsted was at last held to his lips,
the disappointment which followed was only the keener. Each one of his
children, boys and girls, had proved to be almost mysteriously like
their mother. He used to wonder at this, and at times some bitterness
mingled with the wonder in his gentle breast. Were they not his
children, too? Why was it that, as if by instinct, each one of them
would range itself with their mother, while he stood perpetually alone?
The paternal instinct, at first so profoundly stirred in him, grew weak
and meaningless, as the sure development of time would place the child
by nature and instinct, and later by choice, with his wife and her
other children.

In every instance, the children, beginning with indifference about
music, grew to dislike it, encouraged by their mother, who always
showed her approval when this feeling was manifested. It was simple
and explicable enough. The mother was a strong, compelling, intensely
alive personality, whose importance and authority everyone recognized,
while the father was gentle, deprecating and insignificant, and it
was not hard for the intuition of childhood to discover that he was
tolerated rather than approved. There were even occasions upon which
they had heard him laughed at and turned into amiable ridicule.

Once, in the presence of the older children, some neighbors had come
to make a visit, one of the number being so unusually experienced for
that country as to have lived for a winter in the city where Eastin had
met his wife. This woman, whose face and voice had a certain quality
of sympathy which touched his heart, drew Eastin into conversation--a
thing which scarcely any one ever took the trouble to do. She
remembered to have heard him play at a concert with a very beautiful
young girl, who had been compelled by illness to stop in the midst of
her performance. After reminding Eastin that she had been present at
this concert, the visitor said suddenly:

“What became of that lovely girl who was taken ill that night?”

“Dead, darling,” Eastin astonished her by saying, throwing into his
answer all the plaintive tenderness aroused by the reminiscence, and
not noticing the fact that he had applied a term of endearment to the
decorous matron before him. He perhaps would never have realized it,
if a suppressed titter, in which his own children took part, had not
called his attention to the fact. Then he recollected himself, and a
hot flush rose to his face. He got up and left the room, not in the
least comforted by the fact, that, as he did so, he heard his wife
rebuking the children for laughing at their father. It seemed to put
him in such a miserable position that the rebuke should be necessary,
and that his wife, in giving it, manifested a degree of wifely
dutifulness for which her friends gave her their admiration.

There were tears in his eyes as he took up his old slouch hat from
the hall table and put it on, letting himself out into the sunlit
fields where the birds made their music without calling contempt upon
themselves, and where nature seemed to hold out her arms to him and to
invite him to repose upon the only breast which harbored no disapproval
or criticism of him.

One thing which had bitten deep into Eastin’s heart was shame at the
lack of resolution and purpose, which had allowed him all these years
to go on with this idle and aimless life. Once or twice he had made
an effort to escape it, but those had been the occasions of the most
painful and bitter scenes he had ever known. His idea of going forth
into the world and making a career for himself with his music was the
one thing his wife would not tolerate. She was afraid of what this
break from his family might lead to, and she had all a country-bred
woman’s horror of being pointed at as a deserted wife. It mattered
little that her husband was separated from her in soul, compared
to what it would be to have him separated from her visibly. It was
pride--pride for her wifehood and motherhood--that made her feel so
intensely on this subject, and she made no pretense of any more tender
feeling.

If she had made it the appeal of love, even at this late hour, and
had shown him that she wanted him to stay, because he was dear to
her, he would have stayed and been happy. But his reason for staying
was that when she told him that it was the one thing he could ever do
for her or for her children--that neither had anything besides this
to ask at his hands--her words, scathing and mortifying as they were,
carried conviction, and he felt a moment’s divine thrill in making the
sacrifice.

Another motive which prompted him to stay was a natural and
unconquerable self-distrust, which warned him unceasingly that failure
and disappointment were to be his lot in life. There was still a third
motive--stronger, perhaps, than either of the others, and the one of
all the three which he was most reluctant to own. This was a feeling
deep in his soul, that a return to the conditions of life which he had
once known would put him to a terrible test. His artistic temperament
made him keenly susceptible to appeals to the senses, and during all
these years his senses had been so starved that he was actually afraid
to go willfully into places of temptation. A life of that sort would be
infinitely more dangerous to him now than it had been before, for the
reason that in youth he had always an ideal to live up to, and he had
no ideal now. He had then been constrained to keep from self-abasement
by the thought of bringing a clean body and soul to offer to the woman
he would some day love. But the clear star of ideal love no longer
shone for him, and the thought of what he might do if opportunity came
was a powerful restraint upon him. This, with the two other strong
reasons, was sufficient to bind him to the spot of earth on which his
wife and children lived.

He was not without a real attachment to his family, and he was proud of
the two healthy boys and the two rosy-faced girls in a deprecating sort
of way, which implied his knowledge that he deserved the least possible
credit for them. But these were quiet, serious feelings, which had more
the nature of opinions than emotions. He had been acutely disappointed
to find almost immediately after his marriage that his wife was in
no sense a companion to him, and he had since become convinced that
any possibility of a companionship with his children was out of the
question.

So all those prayers had been in vain! There was pain intolerable in
the thought, but he did not cease to pray. His one hope of getting his
prayer was the intensity of its earnestness. It was, therefore, a shock
that stunned his very soul to hear his wife say that she had been
praying all the time that what he asked might be withheld. What more
natural than that her prayers should have been granted, and his denied?
She was a good and religious woman, who never omitted going to church
or any religious duty. She was almost the support of the minister,
and was generous in her gifts to missions and charities. He, poor old
musician and dreamer, rarely saw the inside of a church, and when he
did, he felt, as he said himself, like a poor relation admitted on
sufferance. Often he played prayers on his violin, which he felt upbore
his soul to God, and he sometimes passionately felt that if God would
give him his heart’s desire he would make the remainder of his life an
act of praise and thanks to Him.

When his fifth child was born--a girl--he felt for the first time an
apathetic hopelessness about it. Since he had known of his wife’s daily
prayer, his own seemed very useless.

His wife felt more satisfaction than regret in the fact that Eastin
scarcely looked at this baby, and never voluntarily held nor, indeed,
touched it. He had given evidence of no feeling against the little
creature, and had shown himself, as ever, gentle and tender of the
mother’s weakness and pain, but there was a difference between his
bearing toward this child and the others. The mother wondered a little
why this was, but was far from suspecting the truth.

He showed the same indifference when the time came to choose a name
for the baby. Heretofore, he had interested himself especially on this
point. His wife had allowed him to call one of the girls “Adelina,”
rather liking the name, but had rebelled at “Wolfgang” and “Sebastian”
for the boys. In this instance, being left quite free, she called the
child “Rose-Jewel,” the latter part being a family name of her own.
When the name was told to the father he gave it a listless approval.

Eastin had aged within the past year. The period marked by his wife’s
avowal to her friend had been the beginning of a change in him. His
figure became bent and thin, his hair whitened, and he became more than
ever indifferent about his dress. A dullness settled on him, also,
that made him a sombre figure in that active household. Sometimes a
consciousness of this oppressed him, and at times he would wish with a
long sigh that life was over for him.

When Rose-Jewel was about a year old he happened one day to be in the
room with her when she was taking her mid-day nap. The mother and other
four children were out in the village. Walking across the room, he
had had no consciousness of the baby’s presence until a pretty little
chuckling sound caused him to look toward the crib. There he saw behind
the wooden railings a face that was exquisitely sweet and merry,
with cheeks rosy from sleep, and towzled golden hair, and a pair of
beautiful great eyes that looked at him with love.

He stopped short, and his heart gave an excited leap. The child, of
course, was familiar with the sight of him and was absolutely unafraid.
He went a step nearer and bent forward over the crib. As he did so the
baby smiled. It must be a hard heart that refuses to return the smile
of a child, and Eastin’s heart was soft as wax to any sign of love.
The baby smiled again, and this time the smile was accompanied by a
repetition of the little gurgling laugh. Eastin’s face grew red, then
pale, and he fell upon his knees beside the crib. A mighty impulse
stirred his heart. It gave a great bound, as if it freed itself from
cords that had held it in and from weights that had dragged it down.
Words that leaped upward as if from its secret depths came in rapid
whispers from his lips.

“Almighty God,” he said, “great Lord of all the earth, whose power
is supreme, whose goodness to men is boundless, who gives to the
ungrateful and unworthy as well as to the faithful and good! O great,
and powerful, and merciful, and kind, and pitying God, give me in
this child the desire of my heart! Give her the power to be what I
have never been--the power to feed the hungry souls of men and women
with the heavenly bread of music--the power to brighten their dark
souls with its light--to ease their aching hearts with its divine
consolations--to drown their restlessness in its peace! My God, my
God,” he pleaded, shaking back the straggling locks of hair, as he
had been used to do when he became excited in playing, and shutting
fast his eyes, while his hands were clasped on the railing of the crib
with a hard pressure that strained the muscles into knobs, “the power
is Thine--Thou canst! Thou canst! I do believe--in spite of all my
faithlessness--I do believe! I know that Thou hearest! I know this
prayer of the poorest and most unworthy of Thy creatures goes straight
to Thy infinite heart! O God, Thou hadst a Son! Thou art the Father of
the Lord Jesus! In His name I ask! In the name of Him who said that
those who came to Thee should in no wise be cast out!”

All the time that he was uttering these impassioned words the baby was
looking at him in serene contemplation. Her little feet were bare, and
she kicked them about and caught them in her hands, and wriggled her
plump body from side to side, while she watched the strange motions of
his head and eyes and lips as if it were an amusement got up for her
benefit. As the last words were uttered, she laughed again--a little
laugh that ended in a high, clear note that sent a thrill of ecstacy
throughout the man’s whole being. He trembled visibly and his face
grew pale with the thick beating of his heart. For a moment he was
absolutely still. Then, for one instant, he raised his eyes, which
were filled with tears, and his lips moved meekly. Then he looked
down again at the child, bent his head over the crib, and began to
whistle a low, sweet, stirring air. The little creature stopped at
once her movements of hands and feet, and fixed her large eyes on him
attentively. He whistled more gaily and quickly, and her face lighted
up and answered with a look of excitement, which he saw with a bounding
heart. Then he fell into a low, sad minor, slow and tremulous, and in a
single moment her face responded. The smiles all vanished, and, as he
went on, her eyes began to fill and she puckered up her little mouth to
cry.

He sprang to his feet and seized her in his arms, clasping her against
his throbbing breast, and letting his tears fall over her shining
curls. He knew now beyond any possibility of doubt that she had,
in one sense, at least, the gift he coveted for her--an emotional
susceptibility to the influence of sound. This was enough to make him
feel that within his baby’s body there was a soul to sympathize with
him. He believed, moreover, and the thrilling conviction seemed to give
wings to his soul, that his child would show herself to possess the
gift of music in the creative sense. Perhaps the little body, warm and
moist against him now, possessed within itself that august mystery, a
magnificent human voice, or perhaps these exquisite baby hands, pink
and dimpled and satin, smooth, were some day to command at will the
grand harmonies of melodious sound. Ah, God! it was sweet to feel that
she was his--bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh--body of his
body--soul of his soul!

She struggled a little in his constraining embrace, and he loosed his
clasp of her and took her more naturally on his arm and walked with her
to an open window. It was summer-time, and a bird was singing in a tree
outside. He saw her face lighten as she heard the sound, and again his
heart throbbed faster.

At that moment the negro nurse came into the room, and looked with
astonishment at the picture that met her. The excitement through which
the poor fellow had gone made him feel weak and tremulous, and he
submitted quietly to have the child taken from him and carried away.
His longing was to be alone, to utter in some way his thanks to the
Father who had done this. In a few moments, almost unconscious of what
he was doing, he found himself in his own little private place, the
dairy. Here he shut himself in, and fell upon his knees. His prayer of
thanksgiving was confused, incoherent, utterly insufficient. He rose in
the midst of the mumbled words, took his violin, and began to play. It
seemed to ease the stress of his soul, and as he played on, the tears
overflowed his eyes. When he laid by the violin he went over to the
piano and played great sounding chords. A strain of grand melody came
into his mind, and he found himself composing a _Te Deum_--fitting the
words to the sound as they came to him, and feeling himself wrapped in
with ecstacy.

That was the beginning of the new life to Eastin. After that, he
walked about the common, familiar scenes, and saw them clothed with
an unfamiliar beauty; he felt the world, no matter where he came into
contact with it, sweet and harmonious and full of delight. He was
absolutely, absorbingly and sufficingly happy. The common life about
him seemed suddenly glorified, and his heart expanded with an overflow
of loving good-will to all the world, that made him see in his wife
and other children attractions and good points which he had never
seen before, or it may be, caused him to imagine those which had no
existence at all, except in his new-made will to see only goodness
and sweetness everywhere. He made timid efforts to interest and to
be of service to his wife and children, and he was not perceptibly
discouraged by the fact that his overtures were regarded with surprise,
rather than appreciation, for he had in one little creature a refuge
from every trouble, and a balm for every wound.

As time went on, Rose-Jewel showed every day new indications of a deep
and extraordinary feeling for music, and occasionally, even in her
babyhood, would pass from her high, clear laughter into a little carol
of song, as spontaneous and incoherent as a bird’s, and as thrillingly
lovely. One moment, he felt himself weakened almost to helplessness by
the sudden ebb of blood from his heart; the next, as it rushed back,
he felt himself strengthened with such might that nothing seemed too
great for him to do or to be. He soon became aware of a necessity for
vigilance, in keeping his precious secret. His devotion to the baby, of
course, was observed, and he was horribly afraid of having its cause
understood. He felt that trouble for them both would come of it. He
knew how the mother would feel, and he had a deadly fear of being
separated from his idol. He was relieved to find that his peculiar
fancy for this baby was looked upon as a fad, for which his general
oddness was enough to account. It was a matter of practical convenience
to have so much of the care of the baby taken off the hands of the
mother and the nurse, and so it was less commented on.

Perhaps it enhanced the delights of this companionship, that they were
so often stolen. There was a delicious sense of mystery, in taking
Rose-Jewel tenderly in his arms and walking off down the garden-path
when nobody was looking, going into the little room, closing the door,
drawing the curtain, and then, quite cut off from all the rest of the
world, enjoying this most delightful of _tête-à-têtes_, where he played
with absolute freedom and unreserve, to an audience that responded to
his touch, whether light or hard, grave or gay, more sensitively than
the most perfect instrument could have done.

To look into Rose-Jewel’s great delighted eyes, across his violin, and
to see them gleam and glow with an emotion that corresponded absolutely
to his, was, he thought, as keen a pleasure as he, or mortal man beside
had ever known.

In time it became a positive, thrilling, marvelous certainty that
Rose-Jewel had a voice--a clear, true, strong little voice that gave
magnificent promise. Then came the other delight, when she was older,
of teaching her to strike little melodies on the piano, and even to put
her baby fingers on certain simple chords, as an accompaniment to her
father’s violin. The very first time he made this effort, she caught
at it with a quickness and delight which made his breath come almost
suffocatingly. It became, after that, a part of their daily routine,
to practice together. She was old enough to talk coherently now, and
he often feared that she might betray their secret, but she seemed to
have some wonderful intuition of the truth, and never even sang, except
when alone with him.

What hours of stolen rapture the two culprits had together! Sometimes
they wandered off and sat on the banks by the river-side, and sometimes
he lifted her into the little boat, and, while she held the dear violin
safely and reverently, he would row off into the stream, and there play
to her while they drifted gently about. In this freedom of isolation
he could play as it was impossible to play near the house, with an
abandon of pleasure which set the child nearly wild with delight. Here,
too, he would test and exercise her voice, with the greatest care not
to strain it, and here, unseen by any eyes but those of the birds and
the squirrels, they would put their arms around each other’s neck and
give way to a passion of tenderness of which both the child as well
as the man, would have been incapable in the presence of others. They
were completely happy hours--happy enough to atone for every pain and
deprivation which the past had held for him, or the future might have
in store.

He did not complain of the past, any more than he feared the future
for himself. His one thought was the child. When he speculated on her
life to come, a timorous dread would, in spite of him, mix with the
enthusiastic expectations of her dazzling success in the musical world.
He would feast his imagination for hours, on the thought of this. It
was not the splendor of music halls, nor the applause of audiences that
he coveted for his darling. It was the power to touch the hearts of men
and women, and to incite them to deeds of nobleness and strength, that
should re-echo through the world.

Always, however, those dreams of bliss were poisoned by that haunting
fear of what the counteracting influence of the child’s mother might
be. It made him shiver with terror, when he thought of that bird of
music which lived in Rose-Jewel’s breast, with its wings cut, and
its song stifled by the cold chill of disapproval, and even a more
active form of objection. He imagined the harshness and contempt which
would fall upon that angelic child, if it should be discovered that
she had inherited her father’s misfortune, and had been encouraged in
its development by him. He thought of how broken and purposeless his
life had been made by the cold and uncomprehending judgment of those
about him, and he felt weak with cowardice at the thought of Rose-Jewel
having the same ordeal before her. He was ashamed to feel himself
powerless to help her in it. He knew that nothing short of stealing the
child and keeping her hid would suffice, and that he could not do. All
the world would consider him a monster, and he would feel like one.
Besides this, his poverty would hinder. How could he take his little
song-bird out to be a pauper with him? How could he even expect to keep
such a voice as he foresaw in her, a secret? No,--God help the poor
baby!--she must stay and bear the blow when it should come, and he, for
his part, must do what he could to help her--feeble as his help would
be!

He felt the danger coming nearer every day, for Rose-Jewel was now able
to sing little songs with words and music, and the more he felt the
keen delight her delicious little voice gave him, the more he trembled
at the thought of discovery. It was wonderful how the child seemed to
feel the necessity of secrecy, and how, baby as she was, she never gave
any evidence of her musical gifts, except when with her father. Her
childlike recollection of his warnings surprised him.

One day the two were down in the old dairy together. Eastin, with his
violin was playing the air of “Comin’ through the Rye,” and Rose-Jewel
was following him, with her lisping utterance, and clear, delicious
voice, as she stood before him, her eyes answering the look of his,
as definitely and truly as her voice answered his instrument. When he
played the music to her baby pronunciation of the words:

  “Every lathie hath her laddie,
   None they thay have I--”

and her thrilling little voice rose to the last high note, and took it
with ease and held it, the man’s hand shook so that the bow dropped
from it. For a few seconds, the only sound was that almost inhuman
little treble voice, fine and thin as a hair, but so thrillingly sweet
that it sent a long tremor all through Eastin’s limbs. Hurriedly
putting down his violin, he held out his arms. The child flew into
them, and as he swooped her from the ground to his heart, she finished,
without accompaniment, the lines:

  “Yet all the ladth they thmile at me,
   When comin’ thro’ the Rye.”

He hugged her close and hard against his heart. He had in her all that
he cared for, all that he had ever sought or desired, his compensation
for the bitter past, his sufficiency for the uncertain future. His
heart was full of bliss.

A sound from behind aroused him. The door was suddenly thrown open. He
turned, still clasping the child, and met the infuriated eyes of the
wife and mother.

The scene that followed was one that roused him to a point of
excitement he had never known before. It was very brief, but in those
moments, in which Rose-Jewel clung about his neck, while her mother
tried in vain to get possession of her, while she seemed to appeal to
him for protection, and the very appeal seemed to give him the power
of response, he felt himself, for the first time since his marriage, a
strong, self-reliant man, and a sense of exultation swelled upward with
the surgings of his excited blood, until he felt able to do and dare
everything for the sake of defending this child. His wife, scarcely
recognizing him in this unfamiliar aspect, was for a moment surprised
into silence, but the reaction after this made her more angry yet,
and the long restrained indignation of years broke loose. She gave it
full vent, and he heard his beloved art defamed and derided, and a
possession of the musical gift called a misfortune, a nuisance and a
curse. It was enough, she said, to have borne with it in him, and to
have had calamity brought through him into her life; but to go through
it again, with her own child--was more than she could stand! She
declared that her confidence had been abused--that Rose-Jewel should
never be left one moment alone with him again--that it should be the
object of her life, henceforth, to suppress every sign of musical
talent the child might manifest--that she was resolved to do this, if
she had to whip her, tie her, starve her, lock her up, a dozen times a
day. She looked into his eyes defiantly, and warned him that the child
should not be spared! As he heard these words come from her lips, he
felt a tightening of the little arms around his neck. The fire of his
passionate love for his baby was kindled into a keener flame, and he
wished it were possible never to loose her from his arms. Her every
second’s absence from his sight would be torturing anxiety to his heart.

When the mother came nearer, and tried to take the little creature
from him, he threw out his disengaged arm and warded her off, with
a look in his eyes which she felt to be dangerous, and somehow, to
her own surprise, it checked her. Rose-Jewel, terrified by the only
half-comprehended threats of the mother, cried piteously on his neck,
and even while to the excited woman before him he showed a spirit of
daring, of which he knew he had never been capable until that minute,
he was soothing and reassuring the child with soft, caressing sounds
and touches, and inwardly vowing that, no matter what happened, he
would never be separated from her--never give her up.

His wife saw that unknown look of resolution in his eyes, and felt
compelled by it to yield her point.

She drew back a few steps, and after a moment’s hesitation, said:

“I won’t attempt to reason with a man who is out of his mind, for that
is what you are, at present. Of course, if you choose to exercise force
toward a woman, you are too strong for me. But, when I get my child
back, I shall know how to keep her.”

“She is my child, too,” he answered, “and you shall never get her away
from me. I will never give her up to you, or to any one.”

These words were said more by way of reassurance to the sobbing child
than to the mother. He had felt Rose-Jewel draw him closer, as she
heard her mother’s threat, and he answered the baby’s touch, rather
than the woman’s words.

“You are too excited to see how foolish your words are,” answered
his wife coldly, “but no one expects any practical sense from you.
Rose-Jewel,” she added, with a sudden tone of harsh authoritativeness,
“if you don’t stop that crying, I shall punish you for it. I’m going
now, and your papa can keep you, but, to-night, you’ll have to come to
me, and I’ll see if I can’t make you a better girl.”

As the mother left the room, Eastin felt the child’s sobbing increase.
She uttered little stifled cries of terror that cut him to the very
soul.

“There, my Rose, my Jewel, my Bird,” he said. “Don’t you be frightened.
No one shall take Papa’s baby away from him. Papa’ll keep her, right
in his arms, and never let her go out of them, that’s what he’ll do.
Nobody shall lay their fingers on his baby.”

He said recklessly anything that he thought would reassure her,
but, even while he spoke, he felt oppressed and terrified at the
impossibility of performing what he was promising. His heart felt
like lead, when he realized that he would _have_ to give her up--that
he would, in a few hours, now, at best, be forced to see her taken
from him, struggling, crying, terrified, to begin her initiation into
a life of torture, and that, when she left his arms, he could never
take her back to them, in the same way, forever. All the privacy and
sacredness of their intercourse was gone, even if, as was doubtful, he
was ever allowed to have her again. And when she was out of his sight,
what would be his dread about her? She had been threatened with blows,
starvation, and revengeful anger, if she ever tried to play or sing
again--and to stop her music would seem to him like murdering her soul.

A longing for the old isolation of freedom came upon him. They might
have it once again! He reached for his violin and bow and put them into
the case. Then, still holding the child pressed close against him, he
took up the case with his free hand, and went out of the opened door.

It was a mild, overcast summer day. The very act of getting out of
doors exhilarated and strengthened him. He spoke gay and encouraging
words to the child, as he carried her down the little, well-worn path
which led to the river, without going in sight of the house. They had
often gone along this path together, and when he reached the bank and
loosed the little boat tied there, and put Rose-Jewel down on the
cushion in the bottom, with the violin against her feet, they were only
re-enacting old familiar scenes of companionship and delight.

Eastin took up the small paddle that lay in the boat, and pushed out
into the stream. The river was perfectly placid on days like this, and
it was his delight to get off with the child a little way from land and
to play to her. The boat scarcely moved upon the water, and they did
not go out far enough to get into the current. It was in the wide and
sleepy part of the stream above the narrows.

The child had grown completely quiet now, and looked up at him with a
face of unclouded happiness as he laid down the paddle and took his
violin out of its case. He put it in perfect tune, and then, with that
radiant presence opposite him, began to play.

On his own heart the shadow of a great dread hung heavy. He felt that
this hour separated the dear and beautiful past from a future full of
pain and wrangling, and even of cruelty and harshness. He would have
to make a desperate fight with his wife for the soul and body of the
child, and he felt that everything was against him. It was inevitable
that he should be conquered, and what would it all mean to his darling?
He looked into her beautiful, confiding little face, and it almost
broke his heart. He resolved that she should be happy, for this hour,
at least.

He played to her gay dance music, and she clapped her hands in time
to it, and rocked her little body about, until the boat moved with
her motion, and made them seem to be dancing. Eastin helped this
effect by patting his foot and shaking his head, and answering audibly
her little cries of glee. He passed from waltz to polka, and from
polka to _galop_, the child, conforming to every change of time; and
Eastin, remembering that it was their last free hour together, got
intoxicated with the delight of it, and bewildered by the thought of
its fleetingness played faster and faster, nodding his head in time to
Rose-Jewel’s motions, and never taking his eyes from her face.

At last, with a final scrape of the bow, the exciting measure ended,
and he dropped his arms with a wild and breathless laugh, to which the
child responded.

But how was it that, although both their tired bodies had grown still
and relaxed, that sense of movement continued? Eastin felt a spasm
of fear at his heart, and looking about him he discovered that they
were far from the shore, and in the very center of the stream, whose
current was bearing them rapidly onward, and every moment becoming
stronger and swifter. He realized, in one awful instant, that they had
been drifting for some time, and were quickly getting into the narrows.
He looked ahead and could see the high cliffs of rocks on either side,
which, for unknown ages of time, had been the impregnable bounds of
that crowding torrent of waves and spray and bubbling foam that rushed
onward to the falls below.

He reached for the little paddle, but he felt it would be useless.
Every moment the motion was becoming stronger and more irresistible.
He scarcely felt the thin planks between him and the seething stream
below. He put out the paddle, but one blow from that bounding water
knocked it from his hand and hurled it away, and he could see it tossed
from wave to wave with a sportive motion that seemed to mock him.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him, at which his heart gave a great
bound, and a light, as it had been from heaven, overspread his face.
He knew that rescue was impossible, and the idea that God had planned
for him and for Rose-Jewel this release from the pain of earth and
this entrance into the glory of heaven swept over him with a wave of
joy. There were no words that he had ever said more devoutly than, “I
believe in the forgiveness of sins,” and he knew Rose-Jewel was already
a companion for the angels. The vision of a certain ecstacy and bliss
shone all around about him. O the freedom of it, the rapture, the
music! Even the dread of physical death was nothing to him. Rose-Jewel
would be his companion, and the journey would be short!

His one care was that the child should not be frightened. She had
always answered to his control, and he took up the violin now and began
to play.

“Listen, darling, listen!” he said, holding her eyes with his own, and
drowning in a flood of rich, keen melody the noise of the rushing
water.

And Rose-Jewel answered to the insistence of those swelling sounds of
music as unquestioningly as she had ever done. She forgot everything,
as she bent forward to listen. He leaned close to her, that she might
not lose one sound. The beauty of the music that swelled out over those
turbulent waters was entrancing, even to himself. He did not know what
he was playing--something he had never heard before, but something fit
to play in those choirs of heaven to which he was going so quickly.
He could not wonder that the child was under the spell of it. It
came to him without one interruption--an unbroken strain of divinest
sweetness, such as he had never heard before. In the very midst of it,
the ever-narrowing, ever-quickening current gave the little boat such
a wrench, that the violin was knocked out of his hand into the leaping
waters.

Then Rose-Jewel gave a little cry, and turned to look about her, but
before she had faced the sight of those terrifying waves, he caught her
in his arms. She felt her little golden head drawn down upon its sweet,
familiar resting-place, and the arms of her father folded close about
her. Words of love and comfort and reassurance were whispered in her
ear. She was being rocked into repose and rest quite naturally, as she
had so often been before, upon her father’s breast.

There was a sudden rush of something cold and strange--a swish of
sound--a lurch--a fall--and then, still holding each other in the dear
fondness of that close embrace, the musician and his little child sank
together into death, and their spirits soared forth into infinite
music.




The Masked Singer




The Masked Singer


The only objection which Edward Randall had to his new bachelor
apartments was found in the fact, that they looked out upon some very
dingy, dull, and gloomy houses opposite. This had been his chief
obstacle in deciding to take these rooms, but there were advantages
which soon proved a sufficient offset.

The fact that he was the only lodger in Mrs. Green’s extremely
well-ordered house, and that the elderly widow had a delicate feeling
for his old china and other perishable property, and looked after
the cleaning and arranging of his rooms, herself, was a great thing
for him; and the fact, also, that his back windows looked out upon a
beautiful little bit of old garden and a wealth of greenery made the
other outlook seem comparatively unimportant. He had the whole of Mrs.
Green’s second floor, and beyond the sitting-room there was a pleasant,
vine-screened porch supplied with hammocks and easy chairs, where, when
the weather was mild, he could sit and smoke with his friends, or read
or meditate, as the humor of the hour dictated.

He was not over thirty-five, and yet the fact was universally conceded
that he was a confirmed bachelor--a matter of some regret to those of
his friends who held that in that condition his good income, personal
attractions, and lovable domestic qualities were more or less wasted.

The front view from his chambers being unpleasing to him, and the
back view decidedly pleasing, he rarely drew aside the curtains of
the former room, but one morning when he was rather idle, and also in
a state of some uncertainty about the weather, he went to look out
into the street to help him to decide whether or not to go out before
lunch. It was Sunday and rather cloudy, and it seemed to him that the
shabby buildings opposite looked duller and dingier than ever, when his
attention was caught by the opening of the door of the house directly
facing him, and the appearance on the threshold of a young girl. She,
too, it seemed, was in some uncertainty about the weather, for she came
out on the steps and turned her face upwards to investigate the clouds.
In this way, Randall was enabled to get a full and satisfactory view of
this upturned face, which was very beautiful--so beautiful, in fact,
that he felt the survey all too brief, and was conscious of a sense of
strong protest when the girl, with an air of decision, shook out the
folds of a thick blue veil and fastened it around her hat, then taking
up her umbrella and a little book, which she had laid aside in order to
pin on her veil, quickly descended the steps and walked away.

Randall watched her as far as he could, and noted carefully every
detail of her dress, which certainly bordered on shabbiness, and was
poor and plain in material, and yet had for him a certain charm. It
could only have been her figure and her movements which gave this
impression, for, contrasted with some very smart young ladies who
walked in front of her, she was an object dull and colorless enough.
These young ladies had their faces frankly bared to observation, but
Randall turned from them with distaste, to recall the pure young beauty
of the face now closely screened behind that thick veil.

He wondered much about the young girl, for she was undoubtedly rarely
beautiful, and there was an impression caught from her appearance which
distinctly charmed him. The sight of the little book in her hand,
together with the ringing of the church bells, assured him that she was
on her way to church, and for the first time for a very long while, he
felt like going to church, himself.

It was much too late to think of this, however, for his toilet was
not begun, and so he turned back within the room, and lounging in
dressing-gown and slippers, spent an hour reading the morning papers
and smoking. At the end of that time, he started up suddenly and began
his toilet, with an air of haste and impatience. As soon as he was
dressed, he took his hat and gloves and went downstairs. Just as he
opened the front door, he caught sight of the young girl mounting the
steps opposite, on her return home. She was in the act of taking off
her veil, and Randall thought she did so with a certain air of relief
from a bondage which irked her. Once more he got a brief impression of
that young and exquisite face, and then, without having looked at him
at all, she opened the door with a latch-key and entered the gloomy old
house, and the dingy door closed behind her.

Randall went his way, and presently found himself seated at a
beautifully appointed lunch table with a party of gay and brilliant
people, among whom he was made very welcome, and where he laughed and
chattered for an hour, but throughout it all he could not shake off the
impression that this girl had made upon him, and her pure, young face,
and plain, dark garments rose before his vision, as alien to this scene
as the impression of some rapt, ascetic nun.

After lunch there was a general demand that Mr. Randall should play to
them, and rather more obligingly than usual he yielded to the request,
and, going to the piano, he began with certain powerful chords and
impressive pauses, that soon compelled the company to perfect silence
and attention. He was a fine musician, and quite accustomed to having
his playing treated deferentially, but he did not often take the
trouble to play to people as he was playing now. His audience had
expected something light and brilliant, and instead of that it was
only sacred music that he played--harmonies and masses from the great
masters of old, with an improvised arrangement and connection of his
own.

He rose from the piano and said good-bye abruptly, hurrying away from
the enthusiastic praise of his audience, and walking quickly back
to his lodgings, where he spent the remainder of the day. Some men
dropped in to see him, but either they were hurried, or they found him
unamusing, for they presently went away, and at twilight he was left
alone.

More than once, he had gone to look out on the opposite house, but
the dull, gray front of that dismal structure was unsuggestive of the
least hint of its radiant young inmate. When the lamps were lighted, at
last, and the curtains drawn, and the servant, having attended to his
comfort, had left him quite alone for the evening, he opened his piano
and began to play. It must have been for hours that he sat there, with
no music before him, playing on and on, thinking, thinking, thinking
to those beautiful strains.

Of course, he did not fancy anything so absurd as that he was in love
with this young girl, whose face and nearness so possessed him; that
was out of the question. But what he did feel was that a quality in her
face had roused to new being a certain ideal which had once held him,
and which in recent years had been losing its hold.

Randall had an ardent and romantic nature, subdued by circumstance
and rearing into conventional conformity. The passion of his life
was music, and although he was a more or less earnest and successful
lawyer, the hearing of good music and the cultivation of his own
musical gift was the strongest interest of his life. His friends
wondered that he had not married, and, to tell the truth, he wondered
at that fact as much as they. If they were ignorant of his reason
though, he, himself, was not. He knew well that it was because he had,
so far in life, met no woman whose nature and personality made the
appeal to him, and satisfied the desire of his soul, in the way that
music appealed to and satisfied him, and what he wondered at was, that
in all his wide acquaintance he had never seen this woman. He had grown
tired of looking for her, at last, and had even deliberately considered
the advisability of marrying a person who would have compelled a
lowering of his ideal. A real, definite woman had been considered in
this light, a woman with beauty, good breeding, position, and money,
whom he thought he might win; but this woman not only was not musical
herself, but she contradicted the ideal which seemed to go hand in hand
with music in his soul.

No, certainly he was not in love with this opposite neighbor of his,
but the remarkable effect which she had had upon him was to rouse in
him the belief of the possibility of realizing this vanished ideal.
There was something in her that seemed to tell him that what he had
dreamed of might still be. It was her face only that had done this. He
had not seen the outline of her figure, for that had been concealed by
a long black cloak, that was loose from neck to hem. And even more than
this, he had not heard her voice. Randall had always conceived that
his ideal woman would sing, though that was not a necessity with him,
but he was so susceptible to the influence of sound that a coarse, or
nasal, or discordant voice, even in speaking, would have killed the
most fiery love that charm or beauty could arouse. He suddenly felt a
great desire to know if this exquisite girl could sing, or to hear her
speak. It was not so much an emotional stirring of love which she had
aroused in him, as a sort of spirit of intellectual investigation. He
knew that she had a face that might belong to his ideal woman, and he
wondered if her voice would carry out the idea.

These thoughts absorbed him, while he was playing, and he began to
imagine plans by which he might hear her speak or sing. He could think
of nothing, except to follow her to church some Sunday, and get a seat
near her in the hope that she might join in the hymns, but the girl
evidently went out alone and unprotected, and he could not quite get
his consent to following and watching her.

Well, whoever she was, and whatever her nature and qualities, she
had certainly managed to make a greater impression on the not very
susceptible mind of Mr. Edward Randall, than that mind had received for
many a long day. He went to sleep that night with a sense of newness
and strangeness upon him, and he waked next morning with a distinct
impression that some important change had come into his life. When he
remembered what it was he smiled at himself; but all the same, the
impression remained.

For several days Randall watched the house opposite, in the hope of
seeing again this charming girl; but it was in vain. Other people came
and went, for the house was evidently let out to lodgers, but they were
of the most uninteresting of the lodging-house class; indeed, as a
rule, they were such people as it irked him to think of as living under
the same roof with the lovely girl.

One afternoon, however, as he was going out he saw coming down the
steps opposite a tall, slight figure in a long, black cloak, which he
recognized at once, though this time the face was carefully veiled
before coming into the street. This fact seemed a little singular, as
it was getting on toward twilight of a mild spring day. He kept the
tall figure well in sight, as he happened to be going the same way, and
even crossed the street that he might observe her more directly. This
fact put a wide space between them which even his rapid walking did
not soon decrease, as the woman’s figure moved very swiftly, and as if
with some definite and important object. When she came at last to one
of the small public parks that relieved the sense of dense habitation
of that part of the great city, Randall observed ahead of her a little
gathering of people, mostly children, who had collected around an
object which he at once recognized.

A cart and horse were drawn up to the sidewalk, and in this light
wagon was a small, upright piano. The instrument was open, and a man
with a small black mask concealing that part of the face which was
not hidden by a black beard, sat on the stool before it, waiting.
Randall had seen this sort of thing in London, but it was new to him
here. It had no interest for him, however, and he would not have given
the thing another thought had not the woman’s figure, which he was
watching, crossed directly over to this cart and the man before the
piano recognized her with a gesture of satisfaction. He further saw her
go straight to the side of the cart, where she paused a moment to take
off her veil, revealing the fact that she was masked, also. A close
covering of black satin hid the upper part of her face, and a frill of
black lace concealed the mouth and chin. The disguise was absolute, and
he could have formed no idea of the appearance of the woman, had it not
been for the vivid image stamped upon his memory.

He felt a sense of shock at seeing her placed in such a position--a
girl with a face like that, a common street singer! True, the face was
hidden from view, but that air of concealment and mystery made it seem
almost worse. He rebelled, evidently, too, against the thought of the
man with his shabby clothes and unkempt beard. He had half a mind to
turn and fly, but if she was going to sing he must hear her voice. If
it should not match her face, he would be bitterly disappointed--but
if, on the other hand, it should, how could he bear her being in such a
situation as the present one?

As he saw the tall, slight figure mount into the cart, Randall felt
so really agitated over the issue ahead of him, that he sank upon one
of the benches in the square and waited with intense interest for the
music to begin. Some chords were struck upon the piano, introducing a
brief prelude, which the masked man executed in a way that proved him,
to Randall’s cultivated ear, to be a well-trained pianist. But while
the young man recognized this fact, he looked only at the woman. She
wore above her mask a hat with a little brim, under which her hair was
all concealed, and between this and the shape of the mask, which was so
made as to stand a little out from the upper part of the face, he could
not catch even a glimpse of her eyes. Randall had a swift mental vision
of the loveliness, pureness, ideality of that hidden face, that stirred
his heart with a vague sweetness, when suddenly upon this tender mood
there fell a sound which made a discord in the harmony.

It was a woman’s voice, singing a popular air in a manner so finished
and correct that the method of it startled him with surprise and
appreciation, even while the voice itself repelled him. He listened
intently to every note. What was the matter with this voice? It was
that of a thoroughly trained and practiced singer, and yet it seemed as
if, in some way, it had been hurt. The low notes were hard and husky,
the high notes were thin and weak. All of this might be accounted for
by some disastrous illness or throat trouble, but even while he made
this allowance, there was something in the quality, or character, or
individuality of the voice, itself, even when singing the middle notes,
which caused no strain, that stung the man who listened with a sharp
pang of disappointment--a certain quality of hardness, even commonness,
which was the direct contradiction of that fair and sensitive young
face.

The selection ended, and Randall, drawing a deep breath, roused himself
and looked around upon the crowd which had gathered. They were a
motley throng, composed of children, nurses, tramps, policemen, and
aimless idlers of various classes. When Randall remembered the girl’s
face, his heart resented them all violently; when he thought of her
voice, the tones of which still lingered in his ear, he did not care!

But the voice was beginning again, and again he turned and listened.
This time it was Schubert’s serenade that she sang, and her technique
seemed to him absolutely perfect. Her voice, however, was colder,
poorer, more expressionless than before, and he rose as it ended, with
an impatient desire to get away. He could have stood any fault of
method, had the voice itself been beautiful and sympathetic, but the
voice distinctly antagonized him. Before he had moved from his place,
however, he saw the woman getting out of the cart with a little basket
in her hand, and he remembered that he was supposed to pay for the
feast of which he had just partaken. He sat down again, and waited for
her to come to him.

As she drew nearer, and he heard the small coins clinking lightly in
the basket, a feeling of what was almost disgust took possession of
him. He saw looks of bold curiosity turned upon her from every side.
He even heard certain comments, which, when he thought of the face
upturned to the sky that Sunday morning, made him hot with indignation.
When he recalled the voice, however, he was able to control himself.

As the singer approached him, he saw that her eyes, of which he sought
eagerly to catch a glimpse, were uniformly cast down, so that even when
the light fell so as to enable him to penetrate the shadows of the
mask, he saw only a pair of lowered lids.

An idea struck him, and as she came toward him he took a silver dollar
from his pocket and dropped it into the basket. He hoped that the
unusual size of the coin might cause her to look up, but it did not.
She made a little gesture of acknowledgment, as she had done for the
pennies and dimes already received, and walked swiftly on. Even the
hand that held the basket was covered by a thick glove, which revealed
nothing of its shape or character.

As she remounted to her place, handing the basket over to the man,
who poured the contents into his pocket, Randall walked away. His
pace quickened suddenly, as he heard behind him the voice that had
so repelled him, singing with that beautiful method, which compelled
admiration in spite of himself, the words and music of “After the Ball.”

The effect of this experience upon Randall was to make him resolve to
put his opposite neighbor completely out of his head, a thing he might
have accomplished, but for a circumstance which occurred the very next
morning.

The day was very mild and beautiful, and his front windows had been
left wide open by the maid who had done up his room. Randall went to
one of them, and stood with the lace curtains shoved aside by his
elbows, his hands resting lightly in his pockets. The people over the
way seemed to be making the most of the spring sunshine also, for
the windows were open all along, and in some cases, even the doors.
The streets, still damp from yesterday’s rainfall, were sending up a
faint steam under the warm sunshine, and there seemed to be a perfect
epidemic of pavement cleaning in progress. Servant maids with hose or
brooms were working away vigorously, and the fresh young green on the
budding branches rose above all this, as if the toilets of the trees
had been completed before those of the pavements were begun.

Randall had determined to forget his neighbor with the beautiful face
and unbeautiful voice, and in order that he might emphasize this
resolution, he looked hard at the door of her house, which happened to
be one of those that stood open.

He could not penetrate far into the dark chasm of a hall which the
opening revealed, but as he looked, out of the darkness there sprang a
jet black object, which, as it bounded into the street, he saw to be
a rather large black kitten. He knew from its precipitous rush that
someone must be after it, and the someone proved to be the beautiful
young girl.

If she had been beautiful before, with her long dark cloak and the
severe little hat that hid both her head and her hair, what was she
now, in a fresh pink cotton gown that revealed every curve of her
slight and exquisite young figure, and her lovely face, surmounted by a
rippling mass of bright gold-brown hair.

As Randall looked down on her through the budding green of the trees,
she seemed of a piece with them, as if she might be the bloom that
was the consummation of all their verdant leafage. Instinctively, he
stepped back behind the curtains, and concealing himself, carefully
watched the scene that followed. The black kitten, evidently used to
games of romps with its mistress, had scudded wildly down the steps
and scrambled up into the veranda of the next house, where it sat
complacently on the railing, to see what was to follow. The girl, with
a look that was a compound of desperation and amusement, sat down on
the steps, with the evident intention of coaxing the kitten to come to
her.

“Minnie, Minnie, Minnie!” she said enticingly, holding out a lovely
hand and making little curling gestures with the delicate fingers.
At the sound of her voice, raised a little high, so as to reach the
kitten, Randall started and caught his breath. It was musical, clear,
refined, harmonious, the very complement of her face and figure! He had
heard of such things, where some serious illness or injury had ruined
a voice for singing, but left its speaking quality untouched! Oh,
why should she ever sing, he thought! And why should he ever have had
the misfortune to hear her? All the time that he was thinking these
thoughts, that vision of youthful loveliness was there before his eyes.

Her figure was charming, as she sat on the doorstep and continued to
coax the kitten, in that beautiful voice of appeal; but it was more
than charming, it was adorable, as she rose to her feet and, with
stealthy motions of consummate grace, began to creep toward the kitten,
which sat, with a wary pretense of unconsciousness, perched upon the
railing. At last, when she was very near, and the kitten as still as
a statue, she darted forward and had almost seized it, when with the
agility of a squirrel, the little black creature, with one mad rush,
sprang to the pavement, flew across the street, and scrambling up the
rough trunk of an old wistaria vine, in a flutter of fun and excitement
darted through the open window, and jumped into Randall’s room.

In an instant he captured it, and running down stairs and out of the
front door bareheaded, he swiftly crossed the muddy street to the
detriment of his patent leather boots, and gave the kitten into the
hands of its young mistress, who stood spellbound on the pavement, in
startled wonderment at this sudden prank of her pet.

It was a quiet street, and there was no one in sight except, at a
little distance, the servants, who were so busy with their swishing and
sweeping that apparently they had not observed the little scene.

Randall, as he stood there, in the sweet spring sunshine, face to face
with this creature of his dreams and thoughts, took in every detail
of her blooming loveliness, more rich than ever now, by reason of a
brilliant blush which had come into her face. As she received the
kitten from his hands she said a demure, “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_,” he answered, “for the opportunity of seeing such a feat.
You could match your kitten with a squirrel, any day, and I’m afraid
your chance of holding on to it, in a city, is very small.”

“O, I never let him get out!” she said with sudden anxiety. “He fooled
me this time, but he shall not do it again,” and as she spoke she gave
the offender a sharp little slap, which so excited it, that with a
sudden wrench it sprang from her arms and bounded away, she and Randall
following in mad pursuit. Randall had once done notable running in a
football team at college, and in the frantic spurt with which he darted
after the kitten, his old training told, and he quickly overtook and
captured it. When he turned and faced the kitten’s mistress, both of
them were flushed and laughing, and rather breathless.

“Oh, how kind you are! Oh, you little brute!” the girl exclaimed,
addressing the man and the kitten in one breath. As she held out her
hands to take the struggling creature from him, he drew it back.

“No, I will take him as far as the door for you,” he said. “He’s not in
the least to be trusted, and would be off and away now, if he could.
Poor little beast! I fancy it’s hard to be shut up in a close house all
the time, and the chance of escape was too much.”

“Yes, he misses the country so, and so do I! I ought to have pity on
Tommy, for I’d run from the city, too, if I could, and if I saw an open
door.”

They had reached the house now, and mounted the steps, side by side. He
made her go inside and close the door, leaving just enough space for
him to hand the wriggling Tommy through. As the little black object
passed from his hands to hers, she looked up at him out of the gloom
within, and said a fervent, “Thank you.” Her glance was frank and
simple as a child’s, but, all the same, it sent him back across the
street with a heart whose quick thumping was not wholly due to the
rather violent exercise which he had had.

Randall returned to the meditations of his own room more puzzled than
ever; and if his interest in the girl of whom he had simply had a
glimpse from afar, had been great before, what was it now that he had
seen, in the glaring sunlight, only a pace or two away from him, the
exquisite perfection of her loveliness, and had heard the refined and
educated utterance of a voice which lingered in his ear as one of the
very sweetest to which he had ever listened? Then, too, her impetuously
expressed longing for the country, and hatred of the city, seemed a
strange note to be struck by this being, whom with his own eyes he
had seen as a common street musician, truckling to the vulgar taste
of a crowd of loafers, and holding out her hands to receive their
dirty pennies. As he recalled the scene, the memory of that strident,
ineffectual, hard, discordant voice came to him, and he found himself
in a state of tempestuous protest against the whole thing. How could
that fair, idyllic girl descend to the playing of such a part, and how
could such singing go with such a face and figure? He had looked in
vain for any signs of illness which might account for it. She seemed
the emblem of eternal youth and health. Then came the memory of that
look that she had flashed upon him from the gloom, and brought with it
certain thoughts and aspirations, which had not been stirred within him
for long and saddened years.

The Sunday after the episode with the kitten, Randall came out of his
lodgings at a little before eleven o’clock, and saw across the street,
just ahead of him, the well-known figure in the long black cloak, with
the close veil around the face. He had watched the opposite house for
days, but had not caught a glimpse of this figure. Other lodgers came
and went (for the house seemed a crowded one), but not the one he
sought. He had started out rather aimlessly this morning, and he saw
no reason why, in taking his airing, he should not keep the graceful
figure ahead of him in view, particularly as he, himself, could not
have been observed by her. So, for a long distance he walked after her
on the other side of the street, until at last she turned and joined
the straggling stream of people that seemed setting toward a small new
church--one of the little mission places so common now in our great
cities. Randall quoted to himself the lines:

  “She went to a cheap, cheap church
   That stood in a back, back street,”

and smiled at the thought of the new complicatedness of the aspect of
things. And when she joined the crowd and entered, a sudden wish to go
to church himself came over him, and he saw no reason why he should
not indulge it. He did so accordingly, and being told that the seats
were all free, he presently found himself placed a little behind the
young girl, so that he could have a distinct view of her profile during
the entire service. He was secure in the consciousness that he had
not been observed, and his presence, therefore, could cause her no
annoyance. He watched her furtively as she sank upon her knees, burying
her veiled face in two exquisite little shabbily-gloved hands, and
remained for some moments in silent prayer. What a wretch of a creature
he suddenly felt himself to be, and what a yearning he had to ask her
to pray for him!

When she got up presently and took her seat, his heart quickened to see
her raise her hand to unfasten her veil. How odd it appeared that no
one else seemed to be noticing or caring! The congregation was composed
chiefly of people with stolid faces and rather dull expressions,
and Randall was further surprised to see that no one manifested any
interest when this beautiful young face was exposed to view. He had
occasion, however, to congratulate himself upon this indifference,
since it extended to himself, as well, and left him free to look toward
his lovely neighbor very often. He had to admit that she was as
unconscious of the rest of the congregation as he, though no one else
that he could see betrayed such absorbed consciousness of the effect
of the service. It was a high-church service, and this young girl went
through all the rather elaborate forms with an intense devotion and
absorption, that for some unknown reason almost made him feel resentful.

The more Randall looked at her, the more lovely and lovable did she
appear. It was quite, quite the most beautiful face that he had ever
seen, he decided, and his heart was somehow more attuned to worship
to-day than he had felt it for many a year.

At last, a hymn was given out, and the congregation rose. Randall
jumped up rather suddenly with a positive instinct of flight. He did
not want to hear her sing. He could not bear to stand so near and see
those most lovely lips part and send forth such a voice as he knew,
alas, must issue from them! But while he hesitated, the music began,
and the sweet lips remained closed and immovable, except for a little
tremor which he fancied he saw, as the girl’s eyes followed the words
in her book.

When the hymn ended, and the congregation knelt, he saw the young girl
hide her face in her handkerchief for a moment, and then, quickly take
up her thick veil and pin it on securely.

He let her go ahead of him on leaving the church, as he did not wish
to be observed. He did not follow her home, however, but went instead
to the club, and joined a group of chattering men in a bay-window,
and listened for half an hour to their vapid comments on the
smartly-dressed men and women who went by, feeling all the time a dull
ache in his heart for that sensitive, lonely, probably unhappy girl,
whose loveliness, even in her shabby clothes in that little mission
chapel, made the most fashionable of the women who passed him seem
trivial and vulgar by comparison.

For several days, Randall carried this lovely vision in his mind, until
one afternoon, in a populous business neighborhood, he came suddenly
upon a group of people assembled around the familiar horse and cart and
the pair of musicians. He wanted to retreat, but he forced himself to
stop and join the crowd, wondering what effect his presence would have
upon her, if she should see and recognize him. So he took his place
conspicuously, and listened with indignant protest as she sang, in
popular style, with a vulgar abandon that made him positively furious,
the familiar strains of “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!”

The voice was grating and unlovely as before, but again he felt amazed
at the marvelous method of the singer, and the spirit with which she
gave the song called forth an encore, after which she got out of
the cart and passed around the basket. When she came to Randall, he
purposely fumbled several seconds with his change, hoping that she
might look up at him, but when she persistently looked down, he fancied
that if she saw him, she was ashamed to reveal herself to him. Well she
might be, he thought, and tossing some loose coins into the basket,
he was about to walk away, when he heard a man standing near say some
words to the woman as she held out her basket to him, which roused
such fury in Randall’s soul, that before the insult had died upon the
fellow’s lips, he found himself seized by the shoulders, and hurled
aside with a blow from so powerful an arm that it sent him staggering
against a tree. At the same instant, Randall saw the woman, with a
movement of fright, run swiftly toward the cart. Before she reached
the cart, however, the man at the piano had sprung from his place, and
had rushed after the fellow whose words had caused the disturbance,
but who, warned by the punishment which he had already received, had
made the best use of his time and had escaped. Seeing this, the pianist
turned and, coming toward Randall, said in a voice of controlled
agitation, “I am very much obliged to you, sir, for what you did.”

Randall, who was in a state of disgust at the whole performance, waved
aside the man’s thanks, and rapidly walked away.

During the weeks that followed, Randall was a prey to conflicting
impressions, that kept him in a continual state of excitement and
restlessness. He had got up an interest in the working of the mission
chapel, and the evident help which it gave to those poor working
people, and it pleased him to find a really satisfactory object for
the expenditure of some of his spare cash, so he went to church every
Sunday there, and contributed liberally to the work. He did not deceive
himself as to the prime object of his attendance. He knew it was
because his beautiful neighbor went there, but his interest in the
work was sincere. He had more than once encountered the young girl in
coming and going from the church, and upon these occasions it was his
habit to lift his hat and to bow respectfully, just as it was her habit
to return this greeting by a brilliant and beautifying blush. It made
her adorably lovely, and as she now habitually removed her veil before
entering the church, and did not replace it until after leaving, he had
the full benefit of it. If he chanced to meet her on the street away
from the church, she was always closely veiled, but usually he managed
to bow to her, as she was entering or leaving.

But if the experiences of his Sundays gave him pleasure, it was more
than counterbalanced by the pain he felt in the experiences of his
week days. Try as he might to avoid the humiliating spectacle (and he
did make a great effort) he was liable at any turn to run against that
rusty cart, sleepy old pony, and the pair of musicians. He had had a
sort of hope that the experience with the brute who had insulted the
girl would stop these performances for the future, but he found that
they went on just the same as ever. He could only conclude from this,
that the man who performed with her was oblivious of, or indifferent
to, her need of protection.

Randall did not always sit near her in church. Sometimes he even forced
himself to take a seat where he could not look at her at all, but it
was something to him to feel her nearness. One Sunday, however, he
thought he had won the right to treat himself to an unusual indulgence
of proximity, so on entering the church, after she had taken her usual
place, he quietly walked into the seat on a line with her, and took
his place near the end, where he was only separated from her by the
partition dividing the pews. Never in his life had his manner been
more quiet and composed, than as he sat there, profoundly still, with
his eyes fixed attentively upon the preacher. He knew that she had
recognized him, and he was perfectly confident that she blushed, but
no one observing him would have seen in his manner anything but the
coldest composure. It was, none the less, a very sweet consciousness to
sit there quietly, close by her side, and he half fancied it was also
pleasure to her. During the sermon he was acutely aware of her, and of
every slightest movement that she had made in shifting her position, or
moving her feet upon the footstool. And once, only once, he heard her
breathe a little sigh, the sound of which stirred him to tenderness.

After the sermon the hymn was given out, and it proved to be the one
that had been sung on the occasion of his first coming here. When
the young girl rose with the open book in her hand, she observed
that he had no book, and with a movement at once frank and timid she
offered him hers, glancing up at him as she did so. He shook his head,
declining to deprive her of it, but at the same time he caught hold
of its extreme corner nearest him and continued to hold it so, until
she saw his meaning, and took hold of the opposite corner. Then in a
carefully modulated and sympathetic voice, which had great sweetness
and charm without remarkable power, he began to sing. Admiring women
had been touched by his voice before to-day, and it was no wonder if
it touched with power the woman standing at his side. He hoped it did,
at least, but he could divine nothing, as her little shabby thumb
supported the book unwaveringly until the hymn was ended.

Walking homeward that day, Randall looked his present condition in the
face more boldly and honestly than he had ever done before, and the
result of it was that he owned that he was in love.

Having made this acknowledgment to himself, that he was really in
love, he faced the possible consequences squarely also, and he came to
the conclusion that his only safety was in flight. As for marrying a
street singer, whom he had seen insulted by a common rough, and who had
a voice as rasping to him as a peacock’s, he might be more or less of a
fool in his love of having his own way, but he was not such a fool as
that!

The contradicting facts, that she was as beautiful as a dream, and had,
as he believed, a nature both exalted and refined--did not by any means
seem to him a sufficient compensation, and he made up his mind to go
abroad for several months, and to come back with this little episode
quite eradicated from his mind.

He carried out his plan so far as the trip was concerned, and even as
to its results he felt that he had been fairly successful. Certainly
the absurdity of having fallen in love with a street singer with an
abominable voice was sufficiently clear to him, and change of scene and
absence had done their work in weakening the spell which this girl had
laid upon him. In spite of all this, however, he was not sufficiently
self-secure to run any risks. He would not have dared to go to church,
and he had made up his mind to look out for new lodgings immediately,
and until these should be secured, not to go to the front windows.

These resolutions he religiously kept. He had taken no vow, however,
not to look toward the opposite house in going up and down the street,
and this he always did, half hoping and half fearing to see that lovely
vision in rose-color, who still remained the most beautiful picture in
the world to his mind. He never caught a glimpse of her, however, and
so far had seen and heard nothing of the street singers, a thing which,
of course, might be accounted for by the fact that the cool weather of
autumn had set in, and there was no chance of drawing a crowd in the
streets to listen to singing of that sort.

During his trip abroad Randall had given himself a perfect feast of
music. Convinced more strongly than ever that “love’s young dream” was
not for him, he was determined to make the most of the next best thing,
and to fill his soul with music. To lose the opportunities which Europe
offered him for this had been his greatest regret in coming home, and
after indulgence in the very richest forms of musical delight he felt
more or less impatient of the concerts and recitals of which he read in
the columns of the home newspapers.

One afternoon at his club, he heard some men discussing a concert which
was to take place that evening, and they suggested to him to go. It
seemed that Mensenn, a well-known manager, had discovered a wonderful
new voice, possessed by a young girl living in the city. Only the name
of Mensenn would have drawn Randall into a thing like this, and even
with that important recommendation of the new singer he felt dubious
and half-reluctant, but that evening, having nothing better to do,
and having within him a great thirst for music, he went to the great
concert hall to see what he could do, to satisfy it.

It was rather a surprise to him that Mensenn had ventured on the
biggest hall in the city for the launching of this _débutante_ and yet
he reflected that Mensenn was a man who generally knew what he was
about.

Randall was a somewhat erratic and unaccountable fellow, careful and
economical about money on certain lines, and recklessly prodigal in
others. Where the indulgence of his love for music was concerned, he
never counted it, and this evening, after reading the programme and
seeing several favorites among the selections, he felt inclined to do
his very utmost to get pleasure out of this concert by hearing it under
the best conditions that he could secure. The chief of these was either
sympathetic companionship, or solitude, and as he could not command the
first, he would the latter, so he got a small curtained box in good
sight and sound of the stage, and took his place in it alone.

The concert opened with a very good performance of violin and
violoncello, with piano accompaniment. The players were not great
artists, but Randall got enough out of it to stir the deep, emotional
feelings within, that made him simply yearn and hunger for more--more
music and sweeter, more life and fuller! The next performance was to
introduce the new singer, Miss Bianca May.

He sat quite screened from view behind his curtain, and waited with
mingled hope and doubting for her to come out. And now she appeared,
Mensenn leading her. She was tall, she was dressed in white, she was
supremely beautiful. His heart gave a great leap; the blood seemed to
surge forward in his veins, and then to rush back in a way that gave
him a sense of suffocation. She was walking forward with a step and a
carriage that he recognized. She was looking around the house with
great, pure, innocent and timid eyes that he had looked into before!
She was his opposite neighbor--Tommy’s little mistress!

Her beauty was positively enthralling, but oh, her voice! At the
thought of that, he turned cold with dread, and then hot with angry
protest. What _did_ Mensenn mean? How _could_ he let her adorn her
loveliness like this, to be led as a victim to the sacrifice? He knew
the character of the audience assembled, and he knew that they were
not people to be inveigled into the toleration of such a voice by mere
beauty. The very fact that she had such a beautiful and correct method
would make the thing all the more an insult to their intelligence.
He was almost beside himself with anger and mortification. He longed
passionately to rush upon the stage and drag her away, and to hide her
beautiful, unconscious face against his heart, before she had come to
feel the contempt and indignation which the audience, now spellbound
by her beauty, would very soon have ready for her.

Across the wild confusion of these frantic, angry thoughts a sound
fell, a sound so sweet, so powerful, so exquisite, that it was like the
voice of peace, speaking with a strong, commanding influence to his
soul. It was a voice that satisfied, for the first time in his life,
the utmost ideal of Randall’s soul! Not only was it the perfect method
that he knew, but the voice, itself, was so gloriously exquisite, so
fine, so clear, so passionately sweet, that his soul was wrapt in
ecstacy. It was almost too cruelly sweet. Randall shuddered, and, when
the song ended, he dropped his face in his hands and gave a sort of sob.

Then there came from the audience an absolute storm of applause. So
tempestuous and excited was it, that the girl was evidently divided
between pleasure and fright, and when Mensenn came to her and led her
from the stage, she was so visibly shaken that she could not, at once,
respond to the encore. It seemed to Randall cruel--it made him madly
indignant that they should make this demand upon her, and while the
clapping and calling was at its height, he left his box, and made his
way into the street.

For an hour or more he walked about trying to secure some degree of
calmness, and to solve this inscrutable mystery. What was the secret
of this miraculous change of voice? Had it all been a clever imitation
of inferiority and discordant sound that she had practiced behind her
mask? How could it be possible to so disguise the voice of a lark or of
an angel such as this? And what could have been the object? Whatever it
was, the creature who had long ago won his love, and who had now by the
possession of this voice deepened that love to adoration, was the woman
he must have for his wife, if work of man and prayers to heaven could
accomplish it! The fact that she had been a masked street singer, the
uncertain quantity of her relation toward the man who had played with
her in that character,--all these things vanished, and Randall was
possessed by the headlong wish, which dominated everything else, of
getting access to her immediately, and begging her to become his wife.

He made his way back at last to the concert hall, and found the
audience just dispersing. He had not wished to hear her sing again; he
felt that it would be more than he could bear, but he had a definite
purpose in view as he made his way to the rear of the stage. Here he
met several men whom he knew, coming away.

“It’s no use, my boy!” said one of these. “Old Mensenn is immovable.
He not only will not introduce us, but he refuses, for the present, to
answer any questions. Perhaps he’s wise, for after such an ovation as
this, if she showed up, she’d run the risk of being eaten alive. The
women are as mad over her as the men.” Randall hurried on, however, and
catching sight of the well-known face of old Mensenn, approached him
with a certain confidence. The man had known him long, and, as Randall
hoped, in a way that had made him trust him. Every effort which he made
was perfectly useless, however. It was evident that no exception to his
decision was to be made.

Randall was turning away half-resentfully when a man, small and
unremarkable in appearance, came from a long, dark passage and, seeing
him, stopped a second, and then, as if recognizing him, approached
rapidly and said:

“You do not know me, but you rendered me and mine a service once, which
I can never forget. You are the man who punished the brute who offered
an insult to the being dearest to me in the world. I saw you from
behind my mask, and have often wished that I could thank you properly
for what you did. Will you call to see me to-morrow afternoon at four,
and let me introduce you to my daughter that she may thank you, too?”
And while Randall stood astonished and delighted, the man gave the
address of the house opposite his own, and then walked away.

Randall, on his way home, felt, in spite of his joy at this stroke of
fortune, as puzzled and confused in mind as ever. It was an untold
relief to learn that the man with whom the woman he loved had sung in
the public streets was her father, but oh, how could he have let her do
it? What sort of a father could he be? And yet his somewhat pathetic
face had beamed with tenderness during the few seconds in which he had
spoken to him. Well, one great burden had been rolled away from his
heart by the discovery of this relationship between the street singer
and her companion; another had gone with the discovery that that awful
sound of discord was not her natural voice; and the one that still
remained, the fact that she had been a masked street singer, lay heavy
on his heart still, but contrasted with the love he had for this woman,
that burden he was more than ready to carry.

The next afternoon at precisely four, he rang at the door of the
opposite house, and asked for Mr. May. The servant led him up several
flights of stairs to the very top of the house, and then along a
dark passage leading to the back building, and here she knocked at a
door, and then turned and left him. A man’s voice called “Come in!”
and Randall opened the door and saw his new acquaintance sitting at a
table writing, and at his side his old acquaintance seated on a low
chair engaged in stroking Tommy, who was greatly grown. He did not
see the kitten at first, because of the fact that the young girl was
dressed in deep, intense black, which swathed her to her throat and
wrists. It made the brilliant loveliness of her face, however, all
the more startling, as she rose to her feet, still holding Tommy, and
recognized him with her usual tribute of a rosy blush. His appearance
was evidently a surprise to her, though it soon became evident that her
father had prepared her for the reception of a stranger, and had told
her to what cause the visit was due.

The father, himself, a somewhat feeble and timid man, explained that
they were in the shadow of a recent bereavement, his wife, and the
girl’s mother, having died only a month or so ago. He alluded to it in
a low and sorrowful voice, and ended with the words:

“You can understand, therefore, all the more, why I should have wished
for the opportunity of thanking you for resenting the affront that
was offered to her, by that brute, when she was exposing herself,
for the sake of our child, to the dangers which such a position made
inevitable. It was all that our dear daughter might be nurtured in
refined and wholesome conditions, for the preservation of her health
and her innocence, and the development of her voice, which has
fulfilled, at last, all our hopes concerning it, when the dear mother,
who so passionately loved her has passed beyond the knowledge of it.”

“Don’t say so, Father,” said the young girl, gently. “I felt her very
near to me, last night. It was that thought which kept me up and
enabled me to sing my best.”

As she spoke, she drew a little nearer to him, and putting Tommy on
the floor, she took her father’s hand in hers and held it, while he
talked to their visitor, and told his story, in a simple, frank,
unworldly way that very soon put Randall in possession of the whole
situation. It was made very clear to him that the mother had been the
master spirit of this trio, and that this mild and ineffectual little
man was very helpless without her. His lack of worldly prudence showed
plainly enough in the fact that he took this stranger so fully into his
confidence on the sole ground that he had once defended his dead wife
from an insult. The girl, herself, too, seemed to find nothing strange
in the situation, as she sat by and listened to her father’s recital of
his wife’s labor of love and sacrifices.

She had once possessed a superb voice, herself, it seemed, and had
received the most perfect and thorough training in a great European
_conservatoire_, being herself an Italian, but before she had sung in
public at all, a severe attack of throat trouble had ruined her voice
forever, and she had come to America to give lessons, and in a southern
town had met and married her husband. Then had begun a long life of
vicissitudes of various kinds, culminating in the street-singing
performances, a necessity to which they had been reduced, at last, by
positive want. In this way she had eked out the little that she could
make by taking pupils at a small price, and by the little jobs of
writing and bookkeeping which the man himself could get, until the time
should be ripe for her daughter’s _début_.

All this was told to Randall with the utmost simplicity, and Bianca,
herself, sitting by, seemed pleased that he should know it. When at
last he rose to go, it was like the parting of friends, and he asked
and received permission to come again. He longed almost intolerably to
ask her now, to-day, to be his wife, and he chafed under the necessity
of delay.

And the delay, in point of fact, was not very long. When hearts are
young and trusting, why should it be? And Bianca had had an instinct of
blind trust in him from the first. He got Mensenn to say a good word
for him; he cultivated the father and took pains to make him acquainted
with the details of his life, position and circumstances; and then, at
last, he felt that he had only Bianca’s consent to win.

How would she answer him? How did she feel toward him? He asked himself
these questions with agitated hope and fear. Her very friendliness and
frankness half frightened him at times.

One afternoon when he went to call, as he did almost daily now, he
found Bianca in the little sitting-room alone. It was the first time
it had happened so, and she explained her father’s absence, and that
he might be in at any moment. The situation was a little constrained
for her, and Randall saw it, and to reassure her he asked her to sing.
She had done this frequently before, but always with her father to
play her accompaniments. He volunteered to do this now, himself, and
sitting down to the piano he struck the opening chords of the song he
had first heard her sing. The song which had been the consummation of
her revelation to him. She began to sing it. They were alone together.
The song was more than speech. He turned his head and looked upward at
her. His look agitated her, and her voice faltered. At this he smiled,
and the voice grew more unsteady. Then suddenly he stopped playing, and
without the support of the accompaniment, she broke down utterly.

But the hands that were lifted from the keys suddenly took both of
hers in an imperious grasp. The gaze that she tried desperately to
avoid, compelled her to look at him, and after the confession of that
look she knew no more, but that she was in his arms, and was glad and
satisfied.




The Story of an Old Soul




The Story of an Old Soul


All things considered, it was not strange that Clement Rhodes should
have looked back upon his one year of marriage as a mere episode in his
experience. His had been a life of more or less excited and turbulent
episodes, all through, and perhaps that one--his marriage with an
ignorant and pretty school-girl--was now among the vaguest of all the
emotional impressions which were stamped upon his brain.

He had been nearer to fifty than forty, and a conventional type of old
beau, when he had chanced to be thrown familiarly into the society of
this young girl. Young girls were somewhat rare in his experience,
for the reason that all such who had any one to look out for them,
were protected from the dangers of anything more than a very casual
acquaintance with him. He was permitted to take them in to dinner, to
dance with them, or to pay them any passing attention when they were
fully chaperoned, but there the line was drawn.

It was an unusual experience for him, therefore, when, during a
visit to some friends in the country, he found himself frequently
_tête-à-tête_ with a girl of eighteen, who had as little idea of
protecting herself from a man like him, as her hostess had of
protecting her. The fact was that this hostess had frankly declared to
him her wish that he should marry this girl, saying that she was both
too poor and too pretty to look out for herself.

The idea, when first presented to Rhodes, seemed absurd in the extreme,
for he was poor also, and lived in a hand-to-mouth fashion, which
he had known better than to ask any woman to share. He had never
entertained the possibility of marrying any but a rich woman, and
now, as he had grown older, and his shiftless habits were more fixed
upon him, he had begun to realize that his chance of doing this was
very small. The idea of marrying a penniless girl, however, was more
preposterous still, and it was therefore a great surprise to him when
he found himself committed to this marriage.

It had come about simply enough. He was a thoroughly initiated old
flirt, and when he had tried some of his wiles upon this _ingénue_, and
she had responded by an innocent revelation of her love for him, there
proved to be one note in him sufficiently finely attuned to compel
him to act honorably by this young girl who had trusted him. Without
stopping to consider how it would hamper him for the future, he married
her, and took her to as comfortable a little set of rooms as he could
manage to secure.

He was in love with her, of course. Falling in love was one of the
most facile of feats to Rhodes, and falling out was about as easy.
Heretofore, dancers and comic-opera singers had been the most frequent
objects of his worn-out affections, and the present contrast to all
this had undoubtedly something piquant in it.

After a few months, however, the prosaic demands of the monotonous home
life in the little suburban roost, where his friends never came, grew
very wearing, particularly as his wife was delicate, and indisposed
to join him in his trips to the theatres and concert-halls, which had
become a confirmed habit of his life. She did not wish to confine him
at home, however, and she insisted that he should go without her, so
that gradually he found himself slipping back into his bachelor ways.

It was very welcome to Rhodes about this time to have any means of
drowning care, for he was badgered about debts and expenses, finding it
more than he could do to keep going even that poor establishment. He
had a desultory occupation as an insurance agent, by which he picked
up a little money now and then; but younger and more industrious men
were fast pushing him aside, and his income diminished as his expenses
increased.

It was, therefore, even to his consciousness, just as well that his
young wife died. It would perhaps have been better if the baby had died
with her, and he could so have buried out of sight all reminder of that
strange and incongruous episode in his life.

But the baby, a tiny girl, did not die. She struggled through teething,
and whooping cough, and measles, and many other such attacks, in the
midst of neglect, cold, heat, hunger, and pain, and lived on, growing
into an almost preternaturally serious, wise, and thoughtful child.

There is a theory of which this father and child might be taken as
striking examples. It is to the effect that every created soul has
the same period of human life to compass, and that it exists, in
successive human incarnations, until that period is accomplished.
Sometimes, but an hour or a minute may be needed to make up the exact
sum, but the re-incarnation must necessarily be, even if for no longer
a time than that. This theory, we are told, accounts for the phenomena
of youth in age, and age in youth, which we so often see; in other
words, it explains why a very aged person is often silly and childish,
and a young child wise and matured in mind. When this occurs (so the
theory goes) the old person is in his or her first incarnation--is,
in fact, a young soul--while the child may be in his or her last
incarnation, an old soul almost ready to be liberated from humanity and
admitted to the higher life.

Whether there be truth in this theory, or not, certain it is that Clem
Rhodes had the attributes of a young soul, ignorant in mind and shallow
in feeling, while his little daughter (whom her fond mother had named
Clementina) had the mental force and depth of feeling which might well
seem to belong to an old soul.

The strangest part of it was the way in which they both seemed to
realize the truth about themselves. Although Clementina was now but
six years old, and her father was well over fifty, there could be
no question as to which of them was the guiding, ruling, dominating
spirit. Her mind was as marked for its orderliness as her father’s was
for the absence of that trait. Quite from within, she had evolved a
sentiment of horror for debt and loose dealing of every kind, and she
would sit in judgment on her father for such practices in a way, which,
however strange, he never thought of resenting. In some way never fully
accounted for, she had formed the habit of calling him “Clem,” or
“Boy,” instead of “Papa.”

Clementina was by no means beautiful--a small, thin, pale child, with
enormous dark eyes, which were so thoughtful and steady in their
expression that most people who looked at her, ever so casually, found
their attention caught and fixed, and an impression of wonder conveyed
to them.

The child’s life was almost absolutely lonely, in spite of the fact
that she had found out and entered herself as a pupil at a small free
school in the neighborhood; for she kept apart from everyone; and
although she made extraordinary progress in her lessons, she made
no friends. It was her father’s habit to be absent all day, so she
prepared her little mid-day meal, and partook of it alone.

By this time Rhodes’s flagging energies and accumulating years had
reduced him to such poverty, that his former rather comfortable set of
rooms was now diminished to one, and in this he and the child slept,
cooked, ate their meals, and lived. They had two folding-beds, which
were closed up in the daytime, and a folding-table, which was then
opened. At night, the beds were lowered into the central space of the
room, and the table folded back against the wall.

Rhodes always took his breakfast and late dinner with the child, these
meals being cooked and served by her with very little help from him.
She also did the marketing, and kept the accounts, setting down all her
figures neatly and accurately, but getting his help in adding up the
columns.

The father, of course, had a life of his own, which was as apart from
that of the child, as her long, lonely hours were apart from his. He
had dropped out of society, almost entirely, and he frequented the
theatres more than ever. Occasionally, he took the child with him; but
although she never so far relaxed her dignity as to fall asleep, she
seemed to get but little pleasure out of it, and her solemn air and
deeply thoughtful expression so grated on him, that he was glad that
she did not oftener express a wish to go.

Clementina was a strangely wakeful child, and he had never yet been
able to steal into the room, no matter at what hour of the night, or
with what degree of stealth, that she had not heard him.

“That you, Boy?” she would say, her voice sounding strangely conscious
in the stillness and darkness. Then, invariably, she would sit up in
her little bed, and strike a match and light the candle placed beside
her. Then, when at her command he would come to kiss her good-night,
she would give him that swift, searching look, which he always knew was
coming, and then, if satisfied, she would lie down and go quietly to
sleep.

As a general thing, it happened that she was satisfied, but there had
been times when it was otherwise, and those occasions Rhodes remembered
with such distinct unpleasantness, that they served him as valuable
warnings. She had never uttered any rebuke in words, but the deep,
penetrating condemnation of her concentrated gaze had made him feel,
that for that moment his life was turned inside out to her, and that
she saw him as he was.

This was all the more painful to him, because of the fact that the
child seemed to be possessed of an inherent respect for him. She
advised, and even censured him at times, it is true, but always Rhodes
had a sense of being deferred to, and it was a grateful feeling to the
heart of such a poor devil as he.

Clementina never complained of solitude, and, as a rule, she seemed to
prefer these lonely evenings, spent in studying her lessons, tidying
things up, sewing on buttons, cleaning spots from her father’s clothes,
and doing odd jobs of mending, to the alternative of going to the
theatre. Occasionally, however, she would announce that she was going
with him, and at such times he never objected.

Rhodes had now been a widower for more than six years, and these years
had been a tolerably fair copy of his bachelor days, except that he now
made his life among people of a somewhat lower grade than formerly;
for they were almost exclusively third-rate actresses, dancers,
concert-singers, etc. It was a life through which he would quickly have
sunk very low, but for one thing--the influence of Clementina. She
never preached goodness to him, nor talked religion (poor child, she
had been taught little enough of either!), and yet she continually held
him up to his better self, and dragged him back to it when he fell away.

About this time there appeared a celebrated dancer, whose services were
engaged for the entire season at the Summer-Garden concerts, and poor
old Clem, for the fortieth time, imagined that the _grande passion_ of
his life had come upon him.

Mademoiselle Tarara was not so far removed from first youth as he,
but still she was by no means young. Her matured charms, however,
were positively deadly to the troops of boys who attended these
concerts, and she soon found herself not only a financial, but a
popular success. She was fond of boys, and her intercourse with them
was far less harmful to them than it might have been. She had a great
deal of rollicking fun in her, and she could always sing better and
kick higher, when she was spurred on by the enthusiastic clapping and
shouting of her young admirers. With the single exception of Rhodes,
they were all many years her junior.

And if she was fond of the boys, she was also fond of Rhodes, for the
very reason that he was a foil for them. Life was behind him, as it was
behind her, and she often found his point of view congenial, after too
much of the boyish element.

So Rhodes was admitted to the privilege of visiting her at her own
rooms, which the boys were not, and his battered old heart was in the
seventh heaven of delight.

The people whom he met at the Tarara’s rooms were of a sort with
herself, and all of them were so easy-going and inconsequent, that it
was a pleasant reaction from the rather constraining ideal held up to
him by his child.

Poor old Clem! He had been a dreamer all his life--of the earth,
earthy, though his dreams had been--and shifting and unstable as they
were in character. The favor which the Tarara showed him now had led
him into dreams of a marriage with her, which would establish him for
life in the green-room and lime-light atmosphere which he loved, and
would give him, not only the Tarara herself, with whom he believed he
was madly in love, but also all the other things which he desired in
life. In the pursuance of these hopes, he had resolutely concealed from
her the knowledge of the fact that he had a child, believing that it
would be quite fatal to his cause.

In the evenings, when work was over, and the tiny room in perfect
order, Clementina would sit alone and think. Of what did she think
there in her little chair, so neat and self-collected, with her eyes
fixed on space, or else occasionally turned upward to the stars, of
which she could see a small bright patch out of her little window? Her
experience in this human existence had been so meagre, the avenues of
knowledge so limited, that it would almost seem reasonable to suppose
that she drew upon former experiences in some other incarnation, for
the material of that deep thinking and wise doing, which continually
occupied her.

One evening, it happened that Clem became conscious of an unusually
penetrating and scrutinizing look fixed upon him by this austere child
of his, and he imagined that it was in some occult way the result of
that investigation, which caused her to announce, suddenly,

“I’m going with you this evening, Clem.”

“Where?” he said, surprised.

“Wherever you are going.”

“I’m going to the concert,” he said; and then added, dissuadingly,
“You wouldn’t like it.”

“But I’m going,” she answered, putting away her dusting-cloth, after
having made the room as neat as usual.

He felt a certain protest and anxiety, but he never resisted her, and
so a little later they were taking their places in front of the lowered
curtain. The prices at these concerts were very small, and there was
always a good attendance, but the child and her father being early, had
secured good seats.

In spite of himself, Clem was feeling rather uncomfortable this
evening. He was not so free to indulge his admiration for the
inimitable Tarara with this discordant element beside him--and what
if his secret should be discovered? He had, moreover, the strongest
feeling that Clementina’s eyes invariably saw through the surface of
things into their souls. He was afraid for her to see the Tarara, and
still more afraid for the Tarara to see her, though, of course, if
this should happen, he need not own the relationship between them.

Clem now felt a shrinking from the thought of Clementina’s comments
on the Tarara, and he didn’t like the idea of the dancer appearing
before the child in her tinsel and tights. She always came out arrayed
thus for at least one dance, though she generally changed her costume
several times during the evening.

As Rhodes took a furtive look at the figure beside him, his sense of
discomfiture increased.

She was startlingly pale, and so slim and delicate, that he was not
surprised that the people about them looked at her with a certain pity,
of which, it was evident, she took no account. Her odd garments and
queer hat also marked her out for special notice; and when, taken in
connection with all the rest, one noted the strange penetrating gaze
of her immense dark eyes, it was not surprising, perhaps, that Rhodes
felt uncomfortable and half irritated at the position in which he found
himself.

That fixed, absorbed look on the child’s face did not change when the
performance began. It was a merry chorus which made the audience laugh
and beat time, but Clementina was unmoved. Then two men came out and
danced a clog-dance, during which her look remained the same--as if,
somehow, she saw through and beyond it all.

It was with a feeling of distinct apprehension that Rhodes now saw
Mademoiselle Tarara make her appearance. She was dressed in an Italian
peasant costume, but the skirts were shorter and the bodice lower than
necessity required. He looked at the child to see if her countenance
expressed any disapproval. To his great surprise, he saw that the
little pale face had softened into a look of pleasure, as if she
recognized something that she liked.

The Tarara, meanwhile, was posed, with her hands on her hips, waiting
for her cue from the orchestra.

As she stood thus, she looked around the house with an expression of
friendly good-will on her face--the true index of a quality in her
which accounted largely for her popularity. Then she began to sing.

It was a ballad of the “homely pathetic” order, such as never fails to
go to the hearts of an audience, with its allusions to mother, wife,
child, home, etc., and the Tarara sang it with great feeling.

Rhodes, watching that strange child of his, whom he always felt to be
a mystery beyond his ken, saw now a look of deep content and pleasure
settle on her face, and some very rare tear-drops rise to her eyes.

When the song had ended, she turned to him and said, abruptly:

“I love that lady.”

A strange sense of joy throbbed through the man’s heart at these words.
They were something more than a surprise.

“She is good and kind,” said Clementina, with the same tone of
conviction. “I wish she would come back.”

Rhodes, for his part, rather dreaded that return, for fear the sweet
impression might be destroyed. But when she afterward appeared as a
smart hussar, and sang a barrack song, and then as a _vivandière_ and
gurgled her song from over a tin canteen, the impression which she had
made upon the child was evidently not disturbed.

It was noticeable, however, that the Tarara was the only one of the
performers who had found favor with Clementina. The others either bored
her, or roused a feeling of disapproval, which that strong little face
well knew how to express.

The last appearance of the Tarara was in a ballet costume, and as she
floated out on the stage and pirouetted up to the footlights, Rhodes
glanced with real timidity at the child. He dreaded the effect of the
bare limbs and painted face upon this austere judge. But Clementina’s
eyes were fixed with a look of unmixed pleasure upon the dancer, who,
as Clem now saw to his amazement, caught and returned her gaze.

It was for a second only, but there could be no doubt of it, and the
child saw it, also, for she flushed with happiness and said, under her
breath:

“Oh, the sweet lady!”

With the same look of confidence and content, she followed every
movement until the dance was ended.

The Tarara, after that one glance, did not again look at the child,
but as she skimmed and bounded about the stage, going through all the
peculiarly imbecile motions of the modern ballet dance, as she toyed
with her tarletan skirts and sidled diagonally on her poor blunted
toes, threw her body backward and waved her arms, then smirked and
grimaced at the applause that burst from the house, the child’s gaze
grew more and more delighted, until it deepened into a look of burning
love.

This gaze, also, the dancer caught as she was leaving the stage, and
she not only caught, but returned it. Rhodes began to feel deeply
alarmed for his secret, but the reflection, that she could not possibly
know that the child was his, partly reassured him.

The Tarara vanished in a storm of applause. She had outdone herself
to-night, and the audience sent up a vociferous encore.

“Oh, is she coming back? Is she coming back?” asked Clementina,
breathlessly.

Her father, greatly wondering, assured her that the dancer would return.

But as the applause rose, subsided, then swelled again, and no Tarara
appeared, he found that he had spoken too quickly. It became evident
that the favorite refused to respond to the encore, and now, as four
couples in the costumes of Bowery toughs swaggered out on the stage,
the house grew quiet and turned its attention to the new performance.

But Clementina would not look at them. Instead, she turned to her
father and said, in a voice of emphatic command:

“Take me to see that lady.”

Rhodes was accustomed to obey the mandates of this imperious child, but
for once he resisted her.

“I cannot,” he said. “She is in her room. She is tired. People are not
allowed to go to her private room.”

“But I am going,” said Clementina, in a tone in which, in all
his experience, he had never known her to utter a fiat that was
unfulfilled. As she spoke she rose from her place and took her father’s
hand, urging him insistently to go. Seeing that they were being
observed by those about them, Rhodes yielded unwillingly, and when they
were without in the vestibule of the theatre, she spoke again, in the
same tone:

“I am going to see that lady,” she said. “If you do not take me, I will
go without you.”

He was so accustomed to seeing her perform resolutely whatever she
undertook--this strange, determined child of his--that he felt that he
could not thwart her will, and so he began, in a helpless, entreating
fashion, to try to alter it.

“Oh, Clementina, please don’t go!” he said. “Come home with me--please
do! I’ll do anything you want if you’ll only come home with me now.”

“Not until I have seen that lady,” said the child, an expression of
indomitable purpose making her little face look strangely old.

Poor Clem was almost in tears. He felt that he had not the power to
resist her, and he felt, at the same time, that if she carried her
point his case was lost with the Tarara. He had hoped to win her
consent to marry him, and he had meant to conceal the child’s existence
until the marriage should be over, and then to confess it, throwing
himself upon her mercy, and offering to put the child in some school
or asylum where she should be kindly treated and yet be out of the way.

But if Clementina persisted, now, all would be lost. He resolved upon
a subterfuge and a lie. The child’s purpose must be frustrated at all
costs.

“If you will come with me now,” he said, “I will take you to see her
to-morrow. Come, Clementina, please.”

“To-morrow will not do,” the child began, in that same tone of
resolution, but at this instant a boy came up to them, and delivered a
message to Clem. This message was a summons to him to come at once to
the Tarara’s room, and to bring the child.

With a last effort at resistance he was beginning to frame an excuse,
when, in the very midst of his speech, Clementina said, decisively,
speaking to the boy:

“I am coming. Show me the way,” and the poor old father was scarcely
surprised when he found the messenger ignoring him entirely, and
obeying the words of the child.

She had already started after him, and Clem could only follow them, in
feeble wretchedness and disappointment.

The boy led the way through various dusty and dimly-lighted passages,
and presently paused before a door at which he rapped sharply, and then
walked away.

A voice said: “Come in!”

Clementina turned the knob, and entered, her father following, and
taking care to close the door behind him.

Instead of finding the popular dancer flung in picturesque abandonment
on the lounge, drinking iced champagne or smoking a cigarette
(which was what Rhodes expected) he saw her seated before her
dressing-table, on which were scattered a disorderly collection of
wigs, masks, powder-puffs, curling-irons, rouge-pots, and various
other paraphernalia of her profession. Her elbows were crushing some
artificial flowers, as she sat with her chin in her hands and her gaze
fixed solemnly upon her own reflection in the mirror.

As she turned toward them, the child ran forward and flung her arms
around the dancer’s bare neck, lifting her face to be kissed.

The Tarara gave a little cry, and sprang to her feet, and then, the
next instant, crouched down again, and made a motion as if she would
cover, with her short tarletan skirts, the exposure of plump legs cased
in thin flesh-colored tights. What had come over her? Those shapely
limbs were usually her pride. When had she felt any sense of modesty
about them before?

But the child was not looking at them. Neither did she look at the
false hair, the rouge, the powder, the painted eyebrows, and _bistré_
lids. She had clasped her arms around the dancer’s neck again, and was
looking straight into her eyes.

The feeling which came to the Tarara as she met that look was that one
creature saw her soul, at last.

“I love you. You are kind, and sweet, and good,” the child said,
softly, still regarding her with that deep, penetrating gaze, and with
intense conviction in her tone.

The Tarara’s painted face began to quiver, and great tear-drops brimmed
her eyes, as she caught the little creature to her, crushing to
irremediable flatness her diaphanous tarletan skirts. She strained the
small creature to her breast a moment, and then seated her on her lap.
She had caught up a rich plush cape from a chair, and had thrown it
over the tights and dancing-shoes.

Rhodes, meanwhile, stood looking on, in a state of stupefaction. They
had both forgotten him, as they clung to each other, with close kisses
and embraces.

A deep emotion was evident in both of them, but its character was
different. The woman was stirred to a passionate excitement; her
breaths came in deep, catching sobs; her face worked with a nervous
strain; and her cheeks flushed hotly under their rouge. The child,
on the other hand, was deeply calm and grave. She lay with utter
contentment in that bedizened creature’s arms, and looked up at her
as trustingly and unquestioningly as though she had been a Madonna.
This long, deep, concentrated look was undisturbed, as she said with a
wondering seriousness:

“Are you my mother?”

“No, darling, no,” the dancer said, bending above her with a mother’s
tenderness, while the tears ran down her cheeks, making a pitiable daub
of black and white and red there.

“My mother died,” the child went on, looking only at the gentle eyes of
the woman, and speaking in a grave and placid tone.

“And my little baby died,” the dancer said. “She would have been as old
as you. She died before she ever knew her mother’s face, and my heart
has been empty, ever since.”

“I love you,” said the child.

The strong, spasmodic movement with which the dancer crushed her to her
heart, as she said these words, must have been physically painful, but
if it was, the child gave no sign, except a radiant smile of joy. There
was a look of almost holy calm upon the little pallid face. She put up
one small hand, and patted lovingly the smeared face that bent above
her.

“You are good,” she said.

“Am I, darling? Oh, I should like to be! If my little baby had lived
perhaps I should have been, though everybody has been bad to me. No one
has ever loved me, as you do, before.”

“Your little child loves you,” was the quiet answer, still with that
look and tone of knowledge.

“Oh, do you think she does, and that I will some time have her again?”

“Yes,” said the child, with a certainty that seemed to make doubt
unreasonable. Then looking around, as if in sudden recollection, she
said, “Clem--Boy--come here.”

At these words a lingering hope sprang up in Rhodes’s heart. This
strange mode of addressing him might enable him to keep his secret
still. If he could only get the child away now, and to-morrow contrive
some way of accounting for her! With this end in view he came forward,
the child turning on him, as he did so, the fond, penetrating look he
knew so well.

The dancer glanced quickly from one to the other, but it was the child
she questioned, and not the man.

“Is he your father?” she said.

“Yes,” said Clementina. “My mother died when I was very little. He has
been so good to me.”

But what was the matter with Clementina’s voice, and why was her breath
suddenly so short and difficult? Rhodes was conscious of this, even in
that moment when he realized that his secret was revealed, and his
hopes of the Tarara blasted. She was conscious of it, too, and her face
took on a sudden look of terror.

Rhodes dropped upon his knees beside the two, who still clung to one
another in that close embrace. Over the child’s drooped head the man
and the woman exchanged a quick, scared look. Then both looked at the
child.

The gaze that answered their excited ones was so calm, so strong, so
full of knowledge and assured content, that outwardly, at least, they
were quieted. One thin, little arm lay still around the dancer’s neck,
and with evident effort she lifted the other and laid it around the
neck of her frightened, childish old father.

Almost instantly it fell back heavily. There was a little twitch of the
thin body, a stifled breath, one more sweet glance of love, and the
child lay dead between them.

In a moment all was excitement and confusion. The alarm was given.
People thronged the room. Doctors were summoned, but one look assured
them that all was over with the child.

The Tarara, with trembling limbs and chattering teeth, threw on some
clothes and drove home in the carriage with Rhodes, holding the dead
child all the way close pressed against her heart.

Only once did the woman speak to him. It was when, between them, they
had got the little body up to the tiny room, which had been its home
in life, and had laid it upon one of the folding-beds, which had been
so neatly made a few hours back. Then the Tarara, glancing around the
poor place, so purely clean and orderly, taking in the details here and
there--the child’s slate and lesson books, and her little work-basket,
with its half-used spools of thread and small brass thimble--and
contrasting it with her own sumptuous rooms and luxurious living,
turned her gaze upon the man who stood helpless and miserable in the
midst of this poverty-stricken home, and said:

“I would have married you for this child. You should have let me know.”




Once More




Once More


In the days when the great West was still the wild West, many a strange
scene took place before the eye of the gazer, who had the advantage of
two points of view, and who could get the whole zest of these primitive
conditions, by the process of contrasting them with a foregone
civilization.

Such a one was the man, who had once been known in the fashionable
circles of an eastern city as William Wilmerding, but who now, in the
mining-camp, went by the more convenient name of Bill Will.

He had been a tender-foot when he first came to the camp, but it was
not long before he hardened to the necessary state of roughness and
toughness, to make him acceptable to his companions and approved
mining standards, and at last he became a prime favorite with the
spirited and desperate fellows, who knew but the savage and seamy side
of life, but who yet had something in them which responded to the charm
of education and refinement, when properly repudiated and concealed.

For Bill, in his dress and in his daring deeds, was as tough and wild
as any of them; indeed, there was a spirit of desperation in the man,
which more than once had roused the admiration of the camp, in times
of danger, and which had its source in a certain feeling in William
Wilmerding’s heart, which was his life secret--a secret which he had
come to bury in this strange new existence. Nothing but despair of his
heart’s desire would have brought and kept him here.

Every camp in those days had its own pet pursuit, and in this one it
was horse-racing. Their track was not as smooth as civilization would
have made it, but for that very reason better horses and better riders
were required. Every spring and autumn they had a grand race-day,
and the purses put up were so large, and the private betting was so
reckless, that big sums of money were exchanged, and often the rich
became poor, and the poor rich. These men had no families dependent
upon them, and when once their blood was up, they did not hesitate to
risk their last cent.

On the occasion of one of the spring races, the bustle and excitement
were at their very height, and the most important race of the day was
about to be run, when there drove into the field a wagon, in which
were seated two such strange and alien-looking figures, that even the
exciting demands of the present moment gave place, for a little while,
to this new influence. The cart was driven by a hale and hearty old
man, who looked impressively proud of his mission, and who was lifted
so far above mining etiquette as to take off his hat to the assembled
horse racers, as he brought his cart to a standstill. It was probably,
however, reverence for his passengers that led to this “break.”

The passengers were two gray-clad, white-bonneted sisters of charity,
who looked about them, on this alien scene, with mild-eyed wonder. One
of them was stout, middle-aged, and homely, with energy and resolution
written on every line of her face. The other was small, and young, and
fair.

As the cart halted, the old man got up and announced that the sisters
had come up from the mission, two hundred miles away, to ask for
contributions toward the building of an orphanage, of which there was
pressing need.

His speech was listened to with the politest attention by the crowd,
a few men, here and there, being so far affected as to take off their
hats in a shame-faced sort of way, and then confusedly to put them on
again. The two sisters said nothing, but their mere presence there,
looking about them with placid kindly faces that carried a message
of pure goodness to every heart, so impressed the camp that, for the
moment, the zest about the coming race seemed in danger of eclipse.

This peril was perceived by one of the crowd, a tough and wiry little
old man known as Jerry, who had great influence in the camp, and he now
pushed his way to the front, and jumping on an upturned box, addressed
the assemblage in lusty tones. Jerry was not altogether temperate in
his habits, and his face and manner, to-day, indicated an ardor and
excitement not wholly to be attributed to the coming great race. He was
in the highest good humor, however, and his face fairly kindled, as he
said:

“Time for the race, boys! Clear the track! Never you mind, old girl,”
to the elder of the sisters. “You’re all right. Pull off to one side
there, driver, and let the sisters watch the race; and if Whirlwind
wins it, we’ll give the old girl a send-off that’ll make her heart
jump out of her body.”

The crowd answered with a cheer, and the current of interest was again
turned toward the race track, down which Whirlwind, ridden by Bill
Will, was now returning from a gentle preliminary canter. Bill Will
had been at the other side of the course when the sisters had arrived,
and now, as he rode up to the starting-point, his eyes rested on these
strange figures for the first time.

As they did so, he turned deadly white, and his body swayed in the
light saddle, so that he almost lost his balance--a fact noticed,
perhaps, by but one being in all that crowd, for, to the miners, a man
amounted to little, beside a horse, on this day, and they were all
gazing eagerly at Whirlwind to see if he looked in condition.

The person who saw only the man, and who had no consciousness of the
horse, was the younger of the two sisters. Her face had turned as white
as his, and now, while the attention of all the rest was fixed upon
the horse, her glance met that of the rider, with a gaze of mutual
consciousness.

She saw him struggle to right himself, and to regain his self control,
and she heard him say faintly that his throat was dry. A dozen flasks
were hurriedly jerked from pockets, and held out to him.

“No,” he said, “water!” and, at the sound of his voice, the little
sister turned from white to burning red.

A man ran quickly and brought him some water in a tin cup. Before he
took it, he removed his cap, and as he bent to drink, he looked again
into the little sister’s eyes, as if he pledged her thus, in silence.

Then, with a powerful rallying of his forces, he drew in Whirlwind’s
reins, and settled himself in his saddle, and with a low bow that might
have graced a knight at a tournament, but which no one here noticed, or
would have comprehended, he took his place with the other horses at the
starting-point.

There was mad riding that day. The camp had hitherto seen nothing like
it. The men from neighboring camps, who had entered fine horses upon
which they had staked all their earthly possessions, had gone in to
win, and were resolved that Whirlwind should not have this race, if
grit in man and beast could prevent it. Every horse was strained to
its extremest powers, and every rider rode with a conscious risk of
neck and limb, but if the others did the utmost possible, it seemed as
though Whirlwind and his rider did the impossible.

Every eye was so strained upon that break-neck rush around the course,
that a spectator was very sure of escaping observation; so no one saw
the little sister’s face. Even the motherly old creature at her side
was peering eagerly through her steel-rimmed spectacles, not in any
absorption in the race, but in dire anxiety for the life and limbs of
those reckless men.

One man, in truth, was thrown and stunned, one noble horse
out-strained himself and broke a blood-vessel, but Whirlwind’s rider,
who had been the boldest there, came in unscathed, and Whirlwind won
the race.

And then began a whooping and cheering that made the place a
pandemonium, which even the unwonted feminine presence in their midst
could not keep in abeyance. Gold and silver, flowing like water, passed
from hand to hand, making some rich, and others poor; for in the camp
such indebtednesses were settled on the instant, and no man shirked.

When accounts were apparently squared, Jerry, wild with enthusiasm,
sprang up in front of the cart in which the sisters sat, and shouted
lustily:

“Our horse has won the race! Hurrah for Whirlwind and Bill Will!”

When the cheer had been repeated to the echo, Jerry, taking fresh
breath, went on:

“And hurrah for the sisters and the orphans, too, I say! March up
here, every mother’s son of you, and ante up half your winnin’s for the
orphans! Here you are, old girl,” he said, throwing a big handful of
gold into her lap. “That’s half of my pile, and if ever you tackle an
orphan o’ mine, teach it to bet its last dollar on the winnin’ horse!
Come ahead, boys! Every last one o’ you throw in half your pile, and
the devil take the one that refuses!”

For the next five minutes, the gold and silver coins fell like pouring
hailstones into the old sister’s ample lap, and while this was going
on, Bill Will, with quiet, stealthy footsteps, approached the cart from
the other side, and poured his contribution into the lap of the younger
sister. Those who noticed it were not aware that it was not the half,
but the whole of his winnings, of which he so disposed. Nor did they
notice that, among the coins, was a little woodland flower, which he
had stooped and gathered.

This small and worthless offering was not wholly overlooked, however,
for before she turned over her rich tribute of gold to her companion,
the little sister took the flower and hid it in the folds of her gray
gown--an action that was clearly seen by one.

Presently the old man stirred up his drowsy horse, and the cart began
to move. He had thanked the crowd for their generous charity, in the
name of the sisters, whose order did not permit them such public speech.

The men stood watching the departure of the cart with a certain
wistfulness. The sight of these good women had roused them to unwonted
musings. But of the tragedy taking place beneath their eyes, they had
no imagination--for in that moment, a man and a woman who had loved
with the supreme passion of their hearts, and who had been separated by
an inexorable fate, had looked their last into each other’s eyes.




  PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO
  FOR HERBERT S. STONE & CO.
  MDCCCXCVI




  October, 1896.      _Established May, 1896._      Number 1.


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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


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